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It's October 16th and Namjoon is in the practice room.
He's 20 years old and the sweat making his clothes stick to his skin has become his every day companion. So have the harsh breaths echoing in a small room, the squeaking of shoes against the floor, the groaning prompted by protesting muscles and an ever present sense of frustration.
There's the frustration of not getting a move right. Of spending hours upon hours in an endless loop of practice. There's the frustration of seven boys giving their all in chase of a dream that sometimes feels too far out of their reach.
And, in the middle of it all, there is Namjoon.
He's collapsed on the floor, chest heaving with air that does little to lessen the suffocating feeling. All around him, the other six are in similar states—even Hoseok, whose stamina in the practice room seems close to endless, is barely holding himself up against the wall, staring blankly at the water bottle clutched in his hand.
It's been a brutal practice session, yes, but there's something else eating away at their determination and draining them of energy faster than any choreo possibly could. Namjoon knows what it is; he can feel them too, at the back of his mind. The questions. The doubt.
Is it worth it?
Can we make it?
These thoughts are like poison and, if Namjoon lets them, they'll continue to spread. The signs are already there—in the droop of Jimin's shoulders, the tense set of Jungkook's jaw, the bleeding corners of Yoongi's bitten nails. They hide behind the thin line of Seokjin's lips and the furrow of Taehyung's brows and the vacancy in Hoseok's eyes.
It's in that moment, while he's lying on a practice room floor with his bandmates, that the weight of being a leader hits Namjoon out of nowhere. Because how many times have they been like this? Pushed down to the ground, tired, hopeless. How many more times will they find themselves like this if they are to keep going, to remain on this path that's so difficult to tread?
Namjoon breathes deeply. He's so young—too young to bear such a burden, some would say. But they are all young, facing the raw reality of the world, and if they want to make it, they'll have to keep getting up again, and again, and again.
And how can Namjoon ask them to do it if he, the leader, doesn't?
“Alright.” Namjoon claps his hands together and everyone startles. He winces at how loud his voice sounds, but forces himself to continue as he gets up, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a sudden bout of anxious energy. “We've almost got it down! Let's run the choreo again, one more time, yeah?”
Maybe it's Namjoon's imagination, but as they get up one by one, he thinks he sees a glimmer of thankfulness in their eyes. Seokjin says something that makes Jimin and Jungkook laugh, and then Hoseok is telling them to stop joking around and get into formation, and Yoongi and Taehyung are smiling and music is blasting through the speakers and the weight on Namjoon's shoulders is still as heavy as the dream of seven boys.
It's a heavy dream, this one they share. But in moments like this, Namjoon finds it's a weight worth carrying.
It's October 16th and Namjoon is holed up at the studio.
He's 23 years old and his brain is grappling for words like he's a toddler learning how to speak. The mess littering his desk grows when he adds yet another crumpled sheet of paper to it, pieces of half-written lyrics still visible through the creases. Namjoon stares at them while he fiddles with his pen.
He's not blocked. He's just—tired. The promotions that follow a new album are always exhausting, and the days have been blurring together since the release of Wings. They had a performance yesterday. They have another today. Namjoon should be resting instead of holing himself up at the studio to write song lyrics at 2AM.
He can’t bring himself to stop, though. Despite the heaviness behind his eyes, his brain keeps going a mile a minute, protesting every time Namjoon considers going back to the apartment. It's like there's something telling him that he can't allow himself to rest if he wants to do better. Telling him that he needs to do better.
Another crumpled ball of paper joins the pile and Namjoon sighs.
He straightens his spine and stretches, wincing at the cracking noises that sound a thousand times louder than they should in the deafening silence of the hour. The words remain out of his grasp, the possible themes shuffling like a deck of cards in his brain. There are days when Namjoon gets surprised by how easily lyrics come to him, how a simple idea is quick to inspire him and turn into something he's happy with. Today doesn't seem to be one of those days; there are expectations held high above his head, and nothing he comes up with is good enough to reach them.
Namjoon knows it must be because he's tired. He doesn't have the mind for this right now. But perhaps, if he rests his eyes for no longer than a few seconds, he might still be able to write something salvageable tonight.
He might—
When Namjoon jolts awake, the clock on his phone reads 4:17AM. He shakes his head to clear away the sleepiness as he lifts it from where he'd rested it on his arms, and the movement shifts something that'd been draped over his shoulders. Namjoon takes hold of it on instinct before it can slide to the floor and feels soft fabric between his fingers.
Through the lingering haziness, Namjoon recognizes Hoseok's favorite fluffy blanket, the one Hoseok often takes with him on plane trips while they're on tour. It'd been tucked neatly around Namjoon's shoulders, wrapped around him to cover his knees, and it explains why Namjoon is warm despite the light clothes he's wearing.
Namjoon's heart is warm, too. When his eyes adjust well enough to make out more than blurry silhouettes, he notices a cup of his favorite tea left at the edge of his desk. Underneath it there's a note scribbled in Yoongi's handwriting.
You did well today. Come home and rest, Joon
Sometimes, Namjoon has learned, it is like this. He gets too caught up in his own brain and his own troubles, and he forgets that he needs to take care of himself. Forgets that just as he worries about the members and what he needs to do as part of the team, they worry about him , and it takes something like a fluffy blanket or a cup of his favorite tea to remind him.
They balance each other well, like that.
It's October 16th and Namjoon is standing in front of thousands of people.
He's 25 years old and his world has narrowed down to the stage and the six other people who stand on it beside him. His heart beats in sync with the music blasting through the speakers, with the roar of the crowd singing along, with the feeling of being alive . The energy of the audience powers through him like a battery and drives away the strain that comes from touring.
Namjoon loves the quieter parts of being an artist—riding a bike alongside the Han River while looking for inspiration, scribbling music lyrics on a worn down notebook—but he loves this, too. He squints past the lights to look at the audience and feels too much to hold inside his chest; he raps into the mic and revels in the screams he gets in return. His senses are heightened, tuned to the other members in this planned and not so planned choreography they’re now so used to performing together.
Later, Namjoon will be exhausted. His limbs will protest like he’s been run over by a truck, and maybe tomorrow will be one of those days when he wishes he could just stop and rest. When he wishes he didn’t have to get up early again, to run through hours of warm ups and rehearsals again, to count the days he’s been away from his home country again.
“Guten tag, we are—”
“BTS!”
But then he’ll get on stage and the crowd will cheer, and he’ll remember what it feels like.
It's October 16th and Namjoon is having dinner with the people he's grown to call family.
He's 27 years old and he's gone through many things most people his age have not. He's traveled to countless countries, received the love of countless people, performed in tiny venues and sold out stadiums alike. He's RM—an artist, a performer, a leader.
But he's also just Kim Namjoon—nothing but a young man in his twenties, navigating his way through life as best he can.
"Namjoon-ah, can you get me the ramen? Thank y— Oh, shit!"
Namjoon rushes to pull the glass he knocked over back up, but the damage is done. As wine spreads across the previously white tablecloth and Hoseok scrambles back with a screech and a steaming bowl of ramen in hand, the whole table bursts into laughter. Namjoon groans and sinks his head in his hands while Seokjin pats him sympathetically on the back and Jungkook runs to the kitchen for napkins. Moments later, there's a loud crash as Jimin falls out of his chair from laughter, and Taehyung is only saved from being dragged along by Yoongi's quick reflexes.
Despite the chaos and the now ruined tablecloth, Namjoon cracks a smile at everyone's antics. Dinners like this, with all of them at the same table without it being for a celebration or a schedule, have become more frequent now that they can't go on tour. At first, it made Namjoon unreasonably angry—yet another reminder of the shackles the pandemic has put on them—but today, he's just… happy.
He's happy that he gets to have this. It reminds him of the beginning, when they'd often have loud and crowded meals in their small apartment. And even though they're grasping for a ray of light in the dark like so many others, moments like this fill him with a sense of hope, a fluttering feeling of peace that Namjoon cradles close to his chest.
It's comforting to know that despite all the changes the years have brought—to the world, to himself—some things always stay the same.