[one]

Family means something different to each of us.  

For Kris Wu, family means late nights at the company building, pouring his sweat into dance routines his body is long tired of, alongside four equally worn out bodies.

It means flying back and forth and being flung to different countries by his schedule, messing up his body clock in the process.

It's birthday parties for every year that he and his brothers age, a year closer to eventual retirement or burning out their bodies to the point of being unusable; whichever comes first.

It's pasting on smiles and throwing light punches past shoulders at the remarks and cheeky revelations his younger siblings make about him on scripted shows he doesn't even watch.

It's introducing the group as EXO-M, the band of brothers, and trying not to wince when reporters ask time and time again who the half brothers are. Though the men themselves are long past having issues with each other over a shared, unfaithful father, it still hurts to say it.

It's forgetting that his family actually has two (technically, three) parents, because he's been heading it for so long on his own that it doesn't really feel like he's a son anymore.

And though not many people will be able to say that they understand exactly what Kris' definition of family is, it's (loosely) just like most other people's: a group of people, knit together by blood or experiences that have formed unbreakable bonds; sometimes both.

But unlike other people (normal people, Kris thinks), family does not go hand in hand with love. And by love, he doesn't mean brotherly love, but the kind of love that makes people crazy and keeps them awake in the early hours of the morning because dreams are no longer good enough.

He doesn't have time to waste and fill with whispered sweet nothings, fingers slipped between the spaces of another hand, and declarations of love at 2 in the morning. Maybe once, he had thought he could squeeze it into his life, but that's long past.

It doesn't really matter, anyway. When all you've known is work, it's a little hard to learn how to do something for yourself. How to love someone− really love them, with every bit of your being.

But Kris doesn't waste time thinking about it.

There is no space for wants and would-be's in the lives of idols whose longest companion and first love is work.

Kris has been telling himself that for 16 years, and he's starting to believe it.

***

The speed at which the vehicle is moving right now is close to a standstill. Though the five of them had been ushered into the van between the beefy arms of blank-faced security personnel almost half an hour ago, they are still not even out of the airport yet.

"It's like this," Yixing says thoughtfully, pointing at the fans pressed right up against the windows of the van. "The older we get, the more fame we accumulate. It's insane."

It's true. One would think that a group like EXO-M, who have been around for the same amount of time that a parent has to watch an infant grow to an adolescent, would have fizzled out a long time ago, but it seems like their success keeps growing.

Sure, their peak of fame had been several years ago, but the media and their company somehow managed to keep them in relevance, which meant more money, and less of everything else. Less sleep, less breaks and less privacy. Work dominates their lives, leaving no space for anything else.

But such is the price of fame and international spotlight.

Kris himself has no idea how they managed to keep going for so long. He is baffled by the response that the five of them−all well into their thirties−continue to receive from their fans.

It's all about image and relevance, Jongdae had said. After all our dabbling in practically every music genre under the sun, we've managed to glue ourselves to the insides of CD players everywhere.

Then Yixing would snort and say that, "No one uses CD players anymore."

Cue Jongdae's eyes rolling. The circuitry of iPods, then, he'd say. Whatever it is, one thing's for sure. Technology has screwed us and we're stuck.

Kris wonders sometimes if Jongdae is right, or if they're just stuck because they're too afraid to leave what they have known for 16 years.

Finally, the van separates from the human wave and turns onto the highway, concrete finally rolling past beneath the wheels at a noticeable pace.

Silence envelopes the vehicle, each of them knowing that there will be at least one person who just wants to get some undisturbed rest. Today, that person is Kris. He's nodding off, his chin inching closer and closer to his chest.

Before he drifts off, though, Jongdae leans forward, placing a hand on Kris' knee to grab his attention. "Hey, hyung," he hisses.

Kris fully opens his half-closed eyes and grunts. "Mm?"

"We were thinking of going to the club tonight," Jongdae continues in a whisper, even though there's really no need, seeing as Kris is fully conscious now. "Nothing big; just the one near our apartment. We just wanted to grab some drinks."

Kris glances over at everyone else. "When did you guys plan this?"

Tao snorts. "We didn't." He leans over, raising a brow at Jongdae. "We never even discussed it."

"Whatever the case," Yixing claps his hands together, "I'm up for it."

"Me, too," Minseok says, nodding.

"How 'bout you, Tao?" Jongdae asks.

Tao's gaze flickers between Kris and the others. After a moment, he shrugs. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Might as well, seeing as our schedules are packed for the next few hundred years. Coming, Kris?"

Kris shakes his head, leaning his head back against the headrest. "Not tonight. I just want to rest."

Jongdae punches his shoulder. "You're no fun, hyung."

"Say that again and I'll show you 'no fun'," Kris growls, eyes sliding closed again.

Jongdae mumbles something that sounds like, "Whatever."

A few minutes later (though it was probably half an hour and just didn't feel like it), the van comes to a stop, but only Kris gets out; after a word to the driver, the boys stay put.

"Bye, Kris," Yixing calls. Jongdae wiggles his fingers and the others simply nod.

Kris doesn't bother saying anything in reply, stretching skywards as the door slides closed and the van drives off. His feet drag as he heads into the building, pushing the door open with his shoulder and ducking his head down at the same time, hoping it will be enough to shield him from any bright camera flashes.

But nothing flashes at him and no one comes running towards him screaming, "Oppa, we love you!"

Thank God, he thinks, realising there are no photographers or fans waiting in the lobby. It's been a while since he's been able to feel this relaxed.  

At the same time, he feels a little empty, too. It would have been nice to have someone who was happy to see him, even if that happiness was driven by wild infatuation or promises of fat salaries.

He tries to shrug. It's not as if he's never been alone before.

*

The first thing Kris notices when the lights of his apartment illuminate the room into visibility is that he's not alone.

There's someone sitting on his couch, half hidden from his view by the huge pot plant (stupid thing, Kris thinks) standing at the end of the short hall, branches extended and obscuring his view of the figure.

Kris' first instinct is to freeze and stop the door in motion, preventing it from closing with an audible click.

It's a fan. Kris squints a little. A male fan. Or a crazy stalker.

How did he get in here?

As if on cue, the male turns around and looks right at him.

Kris curls his hand around the door handle, ready to wrench the door open and make a run for it if the guy threatens him. His phone is in his pocket, he remembers. He could call the cops while running.

"Who are you, and what the hell are you doing in my apartment?" he calls out, trying to make it sound like he's not the victim here.

There's no response.

"Answer my questions or I'll call the police!"

The man− a boy, really, Kris realises− gets to his feet, walking around the couch and towards him, swatting away the leaves of the potted plant.

Now, Kris can see his face clearly: honey coloured hair, delicate eyes and nose (do those eyes look familiar?), steep jaw.

The boy lets him stare for a moment, then, as if he sees the faint light of distant recognition in Kris' eyes (disguised unknowingly as confusion), he says, "You don't remember me?"

It takes Kris a while to shake his head, and another moment to realise that his fingers are slipping on the door handle. He tightens his hold. "No... Should I? Who are you?"

The boy blinks. "I'm your son."

The world seems to stop for a moment, the hands of an invisible, universal clock stuttering in place. "What?"

"I'm your son," the boy repeats simply.

Kris' eyes widen, jaw slack as he examines the boy. He doesn't remember ever having a son. But−

"You met a woman, 17 years ago, sometime in late August, early September," the boy says, deepening the pit that's just opened in Kris' stomach. "At least, that's what Mom told me. You remember her, don't you? You might not know me, but I'm sure you haven't forgotten her. No one could. Her name was−"

"Yoona." Kris knows, and the name escapes his lips, unbidden. It seems like forever since he's said the name, but he knows he never could have forgotten it. You don't forget the name of the first and only person who put the 'you' in your I miss you's and I wish you were here's, even if they're no longer in your life anymore.

That's when Kris realises that the boy isn't lying. He sees it now. The eyes on his face are taken straight from his mother's, curved arches topped with little double lids. He thought he'd never see those eyes again.

Kris closes his own eyes. Images flash behind his closed lids, painting pictures like fleeting scenes from a movie on fast forward. Orange juice, drawn shutters and chequered diner floors. He opens his eyes again and blinks, but the images don't go away.

Orange juice, drawn shutters and chequered diner floors.

"My name is Luhan," the boy says, interrupting Kris' train of thought, as if he'd sensed that Kris was neck deep in memories he shouldn't even be remembering.

The moment the boy says his name, it's orange juice, drawn shutters and chequered dining floors all over again. And, I've always wanted to name my son 'Luhan'. 

Kris shakes his head. He thinks that maybe some part of him is in denial, convinced that this is a dream, and that he'll shake himself awake. "Why are you here? Where's your mother?"

"She's dead."

***