Chapter Text
Ferran’s phone played a tone that indicated the other line was ringing.
While the rest of his teammates slowly trickled out of the locker room, Ferran stood around and waited for his call to Pedri’s brother to go through. The cell reception in the locker rooms wasn’t great and, given the situation, there was no guarantee Fer would even pick up. But he had to try. He wanted to hear that Pedri was okay and he wanted to hear it directly from Fer. Other than being outdated, it was impossible for a text to say everything he wanted to know. He could tell a lot more by hearing Fer’s voice. He also wanted the familiarity. And to talk to someone who knew how he knew Pedri—who would know how concerned he was.
Ferran’s phone rang again.
After showering and changing, the rest of his teammates would be off to the same bar they always went to after matches. There was a major win to celebrate, after all. The bar had a private section where they could enjoy all the amenities of a bar while avoiding all the fans they would surely attract if they were actually out in public. By no means was it a bad gig. It made them all feel normal. Ferran usually joined. To feel normal. At least, he had. Pedri, too, even though he didn’t drink. Before they got together they would often go out after a win and celebrate with everyone. There were shared glances that Ferran’s alcohol-induced glasses told him meant more than he logically knew they did.
He never expected them to mean exactly what he had hoped they did.
Going out didn’t stop after they got together. If it had stopped, Gavi would’ve never found out. Ferran thought about that night more often than he brought it up with anyone, even though his memory was soft from one too many drinks. Gavi had been cool with it. He walked into the bathroom and, upon seeing them making out, planned to walk right back out. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t make a comment. He just… left them. Moved on with his night. Until Pedri stopped him, of course. But that got Ferran thinking. He figured the rest of the team would probably react the same. If anyone walked in on them making out they would think to themselves "Yeah, that tracks" and move on with their night. Why, then, did he freak out when someone found out? When he told Eric, one of his best friends!, he had been such a jumble of nerves that he couldn’t remember any other part of the conversation they’d been having. He loved Pedri and he wanted people to know it. There was no reason, then, for it to be so hard.
Ferran was pretty sure that, one night, after a big victory, he and Pedri could start making out in the middle of the club and no one would bat an eye. After a few drinks, that’s all Ferran wanted to do—and Pedri, who wanted nothing more than to feel Ferran’s hands dance all over his body and feel his lips everywhere from his own lips to his to his ears and to his neck and everywhere in between, wasn’t going to stop him. It was because of this—because of their inability to keep their hands off each other at the bar and because coming out to their teammates just wasn’t in the cards right now, even if they thought it might go well—that their loud nights out started to be replaced by quiet nights in. Pedri would drive them back to Ferran’s place—Pedri lived with Fer—and they would get the chance to just enjoy each other’s company. They could eat and drink and watch a movie and go to bed and not have to worry about who saw them doing what. Affection could be given freely and lazily. Neither usually had much energy after a match. When the team played away they would usually take the time to enjoy their teammates’ company, but a quiet night could still be had at whatever hotel they were staying at. They had been sharing a room for years—no one would call them out for doing it now.
Ferran’s phone rang again.
When the game was at home, the call of their bed was even louder. They would still have practice the following morning, after all, even if it wouldn’t be as hard as a regular practice. Not quite so intense. They would promote muscle recovery with massages from the physical therapists on the team, taking care of muscle strains and knots from the previous day. Maybe there would be some cycling or some jogging or even, if the day was hot and they were lucky, some swimming. Ferran looked forward to the ice bath. He already took his own ice bath every morning to stay fresh, but another one, especially after a long, hot day in the sun, was always welcome. Any extra circulars Ferran and Pedri wanted to get up to could happen after a day of lighter training—after their muscles had been massaged and their bodies stretched. Match days were fraught with aches and soreness which never made anything very fun.
Part of these lighter training days, Ferran remembered, was dedicated to watching clips from the game. If they had lost, they would analyze what they had done wrong more heavily than what they had done right (though it was still important to make sure everyone knew what worked, too). When they won, the focus would be on why they won—what led to the victory—and what they could learn from the match for next time. They’d also discuss why they lost the points they did to make sure the number of scores they gave up was minimized for the next game. Ferran figured that Flick would be happy about this particular win and might go easy on them—not dig so hard into them, at least. Ferran worried about what else Flick might show. Would he show a replay of the injury? Of Pedri getting hurt?
Ferran’s phone rang again. He was losing hope that Fer would pick up. He hoped the texts he had received said what he wanted them to—that Pedri was just fine. He would check them if he needed to, but, above all, he wanted Fer to pick up.
The thought of seeing Pedri get injured filled Ferran’s mind with dread. The last time a player had gotten badly injured—Fermín, who fractured his right foot only a few months prior—there hadn't been anyone to blame. He got substituted out of the game and that was that. There was no footage to show because it wouldn't have taught anyone anything. You can't exactly tell someone to just stop playing football so that they won't stress their body to the point of getting a fracture. This was their job, and these things happened.
This time, however, there would be something to analyze. There had been a structural change in the game. Madrid had been down a player after Pedri got injured. How did they respond to that? Did they take advantage? Ferran wasn’t looking forward to whatever Flick had to say because the clear answers were that they didn’t respond well enough and didn’t take advantage. Ferran hadn’t, at least. His mind had been elsewhere. He thought it was understandable, but Flick wouldn’t think so. He’d get called out for it in front of everyone. Eric and Gavi might feel sympathetic, but everyone else just saw them as close friends. There was no reason to lose your head over a friend getting injured. It happened. And he had a job to do. It had to come before interpersonal relationships.
Even, he thought, if those relationships were more than just friendships. This had been the hardest part of adjusting to their new dynamic. It was silly to think that they got special privileges because they were together—even if no one knew. Even if everyone did know they wouldn’t get special privileges. They had to be coworkers first. They were getting paid to be coworkers. A team. They had to act like it. As much as Ferran always wanted to be near Pedri—paired up when drills required a partner, on the same team during a practice match, next to one another in the locker room—he, and Pedri, as he wanted all this and more, too, had to accept the fact that they couldn’t always get what they wanted. They needed to place the team first when they were at work.
No matter how many times they each repeated this mantra to themselves, it still hadn’t quite taken hold. They still let their emotions get the better of them. When Pedri had gotten injured, he still rushed over to the other man’s side—and he knew that Pedri would’ve done the same had it been him who had gone down. He took comfort in that thought. Knowing that there was someone out there who was worrying about him just as much as he was worrying about the other man. It was nice, of course, until that worrying had to be brought to the surface. Until it clouded his judgement. He wouldn’t have been using anyone else’s body wash had they been carried away on a stretcher. He wouldn’t be sulking in the locker room, ignoring the fact that everyone else on the team was going out and partying. If it hadn’t been Pedri, he would probably be out getting drunk. Resisting the urge to not make out with Pedri in a dark corner somewhere. Toasting whoever had gotten hurt. He liked to think the team would dedicate a toast to Pedri tonight.
After what felt like ages, Ferran finally heard the sound of the man on the other side of the phone pick up.
"Ferran?" He heard the other man say.
"Hey Fer. Just got my phone, haven’t checked my messages. What’s the latest?"
Ferran tried to not come across as desperate for information. Tried to remain level-headed. Pedri was okay. He was okay. It was just a broken foot. In time, it would heal. Nothing could’ve happened in the last hour. The club’s medical transportation vehicles are safe! Doctors are competent! They went to school for lord knows how many years to be competent. And the doctors in the area were used to dealing with footballers and their various injuries. How many football clubs were there across Spain? In Barcelona alone? Too many to count, even if you didn’t count non-professional leagues. High schoolers got injured, too, and someone had to deal with them. Pedri was is good hands. He wished he was in his hands, but that would have to wait. Ferran couldn’t heal a broken bone, sure, but a doctor wouldn’t be holding his hand or giving him kisses. That would violate some sort of rule, he thought.
"He’s doing well," Fer said. "All things considered. After he got taken off the pitch I asked to be escorted down to the medical facility and met up with him. He was in a lot of pain, but they gave him some medicine. They did some preliminary scans and got his foot stabilized. After the game ended we were taken to the hospital—they just got him checked in and are doing some more scans. Better machines here, or something. It’s unlikely they’ll make him spend the night."
"Thank you, Fer. Seriously."
"Of course, Ferran. I know it must’ve killed you to not be able to leave the pitch with him."
"You have no idea."
Silence took over the line, a moment that stretched into what felt like eons.
"Do you want to come see him?" Fer asked. It was music to Ferran’s ears. He had been two seconds away from asking the question himself. "It might be a minute before he gets let out, but I know he’d love to see you when he does. He was worried about you."
Ferran laughed at this. Of course Pedri—the one with the broken bone, the one who had been rushed off the pitch and taken to the hospital, the one who was going to be out for any number of months—was worried about him.
"Right?" Fer added, interpreting Ferran’s laugh. "Talking about you seemed to calm him down, though. Got his mind off of things for a minute."
The line was quiet for another moment, like Fer was deciding whether or not to say something.
"He really loves you," he said. "I know you know that. He tells you that. But maybe it’s nice to hear it from someone else."
Ferran was glad Fer had decided to speak up. He knew Pedri loved him. He heard it every day. He saw it every day—in everything Pedri did. But it was nice that his relationship was so overflowing with love that everyone else could see it, too. He chose to not think about what that meant for everyone on the team.
Ferran hoped that Fer could hear his smile through the phone. Illogical, sure, but his emotions were preventing him from responding with anything coherent.
"If you see him before I do, can you tell him I love him, too?" He finally decided on saying.
"Of course," Fer replied. After giving Ferran the address and all the other relevant information, he hung up. It was going to be a long night for the three of them. He was going to be happy to have Ferran there to keep him company. It got lonely, he thought. His parents—their parents—were back home. It had been him and Pedri for so long. And then came Ferran. And, after Ferran came into the picture, he never left. It had been nice to have him around, even after he had started dating his brother. Sure, he sometimes felt like a third wheel, but the company was nice. Another body—another voice, another opinion, point of view—was nice. He felt Ferran’s absence, too. Not as much as Pedri did, of course, but he had been a fixture for so long that he had become accustomed to his presence, too.
With the address in-hand, Ferran took a moment to collect himself. He took a deep breath. It was going to be a long night. Every night until Pedri’s foot was back to normal would be long. Longer for Pedri than for himself, of course, but this would take a toll on both of them—on the three of them, really. He was sure Pedri’s parents would fly out, too—maybe for a long weekend so they didn’t have to step away from the bar for too long—to take some of the burden for a few days, but it would just be the three of them trying to take care of Pedri.
Ferran wondered how maneuvering his house was going to be? Would he be able to get up the stairs? Would he have to sleep on the couch? Ferran wondered about the logistics of both of them sleeping on his couch. Under normal circumstances it was fine, but with a foot he couldn’t go near? Could get tricky. It wasn’t like they had a pullout couch. That would’ve been convenient.
Ferran tried to push aside the thought. He had places to be. People to see. And enough time in the world to worry himself to death about Pedri’s recovery. The logistics would have to be figured out along the way. They would make it up as they went along. And maybe the doctors would have a say in it. He hoped they did. Surely they saw this often enough to know what to recommend.
Ferran stood at the window of Pedri’s room. The blinds were closed but tilted so he could just barely see through. Pedri was talking to a doctor. Sensing a movement—a change in the lighting outside, maybe—he turned his head and saw Ferran standing there. His eyes lit up and his mouth curled into a bright smile. Ferran waved, returning the smile, and Pedri returned his gaze back to the doctor. The doctor, whose gaze had been laser-focused on the clipboard he was holding, failed to notice the interaction—the small moment Ferran was glad they got to share.
Ferran took a seat next to Fer in one of the chairs outside of Pedri’s room. He wasn’t sure how much longer it was going to be, Fer said, but he figured it couldn’t be long. They had been here for what felt like hours. Pedri had gotten another round of scans and another round of nurses and doctors to look at him and a new support for his foot and it had been such a whirlwind that he was glad he—but mostly Pedri—got the chance to sit. To take a load off.
Just over twenty minutes later, the doctor came out of Pedri’s room.
"Hello again," he said, greeting Fer. "And who might you be?" The doctor knew who Ferran Torres was. Those at this hospital had a working relationship with the football club and were well aware of its roster. But it was nice to feel normal once in a while, right? To not be recognized? To just be another stranger? Playing a bit of pretend never hurt anyone. The doctor also knew of Ferran’s relationship with his patient. Well, with how much Pedri talked about him and how affectionate the talk was and the fact that he was here when visitation was limited to family, he had a good guess, even if nothing had been said explicitly. Hey, doctors were supposed to notice things, right?
"Ferran," Ferran replied, standing up to shake the doctor’s hand. He wasn’t sure whether or not that was appropriate, but, by the time he decided it might not be, he was already standing and his hand was already outstretched.
"Ah, the famous Ferran. Pedri’s been talking an awful lot about you."
Ferran could feel his ears and cheeks getting warmer. He was sure they were turning pink.
"All good things, I hope," he squeaked.
"The best," the doctor responded with a smile. "If you’d like, you can both go in and see him. We’ve got a care routine to discuss, but I’ll give you three a moment. I’ll be waiting out here when you’re ready."
The two men thanked the doctor before walking in to see Pedri.
Ferran approached Pedri’s bed with wide open arms and a smile plastered across his face. Careful to avoid his foot, which remained elevated, Ferran leaned in for an embrace. When he tried to let go, Pedri pulled him back in. When he finally let go, they parted with a quick kiss.
Pedri knew his boyfriend was a little clingy. Okay, maybe a bit more than just a bit. And maybe he was, too. But he knew Ferran needed this. He thought it was adorable, in fact—how quickly such a strong man could turn into such a mess when he wasn’t around.
Ferran backed up and let Fer in to see his brother. With the family reunion complete, Pedri got to talking.
"All the scans came back positive," he said.
"Wait, so it’s not broken?" Ferran asked. Fer hadn’t actually told him whether or not it was broken when they talked over the phone, just that Pedri was okay. He had forgotten to ask so, as far as he knew, it could’ve been something else entirely. Something not as serious.
"No, no it’s broken. But it’s not… bad? It’ll heal well. It was a clean break. They aren’t sure if surgery will even be necessary, but they’ll have to wait until the swelling goes down to make a final decision, so I’ll be back."
Ferran was scared to ask, but he needed to know.
"Did they give an estimate on how long it’ll take to heal?"
Pedri sighed. He knew he would have to answer this question at some point. He had been avoiding the reality of the situation but, in telling Ferran and Fer, it suddenly became real. Too real. Pedri began to tear up, but he quickly wiped the tears that came away. Ferran rushed toward the bed—toward Pedri—kneeling down and cupping his face with his hand.
"Cari…" he mumbled, his eyes searching Pedri’s, trying to read the extent of what he was going through. "You said it was a clean break?" Was it going to take longer than they thought, anyway? He had said it would heal well.
"I know. I know. It is. But it’ll still take three or four months to heal and a few more after before I’m really back to normal. I’ll be out for basically the rest of the season. Saying that out loud just… got to me."
Ferran slowly stroked Pedri’s face with his thumb, giving him a lopsided smile. He couldn’t imagine how it must feel. They had each had their fair share of injuries but none of them had led to being out for this long. You spend your entire life playing—training—for one thing and, in the blink of an eye, you can’t do it. You have to give it up and just… wait. For things to get better. To go back to normal. If they ever do.
"I’m so sorry, mi amor."
Pedri’s attention was taken off of Ferran for a moment and onto his brother who had put a hand on his leg. Pedri reached out one of his hands. Fer moved to the other side of the bed and took it in his own, slowly rubbing circles into it with his thumb. He hadn’t heard the official estimate until now. He had a good idea of how long these things took, but… hearing it out loud—hearing it from his little brother, seeing the tears fall from his eyes as he said it—broke something in him. He could hardly stand to see him like this. He wondered how he would manage over the next several months—waking up to see his little brother at home instead of on the pitch. He knew whatever he felt paled in comparison to what his brother was feeling, but that thought didn’t make him feel any better—just worse for knowing just how bad he must be feeling.
Pedri knew his doctor would have to come back in soon and tell Ferran and Fer everything he had already told him. How he had to keep his foot elevated above his heart. How he had to keep weight off of it. How he’d have to come back in to see if surgery was necessary once the swelling went down. How long it would be until he was partially and fully healed. How many physio sessions he’d need to go to. He hated that he had to share his pain with those he loved, but he figured that was the point of having loved ones—having people who are willing to stop what they’re doing at the drop of a hat to come and help you. Having people who wanted nothing more than to make sure you’re okay, knowing you’d do the same for them in return if the opportunity ever presented itself.
Ferran could see Pedri calming down. Taking deep breaths. He removed his hand from his face. "Should we invite the doctor back in?" He asked. Pedri nodded. Ferran pressed a kiss onto his forehead. Fer stayed by his other side, holding his hand. Pedri knew it was going to be a long road to recovery, but, with his two favorite men by his side, he knew he could get through it.