Klance One Shots

Fake Dating Au (part one?)

Why had he agreed to this?
Why had he agreed to this?
Why the hell had he agreed to this?

Such were the thoughts running through Keith's head as he sat in the passenger seat of Lance McClain's beat up, questionably functioning Fiat. The sun was beating down through the dusty window, making his shirt stick to his back and his mood less than sunny.
Lance seemed indifferent.
He was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and singing (yes, singing, as in belting out the lyrics) along to horrifically bad 2000s pop, gliding over potholes without so much as a tremor in his voice, while Keith thought his brain might rattle its way out of his ears. He'd long since abandoned his jacket, throwing into the backseat where it sat in a forlorn heap next to crumpled bags of salt and vinegar chips and empty drink cans.
He glanced at the boy next to him, who was paying Keith absolutely no heed, too caught up in Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" to notice the sweating, glowering man's gaze. "I cannot believe you actually listen to this. Seriously. Like, you listen to this unironically."
Lance paused and gave Keith a toothy grin. "I'll have you know that Lady Gaga is both an inspiration and a queer icon, so you can shut your mouth."
Keith pointed at the stereo incredulously, just as the "rah, rah, ah, ah, ah" bit kicked in. "That is not words. She's not even singing. That's just mouth noise."
And then Lance resumed his obnoxious singing at twice the volume and Keith jammed his fingers in his ears in protest. "Put it off! I'm getting out of the car and walking!"
"You'll get heatstroke and die," Lance said airily as the song faded out. Keith smacked a button on the stereo and the CD slid out and fell onto the floor, underneath Lance's seat. His mouth dropped open and he stared at Keith like a kicked puppy. "I was listening to that!"
"Shame, that," Keith said carelessly. Lance punched his arm and he let out a bark of a laugh. "You can get it at the next pit stop."
"There isn't going to be a next pit stop," Lance whined. "It's only another couple of hours and we aren't passing anywhere. It's just us and the highway and no music."
"On the contrary," Keith countered, eyes gleaming. "We have music." He unlocked his phone and found the most grungy, over the top heavy metal band he could, found a playlist and hit "play".
The small car shook with the force of screeching guitar.
"Oh my god," Lance yelled, keeping one hand on the wheel and one eye on the road whilst simultaneously trying to knock the phone out of Keith's hand. Keith snorted and tried to hold the blaring phone out of Lance's reach but the long, brown arms came equipped with unfortunately pointy elbows, so Keith couldn't help but yelp and drop the found when one of the sharp joints smacked him on the chin.
Lance grabbed the phone triumphantly from Keith's lap, paused the playlist and sat on the small device, deaf to Keith's protests that he'd break the screen.
The journey continued with playful bickering and friendly jabs until the sun was threatening to dip beneath the horizon, spilling a golden glow over the secluded scene Keith saw before him.
A big, old country house which looked like something right out of "Anne Of Green Gables", surrounded by yellow-y grass and bent-over trees which gave the impression of tired old people. A dusty truck sat in front of the house, and from the angle they were looking on at, Keith could see a sliver of the back yard, which seemed miles long.
He was in the process of peeling himself off of the seat, which seemed to have fused with his body after sitting on it for the last couple of hours, when what could only be described as a small, swim-shorts-clad missile shot out of the front door and into Lance's open arms.
"¡Tío Lance!"
The small bullet, it transpired, was a six year old with a gappy grin and skinny limbs covered in band-aids, who Lance had picked up and swung onto his shoulders like he was weightless exclaiming, "Slyvio, buddy! You lost your front teeth? No way!"
Keith, having successfully disconnected the chair from his back, stood to the side with his backpack trailing on the grass, taking in the scene with an I-feel-out-of-place smile.
Upon recognising this, Lance put the kid, Sylvio, down, and took Keith by the elbow, beckoning Sylvio to follow them. "C'mon Mullet, you gotta meet my mom."
Keith barely had time to sputter protests before he was being guided into an enormous kitchen. A round, smiley lady was standing by the stove, humming, a baby bouncing on her hip.
"Hi, Mamí," Lance said nonchalantly, and the lady gasped, letting her spoon drop into the pot she was stirring with a splash. She rushed forward, still jostling the baby, and gave Lance a one armed hug, then beckoned for him to lean down so she could kiss his cheek. Lance obliged, a mischievous smirk dancing on his brown, freckled face, and when his mother drew away Keith was engulfed in a torrent of rapid Spanish. He couldn't quite tell if the woman was angry or not until she put the baby down in a faded yellow high-chair and threw her arms around her son again. Lance chuckled and hugged her back. "I know. I'm sorry, Mamí, I know." Then, for the second time in less than ten minutes, he noticed Keith standing around "like a spare part" as he put kindly, dragging Keith forward.
"Keith, Mama. Mama, this is Keith. He's my-"
Lance hesitated for the merest fraction of a second before he finished the sentence.
"-boyfriend."