Imagine- D.O. and Kyuhyun

(1960s)

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You sit at the Regent Club lounge, waiting for your husband. You're the only single female there, mostly because your husband is the only husband who would leave a woman like this. But then, he's not your husband, is he? You're just the impostor, who looks just like his runaway American wife, brought in to save his public image from shame. You can almost understand why she ran, to begin with. He has eyes for nothing but his work. The senator lives in the limelight, and nothing of that which is his private life, is private. You of course should not mind. The man really isn't your husband. You're an actor, playing a part and very convincingly so.

"She's my bae~~~by."

Your eyes wander across the room, to the small stage across the room from the bar. The music is slow, sultry and drawn out, not uncommon for lounge-bars. There are two microphones. There are two men on them, dressed immaculately, in rented suits, no doubt, from head to toe, complete with felt hats, you can’t see their eyes, only the lower half of their face.

“Nuga beolin choco~late."

You’re walking in through my door…”

The word chocolate makes you gulp. Not so much as the word itself as the way it was said.  Husky, accented slightly, leaving you breathless for a moment, before you catch yourself. You’re the wife of a senator, it would not do you good to be caught drooling over a bar singer. His heavy breathing into the microphone has left you slightly heated around the collar of your dress. The song picks up in pace, the other singer joins in, but you can still hear the huskiness of the first one, against the others.

“Don’t be too la~~ate.”

He steps away from the microphone with a smirk (never mind what it does to your heart). The other singer takes over in another oriental language (Chinese you assume). This one’s voice has none of the hint of the huskiness. It’s clear, nothing very unusual. The first singer joins in again and then, to your massive disappointment, the song ends. The two singers take of their hats and bow. When they stand, you’re surprised at how young they are. The taller one, the one that sang in Chinese, looks very lean but the most surprising is the face of the shorter one, the one you've been staring at. Now that his doe shaped eyes are showing, and he’s not smirking, but smiling brightly, his face radiates innocence. You snap back to the counter, with a jerk. You ask, in a well-bred voice, that you've trained yourself to in all circumstances, the barman for another sherry and slip in a casual question while accepting the said sherry.

“Who were the men singing just a while ago?”

“They’re locals here,” said the bartender with extreme deference. The American wife of a half American senator must be treated so. You nod in acceptance, afraid to ask anymore. Since your husband came into the office, more and more of his native country have been residing in the States. You know what they all say about him, in hushed, reverent whispers, treating him akin to the Lord. The first half American to become a senator. You suppose you should be proud, but you wonder if his real wife ever was. Your thoughts are broken by a husky, voice, with the English just slightly accented with a touch of the orient,

“One Scotch-on-the-rocks please.” The bartender gives it to him, with not an inch of the politeness that he’d shown to you, but this man just flashes him a bright smile and hands him the money. Only then does he notice you. He nearly blinds you with his smile and bows deeply, as is the custom in the orient. “Such an honor to meet you Madam.” You will never get used to the way you’re treated like a queen (you’re an impostor with a crown) but you almost smile coyly at this man, catching yourself in the last moment, instead giving him a tight lipped smile and offering your hand.

“How do you do? It was a pleasure listening to your singing.” It’s very, polite, matter-of-factly, and you’re very proud of your self-control at this very moment.

“You heard us?” His hand flies back to his neck as he rubs it in embarrassment. You nod politely, only reminding yourself that an extremely girlish, vigorous nod would seem out of character (for a while you wish you weren't playing this damned one). “Aish! How embarrassing!” He says.

“Not at all, you were both good.” Actually, you’re thinking that his partner was good, he was better than brilliant. You’re outlook towards “chocolate” has been changed for life, thanks to him. He blushes like a schoolboy and looks at his feet momentarily before thanking you and he looks adorable doing it.

“If I may ask, where is the Senator?” You take a sip of your drink; your throat has dried up considerably, before answering.

“He will be here shortly,” you say while wishing the Senator didn't exist. He smiles at you (there goes your heart again) and says,

“I don’t suppose the Senator himself has time to come to such places, though having Your Ladyship makes up for it more than enough.” You nearly blush beet red at that. He shuffles his feet for a second before asking, “I wonder if it would be impertinent of me to join you.”

“Please do.” You can’t be rude, after all to your husband’s countrymen (but that’s merely the excuse). He sits down next to you and asks.

“It must be wonderful to travel so much.” The accent is very attractive to your ears. You lose yourself in it so much that your control breaks as you sigh and say,

“Are you kidding me?” Your eyes widen in shock as you realize what you've just uttered and look around swiftly, and frantically, to check no one’s heard your slip. He on the other hand laughs.

“Yes I suppose that is a rather silly question to ask.” You wonder if he’s actually understood the implications of your words. He doesn't show any signs so you relax your tensed body (of course just enough to still seem proud and upright). “I've never traveled anywhere but from home to America.”

“What is it like there?” You ask curiously. He furrows his eyebrows rather adorably and shakes his head.

“I don’t remember much of it… but it was very different from here,” there is a sort of faraway look in his eyes and you allow yourself you glance over his features carefully. His milky white skin, the round doe-like eyes, the dazzling smile, the gentle curve of his jawline, you become aware of his voice once more as he talks again, “I was six when I came here, but I remember enough of home to know there was a large garden, that was my favorite part of the house, my grandfather’s fruit trees at one end, his flowers at the other and green grass rolling in between. That I miss here, climbing the trees in summer to eat frits with my cousins, hearing the birds singing at dawn and dusk….  once, I remember, I fell out of a tree and mother-“He stops short of finishing and laughs, the enchantment of his words broken. “I am sorry, I must be boring you.”

“Not the least bit,” you say with abstract politeness. In actuality you could listen to his voice forever. Suddenly he rises from his seat and bows, but you realize his gaze his directed towards someone behind you.

“There you are,” says a smooth, well-bred voice. You can hardly stand to smile at the man who proposes to be your husband. “I hope my wife has not been troubling you Mr.….?” You realize you don’t know his name either.

“Do Kyungsoo,” he bows deeply once more, “it’s a pleasure to meet you Senator Cho.”

“Likewise,” says Cho Kyuhyun and shakes hands. You rise and say,

“It was nice speaking, Do Kyungsoo ssi,” He looks mildly surprised at your knowledge of Korean honorifics but bows deeply and shakes your proffered hand.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he says and you almost curse out loud when your posing husband leads you away.

As you take your coat (and Cho helps you into it, you are in public after all) your eyes wander back to the inside of the bar, where Do Kyungsoo and his fellow singer are lounging in the chairs. Your face heats up rapidly and you turn back to Cho Kyuhyun slightly breathless and walk with him out the door. He looks at you in mild surprise and you wonder if for the first time, the Senator has understood what you feel.

Too bad you’re stuck living this lie, you think you he leads you to the car. Too bad you can’t go back to your old one. Too bad you can’t go back to the club either. Too bad you can’t go back to Do Kyungsoo.

As you sit in the car, you sneak a glance as the man whose wife you claim to be. The honey coloured hair, the Asian eyes, the pink lips that curl into a smirk very easily, the sharp jawline, the pale skin…. Yes, Senator Cho Kyuhyun could very easily be called handsome, very handsome, and very understandably women stared at him as he passed them by, but too bad he couldn't care any less about his looks. Too bad he didn't care about much other than his work.

You're lying on a firm chest, someone is stroking your hair gently and humming the words of a familiar song. You gently open your eyes and lift yourself up, the other person does the same. Suddenly you're too close, your lips are too close. You're shocked-

So shocked that you snap out of your dreams. You know the man from your dreams....
You grudgingly walk down to for breakfast, find your husband seated there and curtly nod at each other. 
"Your face is red." He says, over his news paper. You already know that.
"It's my face," you retort. He shakes his head and returns to the paper. This is your usual form of exchange.
You hide yourself behind a newspaper too, and wait for a few moments before peering across the table. Cho Kyuhyun is handsome, very handsome. Too bad he's not more humane...
But mostly too bad he's not Do Kyungsoo...

Yes too bad.

Your "husband" the Senator....

Or your fleeting acquaintance the bar singer....?

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For... no one in particular,

I just had to get this one out of my system! Miya, don't you tease me about this!

And please forgive me Kyu~! You still are my ultimate bias!!!

This is the song DO and Chen were singing in the lounge-bar.