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1
“Mama!”
Pablo sprints across the grass, tiny feet padding against the turf as he runs into his Mama’s open arms. It’s a miracle he doesn’t trip over his untied shoelaces.
He giggles as he's lifted high from the ground. As much as he tells his Mama that he's five and isn't a baby anymore, he still likes being carried like one.
Smaller than the other kids his age, Pablo doesn't get to feel tall very often. Can you blame a kid for wanting to be taller than his peers?
“Did you see?” Pablo asks, nearly vibrating in excitement. He's drenched in sweat and his kit is stained with grass and mud, but Mama doesn't seem to care. “I scored two goals!”
“You did so good!” Mama praises brightly. “I'm so proud of you, baby.”
Pablo smiles back at her. He was a very good boy today. Not only did he eat all his vegetables, he also scored goals, and helped his team win.
His heart feeling big and warm in his chest, Pablo leans in to press a wet kiss to his Mama’s cheek.
2
Pablo is eighteen and he hasn't grown much taller.
It isn't too late, at least he hopes it isn't. He shot up two centimeters last year, and he doesn't have to stand on a chair to reach the highest shelf anymore, so he's making good progress in that department.
Pedro often teases him about it, as if he isn't just a few hairs taller than him. Pablo gets his revenge by lightly smacking the back of Pedro’s head.
There is no need to get revenge or smack anybody right now though, not when they're celebrating another win.
Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Pablo runs after Lewy, who had scored them the winning goal over Valencia.
He launches himself at Lewy’s back, planting his hands on the older man’s shoulders and leaning down to kiss his neck. Pablo has always been generous with physical affection, and his teammates are no exception.
He laughs as Lewy holds his legs to secure him in place, running around the pitch as they celebrate extending their lead at the top of the table.
Pablo is so happy and excited, he doesn't notice Pedro watching them, his lips pressed into a thin line as Pablo places more kisses on Lewy's neck.
3
The lights shine brightly in Qatar as Pablo kicks forward, the ball hitting the back of the net with a resounding thud.
Thunderous applause accompanied by elated screams fill Pablo’s ears. He can hardly believe it. He scored a goal in the World Cup. Him. He actually did it.
Pablo takes the fabric of his dark red kit between his fingers, raising it to his lips to kiss the national team crest. He registers Alejandro hooking an arm around his neck as he raises his pointer finger to the air, looking out into the fans in the stands as they cheer his name.
4
Pablo is freezing.
They all are, wrapped in their long-sleeved training kits and gloves while the chilly air nips at their skin.
It isn't so bad though, not when they're standing shoulder to shoulder and Ronald is cracking stupid jokes about Pedro and bananas.
“I can’t believe Mr. Platano graced us with his presence,” Ronald teases, lightly nudging Pedro next to him. “You should bring us free samples next time.”
Laughing, Pablo trots over to Ronald, clasping their hands together while the taller man pulls him into a tight embrace.
Always there to shower the baby of the team with attention, Ronald places both of his large hands on Pablo’s back.
Buried in the fabric of Ronald’s shirt, Pablo doesn't notice Pedro’s face fall, the smile slipping off his face as he watches Pablo hug somebody who isn't him.
Soaking up the affection like a sponge, Pablo presses himself further against Ronald, kissing the middle of the man’s chest because that's the highest place he can reach.
Feeling another pair of hands on him, Pablo looks up to see Pedro trying to pry him away from Ronald.
“What are you doing?” Pablo asks, confused. He gives their teammates hugs and kisses all the time, and Pedro never seemed to have a problem with it.
“Um,” Pedro says intelligently, his hand clasping Pablo’s shoulder. He awkwardly brings his other hand to his mouth. “Er… nothing.”
Ronald looks at the scene in amusement, wondering how long it will take for the two idiots to get their shit together.
5
“Gavi!”
“Look here!”
“Gavi, when are you getting your driver’s license?”
Inside Pedro’s green mini cooper, Pablo feels his face getting hot, overwhelmed by the cameras and screaming. He's been doing this since he was sixteen, and he still isn't used to all the attention.
He looks out the window to watch the hoards of fans surrounding the car, shouting at them to smile and stop for pictures.
“Gavi, my sister loves you!”
“Gavi, can I be your girlfriend?”
“I love you so much, Gavi!”
“Somebody's popular,” Pedro chuckles beside him. There are few things in the world he enjoys more than teasing Pablo.
“Shut up.” Pablo blushes harder. He can’t comprehend how people are looking at him and not the gorgeous man sitting next to him.
But then again, he figures he would be even more upset if all those girls were fawning over Pedro.
“Gavi, can I get a selfie?”
“Gavi, are you gay or European?”
“How's the princess, Gavi?”
Pedro, the rude asshole, laughs at Pablo’s plight. “You didn’t tell me you have a girlfriend.”
Pablo rolls his eyes. “The princess didn't tell you?”
“I didn't think you were into blondes.”
Pablo isn't. He’s into dark, almost black, hair— preferably with thick eyebrows and light stubble over a sharp jaw. “We're trying to keep the relationship a secret.”
“Don't expect me to start calling you ‘your highness’ when you become the prince of Spain,” Pedro snorts sarcastically. “I'm not gonna kiss your hand every time I see you.”
Pablo opens his mouth to respond to that when a lightbulb goes off in his head.
It's a bad idea. It's a really terrible idea and Pablo would be the one facing the embarrassing consequences if he does it, but his impulse-control has never been the best.
Fuck it, Pablo decides. He can face the repercussions of his actions later. This can't be any worse than getting a red card.
Pressing down the button, Pablo opens the window on his side of the car.
The fans scream in delight at seeing his face, as if the most beautiful man Pablo has ever seen isn't sitting in the driver’s seat.
“Gavi, when are you getting your driver’s license?”
“Gavi, is Messi really coming back?”
“Gavi, will you marry me?”
Pablo forces a smile. He brings his hand to his lips, making sure the cameras and phones are all pointed at him, before blowing a big fat kiss to the fans.
They swoon and scream. Pablo is pretty sure one girl faints on the concrete.
Beside him, Pedro can't believe what he just saw.
+1
The hum of the bus engine is barely audible over chatter and the occasional beep of the bus's indicators.
Somewhere up front, Xavi is reminiscing about the good old days with Busi and Jordi, only occasionally turning his head to shush the rest of them when they're being too loud.
Two rows behind them sits Lewy, fast asleep with his head resting against the tinted windows as the faint sound of Justin Timberlake’s voice seeps out of his headphones. Jules is on his phone flicking through Instagram stories. Frenkie is calling his girlfriend and talking in quiet whispers.
Like teenagers on a school field trip, the loudest and rowdiest of the blaugrana bunch relegated to the back as to not disturb everybody else. Ansu and Ferran bicker over God knows what, while music blares from Alejandro’s speaker.
Pablo doesn't mind the noise. Perhaps he will one day, but he doesn’t now. Surrounded by the living legends he has looked up to and the boys he has grown up with, he feels safe. Secure. At home in this moving microcosm of the club he lives and breathes for.
The body pressed next to his own shifts in his seat.
Pablo swallows the lump in his throat. Maybe home has less to do with the bus and more to do with the man beside him.
Huddled together away from the chaos and prying eyes are Pablo and Pedro, bundled in thick hoodies as the air conditioner blasts cold air onto them.
It's far from perfect. The seats are cramped and they’ve fucked themselves by sitting directly under the A/C, but Pablo is too tired and too comfortable to move.
Besides, Pedro’s body heat is more than enough to keep him warm. He's a campfire, reducing Pablo to a sticky and gooey marshmallow every time he's in close proximity.
They're sitting close enough that Pablo can feel Pedro’s breath against the shell of his ear. “I think my leg fell asleep.”
“Shit, sorry,” Pablo says, belatedly realizing that his leg is draped over Pedro’s. Half of his body is practically in Pedro’s lap. “I can move if you want.”
“No.” Pedro shakes his head. Typical Pedro. Always putting other people’s comfort over his own. Pablo loves and hates that about him. “It's fine.”
“Are you sure?” Pablo asks. They're no strangers to affection, arms swung around shoulders and gentle palms cupping each other’s faces, but this is different. This is something more.
Pablo does not claim to be a good poet, but a great observer of Pedro. He knows Pedro, has learned and understood the simplicities and complexities that make up his best friend. How can he not know him when they've been living in each other’s pockets for so long?
Pablo knows Pedro, but Pablo is also selfish, and he wants more. He wants to crawl under Pedro’s skin and make himself at home there. Wants to seep into his bones and plant seeds that will grow into little daisies.
“Pablo?” Pedro’s voice is soft as he says his name. His actual name, because he knows Pablo just as intimately. Has always been more than a teammate and a friend.
“Yeah?” Pedro is close. He smells like wet grass and the tip of his nose is as pink as his cheeks.
Pedro is sunshine. He is sunbeam divine. He is a summer storm, and Pablo’s heart feels like it is going to rupture out of his chest.
He opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted when Pedro leans in and connects their lips together.
Pablo’s breath is nearly knocked out of his lungs. Pedro's lips are soft and sweet. His stubble is rough against Pablo’s face as his tongue dips into his mouth.
Pablo has never been kissed like this before, not with this kind of bliss and breathless spin. He parts his lips to allow Pedro more access, shutting his eyes as he melts into the kiss like a happy little marshmallow.
It doesn’t last forever. They eventually have to pull away to breathe.
Pablo’s lips feel swollen. He takes a selfish moment to just look at Pedro. Take him in. The sight of him post-kiss: eyes all dark, face bright pink. The feel of him: strong and sturdy. Like an anchor that keeps Pablo’s feet on the ground.
“Did you just kiss me?” Pablo asks, though he already knows the answer.
“Yes.”
Pablo smiles dopily. “Can you do it again?”
"Yes," Pedro says this as if it is no shame, as though he would be satisfied to kiss no one other than Pablo ever again.
He pulls Pablo back in for another kiss, this one a little longer and a little more intense.
They kiss, and then they kiss again and again, smiling against each other's lips as the city lights seeping through the dark windows make silhouettes out of them.