1.1 | constellations of you and me ✓

03 | columba

THIS MUST BE WHAT DEATH FEELS LIKE.

"Shit," Adrian breathes next to him. His chest moves up and down at a rapid pace, sweat dripping down his face as they run. The sun is harsh and unforgiving on Saturday mornings—and today is no exception. Jonah's team is silent under an umbrella of painful torture as they finish their sixth mile at practice. Running due to punishment is a hellish sight to see: it's completely silent, with only the intermixed sound of the tapping shoes on pavement as music.

"I'm fucking quitting after this. Screw this shit." The blond boy closes his eyes for a moment before wiping the perspiration from his brow, panting considerably. His normally bright blue eyes are a dull teal today, glassy and matte from exhaustion.

Jonah's knees feel like microwaved putty. "Don't—" A wheeze escapes his lips. "Don't waste your breath, man."

Although they won their game yesterday, their score should've been higher, and Jonah's well aware.

So is their Coach.

Defense was sloppy with late reactions, and number five scored one too many goals against UCLA: something that should've never happened in the first place, in Jonah's opinion. Showing up for Saturday practice was like jamming a thumb into an electric sharpener, but instead it was his internal organs that were screaming and not his hand.

Adrian puffs dramatically. "How can I waste something," he forces out with grit, "if I don't have any of it left?"

Their team keeps running, lapping elderly citizens and trying their best to not pass out. The sounds of shoes hitting the ground are syncopated, a deafening noise to his ears. "This is why we're not in cross country, Adri—oh, motherfucker."

Jonah winces and harshly grabs his side, hoping that the massive cramp will dissipate (even though he knows it won't). His friend chokes out a short laugh and slows down his run to make sure that Jonah's alright.

As his eyes scan the rest of his teammates, he can see Wren to his right, hair sloppy, also looking like he's one minute from throwing up his breakfast. Coach Meyers stands on the edge of the turf and shouts some lame-ass comments about suicides next if they don't run faster.

Jonah curses and picks up his pace, stomach and legs screaming in agony. Despite being an athlete, he's never really been a gym rat and hasn't ever yearned to look like an upside down triangle. Between soccer and swimming, Jonah's pretty confident that he gets enough exercise, but damn—he can't remember the last time he's been this out of shape before.

"I can't feel my feet," he groans. "Pretty sure they're bleeding. And my shirt is weighing me down." Lifting the hem of his jersey over his head, Jonah pulls it off of his body and tosses it on their practice bench, the feeling of sticky fabric gone. The heat of the sun kisses the nape of his neck and span of his shoulders, warm and golden and inevitable.

Adrian turns to him with a raised brow and subtly gestures to a group of girls in the corner of the track preparing to jog. He can feel their stares. They're cute, and Jonah's positive that he kissed one of them at a party a couple of months ago, but they're not... not his type. He's not even sure what his type really is. "Those chicks are staring at you. Gonna do something about that?"

A year ago, Jonah would've been all over that shit, taking his sweet time to learn the slender curve of bodies and the art of physical touch. It's not like he hooked up with every girl he saw, but he certainly... fooled around. No commitment, no strings attached, no stress. It's ridiculous how much he's changed in the past year after the cancer scare.

Jonah exhales heavily and shakes his head to the side as the team crosses their eighth mile. "Don't feel like it. They're not for me."

"Oh?" Adrian's golden curls bounce against his forehead with every step. "And Eloise is?" He grins good-naturedly. Jonah knows that Adrian respects her, which is rare, especially coming from him. It's a good sign.