Baby Cheeks~

A pink shade of the utmost harmony with art and everything aesthetic. Radiates around a person expressing love for artistic expression.

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Costa follows me out of the elevator.

Of course, we're both on the third floor.

Maybe not the third spot on the podium...we actually only ever take first and second. I've never known Costa to take anything less than first, although I do intend to change that very soon. 

I will change it.

He's following me. Of course, that's natural. His room IS 334. Not 333. 

Not the room it should be. I should be in 334. I should fucking be in 334.

Why am I so angry? 

Him. He's aggravating me. His negative energy is devouring me whole, replacing my willful, expanse violets with sharp maroons of distaste. My brain is all jittery, I feel it pounding like a jackhammer in my skull. This isn't right. I told him she wasn't my girlfriend. Obviously I wouldn't get into a relationship that's impossible.

McKayla lives in the US. I live in Korea. End of discussion. She's not my girlfriend, Leonardo Costa.

Why is he still so mad? He doesn't have a right to be mad! So what if I like her-

"Jungkook."

He's talking now. Why...why is he talking to me? I thought I disappointed him. 

Why would he bother?

"Jungkook." 

That again, my first name. No, I won't turn around to face you. What are you going to say Leonardo? RIBS? Fucking RIBS!?

"Jungkook!"

I grit my teeth. He'll be scowling at me when I turn around. His dark eyes will burn at me, reprimanding my handholding for no good reason. Why can't I fucking hold her hand! You're not my coach, Leonardo. You can't tell me how to spend my time at this training facility. What the fuck is the problem with it, anyway?

"JUNGKOOK!"

I twist around to face him. His face is definitely expressing something terribly strong, repulsive by how intense it is. Yet I can't rip my eyes away. 

It's not rage...

The true implications of Costa's red aura...are clear as day now. And they confuse me even more.

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Despite the scorching heat of the dwindling Arizona day, Jungkook's hands are frozen.

The chill spreads to his arms, legs, stomach, chest, and finally, fully encompasses his mind. He parts his mouth in a imitation of surprise, stuck in his spot as an icy statue. 

The Brazilian and him stand only meters from the portals to 333 and 334, their feet planted against the thin layer of rug winding down the hall. Jungkook tries to speak but the words tarnish in his mouth.

The reds, they consume everything. 

If snow were red and the entire desert of Arizona were filled with piles of it, it would not compare to the storm of flakes that whip around the hallway. The powerful chips pelt like hail against Jungkook's Metallica shirt, flutter harshly into his eyes, enter his open mouth and paralyze him in place. Tornadoes upon storm clouds upon heat energy of vermillion spreads like toxic gas, enveloping him whole.

And he understands now what the energy means. What it has meant this whole time. 

Not overt power or vigor...not health nor anger. Not performance anxiety. 

Passion. But not just for gymnastics. 

The red of want. Of lust. Of infatuation and desire.

Jungkook's heart races nervously against his ribs.

"Jungkook." Finally Leonardo breathes, releasing some of the snowstorms from his grasp. They crash against the lower digit doors, spraying red in thick clouds. "Sorry for yelling...but...I..."

His voice fades away.

Cranking to contemplate the matter, Jungkook's mind cogs jam against the reds slinking in between the gears. Burgundy seeps into his heart, lighting his skin aflame. The residual energy of the Brazilian has been seeping into him this whole time. At every competition, Costa's deep red blinding bubble was only overwhelming because it was meant for him.

And according to rules of unrequited feeling, the pain of the ailed rubs off on the ailer. Every time he felt uncomfortable around Costa was because of his inability to reciprocate the intensity of want.

"L-Leo-Leonardo..." Jungkook's face twists in a battle. "It's fine."

His system is being barraged by too many new pieces of information at once. 

One: his worst competitor has viewed him in a sexual and romantic manner since they were initially acquainted in competition. 

Two: Costa has been steadily feeling this since camp started. 

Three, and the most discouraging: Jungkook never saw it coming.

But now that it's here--and so painfully clear--everything falls into place. The electric touch. The worry for his health. The lessons.

The jealousy.

Leonardo steps forward, swallowing. Something akin to despair floats behind his irises, topped only by a determination so charged that Jungkook knows whatever Costa is planning he won't be able to avoid.

"You...are you still sick?" Leonardo clenches his jaw, a sign that he's holding back the true question he wants to ask.

"No." Jungkook takes a few steps back against the red tide, heading for his room. "I'm better now."

Panic in the red snowstorm manifests as snowballs that get hurled at his chest. Jungkook stops moving and they recede back into the enigma that is Leonardo Costa.

"G-good. I'm happy that you're better. I wanted to, um, tell you about the photoshoot tomorrow, since you missed the banquet-"

"My coach will tell me the details. Don't worry, Costa."

More of the puzzle snaps together as Jungkook stands there, watching the red swirls in disturbed fascination. This level of power--this deep and expansive stretch of color--is only possible at such a magnitude if the person's entire spirit is involved in the effort. 

The iced over portion of Jungkook's brain has thawed enough to realize that tempering such a violent force can emulsify the want with the restraint, blending to form a horrible tower of red. 

An indiscernible, potent maroon.

Is this lust he's seeing, or the restraint to tame it?

"I...can I come in...your room?"

The question is thick, choked. Underlying tones of sorrow wade in the words. Jungkook leans his back against 333, crossing his arms. Costa knows it's impossible, but is so desperate to maintain relations with him. Leonardo Costa is the prisoner whipping himself in retribution whilst stealing the jewel. 

A gloomy dual-reality of uncontrolled desire and very close control.

"No." Jungkook bites down on his tongue. "You can't come in."

Any other day he would have said yes, but at the new epiphany behind his competitor's aura, he feels the mental need to distance himself. Physically, his body is already responding to Costa's energy. 

Loosely, he wipes his sweaty palms against his shorts. His hand rests on the doorknob, squeezing it like he might wring out a sponge. But this doorknob is hot, dripping unwelcome wine through his veins, demanding him to turn to the chalice for safekeeping. The standing chalice that is staring at him hard, radiating a red that Jungkook knows isn't soft, feminine attraction but a deep-rooted want that seems preternaturally animalistic.

Jungkook opens the door.

He slips into the room, but not before Costa can approach the wood.

"No." Jungkook repeats, staring hard into the red that's cracking his self-resolution. He likes McKayla, not his worst competitor. Never that. Even if his body wants to become engulfed by red. "No, maybe tomorrow, but not right now."

"Jungkook." It's a rasp, a plead. 

So dangerous is the key at which its spoken that Jungkook involuntarily jerks against the threshold, banging his ankle on the wall. Costa furrows his brows, gazing at the source of the noise. In a daze, he bends down, checking the area of Jungkook's skin that now sprouts a irritated pink splotch. He runs a thumb over the area.

Jungkook shakes his head, trying his best to ignore the rabid shocks that radiate through his leg at Costa's touch. With his intuition shattered, he doesn't know what to follow. His head? His heart? His gut? All of the signals crossing are unnaturally perplexing, screaming at him to follow three sets of different rules.

"My leg is fine." He wiggles his calf out of the Brazilian's hand, listening to his mind. His logical side must prevail in this case. "I'll see you tomorrow for the photoshoot, okay?"

Costa stands at a turtle's pace, straightening to full height. Defeat lingers in the slight stoop of his shoulders, but he grins to cover up his raging surroundings. "O-okay."

Before the door can close, Leonardo forcefully reaches up. Jungkook tenses and closes his eyes out of reflex. 

Leonardo tugs the rim of his cap once. It's a slight jerk, one that brings the hat farther down over his eyes. Jungkook mumbles out a confused question but is met with a slicing glance that answers everything and nothing.

Then, Costa leaves.

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"You look well-rested, Jeon."

Coach Kan strides next to him down the hallway of the complex. According to the athletes' schedule, the members of the Road to London training camp must complete a preliminary video op alongside their respective homeland flags. The footage supposedly will be shown on an Olympics Broadcast Special denoting the world's gymnastics participants with a little about their backgrounds.

"I feel a lot better today." Jungkook examines the grain of the hallway floor. He does not want to risk a chance meeting with Costa today. But given the 'Men's/Women's Gymnastics Team Group Photo' that he saw on the sheet of paper Kan handed him, he knows it's inevitable.

"Good. Because after this photoshoot you're going straight to practice to make up for yesterday. We still have to figure out your parallel bars routine."

"Right." Jungkook feels dread entangle the lining of his stomach. "I've been watching my routines, analyzing them. I know the perfect spot to add another Dimitrenko. Once I add it, my difficulty will be up to par with Costa's. I'm confident that my execution score can put me over the top."

The duo exit the back entrance doors, where coach buses start pulling up to the curb. Other gymnasts wrapped in tracksuits shuffle around, engaging in small talk. Coach Kan leads them to the far back of the crowd near a benign area along the warm brick exterior of the gymnasium.

"Where is that fucker?" Coach Kan eyes the growing crowd of male and female gymnasts. Jungkook doesn't bother to glance up. There are two people he really does not wish to behold at the present hour in time. For good reason. "Ah, can't find him. Ever since you showed off your routines the other day, I swear he's harder to find now. He must be jealous."

Jungkook almost gives himself away as his cheeks heat up. As casually as he can, he raises a hand to his chin, fanning exaggeratedly.

"I thought you said you didn't have a fever." Kan muses, not paying attention to him. Jungkook's coach is still busy trying to pick out a certain Brazilian in the dynamic throng of athletes. "Why are you fanning yourself?"

"Bugs."

Jungkook's hand freezes midair as a familiar set of eyes lock onto his. He waves with a kind smile. Kan frowns, drawing his eyes to meet the object of Jungkook's welcome greeting.

"Ah." Coach Kan clicks his tongue knowingly. "Kohei Fujimoto."

"Yes." Jungkook waves the Japanese boy and his coach over, understanding full well that Coach Kan won't like it but won't hate it either. As long as he befriends people that Kan believes do not stand a chance against him in the London Olympics, he won't be reprimanded. "Hi, Kohei. How are you?"

Coach Kan's limited comprehension of Japanese has him crossing his arms and peevishly judging the other athlete-coach pairs on the sideline. Kohei's coach does the same, until he receives a phone call and separates from Kohei's side with a business smile.

"I'm tired." Kohei is honest. His thumbs tug at the chest of the thick sports shirt covering a leotard underneath. "And hot. It's like hell here."

"Right?" Jungkook chuckles. The gymnasts milling in neat circles begin to file into the first coach bus. "Oh...is it time to go?"

"I think so." Kohei receives a nod from his coach. Jungkook turns to see Kan waving him towards the vehicle. "Hey, do you mind if we sit together on the bus ride?"

"Of course not." Jungkook moves his sea-grass Adidas forward, stepping across the hot pavement. 

Despite the odd sensation of being pulled in separate directions by two adamant energies, Jungkook is over-joyous to feel grounded with Kohei. Sitting next to him on the bus ride will eliminate any awkwardness he might have to face if Costa flocks to him as always. Plus, it will put Kan more at ease too.

In his best voice impression of an announcer, Kohei leans into his ear. "All aboard the bus away from hell!"

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The statement couldn't have been farther off.

The photoshoot was hell.

At first, it seemed like everything was going okay.

Riding in a separate bus from Costa was nice for Jungkook, freeing even. Coach Kan and Kohei's coach weren't overfriendly, but didn't seem to mind each other. The sights they passed were interesting, if not more interesting because they came along with comfy seats and an infinite capacity of air conditioning. Kohei spoke to him in Japanese the entire trek, talking about the upcoming Olympic games and how he wanted to ride the London Eye after the competition.

Jungkook agreed, leaning against the cool window pane and imagining the slowly undulating cart window of London's most famous Observation Wheel. 

The Korean never put much thought into what he would do once the games terminated; perhaps visit the countryside with his parents? Travel to Europe? The topic of entertainment was not a common one in the Korean's mind, as it distracted him from his training. Kan discouraged him from any idealistic thinking, even cursing at him for being so excited to qualify for the Olympics a few months back.

"Making it to the Olympics is just the first part, Jeon. Don't you dare celebrate until you have a gold medal around your neck and the title of BEST GYMNAST in your grasp." Kan had told him. 

And he never forgot.

But deep down, he always wondered what Kan would do in the event of him placing first at the Olympics for real. Would his coach finally be nice to him? Be cordial enough to last an entire dinner outing without criticizing him or critiquing his ability? Would he give Jungkook a rest from all the toil and sweat of practice--finally granting him a reprieve from strain?

These things plagued his mind constantly. The question as to whether he wanted to win the Olympics more or his coach was a distressing one. 

Later, the coach bus arrived at the shooting studio. It was a fairly large professional building that sat a little off to the side of the road at a diagonal. The lot was filled with cars and bustling with positive energy. Jungkook decided he liked it right away. Upon entering, he concluded that he liked the space even more once he saw their shooting props.

For the women--a beam, a dazzling podium, and a neat flower arch decorated with spectacular golden carnations.

For the men--a pommel horse, another more masculine podium, and a velvet curtain preceded by a slew of laurels on the floor.

It was magnificence. All the gymnastics understood the underlying message.

They were all champions, whether or not they received a medal at the upcoming games. They were all important facets of a movement, figures of inspiration for the underdogs back at home and stars under the spotlight of prominent advertisers. They were opportunity.

Twenty minutes after entering the building, Jungkook felt like that opportunity was lost. He wanted to give up, but he couldn't. He wanted to move out of the dark, demanding region that could only promise him ruin, but he was unable to. 

Twenty minutes after entering, Jungkook got paired with the red devil.

"The five top competitors! Whiffrey, Jeon, Costa, Leyva, and Yi. Get in front of that curtain. Now look tough."

Costa stared hard at Jungkook the entire time. Every time the camera flashed to capture the gymnasts' crossed, muscled arms and determined faces, Costa leaned closer to him. At first it was subtle, but  it began to become painfully obvious to Jungkook over time. 

The women did their shoot across the room contemporaneously, their coaches hushing them to stop chattering. On the men's side, dead silence wrangled with awkward coughs.

For Jungkook, it was miserable. Red pistol shots buried in his stomach, forcing his heart rate into a fevered rattling in his chest. Leonardo's presence at his hip did nothing to temper the boiling sensation in his mind when remembering their hallway exchange. At one point, Costa's sharp shoulder tapped his, tearing his willful patience to shreds. He was entirely and helplessly in Costa's body trap, a figment of a larger force at work. 

Seconds felt as unsure as grains of sand falling onto a numb hand, hardly existing and impartial to the strong pound of blood under his skin. Costa wanted him. Wanted him badly. Costa liked him sexually, mentally, physically. He wasn't just crushing. He was in love. A rich, all-encompassing infatuation that drove Jungkook insane. Why did he have to be cursed with viewing auras?

Why would someone like Costa fall in love with him anyway?

"Hey! Hey Jungkook!" 

The shoot has finished, and Jungkook is lingering by the door behind his coach, ready to leave the building. But everyone must wait for the remaining women to finish. At the presence of this new voice, guilt brushes his consciousness like a spiked paintbrush. It's McKayla.

"Oh...hi." 

He turns to meet the brunette girl striding towards him, blatantly ignoring the roaming gazes of the other male gymnasts on her. Coach Kan's lips furl in perplexity. Jungkook starts leading her into a side hallway of the shooting building, ignoring Kan's last minute 'why is she talking to you?' in Korean. He'll have to deal with Kan later.

"You look troubled. What's wrong?" McKayla stops them in front of some office room door. The relatively secluded area is quiet and smells faintly of Lysol. 

"Ah, nothing. Nothing." Jungkook notices that her performance leotard is a deep red with white lines swimming around her chest and side. 

"I don't buy it. Nope, I don't buy it, Jungkook. What is it? Do you feel sick again?"

"No." Jungkook scratches his head. McKayla is gifted at reading others, so how is he supposed to get around this?

"Is it the camera?" She studies his face. "Are you camera shy?"

"No."

"Your coach? Did you not sleep well? Is it your competitors?" She pauses, blinking at his change in demeanor. "Yes, your competitors. I hate my competitors too. They're the biggest bitches on the planet."

Jungkook adjusts the straps of his leotard. "No, you're mistaken. I don't hate my competitors-"

"Is it that Leonardo Costa guy?"

Jungkook swallows heavily. He can sense the satisfaction in getting the correct answer in her pinkish-tan aura.

"Maybe."

McKayla shakes her head. "Is he bullying you? You can't let him get to you, Jungkook. I know how cutthroat guys can be, but you have to stand up for yourself a little more."

"He's not...bullying me." Jungkook licks his lips nervously. Should he confide in her? If not about his aura-reading skills, then at least about the aversion he feels around Costa's no-mercy personality? "He's just intimidating."

That was one way to put it.

"Oh." McKayla's eyebrows hop up and down atop dainty features, her feline gaze pressing him for more info. She doesn't seem to understand the concept of intimidation. How could she, one of the most intimidating female gymnasts there? "So like, he's scaring you? Or...I guess I'm not really following...is he challenging you or something? Making you uncomfortable?"

Jungkook nods, an imperceptible wince glossing over his cheeks. "Something like that."

Right as McKayla is about to respond to his vague comment, a loud yell echoes down the hall. Another louder one responds. Soon it's a dual shouting match, one that seems oddly misplaced in a photographer's keep.

"What...who is that?" McKayla freezes, staring down the long hall for any sign of the shouters. "What are they saying?"

Jungkook listens in. But the voices are too far away to tell. He can only tell by their heated pitch and frequent interruptions that they're arguing hotly. "I don't know. Wait a second."

After straining his ears for a few seconds, he catches the familiar intonations of Costa. The deep voice, marked with strained disbelief and vehemence. Which means the other person must be...

"It's Leonardo Costa." Jungkook's feet act before he understands what he's doing. "He's arguing with his coach."

McKayla's eyes widen as she tags along next to the Korean. "What...what are they saying? What language is that?"

The end of the hallway is deserted. Jungkook wouldn't be surprised if no one else in their Olympic entourage knew of this argument. They're secluded far enough from the loud mass of gymnasts in this secluded portion of the building that no one else would hear it.

"It's Portuguese. I have no idea what they're saying." Jungkook whispers, inching his Adidas shoes slowly but surely towards the voices. The fighting Brazilians must be distancing themselves farther down the side hall, because Jungkook can't hear a single consonant anymore. 

"Agh! They must be leaving! Oh, but I want to know what they're fighting about." McKayla stomps her foot on the ground. "I remember hearing a word though, I'll write it in my notes to translate later."

Jungkook gapes. He never thought of that...but wouldn't that be to intrusive? Is that any of their business anyway? 

The entire point of speaking in native tongues here is to be able to speak freely without offending anyone. Unluckily for McKayl--who holds her snobby English remarks back at practice. Too many people would recognize 'fucking bitch!'

"Is there Wifi here? Let's translate it now." Jungkook points at her iPhone. She really isn't supposed to have an electronic device on hand, but leave it to McKayla to find a way to sneak it in anyhow. 

"Okay. Okay...let's see..." McKayla taps on her screen a few times while Jungkook breathes over her shoulder. 

"What did you hear? I can't remember anything."

McKayla snorts. "I only remember one word Costa yelled at his coach because it reminded me of something."

Jungkook watches as she types something into the translator. The same word shoots out as a result. A failure--clearly, the translator didn't do anything. Jungkook sighs.

"Shit!" McKayla scratches her head. "Well, it's probably not translating right cause I don't know how to spell it."

"Just speak it out loud. Maybe the program will know...?" Jungkook urgently points at the screen. McKayla lifts her shoulders unenthusiastically.

"What, do you want me to scream it too? Would that help the program know it better? I don't think I'm going to pronounce it right. Ah, whatever. Even if it's a swear, it's worth a shot. I'll say it a few times, so that it might catch one of them."

Jungkook stares as her chipped nails press the record icon on the translator. She holds the end of her phone up to her mouth.

"P...Jungkook stop looking at me like that! I won't be able to...oh, all right! Okay, stop smiling, ahah! Now I'm going to mess up! Stop breathing down my neck. Okay...okay. Hmm..." She pauses, clearing her throat. "Pie! Pie? Pie...? Pie. PIE! Did it work?"

They hold their breaths in anticipation. 

Unlike the English word McKayla has been pronouncing, the program registers a fairly similar word in Portuguese. Pai.

Father.

Jungkook's body stalls in place.

"Wait...does this mean..."

McKayla finishes for him. "Leonardo Costa's coach...is his father?"

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note from authAURA~

hellooooo!

Has your day been full of baby cheeks, the color of love, art, and aesthetic grace? Mine has! Lately, I've been studying the Aestheticism movement, a dynamic institution of art-fanatics that was promoted by the famous poet Oscar Wilde, my literary boy-turned-icon. 

Haha! I digress, I always digress...why must I digress!

Also, for those of you wondering what Leonardo Costa looks like in this story, I based his character off of 2016 Rio Olympics gymnast Arthur Mariano from Brazil. Imagine Mariano, but with a slightly sterner look.

As you can see, wow. 

Also, wow. 

WOW!?

Yeah, so I hope Leonardo Costa's visuals did not disappoint. I know they don't disappoint me! :P

Have a lovely day my reader folk. <3

IᘔᘔY