DirkJake.... the Italian Renaissance.... or 1960's America lmao
(CW: stonewall & war mentions) There are reports of riots in New York. Vile, demonized accounts of police assaults and street warfare. Broken bottles and fire. Thrown bricks. War.You are not in New York. There is a piece of you that wishes you were there—a piece of you that wants to fight, and yell, and scream, and maybe throw a few bricks of your own. There is a fire in you that wants to go to war in New York. A fire that does not exist for the foreign land you will be shipped off to in a matter of months. Bile rises in your throat. Maybe you’re a traitor after all.
Jake’s head falls onto your shoulder. He’s not in New York, either. Or Vietnam. Or Woodstock. Or space. Or any of the other innumerable, groundbreaking events that seem to rock the world every other week. Jake’s whole body hums with the music he’s singing along to. You wonder if he spares a thought to any of them at all.
“Canada,” you tell him. You don’t finish your fragmented thought—you don’t elaborate of the weight of the suggestion.
But he looks up at you regardless, doe-eyed and knowing. You feel foolish. He knows more than you ever give him credit for.
He says, “of course I’ll go with you,” and gets up to change the record.