Space gays + DirkJake

You met him at space camp.

You were the one who refused to try the Multi-Axis trainer on grounds of safety and an undiagnosed anxiety disorder. He was the one who didn’t and puked in the garbage can next to your bench.

Now, he calls you from up there, once a week and for only 20 minutes. He answers the call upside-down sometimes, hair splayed around his head like a halo, drifting slowly offscreen despite his best intentions to the opposite.

“Starchild,” he calls you. “I miss you.”

“Jake,” you respond, voice cracking, face flushing, because who knew angels could get their wings in zero-G. “I know.”