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One Heart Missing

Summary:

When Keith starts falling for his womanizing friend, Lance, he knows he's in for a disaster. After all, they're not lovers. Not even close. They're just roommates. The best of buddies. But sometimes the lines get a little blurry... [AU. Klance.]

Chapter 1: Summer

Summary:

No, Keith has never met someone like Lance, who stares so courageously into his chaos and, in spite of it all, chooses to weather the storm, anyway.

He must be insane, Keith thinks. Downright fucking insane.

Notes:

Author's Note: So I swore to myself that I'd be taking things one fic at a time from now on, BUT THAT'S JUST NOT HOW LIFE WORKS, IS IT? This idea was literally begging me to write it out and, originally, it wasn't going to turn into anything substantial, but I should know by now that that's exactly how all of my fics get started -- by total and complete accident. But anyway, I'm very happy to be sharing this with the fandom. It's a story that I'm very passionate about, and lives very close to my heart. So I truly hope you enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

"I'm calling your name,
but you won't listen.
Tonight was made for two,
but there's one heart missing..."


 

May 2017

The door creaks open, hinges rusty. They should get that fixed soon, says the woozy little voice in the back of Keith's half-unconscious mind.

A crisp nighttime breeze follows them in, swirls through the quiet warmth of the apartment, and then disappears behind the click of the deadbolt. There's the sound of footsteps shuffling clumsily around the living room floor. There are hands pawing impatiently at clothing. There are hushed voices, desperate, needy, breathless.

" — Which way to your —"

" — mmf — this way —"

More shuffling. More hitching breaths, more tiny moans. Keith's eyelids flutter open, and he finds himself on the couch, surrounded by textbooks and worksheets, with the television still humming softly about whatever he'd accidentally fallen asleep to.

The two shadows move across the floor, entangled, inching closer to one of the bedrooms. Keith is careful not to stir, muscles tensed and frozen solid.

" — god, you feel so good —"

" — want you so bad —"

Keith shuts his eyes again, so tight that it almost hurts, as if it'll help to drown out the husky purr of his roommate's voice, or the delicate murmurs of his late-night guest.

And he tries not to think about how many different, yet unanimously unrecognizable female voices he's heard coming and going from their apartment within the last few months. He really, really tries.

He hears the beginnings of a whimper, poorly disguised behind a short, throaty chuckle, and followed by the smack of wet, swollen lips pulling apart. About time, Keith's mind chides against his will. They have to come up for air eventually.

" — Keep that up and we won't even make it to my bed," says that low, tantalizing purr.

"Who says we have to?" replies that pretty murmur.

Their muffled laughter mingles together, soprano and baritone, and Keith can feel his stomach churn, hot and heavy. He turns his head, pressing his cheek even harder into the cushion of their threadbare couch, his mind grappling for just about anything that will keep itself from listening to the thunk of Lance's bedroom door — anything to banish the intrusive mental images of whatever might be happening behind that closed door.

Lance's hands, slow and gentle as they explore a new canvas of smooth curves. Lance's eyes, lust-blown and still impossibly blue as he admires, adores. Lance's lips, hungry and yearning, caressing soft, exposed skin as he whispers you're beautiful, you're perfect, you're mine.

Keith doesn't realize his fists are clenched until there's pain in the small indents where his nails have been. He also doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until his chest heaves, aching and hollow. He hates this, he hates this, he hates this.

And he hates himself a little bit, too.


 

She's standing by the kitchen counter the following morning, sipping coffee from one of their chipped ceramic mugs, the faded material of one of Lance's umpteen blue hoodies draped over her petite frame.

For the most part, Keith ignores her. Introductions, he's come to learn, are a pointless formality when the likelihood of seeing the same girl more than once is tragically slim. It's only after Keith has poured himself a bowl of cereal and taken a seat at the table that a single word is spoken.

"Morning," says the girl; timid, but not embarrassed.

Keith gives some form of a grunt through his mouthful of Frosted Flakes.

She's cute, Keith notes, in a conventional way. Pouty lips, a button nose, a light dusting of freckles across her fair skin — definitely Lance's type. The hoodie is oversized, slouchy, clashing dramatically with her copper-colored hair, and Keith doesn't know why it bothers him so much.

(That's a lie. He knows exactly why he's bothered. And, in fact, it has very little to do with complementary colors.)

"Wow. A guy could really get used to waking up to this."

Lance strolls into the kitchen next, bright-eyed and only slightly disheveled in his striped pajama bottoms, no shirt to be seen. He's really milking it, Keith thinks with an internal eye roll. Lance's hands go straight for the girl's waist, and they share a dopily smitten grin before she lifts onto her toes, meeting his lips for a kiss.

"Mm. Ditto," she giggles against his mouth, sliding a palm down the front of Lance's bare chest.

Keith glares down into his cereal and forces himself to swallow another mouthful.

"I should head to work, but," she pauses, places her mug onto the countertop, and lowers her voice to something that is probably intentionally coy, "thanks for a fun night."

"Pleasure's all mine, babe."

They dip in for another kiss, and when this one lingers for a few moments too long, Keith takes an unnecessarily loud slurp from his bowl.

They break apart, and Lance says, "I'll call you later."

No, he won't, Keith feels like saying, but doesn't.

"Oh, your hoodie —"

"Keep it," he insists, and Keith can practically hear the smirk on his face. "Looks cuter on you, anyway."

Then Keith really does roll his eyes.

There's the sound of more smooching from eager lips, a reluctant goodbye, and a pair of heels click-clacking out of the room — all punctuated by the resounding clunk of their front door. Almost immediately, Lance begins to jump, wiggle, and flail around in some kind of victory dance, which ends with him leaning in close to his unaffected roommate.

"And that's why they call me Loverboy La—"

"Put a fucking shirt on," Keith deadpans, placing a hand over Lance's face and shoving him away. "I'm trying to eat over here."


 June 2017

Keith knows that there are three consistencies in his life that he can always count on, without fail.

The first is that the universe likes to push, assert its cruel dominance over mere mortals, and the only acceptable solution is to push back harder.

The second is that his dad will never call him on his actual birthday. He supposes that the sentiment is still the same, even when he calls the day after, muttering more apologies and excuses than well wishes, but sometimes he thinks it'd be easier if he didn't call at all so that he doesn't have to sit with the annual reminder that his own father has, once again, forgotten about his only son.

And the third is Lance.

It's an enigma, really, because Keith has never known a person to stick around when the going gets rough — especially when the going gets rough. When Keith got suspended during his sophomore year for back-talking his calculus professor, Lance had stayed. When Keith was being reckless and crashed his new motorbike into a lamp post, earning him three stitches and a bruised rib, Lance had stayed. And even when Keith swung a particularly aggressive right hook to his face (It was the first and only time one of their heated arguments actually came to blows. Keith doesn't even remember what the upset had been about, but he remembers the look on Lance's face after he staggered back from the hit — so startled and crushed.), Lance had stayed, black eye and all.

No, Keith has never met someone like Lance, who stares so courageously into his chaos and, in spite of it all, chooses to weather the storm, anyway.

He must be insane, Keith thinks. Downright fucking insane.


 July 2017

" — I mean, I know she hasn't actually said that she likes me out loud yet, but there was that one time she told me I look nice in blue. Like, what d'you think that was supposed to mean?"

"That she has bad taste," Keith grumbles. His arm shoots out from beneath the elevated car. "Torque."

Lance, lounging on the hood of the car, sighs and rummages through the toolbox, dropping the wrench into Keith's expectant hand.

"And then there was the time I told her she has better curves than my physics exam — she didn't even roll her eyes!"

"Screwdriver."

"Not my best line, I know, but —"

"Lance. Screwdriver. Now."

Keith stares disbelievingly at his hand when Lance provides him with another wrench. He slides out from beneath the car, frowning. "Are you even listening to me?"

Lance frowns back, indignantly. "Are you even listening to me?"

"I'm at work," Keith reminds. "They don't pay me enough to sit around and listen to you whine about Allura."

"I've seen your paychecks, man," Lance scoffs. "They don't pay you enough to actually work on cars, either."

Lance's shrill yelp is only mildly satisfactory when Keith hurls a spare bolt socket onto the hood.

If Keith has to hear another word about the latest crush of the month, then Lance might be getting something more dangerous than a bolt socket to the head. He clambers to his feet, but gloved hands pause before they can reach the toolbox, momentarily distracted by the sight of his roommate. At some point, the muggy summer heat had prompted Lance to remove his flannel, knotting it around his waist to reveal a thin, white undershirt. And despite the multitude of electric fans blowing strategically around the garage, he still appears slightly dewey with perspiration, his undershirt clinging to every dip, angle, and contour of his broad chest. And then there's his arms — unintentionally flexed as they rest behind his head of tousled hair. Lance's lips are still moving, but there's a sudden ringing in Keith's ears, drowning out everything that isn't his hammering pulse, his ragged inhale, his mind chanting a stern stop, stop, stop —

" —Keith?"

He blinks mindlessly. "Hm?"

"Uh, dude? Buddy? My man?" Lance swings his legs around the side of the car to face his bewildered friend, an eyebrow quirking as he asks, "I said, do I?"

"Do you what?"

"Look good in blue."

Oh. They're still talking about that. Great. Keith finally comes to, idly scratching the back of his head, which causes even more errant strands to fall loose from his messy ponytail.

"I don't know. I guess?" he says. "It brings out your eyes."

Although the last comment escapes his mouth by accident, Lance still appears thrilled, back straightening and lips curling into a small, gratified grin. Keith fixes his attention back on the toolbox, rifling through its contents even though he's long forgotten what he's looking for.

"Hey, grease monkey."

Keith's head snaps up a bit too quickly, a bit too eagerly.

Lance is chuckling softly, a hand reaching out toward his roommate's face. "You got a little something…"

Engine grease, most likely, smudged across his cheek. But Lance's fingers barely make it there before Keith comes to his senses and swats his hand away with a huff.

"Cut it out," he snaps, using the back of his wrist instead, which only seems to smear the grime even further across his face. Lance just chuckles again.

"Yeah, yeah, I forgot — don't touch the merchandise," he teases, and slides himself off the hood of the car. "I should get going, anyway. I'm sweating my ass off in here."

Keith shakes his head, and swipes a screwdriver out of the toolbox. There it is. "Yeah, good riddance."

Swinging his bag over his shoulder, Lance sings with exaggerated sweetness, "Have a nice day at work, honey!"

"Get lost, Lance."

A quick wave and the sound of his laughter carry him off, starting down the street to walk the convenient twelve blocks home. Keith watches him go, just for a second, before lifting his arm to swipe it over his face again, clearing the rest of the dark residue off his skin.

What an idiot.


 August 2017

They spend their last month of vacation in Cuba.

Lance is due a visit home, and when he discovers that the rest of Keith's summer plans consist of nothing but sitting around their apartment and tinkering with that metal death trap he calls a motorbike, he vehemently insists that he come along.

"Your mom won't mind?" Keith had wondered when he finally caved.

"Are you kidding?" Lance had snorted. "You look like you're in desperate need of a hug and a decent meal, so she's gonna love you."

On the plane ride, Keith splits his time between sharing a pair of earbuds — Lance forgot his own — and listening to Lance prattle animatedly about his family, the beach, the food until, apparently, he wears himself out and falls asleep. His head droops sideways, limp, and rests against Keith's shoulder, gently jostled by a bit of turbulence. Keith's entire right arm goes painfully numb, but he doesn't dare move a muscle until they land.

Lance's childhood house is warm, cozy, and flooding with people. Keith idly wonders how anyone is supposed to get a moment to themselves around here, and then Lance's utter disregard for personal boundaries suddenly makes more sense. There's constant chatter and socialization, which would normally make Keith squirm, but, somehow, he still feels oddly comforted by the rowdy household.

He meets Lance's mom, a kind woman with a hearty laugh, who really does give the best hugs, just as Lance had said. He looks at pictures of Lance's dad, an ex-marine who passed away when Lance was still a baby. He is introduced to more cousins than he can even recall, more nieces and nephews than he can even count, and then Lance leads him out to the back patio, where his grandmother sits in a wooden rocking chair, overlooking the shoreline.

"Lita," says Lance, beaming. "I want you to meet my friend, Keith."

His grandmother is all grey hair, wrinkles, and warm smiles, and she looks at Keith with a pair of blue eyes that could've only been inherited by Lance.

She looks back to her grandson, takes his hand, and whispers, "¿Estás seguro de que no es más que eso, mi niño?"

Lance recoils, "Lita, no!"

Keith never found out what that question meant. He didn't remember to ask. But it made Lance blush, and that's something he won't soon forget.

They fill their days with trips to the beach, lounging in the sun and floating lazily on the waves. Lance tries to teach Keith how to surf, and neither of them can remember the last time they laughed so hard. They rent cruiser bikes and explore the street market, dodging the free-roaming chickens, and taking in the nineteenth-century architecture. And when they get hungry, Lance takes him to his favorite pizza shack, where they split a slice and a basket of garlic knots, watching the ocean shimmer brilliantly in the distance.

One evening, Lance pays a street performer fifteen pesos to borrow his guitar for ten minutes, and it's the first time Keith has ever really heard him play. He sits cross-legged under a street lamp in Josone Park, plucking out chords, grinning as he sings a simple tune. The glow of the lamp does something spectacular to Lance's eyes, sprinkling bits of moonlight into those blue orbs, and Keith just watches, spellbound.

The following afternoon, Lance's family decides to invade the beach, laying out blankets, opening umbrellas, and packing enough food to feed what appears to be an entire army. But by the time each and every picnic basket had been emptied, the sun starts to sink over the horizon. A few family members have already retreated back to the house for the night, but Keith stays where he is, only a few inches away from the edge of the tide. He is propped up by his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him, toes digging into the soft, golden sand. His gaze is transfixed on the sunset, admiring how pink fades to orange, orange blends into red.

He hears the crunch of sand approaching from behind, followed by a meek, high-pitched, "Hello."

Keith glances sideways to find a head of wild brunette curls plopping down beside him. The young girl wears a frilly yellow bathing suit, a Barbie bandaid to hide a scratch on her left knee, and Keith vaguely remembers her as Lance's six-year-old niece, Rosie.

"Hey," he says awkwardly.

"Are you an astronaut like Uncle Lance?"

Keith almost corrects her that being an astronomy major in college is not the same thing as being an astronaut, but something about her big, doe-like eyes makes him feel a bit guilty for even considering it.

"Uh," he mutters. "No. I study mechanical engineering."

Rosie stares at him. Keith sighs.

"I build robots."

"Cool!" She smiles wide and points to the small gap in her front row of teeth. "I lost a tooth today."

Keith smiles, too, subtle but endeared. "Cool."

"Uncle Lance said he's gonna name a whole planet after me one day."

On the other end of the beach, Keith catches a glimpse of Lance as he tosses a frisbee toward his cousin, whooping and cheering when he catches it midair.

"I bet he will," says Keith, turning back to Rosie to find her studying him hard, eyebrows comically furrowed.

"Are you and Uncle Lance best friends?" she asks at long last.

Keith appears perplexed by such a blatant question, but he still forces out a slightly strangled, "I — guess so?"

"I knew it." Rosie seems pleased. "I knew it because he looks at you funny."

"Funny?" Keith repeats.

"Mhm," she hums, and then flashes her missing tooth again. "He looks at you just like he looks at the stars."

Another stolen glance off to the distance. Lance is on the ground now, rolling around in the sand, heaving huge peals of laughter as his cousin and a few of his younger nephews pile on top of him.

Forget the stars, Keith thinks. Because now there's an entire galaxy right in front of his eyes.

Notes:

Author's Note: For once, I actually had a vague outline planned before I started writing, and I don't foresee any of the chapters getting much longer than this (I say that NOW, haha!). As you can probably already tell, I'm sticking to this chronological "month-by-month" format, which is hopefully a little easier to follow compared to my Digimon fic, About Us, which time-jumped around quite a bit. I'm just!! so happy!! to finally get this story out there, I'm beyond grateful to everyone who takes the time to read this. Thank you!

I'll have the next chapter ready very soon! As usual, updates and previews will be posted on my tumblr (link in profile).

PS. I'M SO SORRY IF MY SPANISH IS ATROCIOUS. I don't know any myself, or anyone who could help with the translation, so please don't come for me if it's majorly screwed up dshgfgs!! I don't mean any disrespect!