Glitter Dust~

A vibrant pink/purple that tags along with the beginnings of a bright, artistic vision. Prominent in creative daydreamers, artists, and musicians. An indication of imaginative effort.

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No dilemma is ever so confusing that a little colorful deduction cannot fix it.

If someone who can see auras studies the auric fields surrounding a person for long enough, many things can be deciphered about them. Quite fascinating things. Personal things. 

Let me break it down--explain how I see these things.

If you were to walk into the room and I received  a full view of your body, initially, I would see a light glow around the edges of your figure. A simple casing, usually a single shade of color. A mere outline of you and the basics of how you are, based on the 1st auric field surrounding your form. Maybe I'd see a bright red--indicative of physical prowess and vigorous health.

Or maybe I'd see a murky yellow...telling me that you've been experiencing some kind of power struggle in your personal life. It might be difficult to tell what exactly has been pestering you, yet with a little digging deeper, clarifications could be made.

If I focused enough, I'd start to see the second, third, and fourth aural walls that make up your rainbow. The emotional layer, logical layer, and astral bridge layer. I'd begin to see that you've been fed up with a romantic partner with that murky pink by your heart, and that your thoughts have been jealous with sharp pangs of forest green. I'd infer that you've been closed off with the walls of iceberg blue cascading into your fourth layer. After studying you some more, my premonitions will be affirmed after I see the telltale gray overlay present in your fifth Etheric Temple layer. 

The sixth and seventh layers (Celestial Layer and Ketheric Temple) are hardest for me to spot, since they deal with spirituality and the soul map. Only professionally trained aural readers who meditate frequently can spot the final layers at one glance. I'm good, but not that good, and normally I can understand much of what makes up a person by their first five energy layers. The last two are rare for me to make out. In fact, I've only ever done it once, on a family member.

To nonbelievers of this power, I'm a big-mouthed liar. In the spiritual world, I'm clairsentient and gifted. Either word, either title...and I'll still see the colors. Nothing can stop me from seeing them. Even the bad colors. The horrible colors.

The color black...dark browns, sorrowful grays. The ones that stick like slop onto the body--which indicate health problems and negativity.

These dark colors require cleansing to erase--changes in habits and alterations in lifestyle before they can seriously hurt the person affected. I've had...many instances of black and gray because of injury...and currently I have...

Well, enough on that. 

I have to leave for my flight to America in less than an hour. I start training camp soon, and the last time I checked, my coach's aura was sour, a foggy silver color. The color of skepticism, of lost confidence. He's been feeling unsure, nervous lately. And he's taking his anger out on me. He doesn't think I'm going to make it...he has doubts in my gymnastics. 

Coach Kan doesn't know I can see the gray surrounding him.

It worries me.

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The roar of jet engines interrupts the high energy guitars bleeding through Jungkook's earbuds.

In the middle of the heavy rock of Metallica, the plane drones loudly, lifting off the ground with a gentle tug. Black locks splay against the beige plane headrest from the jet's upward inertia.

His finger taps against the side of his iPod, turning up the volume to its highest setting. A trampling harmony mutes the world around him, takes the plane's volume down a notch.

Jungkook mutes it all--mutes his worries, doubts, and sore thoughts with the heavy pounding of a drum set. The guitar riff cancels his anxiety, the vocal chords of the lead singer blocking his fears. Right now, Jungkook is only in the song. 

He's not on an airplane traveling to America. He's not battling a bad case of gym fatigue. He's not in physical pain from a mild ankle sprain he got when vaulting the other day. He's not hungry...nor is he too worried about maintaining his slim physique to eat the few snacks he packed on his carry-on. 

Jeon Jungkook is only in the song, floating inside the deep bass guitar rumbling out empowering chords. His eyes droop shut, mind focusing on the melody to keep it from wandering to other, more stressful things...

Like how he doesn't know that much English. Or how awkward he's going to be around Leonardo Costa. Sure, he's seen the other gymnast around at competitions, but never have they trained together. Jungkook understands how tense it may be, and how he might even become affected by Costa's competitive aura. Every competition Jungkook has been to, Costa's overwhelming red aura has been difficult to ignore.

It's a distraction, and a dangerous one at that.

Leonardo Costa carries such strength, vigor, and competitive spirit in his first auric layer that Jungkook refuses to try and see further. He nearly blinded himself last time when he was forced to stand next to Costa in line-ups at the 2011 Olympic Qualifiers competition in Tokyo. The cloud of red was an intense ruby with penetrating spikes of cherry and ragged stripes of maroon. An inferno so imposing that Jungkook refused to look at the other gymnast unless implicitly required.

"...hey...Jeon...HEY!"

Jungkook lifts his eyelids open in half-awareness. He removes an earbud and turns to the side, staring directly across the aisle into the eyes of his coach, the man he's had a seven year wishy-washy relationship with. 

"Yes, Coach?"

Coach Kan sits up straighter. An electronic device emerges from his carry-on, and the man presses a few buttons before extending the thing to Jungkook.

"I want you to study your routines, practice visualizing the areas of improvement we talked about." Coach Kan pulls out a colorfully wrapped bar from his bag, handing it over with the camcorder. "Also, you need to eat. You haven't had anything since breakfast. You need energy for your first day in trials."

Jungkook meekly grabs the protein bar. He nods at his coach, thumbing the rectangular screen of the camcorder they use for monitoring. "Okay, Coach."

As the plane hits some turbulence, Jungkook's legs bump together. The coach leans back in his seat, still eyeing Jungkook. "One more thing."

The gymnast nods, waiting...observing the area to the left of his mentor's temple. "What is it?"

Coach Kan points to the camcorder. "Really focus on rings. After your double front tuck you're always shaky on the iron cross. You can see in the video that your butt tends to over lift after the series."

Metallica suddenly doesn't do much to mute the world around him. "Okay, I'll watch it."

Coach Kan brings his gaze back to his notepad, designing Jungkook's schedule for America. After getting over the initial jet lag, Jungkook will have to attend a few ceremonies and get acquainted in the rental apartment complex for the other gymnasts. Then will follow camp after camp--training hours in the gym with the world's finest retired judges to help tune up routines in the final weeks before the London Olympics.

While Coach Kan busies himself with choosing Jungkook's carefully portioned meals, bedtimes, and allotted recovery activities, Jungkook is watching himself. In the videos he studies his body moving in space like a obsessed fan might watch their idol. He gloats over anything that appears perfect, feels the confidence build inside of him...only to be shot down moments later after noticing the smallest mistakes. 

Maybe if his legs weren't so bulky, they'd be able to travel smoother across the vault runway. And maybe if his elbows wouldn't concave so much on the vault, he'd fly higher and maybe stick the landing. Perhaps if his spine were a little straighter, he wouldn't look so crumpled for his dismount on parallel bars. If his feet weren't as odd-shaped, he might be able to look more graceful on floor, maybe gain a few tenths of a point he would've lost to that tiny stumble after his double-piked Arabian on his final tumbling pass. 

Maybe if he wasn't so lazy, if he had more lean muscle in his legs, if he trimmed down his stomach and worked on shoulder flexibility...

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Twelve hours later, the plane lands in Phoenix, Arizona after flying over blue waters and vast areas of land that Jungkook has been too distracted to pay attention to. His coach nudges him awake in the beige plane seat. The gymnast opens his bleary eyes to the bright Arizona sunlight reflecting off of the camcorder in his lap.

"We're here?" He drowsily speaks to Coach Kan, reaching for his carry-on. 

"Yep. Grab your stuff."

Jungkook hands over the camcorder before yanking his Adidas-sponsored bag over his shoulder. He stretches his sore legs out before standing, following the throng of people trickling out of the plane. 

Soon, he's inside a bustling airport, surrounded by English and Spanish signs for luggage pick up, parking areas, and food courts. He's met with the mouth-watering smells of fried foods. The scent of greasy hamburgers, cheesy burritos, loaded french fries, and chicken fajita nachos all appetizingly travel up his nostrils. His stomach grumbles. 

But he can't eat these foods. Not if he wants to maintain his training plan.

"Let's grab our luggage. The gymnastics board has a shuttle prepared for us that goes straight to the training site." Coach Kan leads the way down the main hallway, his powerful legs starting them at a fast pace. "If you have to use the bathroom, now is the time."

The gymnast hurries to keep up, his quadriceps sore from being scrunched up in a plane seat for so long. His neon blue Adidas shoes pitter against the floor as he rolls his neck out. Inside the airport, people rush past him. Kids race around their parents, pointing at the various gift shops selling Phoenix shirts and mini cacti in earthy pots. Jungkook stares at all of the different people, in a spaced out study of the air surrounding them.

His mouth parts in amazement. As he follows his coach, he sees many things...many things that no one else can see. The energy inside the airport is voracious, encompassing, urgent, and excited. Chatter in a language he's hardly familiar with makes him nervous, yet he feeds off of the colors behind their words. The acceptance, the impersonal air of freedom that he feels in this foreign country.

But something odd catches his eye. Something that makes his hands sweat, heart race. He doesn't know why.

"I'm going to use the toilet. I'll be fast." Jungkook makes sure his coach hears before he darts off towards the familiar sign of bathrooms.

As he glides to the door, the feeling of something dangerous doesn't leave his gut. His Adidas rush faster, faster, but he can't place the reason. He doesn't know what he's doing. Does he even have to use the toilet? No, no...but he's going to. He's going to.

A young Mexican boy flies out of the bathroom while wiping his hands messily on his shorts. He nearly crashes into Jungkook as the gymnast arrives at the wall opening for the bathrooms. Before they collide, Jungkook side steps into the water fountain, bumping his hip against the object.

"Ay Dios! Sorry." The boy grins sheepishly at Jungkook before taking off down the hall, running towards his parents. Jungkook studies his back as he goes. His hip throbs a bit from hitting the gray fountain, but he rubs the pain away. He's been dealt much worse before.

His hand lightly massages his hipbone as he enters the bathroom. The force compelling him to enter is so strong and it scares him. The soft blue of the tiles under his feet don't seem to reassure him, don't seem to relax the spike in his shoulders. When he enters, he spots a man washing his hands. Another stall door is closed, occupied. 

Jungkook's neon shoes tap the floor. His carry-on slides down to his elbow, drooping against his side. He nervously glances at the tile. Checks it once, twice...three times. The man finishes washing his hands in the trickling sink water then dries his hands with a paper towel. Jungkook does not move. The farthest stall door is still closed...still closed, and bleeding red on the floor. 

"Red..." He whispers, against his will. He doesn't mean for it to come out, but it does. It does, and he doesn't know why this red brought him here, drew him to the inside of the bathroom, just so he could see it.

The stall door opens, but there isn't a toilet flush. Jungkook sucks in a breath as the man turns, spots him lingering by the entrance.

"...oh. Jeon Jungkook." Leonardo Costa looms in red warmups, wearing reading glasses on the bridge of his caramel nose. Without a leotard on he looks like a misplaced action figure from a comic book. His heroic build and ghost of stubble on his sharp chin gives him a sort of domineering stature. In his thick voice is a heavy Brazilian accent that makes it semi-difficult to understand. "You're...here." He says, thinking of no other eloquent way to phrase this coincidental meeting.

"Yes." Jungkook struggles to come up with the words to place his surprise. He forces the English phrases out from his years learning in primary and secondary school. "I'm...here. How are you?"

Costa gives him a half-grin. Jungkook spots bags under his eyes. "I am well, and you?"

With the attention from his competitor on him, Jungkook feels trapped in a cage. For some reason, his ability to sense certain things lured him there, urged him to meet with the man who has never left his mind for a day since training. The red lingers in the air between them, and not only because Costa is wearing it.

"I am..." Jungkook tries to find the right words. "Ready for training."

He hopes his Korean accent isn't too bad, but Costa nods in understanding. Jungkook notices as the Brazilian Gymnast washes his hands, he does so with grace. The soap doesn't get scrubbed into his hands but lathered smoothly over calloused palms and muscled wrists. He cups his hands under the water flow, delicately collecting it while his eyes watch. 

"Haha!" Costa finishes washing his hands, a dumbfounded Jungkook staring at him all the while. Watching his posture, his movements, his grace in everything that he does. Since Costa is a bit taller than Jungkook and has a different build, the Korean gymnast can't help but stare. "Me too. Ready for London."

After toweling off his hands, Costa turns towards him. Although they are the same age (Jungkook is actually older by a few months) their dynamic feels uneven. It almost feels as if the sparkle in Costa's eye is challenging him, testing him. Competing against him as the reigning high bar champion, ready to give him a run for his money in the All Around competition.

Jungkook's Adidas shoes fidget as Costa takes a step towards him. His heart starts racing in a purely intimidated way, as a prey might feel in the unfortunate wake of its predator. Costa's arm rises into the air, trailing a startling red color with it. Jungkook mimics the movement by autopilot, realizing that all he wants is a friendly handshake.

Costa's hand is shockingly cold in his own. The Brazilian grins warmly, even scrunches his nose yet the action doesn't carry to his eyes. Underneath the welcoming, sportsmanly façade, Jungkook knows the other gymnast is challenging him. The tenseness between them is almost palpable in the bloody room that's choked with aura. 

"See you at camp." Jungkook says with a little bite he didn't mean to let out. Costa releases his hand, heading towards the exit while carrying the reddest mountain on his back. Jungkook coughs, feeling suffocated by the way that the Brazilian's aura seemed to amass and attack his own as if it had a mind of its own. 

Jungkook shoves his way into a stall, slamming the door shut a little hard. His heart still racing, he draws his hands over his body and closes his eyes. Tiny swiping motions at his arms, legs, heart, and head rid him of the parasitic feeling that being around Costa brings into him. He concentrates on his body, on reading his own auric field for answers on why he was led to the bathroom by honed intuition.

"What...?" Jungkook whispers into the empty bathroom as he beholds his hand. In ringlets hovering above the palm he touched Costa is a reddish pink, along with holes in the auric field. He quickly wipes his palms together, to rid the invading energy. 

A piece of stall graffiti catches his eye, making him even more worried at the subliminal message. It's the English word RUN, except it's crossed out three times. He doesn't know why he was lead here, or what it has to do with his training, but Jungkook doesn't take events like this lightly. 

He storms out of the bathroom, his hand still trailing globules of invisible red.

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note from authAURA-

hi everyone!

I'm sorry I forgot to mention this earlier...even though this story takes place in 2012, Jungkook isn't 15 in the story. He's in his early twenties (we're jus pretending his birth year doesn't exist lmao).

hope you have a glitter dust epiphany soon!

izzyzyzy