Deaf | Klance | Completed

Deaf | Klance

"I swear to God, Matt," Pidge mumbled into her phone, pressing it to her ear as tightly as she could without cracking the screen. "Put the fucking leafblower down and leave Shiro alone or I'm gonna kick your ass into next January."

"Trouble in paradise?" Lance murmured distractedly. He examined his nails, chipping with blue polish, before easily sliding them into the pockets of his oversized navy-green jacket. Pidge nodded without glancing over, slamming the 'end call' button with a huff and yanking her backpack onto her shoulder. She grimaced. "That's what sucks about having a platonic soulmate, you know. I can still hear Matt threatening to suck Shiro's balls off echoing around my head. And, wait for it, not even in that context. He found Dad's gardening tools and started dicking around."

Lance pursed his lips, allowing himself a smile. "That's rough."

"I know," She ran a hand through her short, copper locks, adjusting her NASA tee and already starting to backstep away from where they had been sitting. He easily waved off her slightly apologetic glance, rolling his eyes playfully. "Adiós - good luck, man. Try not to kill them too much."

He did let himself grin when Pidge Holt pinched her thumb and index finger together over her shoulder, allowing barely a centimeter of space between them as she set into the jog back to her house. The twenty-four-year-old watched her go, drumming his fingers on the hood of his car where he sat and listened to the breeze whispering through the trees.

Lance sometimes wondered what it was like to have a soulmate.

He wondered what it was like to be randomly tuned into what someone else was hearing - kind of like a radio station.

He sometimes imagined taking a bath or shower and then suddenly he's listening to Shakira because somewhere in the world, his soulmate was listening to that themselves. Lance assumed his soulmate liked Shakira, because how can you be soulmates with Lance McClain and not like Shakira?

Sure, from what he could remember, it was fun. He liked listening to his soulmate's dad teaching him how to bake cookies; he liked listening to his soulmate's laughter echoing when Lance assumed he'd scored a goal or made a point because in the next instant all he could hear were cheers. He liked listening to his soulmate sing. That was his favorite part.

Of course, he had to be maybe ten or so (the last time Lance ever heard him was when he was thirteen, after all) and his voice was sometimes out of pitch and scratchy, but when the universe or God or whoever up there was kind enough to connect their surroundings, Lance had never been happier.

The tiny Cuban boy would immediately pause whatever he was doing to listen to his soulmate sing to himself in a language he couldn't understand. He would always remember the feeling that pulsed in his chest at the sound of his voice. He would always remember the hitch in his soulmate's breath when he'd taken it upon himself to learn the foreign lyrics and sing along with him.

And then the connection cut.

It was without warning and out of nowhere - a Tuesday. Lance would never forget the image of his tan, sandaled feet parting the sand underneath him and the sounds of seagulls chirping overhead and waves crashing into the shore to his left. He would never forget the familiar, overwhelming feeling of unexpectedly being thrown into his soulmate's world, as he had about once a week his entire life leading up to that day.

He would never forget the way he stumbled back when desperate, terrified screaming was all he could hear, a sharp sob that physically felt like it ripped from his soulmate's throat, a sharp squeal of metal on rubber, and... and nothing.

He was used to the silence - he'd spent only a fraction of his life listening to whatever his soulmate could hear - but this... this was different. This silence left a hole in his chest, gaping and messy and nausea clawed at his throat like something had just been physically torn from his grasp and his head pounded like the melody of a thousand drums.