Chapter Text
Pablo never had any reason to hate football, he was generally indifferent to the sport and those who played it. Until they encroached on the wasteland, setting up both a football pitch and a basketball court and a place to showdown when there were disgruntled players in the games. They also played music (you could hardly even call music the obnoxious noise from the loudspeakers), drank, smoked and managed to have sex, then how do you explain the appearance of condom packs and their own. Pablo chose to ignore all signs of his peers' lack of upbringing.
The shrubbery, filled with cigarette butts and empty bottles (there were also syringes lying around somewhere), was behind an unfinished three-storey building and was the quietest place that Pablo had explored as a child. After a shift at the shop or a day of babysitting his little sister, he would sling his backpack over his shoulder and skip out of the house before he got another load of what his mother called the "responsible tasks" of everyday life. Half of what he earned was put aside for his studies, and half was spent on quality paints, paper and other things for painting, which he kept in a special drawer under his bed. And in the evening or at other free times, getting out into the air with his wealth and ideas seemed to him a special ritual that filled the summer with at least some charm and meaning.
But a horde of teenagers - mostly his acquaintances from school - disrupted the idyll, bringing with them chaos and destruction. Their usual habitat, which separated about six streets from the wasteland, had been taken over for shop construction by smart men in black suits, who chased them off like stray kittens from their land.
Pablo put his headphones on full volume and drew, disengaged from the world.
Indeed, all artists, even the most untalented dilettantes to whom he counted himself, have a duty to suffer. That is the basis. The depth of suffering was determined by the environment, but, apparently, the fact that he was forbidden to draw at home, slipping a three-year-old sister into his hands so that he would babysit her while the adults were at work, and textbooks so that he studied perfectly and did not bother with nonsense, this was not enough.
His accumulated inspiration poured out on paper at night, under the phone's torch because the lights in his room were forbidden to be on. Or in the cold cement walls that did not get warm even under the hottest sun.
All in all, despite all the downsides of being a dreamy kid in a middle-income family that is forever reminding you of the higher purpose of studying well and not embarrassing the family, Pablo was relatively fine with everything until a ball flew right into the back of his head or into his sketchbook, destroying the drawing and the mood to hell. Such antics increased rapidly every day they had to cross paths, as did a stream of hurtful jokes along the lines of "he's obviously consuming something" "junkie" "freak". They would have limited themselves to "unsociable nerd", but ignoring their opinions fuelled the idiots' inspiration for verbal exploits.
“Hey, can you throw the ball back?”
That very ball knocked the sketchbook out of his hands, smeared the face of the dog that Pablo was diligently painting on it, and made Pablo jump up in indignation. Grabbing the ball and pulling out the knife that was at the ready in his pocket, he jabbed it into the round body of the ball, which crinkled with a loud hiss, letting out its last gasps.
“This one? Take it” And Pablo threw the remains of the ball straight into the crowd of teenagers. It was a risky business, but he had to teach the impertinent boys a lesson, for they'd had enough of his patience to make fun of the "stoned draughtsman" for all eternity. Pablo hid the penknife in his pocket. He could stand up for himself, he did not suffer for nothing with his father when he decided to make a real man of his son and teach him various martial arts tricks. Well, let's try our strength over this enraged idiot, who swiftly headed towards him.
“You got a death wish?” Vinicius shoved him, but Pablo stayed on his feet. - Why did you shut up? Answer me, motherfucker.
“Allow you to shine with your intellect,”Gavira replied, not feeling even a fraction of the rage that was in the gaze opposite. That calmness infuriated Vinicius, and he struck first - head straight into his nose. Gavi recoiled. Fell down. Blood rushed out instantly.
“Give me the ball back, bitch,” the guy demanded, clearly sensing victory. “Now.”
But Gavi, despite the pain and blood entering his mouth and settling on the walls of his throat, answered with a punch to the jaw. The fist reached its target and Vinicius retreated, grabbing his chin. Pablo prepared for the enraged lad to pounce on him, but the others surrounded, turning into live cages for both of them. It was obvious that the situation could become a meat grinder, and it was of little use to the lads to witness or participate in it.
“Son of a bitch," Vinicius shouted, breaking free from his grip. Like a bitten dog threatening to break loose from his chain.
Pablo didn't respond. Nausea from the blood in his mouth went to his throat, his eyes darkened and his strength seemed to have deserted him. He could barely keep his feet. Someone else's hands gripped his ribs and Pablo's bloodied nose dug into the guy's neck. They shouted at him that it would not stay that way, but he did not care.
“You can go with them, Joao, I'll take care of them," it was Pedri. The young man who came back for the ball more often than not, smiling guiltily and asking for forgiveness. - Gavira, can you back off, you're getting my shirt all over," he asked, pulling away from him.
“We need to attach something cold,” João said, "I'll run to home for some ice”
Slowly Pablo began to regain consciousness. The bleeding was stopped by applying ice wrapped around a piece of Pedri's T-shirt, who said he no longer needed it. Not a great loss, but Gavi felt responsible for the ruined item. The water had washed the metallic taste of blood from his teeth, but the unpleasant feeling in his stomach remained.
“You're immortal," João patted the young man on the shoulder in a friendly manner. - Vini wouldn't leave it like that. It was his ball.
“Fuck him. If you knew how much I'm fed up with all of you," he confessed. “And him especially. He needs to stop being an asshole”
“Beautiful," Pedri, meanwhile, was looking at other people's drawings, flipping cautiously through the pages. The interest in other people's eyes and the sincere smile knocked the thought out of his head that he should take the sketchbook away, hide it.
It was a rare occasion when someone other, a real person, not from the internet, was looking at his work while sitting next to him. And for Pedri, it was the very occasion from which a friendship could begin.
If Pedri González was falling in love, it was desperately, so much so that he did not know how to approach the object of his affection properly. If Pablo had been a girl, it would have been easier. Pedri would have smiled, given him a flower and written on instagram. But this was Pablo, a bit strange, silent in front of strangers and damn talented.
Rarely seen at parties or get-togethers, Joao said, he had strict parents and a little sister for whome they saved on a babysitter because they was an older son. Pedri has encountered them in the park. Pablo was clearly not lacking in patience and love, he followed the little girl around, playing catch-up, buying her sweets. Pedri was sure he would have gone mad if his parents, had made him, a seventeen-year-old boy, sit with the baby for a day, depriving him of all the joys of summer.
Fortunately, he was the youngest child in the family himself, and the 'Don't give us any trouble, and we won't give you any trouble’ policy suited both parties.
[Hello.
How's it going?
Thanks for your help, I'll get the ball and t-shirt back.]
[Hey.
I'm doing great. How's your nose? Is it swollen?
Not necessarily. I don't think Vinicius will take it, and I have plenty of T-shirts.]
[A little bit. I got scolded, of course, but it's okay.
If he won't accept it, keep it. My little action has really stirred him up]
Pedri smiled. Perhaps for Pablo it was just gratitude, but he himself felt warm in his chest. As Pablo typed out the message, Gonzalez's brain tried to generate questions to continue the conversation, which might be the only one. But nothing sensible came up.
[Can we meet tomorrow? And where?]
[Can we go to a cafe? Or I can come to your place.]
Feel like an idiot. Couldn't you have suggested something better? Pedri was biting his lower lip waiting for an answer.
[All right. After lunch. I'll wait.]
The conversation is over. And Pedri closed the chat and put the phone back on the nightstand.