Mud Setting~

A rotten brown that hints at insecurity and despair. A negative color that leeches the energy from the portions of the body it lingers around.

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I don't know what's wrong with me.

I don't know why my aura is haywire this morning. I don't know.

I woke up at 3:34 AM, tossing and turning. I couldn't fall back asleep. My mind was a demented merry-go-round, repeating the same line over and over again. Ribs. Ribs. Ribs. Ribs. The word he'd told me. Ribs.

The pillow was thoroughly damp with my sweat by the time I pulled myself out of bed. The groaning bed could offer me no more comfort. My racing heart and troubled mind were proof enough that I wouldn't be returning to sleep. So, I padded over to the kitchen. My stomach grumbled and my head felt unsettled, full of cotton.

Ribs. Ribs. Ribs.

Before I could comprehend what I was doing, I tore open the package of chips Costa had given me days ago. Twenty seconds later, the entire bag was gone. I scarfed down the entire thing in a kind of ravenous haze, leaving a trail of crumbs across my chin. After I came to terms with the fact that I just consumed the first bag, the second one had already disappeared into my stomach. 

Ribs. Ribs. Ribs.

Like a sick mantra, these words tussled and wrangled in my head. I was sweaty, unstable, and hungry. Hungrier than I've ever felt in life before.

Sitting myself in front of the mini fridge, I scavenged inside like a tortured animal. Before long, half of my food supply was gone in a fevered feast that left chunks of various foods strewn across my dorm floor. Throughout, I pleaded with my mouth, teeth, and tongue to stop eating, to give the act up already. But my possessed hands were injected with so powerful an occupant that that choice was out of the question. 

"Ribs." I groaned.

At some point I'd given up on eating. I was stuffed completely to the brim with food. My fingertip poked over and over into my ribs, in the same spot HE had. The same spot. Ribs. 

Then my stomach finally reacted to the stimulus I had forced upon it. My legs were barely fast enough to launch me towards the toilet, where most of my 3 AM feast ejected itself from between my lips. By then, I had regained temporary control over my body. I stopped my finger from poking my ribs. 

I stared at the contents floating around in the toilet water. Brazilian snacks. Leftovers. A few protein bars. Some fruit. All mangled.  Intertwined with mush and soaked with stomach acid. A painting of my torture...and of him. A watercolor catastrophe filled with despairing colors. The most prominent--a deep black from my midsection.

It was utterly disturbing, and made me question why I'd become a gymnast in the first place. 

My thoughts grew weary of the sport. I felt a sudden inexplicable urge to unleash my body from the prison of gymnastics. But somehow, I knew I couldn't. Not until the Olympics were over.

But I felt those things...felt the heavy presence...felt the urgency to escape my situation.

For what reason, I cannot say.

~

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~

Jungkook presses the 'end call' button on his flip phone, collapsing backward onto his bed.

Sun has yet to pour into the early morning windows. His alarm has yet to go off, yet to blare its spikey guitar chords into the balmy air. 

Vague wafts of petrichor from outside are the only calming characteristics of his surroundings, tying him to the reality that he's really skipping practice today. An entire day of no gymnastics. An entire day.

Over the phone, Coach Kan was not happy. It took Jungkook ten minutes of convincing, pleading, and promising to make up for the lost practice before Kan conceded to him. Kan wasn't fazed by the bouts of vomiting and lack of sleep that Jungkook suffered through, so the Korean had to exaggerate his condition. 

For all Kan knows, Jungkook is currently bedridden with a mild fever--possibly sick with a contagious disease. The management board at the Phoenix Power Arena does not permit sick gymnasts to train with the others. It was with this rule of law that Kan had to bend to his mentee's will.

"Ah!"

Suddenly, a fly smashes into his window. It thumps loudly before buzzing away, scaring the daylights out of Jungkook. He crosses his arms before reclining back onto his bed.

Minutes later: another disturbance to his sickly rest. 

The clock reads 5:40 AM, an abominable price tag for his lost sleep. He groans as the person knocking at the door grows more agitated in their hand movements. By that knock, Jungkook knows it's Kan wanting proof of his 'illness.' Wanting the exact number of his 'fever.'

Before Jungkook can allow panic to touch his frail heart, he tosses on a shirt and brushes the front of it a few times. He definitely looks worse for wear. Deep gray bags sulk under his eyes and a prominent lurch has entered his step. The food mess from last night still hasn't been cleaned up. Littered wrappers and chunks of half-eaten fruits and leftovers splay across the wood floor. They gaze at him expectantly.

"I'm coming!"

He steps over the pig sty, deciding before he opens the door to speak with his coach in the hallway. There's no way he's letting Kan see this lack of cleanliness. It would generate even more suspicion than his 'sudden ailment' already has.

There's no way Kan can see this.

"Hey, Kan. I'll step out a sec-" Jungkook begins speaking in Korean only to feel the words dissolving on his tongue. 

The body at the door brushes past him into the apartment, walking forcefully into the room. Sporty shoes pause by the mess, staring most intently at a partially smashed apple mingling with the remnants of a low-cal pasta dish. A disapproving grimace makes Jungkook cave in on himself.

"What is this?" The figure bends down, examining the mess. As soon as he hunches down, his dark eyes roam to the startled face by the door. "Jungkook, what is this? Why is there food everywhere?"

"I...um...I..." Jungkook can't breathe.

Not only did Leonardo Costa barge into his room uninvited before six in the morning, but he called him by his first name. Never before has he done that. It unsettles the Korean. Flashbacks to the shower make his heart race in trepidation, hoping that another event like that doesn't happen again.

Spikes of severe, anxious red spill from Costa into the air. He stands up tall, scrutinizing Jungkook's stammering face. "Are you okay? Um--hey? Are you sick?"

Jungkook wavers on his feet, barely making eye contact with the Brazilian. He feels immensely stupid for showing weakness in front of his worst competitor. But by the nervous trills in Costa's aura, he knows judgment is far from mind. Costa simply looks worried.

Jungkook's head starts swimming with nerves.

"Ri--I mean, uh. Yes. I'm sick." Jungkook's voice doesn't sound like his own. He tries to skim the wall to get around his competitor but stumbles. Completely uncharacteristic of him. His shoulder smashes into the wall, and a puff of air escapes his lips.

Costa checks him with an arm, wrapping a steadying hand on his shoulder. "You can't go to practice, Jungkook."

A faint nod sends Costa's hand off of his shoulder. Jungkook doesn't want the strength to stray too far away from him...but he can't have another shower episode. Never that.

So, already feeling dizzy, he sways in close vicinity to the other.

"I'm not going to practice." Jungkook plops gracelessly onto the bed. Too exhausted to be worried by embarrassment, he yanks the covers up and around his muscled frame. "I called my coach and told him I was sick...no banquet tonight for me. No English lesson with you today. Sorry."

Costa seems pleased by this. "Good."

As if on command, sunlight breaks the horizon and spills into the room. Jungkook stares at his largest competitor bathed in a faint hue of orange light. Battling aural waves of worry and vigorous joy battle across Costa's forehead. It perplexes Jungkook. Tires him out.

Briefly shutting his eyes for a moment, Jungkook reopens his eyes to find himself slumped over and almost falling off the bed. He must have almost fallen asleep. 

But how, when Costa is still in his room so close to him? Shouldn't he be more alert in Costa's presence? How could he think of sleeping when he couldn't do anything but pace and clutch his abused stomach moments ago? How could he allow himself to relax?

Groggily, Jungkook's pupils refocus on the Brazilian. The gymnast is now on his hands and knees, diligently picking up the mess on the floor.

"Hey...hey." Jungkook tries to stand but feels dizzy, so he sits down again. "You don't have to--you don't have to clean up."

Costa ignores him.

"Seriously." Jungkook tries to stand again. This time he's more successful. His impassioned feet pad across the floor towards the cleaning man. The blanket slips down his back, allowing a flash of sunlight to spread across his shoulder blades. Warmth fills his skin, making the rest of his body shiver in comparison. "You don't have to clean for me. I'll do it."

Jungkook drops the blanket on the ground, lowering to his hands and knees. The loud, unintentional crack of his knee against the wood is another sign of his fatigue. Costa's head jerks up to regard him, mouth twisting in a frown. 

As if on impulse, Costa's hand snakes out to rest on his knee. Protectively.

"Are you okay?"

This time, Jungkook knows the question isn't just because of his illness. It isn't because of his fatigue. It's for them--an are we okay? for their odd relationship as competitors and groupmates and for their pedagogical roles as teacher and student. In Costa's gaze is a curiosity so sharp--one that seems to ask countless prodding questions into the Korean's history.

Unwittingly, Jungkook shakes his head for a 'no.' He quickly stops himself, blurting out an answer to make up for his blunder. "Yes. Yes. I'm okay. Yeah, I'm fine..."

Costa doesn't buy it.

The Brazilian sighs, a deep rumbling torrent of air that rattles his entire chest. For once, Jungkook's competitor seems tired. So rare a sight is this worn version of Costa that Jungkook can't help but feel a bit uneasy. Costa never shows his weak side. But it's gone as soon as it surfaced, replaced by a temperate smile.

"It will be strange at practice without you." Costa's palms fill with wrappers. He crumples them under his fingers.

"Yes." Jungkook doesn't touch any of the food. "It will be strange not going to practice."

For a few more minutes, Jungkook lazily watches as his competitor cleans up the dorm floor. Costa avoids eye contact while he works, focusing intently on the task at hand. Every few seconds he comes close to Jungkook's knees as he reaches for garbage. 

The Korean merely sits and stares, too tired to make conversation. Just looking at the binge-eating mess of food he made last night makes him feel nauseous all over again. 

Gratitude surfaces from Jungkook once the Brazilian has cleaned everything to a spick and a span. "Thank you, Costa."

For some reason, the words make Costa flinch. 

Jungkook figures his sudden vocal appearance might have spooked the Brazilian. But he's wrong. The Brazilian shakes his head.

"Do not...um..." Costa strides over to the sink to wash his hands. The water splashes across his calloused palms, soap bubbles fluffing around from his agitated scrubbing. "Don't call me Costa."

"Why not?" Jungkook stands up from his place on the ground, furrowing his brows. As he does so, the blood rushes out of his head. He sways on his feet in a bout of vertigo. The skin-colored wall gets fallen upon as Jungkook blinks away the dizziness from fatigue and famine.

"Hey! Hey." Somehow, Costa is at his side in an instant. Barely dried hands reach out to tentatively steady Jungkook's shoulders. "You're not okay. You should go to the doctor-"

"Why can't I call you Costa?" Jungkook unconsciously leans into the cool, damp hands that press against his bare shoulders.

"Because." Costa removes his hands. "Call me Leonardo."

~

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Jungkook doesn't make it to the banquet that night. But he does make it outside.

A day spent uselessly pent up between tan walls made him almost go insane. If it weren't for the fact that he was supposed to be sick, he would've rather ran ten laps around the complex in the stifling heat than re-watch his routines over and over on Kan's video camera. 

But he had to play the part. So the entire day, he spent blinking at the same pixelated version of himself flipping and twisting. If the videos weren't engrained in his mind before, they definitely are now.

With a dull brownish indigo chasing his step, Jungkook ducks out of Room 333 around the time that the banquet finishes up. A loose Metallica shirt covers his chest while a cap rests on the top of his head. 

However much he desperately wants to enter the atrium in the main building, he knows he can't. He needs to remain incognito, just in case Kan is wandering through the area. So he decides on the less busy rec room instead. 

By the time the elevator hits the ground floor, Jungkook already hears lilting voices emerge from the neighboring building's tunnel. He pulls the cap brim down over his forehead and shuffles over to a nondescript, blue lounge chair. 

Being seen might bring too much pitiful blues and purples over to him. And he's not in the mood for that. So he picks up a magazine and pretends to read it as the voices carry over him.

"...can't believe we're really going to get..."

"...so fun! So excited!"

"...not...photogenic..."

Jungkook stares nonchalantly at the train of gymnasts that pass him by in the distance. They're all bubbling animatedly with some grain of news that must have been mentioned at the banquet. Bits and pieces of conversation shed light upon this mysterious event that they talk about. 

Eventually, Jungkook arrives at the conclusion that an all-inclusive photoshoot for the Olympians is taking place this weekend.

As he ponders the idea of posing for a camera, a familiar color drifts into his peripheral vision. It's a warm, friendly color, a full, robust cloud from a person with an encompassing personality. He dips his head lower, pretending to stare at the contents of the National Geographic magazine in his lap.

"...going to use the new palette I brought from...oh! Is...? Hang on guys, I'll meet up with you later. Bye!"

The familiar soprano voice almost dares him to glance up again, but his gaze remains on a picture of an endangered cat species. The Bengal Tiger bares its teeth at Jungkook threateningly, its powerful jaw muscles contracted for the kill. On the next page, the same tiger leaps across a span of Earth, extending its lithe body as it hunkers down on a hapless dear. Stealing life from another being to power itself. Throwing mercy to the wind. 

Survival of the fittest.

"Yoo hoo! Toodley doo!" 

Jungkook braces himself. His eyelashes flick up from the page to land on a pink cotton candy princess. McKayla Maroney's pastel pink dress is floor-length with a slit riding up to a toned mid-thigh. Her bangs are curled to the sides of her cheeks, framing her feline features. A sparkly pendant rests between her collar bones. 

"Hi." He greets her, closing the tiger between his hands. She taps the toe of her beige wedge against the foot of the blue chair and crosses her arms.

"Hi? That's all you're going to say to me? Where were you! I kept checking the door to see if you or your coach would show up to the banquet but you never came. That other dude, what's his name...Leland-"

"Leonardo." Jungkook corrects.

"Right. Leonardo...he was sitting next to an empty chair! After the banquet I asked Donnell if you were at practice today. He told me you weren't because you were feeling sick!"

She brings a rapid hand to his forehead, her eyes scrunched in concentration. As she bends over to assess him like a dutiful doctor, the side of her dress brushes against his leg. He bites the inside of his cheek.

Clicking her tongue in approval, she straightens. 

"No fever. Good. Your eyes aren't yellow. Are you getting the chills? You do seem a little pale, but it could just be the lighting. Let me remove that hat so I can see you better."

"You don't need to. Seriously. Stop--hey!"

Jungkook's ducks and dodges stand no chance against McKayla's pushiness. Feathery light is the giggle that slips out of her while she jabs at his forehead to snatch the rim. There's no gentleness about it, only a competitiveness that Jungkook reciprocates as they struggle. 

Finally, her fingers close around the cranial overhang and jerk upwards. 

"Aha! There! Now I can see your face." McKayla wiggles the prized cap in the air. "Ah, your face doesn't look too bad. But your hair is super messy."

"I wonder why." Jungkook deadpans. 

McKayla smacks his leg with the cap. He reaches out for it, but she tosses it onto the seat next to his. Then she plops on top of it. Jungkook bites back a chuckle. She's a nasty one.

Already, a few of the gymnasts have spotted the Team USA gossip-fest sitting in the waiting area next to a man in casual wear. Jungkook doesn't want them to identify him any further than that. He needs his cap back for disguise purposes.

"I'll fix your hair for you." 

"You don't have to-"

McKayla's hands purposely rake his hair, rubbing against his scalp harshly. He hops out of the chair, swatting her hands away from their messy task. Quickly, he pats down his head, flattening the poof of hair that he knows is sprouting like an old potato.

An evil titter peals from her mouth.

"You're horrible." Jungkook points to her. "Give me my hat. Now."

McKayla challenges him under pressed brows, squaring her shoulders. Tulip-laced clouds thread between them like a rollercoaster. He tries his best not to smile.

"Not until you tell me what's up with you. Why weren't you at practice or the banquet? You're the best male gymnast here, and everyone was asking about you."

He takes a step closer. The title of best gymnast that she furnished him with didn't miss his attention. "I'm not the best. Leonardo Costa is the best."

She rolls her eyes. "Okkaaaayyy, whatever you say. Now answer my questions."

Jungkook stares between her and the empty blue chair. He decides to take a seat again after a moment's thought. There is no getting out of this. McKayla's stubbornness is not so easy to run from than he first thought. Getting her way is in her character.

He leans back in the chair.

"In the middle of the night I woke up." Jungkook starts, leaning over the armrest. She listens to him intently, tapping her fingertips together. "And I uh, was really...I don't know the English word...oh, yeah. Nauseous. I felt sick. I vomited."

"Oh..." A crestfallen veil droops over the American's complexion. "You threw up...again?"

"Multiple times." Jungkook reveals, clenching his jaw at the memory. He hates to admit weakness any more than he has to, but McKayla has seen him ill before. "I ate something bad I think."

He is sure to withhold the food binging and nightmarish possession over his body that compelled him to overeat. If she had the ill fate of seeing him in such a ravenous stupor, shoving food down his throat...would she still like him?

"Aw...that sucks. I hope you're feeling better, Jungkook. And eating better foods." 

For once, her nasty smirk is no where to be seen. A hurting grimace sets up shop under her dark lipstick, and she fiddles with her hands. Jungkook has the sudden urge to stop her hands from moving by reaching across the space between them. As if reading his mind, she glances up from her wrists, staring at his shirt.

"I like your shirt. That's one of the shirts you bought the other day, right?" Her pointer finger makes contact with the large A of the band's logo. "But you have a little something right..."

"Where?"

"There!" Swiftly, her finger snaps up to flick his nose. "Gotcha!"

Before he can protest about falling for the oldest trick in the book, she pulls out the cap from under her with a grin. His hand leaps in the air towards the approaching article, a tiger ready to clamp down on prosperity. 

But she doesn't give it to him. Instead, she places it on his head for him, holding onto his chin with one firm hand as the other tugs the hat over his hair. When she's finished, she taps the top once for good measure.

"Oh dear. Look at the time. I guess I better go. My work is done." She abruptly stands up, lifting her pink gown with her. 

Jungkook swallows, his head buzzing with giddy nerves. Inside he is a wreck, swinging on a rickety playset of fuchsia slides. On the outside of his mental playground, he scoffs.

"You came here to check in on me and steal my hat." He stands as well. "I'm not surprised."

"I gave it back to you!" She has to tilt her head up to get a good look into his eyes. Even though she's one of the tallest female gymnasts at the complex, she's still a head shorter than him. Her teeth sparkle under the bright lights of the rec room. He blinks down at them. 

With the sudden realization that the gymnast standing in front of him is, in fact, very pretty, he freezes up.

She instantly responds to the behavior. "What. What? Is something wrong? Are you feeling ill again?"

"N-no."

"Then what's wrong? Are you seriously mad that I took your cap? Or that I messed up your hair...no, I bet it was because I flicked your nose. You're seriously mad over that? Well, I guess even the best of us can't avoid that trick. And maybe I was a little too harsh with the hat thing, but I needed to make sure you weren't deathly ill-"

"McKayla." He cuts her short. The spotlight slides from her face to his. He feels like he's performing in front of the judges all over again.

"Yes?"

He manages to get it out. "You look...good tonight."

Contrary to the fiery or snarky comeback he expected out of her, McKayla blushes madly, gaping like a fish. "Wait, what did you say?"

"Your dress. It's pretty. I like the necklace too. And your hair." The compliments spill easily enough from his mouth. He can't tell where the pink of her dress ends and the pink of her aura begins anymore. It's all one vast mixture of vivid blush and bubblegum sunset. Under the kind phrases from Jungkook she shrinks into herself, as if hiding from an unexpected presence. 

However, he senses a large pulse of pleasure underneath her shock. Even if shocking, the flattery makes its mark deeply.

"And your earrings. Those are so sparkly." He glances down, smiling as the weight of what he's doing settles into him. His Adidas bump against the top of her wedges. "And your shoes. Still not taller than me, but they're something."

McKayla finally breaks then, cheesing like she just wound up on the podium. "You're a jerk."

"What?" Now it's Jungkook's turn to shrink into himself. How could she possibly consider him a jerk after he just called her beautiful?

But she says nothing. Her pink dusted cheeks squeeze into a pleased smile at him, and it's then he realizes that 'jerk' is her form of endearment. She taps him on top of his hat once more before turning away. 

Jungkook follows her as they stride towards the side elevators in a low-traffic hallway that the other gymnasts likely won't be in.

"Well. You're a jerk too." Jungkook yanks the cap down harshly over his head as a staff member passes them by. McKayla laughs wholeheartedly, punching his arm. They approach the elevators both in silent bliss, breaths held with the giddiness of mutual attraction.

An elevator is open on the far side, but its door begins to slide shut fast. McKayla hurries to shove her wedge in, cheering in triumph as the doors respond mechanically. Jungkook follows her footsteps with his head kept low. She reaches out to tug him inside the elevator without first checking its occupancy.

Jungkook hears a mild gasp of surprise.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I hope it's okay that we intruded. Heh." McKayla's hand tightens on his. Jungkook continues to keep his head low as he shuffles in, praying to the Arizona sunshine that it isn't Kan. Anyone but Kan. 

The occupant speaks. At the first syllable, Jungkook stomach drops.

"Jung-"

"Listen, I'm sorry Coach-" Jungkook looks up suddenly, halting his Korean. 

His eyes meet the receptive gaze of Leonardo Costa. The Brazilian resides in a verdant and crisp polo, unbuttoned save for one stray link of round plastic. Wisps of dark chest hair peek out from the V-cut neckline of the tan-chested gymnast, who has his eyebrows raised in confusion. 

The pink from McKayla and the red from Costa mingle and battle alarmingly around Jungkook. 

"Oh...sorry, Cos--Leonardo." Jungkook switches to English while his counterparts stare at him with slight worry. "I thought you were my coach. It's only you, thank goodness."

The Brazilian reminds him of McKayla's hand in his own by staring curiously at it. An impeding wind of devilish red rushes at their hands. Damning the meaning behind the gesture. Urging it to stop. Jungkook winces at the forcefulness of the aura shooting their way. McKayla doesn't sense a thing. And Costa...

Costa's face shows none of whatever he may be feeling inside.

"Are you feeling better?" Costa's gaze purposely lingers on his face. Not McKayla's. Not their hands that are definitely and most confidently being held between them like partners in crime.

Jungkook barely nods, fully perplexed. The elevator lurches up, although he doesn't recall pressing any buttons. For some reason, his fingers disconnect from the American's. McKayla he can feel looking at him, but he doesn't dare turn towards her. Right now the Brazilian is pinning him with his eyes, and it might mean another odd night of possession if he doesn't comply now. 

For some reason, it makes sense to face red lava than to dally in bright, outgoing fields of pink tulips.

"I feel much better, thank you."

The bell chimes in the elevator at floor two, the women's section of the dorm complex. McKayla coughs. Even if she can't see what's happening in the invisible realm, she can sense the awkwardness.

"Um, I'll see you later, Jungkook. Please don't eat any more bad foods...and call me, okay? I'll probably catch you at the photoshoot this weekend. Bye!"

The elevator doors shut on the girl with the pink dress whom he gives a prompt farewell wave and weak smile. In the exact moment that the doors close, Leonardo speaks up, a tigerish growl from his throat.

"She your girlfriend?"

~

~

~

note from authAURA-

helloooo~

Welcome to another day of sunshine and good grace, a peek into the alcove of the great beyond. I greet you in this heavenly abode of screen and potential, of search and find...of a story!

Yeah hi so how are you all doing/I hope you're doing well/are you okay today/I can't see you but I can feel you there vibing/you good? 

Please be good.

Please! Stray from the evil, damning negativity of mud setting. When in mud, find a hardy stick to pull you out! It just might work. And if the stick breaks, I'm sorry bro but maybe your birth into this world was meant to be full of worms. They aren't bad guys, those worms, just misunderstood. Maybe it's your task to understand them better? Diplomacy with the Earthmongers. Heh. Heh...(get me out of here).

L-o-v-e,

YzzI