Foreword

Jeon Jungkook twisted in his sheets. Already an exuberant sleeper who never woke up in the same position he fell asleep in, this night was worst than most. His dreams were chaotic and harsh as they came to him. Dreams of losing his amazing life. Dreams of being left behind as everyone else ran ahead. And worst of all, dreams about not making his hyungs proud.

The dreams were fragments, not one continuous piece or flow. Jin smirking and saying he had wasted all of his time on him. Yoongi staring and saying that he would never produce one of his songs. Hoseok walking away and saying that his mistakes could never be fixed. Taehyung laughing at him thinking he could be as popular as him. Jimin running away saying he was bored with him now. Army turning quiet when it became his turn to open his mouth and share his lyrics.

But the worst was Namjoon, his leader. The reason he was a member for the hugely successful group BTS. At fifteen, the rapper he had already heard of, had held out his hand in friendship and support for the the young man. He had told him he believed in him and his undiscovered talents. He was the man who had anointed him with the title of Golden Maknae early on. All he had wanted to do during the years since was to repay the time and sincerity that had been bestowed by Namjoon. By all of them really.

But in the dream, Namjoon was shaking his head and telling him he was holding the group back. That if it wasn't for him, they would be so much further ahead. Jungkook knew that every dream they had shared, and more, had been accomplished but his fear still drifted its way into his subconscious. It drove him to practise to the point of exhaustion and diet to extremes that many of the people around him worried about. Heck, they weren't the ones who were expected to get screams at a specific point in a song. It was built in to the choreography.

When he woke up the next day, stripped down to his boxers like what was his routine, his sheets were tucked around his ankles and he kicked them away harshly. Almost as if he could kick the dreams away with them. But he couldn't. They hung on him like a heavy woollen coat on the hottest day of the summer. It was hot and itchy and he just wanted to get rid of it.

He forced himself to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It was late enough in the morning that the sun was cracking through his dark curtains. The members had schedules today but they were later in the afternoon so he figured that was why the others had let him sleep in. And as he started to get himself ready for the day, he shoved those fears down like he did every day. Far enough down that they wouldn't see them, even if they sensed the fear and doubt coming from him. He owed them too much. He had to make them, and Army, prouder today than they were the day before.