expression unreadable, though softened by the warm amber glow of the lamplight.
In the hush between them, the unspoken words were louder than the music: I see you. I understand.
He took a slow breath, steadying himself.
His sapphire eyes lingered on Theroz, not with shock or reproach, but with something deeper-understanding. Tenderness.
He remembered the professor's words: Trust. Understand. Do not judge.
So Braxton didn't flinch, didn't retreat. Instead, he tilted his head just slightly, as if to offer Theroz the dignity of not turning the moment into scandal or awkwardness.
His lips parted as if to speak, then closed again. Words weren't necessary.
The music filled the silence, a hushed rhythm carrying them forward.
Braxton let his hand rest where it was, atop Theroz's, warm and steady.
He reached with his left hand, fingers trembling just slightly, and stroked Theroz's cheek. The engineer's eyes softened, and he lifted his own hand to cover Braxton's, smiling warmly at the touch.
They were pressed together on the narrow booth in the dim back corner of the club, legs brushing, hearts pounding in the hush of smoky jazz.
Theroz twisted to face him, close enough to see the faint shine of tears still clinging to those sapphire eyes. "Are you sure?" he whispered.
Braxton gave a slow, deliberate nod, then leaned in, lips brushing Theroz's- gentle, tentative, like a secret shared for the first time.
It was slightly awkward; his injured leg shifted stiffly beneath the table, forcing him to angle uncomfortably.
But Theroz only smiled — a knowing, tender smile— and shifted with care.
He leaned forward until he was resting against Braxton's chest, steadying him, making the kiss seamless.
Braxton cradled his face in his hand as their mouths met again, slower this time, surer. Warmth and longing threaded between them like the rhythm of the blues itself.
They sat together, arm in arm, Theroz's head resting on Braxton's shoulder as though it had always belonged there. The last strains of saxophone curled lazily through the smoke-thick air, softer now, slower, as the club began to empty.
Men drifted out in twos and threes, their laughter fading into the night.
The room grew quieter, the lamplight casting long shadows over the emptying tables.
Braxton stirred, sitting up reluctantly, as if he didn't want to break the spell.
"We should probably be heading back now," he murmured, his voice low and husky from silence.
Theroz lifted his head, blinking as though waking from a dream. He gave a small nod. "Yeah. It's late."
For a moment they lingered, neither moving right away, holding on to the warmth between them before the night and the world waiting outside claimed them again.
Outside, the city's night air felt cooler, sharp with the scent of rain lingering on the pavement. A neon sign buzzed overhead, flickering against the mist that clung to the street.
They walked side by side, not touching now, their steps in quiet rhythm. The memory of the club —the warmth of arms, the softness of lips- still lingered between them, stronger than any handhold could be.
At one point, a car rattled past, headlights cutting through the dark.
Braxton glanced around quickly, then leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Theroz's just enough to be felt. "No one saw," he whispered, as if reassuring them both.
Theroz gave the faintest smile, lips twitching as he stuffed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. "Still," he murmured, his voice low, "we should be careful."
They didn't speak again on the walk back, but their silence was not emptiness— it was full of unsaid things, of trust growing, of something neither dared name in the open streets of Chicago.
The walk back was hushed, the streets alive only with the occasional clatter of a passing streetcar or the echo of laughter spilling from some late-night tavern.
Theroz kept his hands buried in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, as if carrying the weight of the satchel even when it wasn't there. Braxton walked tall beside him despite his limp, the cane tapping softly against the pavement in a steady rhythm.
For blocks they said nothing, but their steps kept time together. From time to time, Braxton tilted his head, sapphire eyes flicking toward Theroz, catching him in the dim light of a streetlamp. Theroz never
held the gaze long - too shy, too cautious- but each glance lingered longer than the last.
When they reached the quieter streets near the safe house, Braxton finally broke the silence.
"You know," he said softly, "it felt good to be out. Even just for a few hours. Almost normal."
Theroz's lips curved into a faint smile. "Normal's something I don't even remember anymore."
Braxton slowed his steps, letting the quiet stretch between them before answering. "Then maybe...we'll find it again. Somewhere."
The words hung in the cool night air, fragile and hopeful. They didn't touch...couldn't, but the unspoken bond between them was already stronger than hands could hold.
The lights of the safe house glimmered ahead.
With one last shared glance, they slipped inside the shadows of the doorway, carrying their secret warmth with them.
The house was still, the kind of silence that only comes after midnight.
Floorboards creaked faintly as Braxton eased the front door open, Theroz following close behind.
They thought they'd slipped in unnoticed — until a soft voice drifted from the sitting room.
"Out late, are we?"
Ellen was perched on the arm of a chair, a book in her lap, her red hair falling loose around her shoulders. The lamp beside her was turned low, casting her in a warm amber glow.
part 2
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from the diesel punk drama, “airship dreams”
