A Welcome Intrusion (oneshot)

[qiguai]

Title: A Welcome Intrusion
Pairing: Doojoon/Yoseob
Genre: AU, romance
Word count: 2875
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: language, drinking and sex
Summary: A P.E. teacher walks into a bar and walks out in love.
Notes: For jaybomb, envoler and donghayyy, who are helping me take over the BEAST fandom with this amazing pairing.

“Doojoon-sshi.” A quiet but firm voice interrupts his daze as he stares intently at the clock on his computer- only three more minutes- and he looks up from the screen. The face triggers an alarm in his mind and he straightens his posture just a bit because even though he can't for the life of him remember this man's name, he knows he's that one teacher who does not like him. Or at least, he's the teacher that voices his dislike most openly. “Yes?” he answers, trying to keep his nerves from invading of his voice. The older man looks down at him through his small, round-framed glasses. “The faculty is going out for drinks after work, would you care to join us this time?” His squinty eyes watch Doojoon closely as if he's another one of his students who fell asleep during lecture and the younger man shifts uncomfortably in his institution-issued desk chair. “I'm sorry, but I can't. I have to-” “Feed your dog?” his coworker answers for him, sighing loudly enough so the other teachers can hear. “Doojoon-sshi, that's what you said the last seven times we've invited you,” he chides, shaking his head. “You didn't even attend your own welcoming celebration. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you didn't like your coworkers.” He makes a pained face, looking around at their fellow teachers who were nodding in agreement, their eyes narrowed at the insolent young physical education teacher. “I'm sorry, but I really do need to get home and feed my dog,” Doojoon says quietly, turning his back on the group and pretending to organize a stack of papers. He hears the older man sigh again- shit, if only he could remember his name- but keeps his back turned. But then the man is stooped down, speaking quietly into his ear like an intimate friend trying to help. “I didn't want to mention this, Doojoon-sshi, but the principal has not been too pleased with your consistent absences. Not pleased at all. He is one to believe there should be a feeling of harmony in the workplace. Don't you think it would be a good idea to at least make one get-together?” Doojoon understands the implications- if he doesn't go, he's going to be fired. He promises to show up an hour late, after he makes a quick stop home. He jots down the address of the bar and slips out of the school before any of them have a chance to voice their surprise. The moment he opens the front door, Doojoon is greeted by a flying ball of blond fur and an enthusiastic pink tongue. He falls to his knees on the foyer tile, laughing and lifting the tiny body up over his head. Baby grins at him, or least that's what he likes to think that expression is, and he buries his face in the puppy's soft fur. Doojoon isn't the creative type when it comes to names, but he thinks Baby is a good enough name for this simple creature. “C'mon, Baby, let's get you some food,” he chuckles, picking up the remains of a sock that he must have left in an unfortunate place before he left. Baby wags his tail, following him as he enters their small kitchen. Exactly an hour later, as promised, Doojoon stands outside the bar. He sees what's-his-name inside, waving to him from a small table close to the bar itself. The air is thick with cigarette smoke when he enters and he remembers the lecture he gave that morning about the effects of cigarettes on the lungs to a group of half-asleep teens. He smiles to himself and the group waiting for him thinks it's for them, and they give him a surprisingly warm greeting. They pull out a seat for him and he's swept into their conversation. “I'm so sick of this job.” “I need a drink.” “Why can't we go to a better bar, at least? This place is disgusting. Look at the walls! Are those cobwebs?” “I heard they play good music, at least. If the music ever starts, that is.” Annoyed eyes turn on the stage and Doojoon's follow along, more to blend than out of genuine interest. “Do you like music, Doojoon-sshi?” one asks, a female teacher whom he's pretty sure teaches English. Her eyes glitter with more interest than Doojoon is comfortable with, and it's such a stupid question. He nods, and she leans closer, over the small table. Her shirt is slightly unbuttoned and he's pretty sure she's trying to be alluring. “What kind of music do you like?” As he's struggling to form the most boring answer possible, a waitress arrives with their order, which is apparently a full round of shots. The group downs theirs immediately, but Doojoon fakes his, bringing the glass to his lips but not drinking. They don't notice; they're too busy with themselves. “I hate children,” the women from before groans, staring into her empty glass. “Why are you a teacher?” this one laughs, though his eyes reflect the same thoughts. “I need money. Teaching is a steady job.” She calls the waitress back, orders herself another drink without asking if anyone else wants one. They don't mind; they'd do the same. “Oh,” she says, dully after another shot. “The music's starting.” At this point he's grateful for any kind of distraction and he looks to the stage. Just as shabby as the rest of the bar, it's less a stage, more a place where there just so happens to be an old piano and mic set up instead of tables. An old man takes his place at the piano, striking a few keys as he if, too, didn't believe the ancient instrument was usable anymore. A few keys are out of tune, and Doojoon has a hard time staying seated because it's just wrong to let that go and the old man doesn't seem to notice. But then a small figure is behind the old man, smiling down at him kindly and whispering something in his ear. The man- boy, maybe?- opens the piano, fumbles inside, asking for the man to play a note now and then. Within minutes the notes are perfect and Doojoon relaxes, his eyes still on the piano's savior. He is slim, even in a baggy sweatshirt, which only makes his round face look even younger in the dim light. The single spotlight they have set up on the “stage” illuminates his bleached hair like a halo. Doojoon downs his shot unconsciously as those small eyes scan over the crowd slowly, his smile wide and childlike and perfect. The table orders another round and Doojoon's glass is filled only to be emptied a second later as the first few notes of a blues song trickle from the worn piano. The other teachers cheer, but he only barely registers the sound and his glass is filled again. He doesn't taste the liquid but feels the burn in his throat, rough and numbing. More cheering, but now there's singing and Doojoon doesn't know if it's the boy's voice or the alcohol that's suddenly making him so dizzy. The sound is smooth and sweet, not demanding attention but spreading and filling the room gently, like water. Just like the notes the old man plays on the piano, his voice is the kind of sound that you don't realize is there at first until it's gone and you wonder why the world has suddenly become less beautiful. The teachers resume talking within the first few verses, but Doojoon remains hooked, not yet wanting to let go of that sound which others can so easily let fade into the background. He's not listening, and either his coworkers don't care or they don't notice, but they continue refilling his glass. He downs one after another, the light, hazy feeling in his brain making it easier for him to absorb the singer's voice. Minutes tick by and the song changes without him noticing. Then it's been an hour and the sound stops, Doojoon's brain spinning at the loss of focus when the singer steps down. At that point he becomes aware of his colleagues picking up their things, paying the waitress. He mutters an offering, grabbing for his wallet, but they wave him off with a quick: “We had no idea you'd be this music fun.” His mind cannot register if their words are sarcasm or not, but he doesn't care. They offer him various rides or escorts back- that one woman pressing her chest against his arm and breathing tequila into his face- but he turns them down as politely and coherently as he is able. Then they're gone, and he tries to figure out what exactly he is trying to accomplish by staying. He's contemplating buying a cup of coffee when a small form slips into the seat next to him, and he worries for a minute that that female teacher is back to try and convince him to come home with her again. A quick peak to the side and he sees a face he almost doesn't recognize up-close. The blond hair and wide smile are even brighter this close and Doojoon's head throbs just looking at him. “I've never seen you in here before,” his new companion says, his voice child-like and not as smooth as he imagined, yet just as endearing. “I've seen that group several times, but never you.” The last word comes out slightly breathy and Doojoon wonders if he imagined it. “You sing here often?” Doojoon asks and hopes it's a normal question to ask because his brain is being so distracting between painful throbs and strange thoughts about what that blond hair feels like. A laugh, and he doesn't understand what's funny, but likes the sound. “I sing here every night.” “Oh.” And he doesn't know what to say next, even though those eyes are watching him as if they expect something else. A minute passes before the other chooses to break the silence. “Do you like music?” Another throb and Doojoon slams his hands down on the table. “Why the hell is everyone asking me that stupid fucking question tonight?” he snaps, before clapping a hand over his mouth. He sees those eyes widen slightly, but before he can force his brain to form an apology the boy is laughing, laughing so hard he is gripping his sides and tears form at the corners of his eyes. “I-I'm sorry,” Doojoon finally sputters out, his tongue feeling rather swollen. “No, no, you're right,” he replies, wiping his eyes and he settles down. “Dumb question, I just didn't know what to say.” Doojoon wants to say another apology, or something somewhat empathetic, but he's having a hard time concentrating as the singer looks at him. “You were staring.” “No, I wasn't,” Doojoon says immediately, turning away and fiddling with a leftover napkin. And then, “Sorry.” “I meant earlier, while I was singing,” the blond continues, and he can feel the singer's eyes on him. “I noticed you, while I was singing.” “You're really good,” is all he can manage, but he forces himself to turn back and the boy is smiling still, though it widens a bit at his words. “Thank you.” Doojoon feels his cheeks heat up. “You're welcome.” Hours pass and more alcohol is consumed, and Doojoon stops worrying about what he's saying. The boy's name is Yoseob, and he's really more of a man because it turns out they're the same age. Doojoon rants to him about his life, his jobs, his selfish coworkers, and Yoseob listens. Yoseob gets them free drinks because he's good friends with the owner, and Doojoon babbles about everything from how Yoseob's hair sparkles in the dim light to his dog. “You look like him,” he chuckles, his words slurred but Yoseob understands him anyway. “Is that a compliment?” The blond's smirk is evident and Doojoon nods, swaying in his chair. “I love my dog more than most people.” They laugh and Doojoon wonders why he just said that. They're walking together, Doojoon vaguely aware that he's leaning on Yoseob who is somehow still completely sober. Yoseob asks him something and he agrees. They grab a cab and he groggily gives the driver directions to his apartment. Then they're at his door- how such a small boy manages to get him all the way up two flights of stairs is a mystery but he goes with it, fumbling for his keys. They're inside, and Baby gives them a quick, bouncy greeting before returning to his bed on the couch. “See? He looks just like you,” Doojoon mumbles, his arm still slung around Yoseob's shoulders. There's a reply, but he doesn't hear it because he's too busy watching Yoseob's mouth, the way his lips moved to form words fascinating his still-hazy mind. He wonders what they feel like, and before he can question himself he's leaning forward, pressing his lips against them. They're soft. He hears Yoseob's sudden intake of breath and pulls back, mumbling again as he apologizes over and over until those lips are back against his, the small body pressing his back against the wall. His hands move instinctively to the other's waist, pulling him close as he presses soft, experimental kisses against Yoseob's lips. Those lips part, teeth biting Doojoon's bottom lip gently before sucking. He takes the opportunity to slip in his tongue, teasing Yoseob's own as the smaller boy shudders and moans. Yoseob pulls back, grabbing Doojoon's wrist and yanking him away from the wall. Dazed, he's dragged out of his foyer, but Yoseob pauses in the dining room. “I... just realized that this isn't my house.” Doojoon smiles, but his companion can't see it. He looks over his shoulder sheepishly. “Where's your bedroom?” This time it's Doojoon who does the grabbing, who drags Yoseob down the hall, to the second door on the left, who shoves the singer onto his bed before climbing on top, pressing his knee between Yoseob's legs. There's more bruising kisses, then stripping, Doojoon's hands running along the sweaty skin of the small of Yoseob's back as he leaves marks along his collarbone. Neither of them has done this before, but Doojoon's pretty sure he's doing something right when he presses his fingers a certain way inside Yoseob and the boy arches of the bed with a sharp gasp. Then he's inside with white hot heat surrounding him and Yoseob is crying out, first in surprise and pain but soon morphing into pleasure as he calls Doojoon's name with his ankles hooked around his waist. Yoseob comes, gripping hard enough on Doojoon's shoulders to bruise and Doojoon follows with a sharp grunt soon after as the already blindingly tight muscles clamp down even tighter. He collapses on top of the blond, running his hand though Yoseob's damp hair as they kiss one more time before welcoming warm oblivion. Doojoon wakes up naked and blinks his eyes open, his brain screaming for him to stop as he slowly sits up in bed. He looks around the room, suddenly panicked as he finds himself alone. He rubs his eyes, then his temples, wondering for half a second if he'd dreamed it all, but the smell of sizzling bacon and the banging of pans from outside his room distract him from any such thoughts. Hastily pulling on a pair of jeans, he opens his bedroom door a crack, peering down the hallway before exiting. More banging as he makes his way to the kitchen is followed by a quiet curse and running water. Doojoon leans against the doorway between the dining room and kitchen, watching as Yoseob scrubbed furiously at a pan, the water splashing onto the apron tied around his waist. The apron is a gift from someone from long ago- his mother? He can't even remember as he watches Yoseob, glad it's getting some use. Sensing his presence finally, Yoseob glances up at him, and in that instant everything from the night before floods his mind and he needs to look away because he can feel his face flushing. All Doojoon can think about is if they can hold hands while walking like normal couples and how he's going to introduce Yoseob to his mother, but Yoseob takes his silence as something else and is backing out of the kitchen, untying the apron and muttering apologies with downcast eyes. He catches Yoseob as he passes through the kitchen doorway, pulling him to his chest, arms encircling his small waist. His blond head falls against Doojoon's shoulder, burying his face against his bare skin. Doojoon breathes in the smell of his hair a moment, letting his hands wander up Yoseob's t-shirt. Baby prances into the kitchen, snatching up a fallen piece of bacon and settling into the corner of the room to munch. “What's for breakfast?