1.1 | constellations of you and me ✓

18 | crux

JONAH DOESN'T FEEL MUCH CONCERN WHEN HE FEELS THE STEADY ACHE LINGER IN HIS LOWER LEG. Doesn't pay attention to it, really—not as he watches his girl smile softly from the sidelines. He lets his team off early this week after practice and focuses on weights instead of cardio to allow himself some rest (Adrian's orders). And even though he sometimes develops a slight limp, he's getting awfully talented at hiding it from his friends on campus.

His mother's the opposite side of the whole fucking coin.

The heavy weight of fear settles unevenly between the curvature of his shoulder blades when he gets out of bed in the morning and stumbles through a haze of smoky reality and candied distortions. When his ankle rolls and he finds himself staring up at the ceiling, Jonah forces himself to push away his pride and drive to his physician to search for a possible diagnosis.

And right now, as he's flipping through the paper manual for Kim Eun-Joo's new coffee table, Jonah turns his head to the side and lets out a muted hiss of pain. Goddamn. He's glad that his mother didn't attempt to assemble the piece by herself (God only knows how it would've turned out), and being in his childhood home offers him some semblance of sweet scenery. Located on a quiet street on the outskirts of Los Angeles, he sometimes wishes that his mother remarried. To be alone in her late fifties with constant reminders of his father in faded photographs—he can't imagine it. Doesn't want to picture the constant loneliness.

Hearing the front door gently swing open, Jonah turns his attention back to the print and closes his eyes when he feels a hand rest on his left shoulder.

"Stand up," his mother instructs gently, and after seeing his lack of movement, she kneels on the carpet next to him. "Jonah."

He's always strong: he's always the one to wipe off rivers of silver tears; he's always the one to sacrifice his fire to melt someone else's ice; he's always the one to pause his music to delicately tune off-beat hearts. And he's so, so tired of sacrificing himself to hold up the vast universe that leaning against her seems like his imagination.

Jonah's mouth tilts slightly upward on one side before he answers her silent questions. "It's not cancer," he confirms. "They did—did some tests the other day, and the tumor didn't grow back."

His eyes close as Eun-Joo fixes several stray pieces of hair. "That's good," she breathes. "That's really good. Then what is it?"

Mouth dry, the next word he says confirms the doctor's diagnosis. "Osteoporosis."

Proceeding to explain that his bones have the tendency to weaken and turn brittle at the joints, Jonah tries his best to comfort his mother by telling her that with a clean diet (which he already has) and strength-building exercises, it should be manageable. Tries to push down the thoughts of liminal spaces and variables of tenderness as his focus shifts to the woman at his side.

It takes an hour to calm her down.

And even if Jonah Kim has to hush his screams by pressing bruised knuckles to his teeth to soothe her anxiety, he tells himself he doesn't mind the taste of iron blood.

***

"Umma," Jonah laughs loudly, bending over the hot stove. "I don't know what the hell I'm tasting." The Korean soup boiling over the gas flame looks appetizing: pieces of tofu stick to the sides of the pot, vegetables produce savory steam, and the red pepper paste turns it a vibrant crimson. He tilts his head as he rests the spoon on the counter.

When Eun-Joo tastes what he's made, she shakes her head and smacks him gently on the shoulder. "I think you might've used sugar," she drawls, "instead of salt. What's got you so spaced out?"