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Not even two weeks in, and Pablo doesn’t think he’s gonna be able to hold out for another nine months of this. This, he thinks, is what purgatory must be like.
To most, nine months of no responsibility, of playing video games and scrolling through TikTok, would be bliss but not for Pablo, who has energy in spades and just wasn’t made for marinating in his room.
On this particular day, he manages to keep himself occupied enough with games and movies and web surfing, but by the time mid afternoon rolls around, no amount of media consumption can cure the fact that he’s bored. Like a depressing, color-code his closet, alphabetize the contents of his fridge to pass the time kinda bored.
It takes him an embarrassingly long time to think that, hey, maybe he should invite a friend over to help pass the time, and maybe for some comfort, as this injury has been really hard on him. And when he thinks of ‘a friend,’ only one name comes to mind; Pedri.
As he looks at his phone, the mere act of reading Pedri’s name on his iMessage app makes Pablo fight the urge to giggle like a teenager with a crush. But he is a teenager with a crush, isn’t he?
Pedri is everything. He’s sweet and reliable and handsome, not to mention damn good at football. He understands Pablo in a way he fears no one else ever would or ever could.
But Pablo isn’t inviting Pedri over to ogle him. That would be disrespectful, he thinks. He’s always held firm to the belief that Pedri is his best friend first and his crush second. He genuinely enjoys the older boy’s company, and getting to stare at his handsome face when they hang out and gossip and play video games is just a neat bonus.
A quick text conversation later and Pedri says he’ll be there in a few. Normally, Pablo would pick up the place, make his room look a little neater before having company over, but with his knee being the way it is, he thinks against it, and hopes Pedri doesn’t mind the mess.
When he finally gets the text from Pedri letting him know that he’s outside, Pablo makes his way over to the front door, a task that takes a little longer than usual due to the fact that he has to hop there on his crutches. He still isn’t fully used to them.
“Hey,” greets Pedri, his usual grin plastered on his face, revealing perfect white teeth.
“Sup,” is all Pablo says in response with a little nod, stepping aside to let his friend in.
“Anyone else home?” Pedri asks, hands stuffed in his pockets.
Pablo scoffs as he hops away towards his room on his crutches. “You did read my texts, didn’t you? I’m all by myself, which lemme tell you, has been super boring.”
When they get to Pablo’s room, Pedri does his usual routine of removing his shoes and hoodie before plopping down on Pablo’s comfy bed. They had sat side by side on that bed countless times, usually playing video games, something Pablo figures they’ll probably end up doing today.
Resting his crutches next to his bed, Pablo takes his usual spot next to Pedri and hugs his arm in a display of affection he shows pretty much everyone, not just the boy he has a crush on.
“Now, c’mon, tell me everything. How’re the guys? Anything interesting happen? Please, I’ve been so bored holed up in here.”
“Honestly, nothing really,” Pedri says with a shrug. “Except for Frenkie having, like, a whole ass baby.”
Pablo’s face lights up. “Yeah, yeah that’s right! He sent me pictures; he’s so cute!”
“Cute?” Pedri asks with a laugh. “I don’t think any babies are cute, they all kinda look like raw chicken.”
Playfully, Pablo hits his friend on the arm. “Hey! That’s your friend’s kid you’re talking about.”
“What Frenkie doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Pedri says, and the smile on his face damn near takes Pablo out. Oh, he has it bad. He has it so so so bad.
He’s taken out of his thoughts of just how down to the Earth’s core he is for Pedri when he feels a hand on his injured knee. Pedri’s touch is so gentle, as not to hurt him. The touch makes his stomach feel all funny, and in that moment he wants nothing more than to scream at Pedri that he loves him.
“How’s it feeling?” Pedri asks.
“It hurts,” Pablo responds. Pedri’s hand doesn’t move and Pablo doesn’t want it to. “But not as bad as when it first happened. The meds the doctor gave me really help; trama… something or other, I dunno. Mama’s scared I’ll get addicted to it so she hides it and only gives it to me exactly when the doctor said I should take it.”
Pedri can’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, that sounds like her…” He begins to move his thumb back and forth on Pablo’s knee in a soothing little motion.
“The pain is mostly, um…” Unsure of the right words, Pablo simply unhooks one of his arm’s from Pedri’s and points to his own head. “In here.”
Pablo is a lot of things, but a talker isn’t one of them. He especially doesn’t talk about deep things like emotions and feelings and secrets, but this is his best friend, his Pedri.
Pedri simply looks at him, his kind brown eyes willing Pablo to tell him more.
“It… hurts a lot to not be playing. To not be with you guys. All I wanted was to help the team this season, and to help Spain at Euros… and I just hate to think that I might not be able to play the same after this.”
“I know, I know…” says Pedri, in that gentle tone of his that Pablo loves so much. It’s something that can always calm him down despite his boundless energy. “I can’t make it better, but… if it helps, we miss you too. And I’m not just saying that, I mean really miss you. We’ve got a little picture of you that we printed out to put in the dressing room during away games… Like seriously, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’d dropped dead.”
Dark as it is, Pablo laughs. “You guys really did that?”
“M-hmm. Was my idea and everything.”
Pablo giggles, hugging Pedri’s arm again and nuzzling his head into his shoulder as his way of saying thank you. He hopes it’s enough, because words aren’t sufficient to explain his gratitude. It means the world to him that Pedri went out of his way to make sure he isn’t forgotten by the team during his long absense, and he thinks he feels himself fall a bit harder.
Some moments pass in silence, and Pablo speaks up again.
“I’m lonely without you, y’know.”
The response comes fast. “You don’t hafta be.”
Pablo doesn’t know what to make of that statement, so he looks up at Pedri for confirmation. His head is still resting on Pedri’s shoulder, so he’s close enough to see the tiniest bit of stubble that’s taking shape on his face, and the ever present eye bags that Pablo honestly finds kinda cute, not that he would ever tell him that.
Pablo’s gaze drifts to one of his favorite features of Pedri, the eyes. The eyes that look like they flicker down to Pablo’s lips for a split second, but of course Pablo isn’t delusional enough to believe that.
Then Pedri’s kissing him.
He goes damn near tachycardic. Pedri’s kissing him. His eyes close because what else would they do. Pedri’s kissing him. He doesn’t know what to do with his stupid hands, and Pedri’s kissing him.
Thank God Pedri’s a patient man, because it takes Pablo a few moments to think that, hey, maybe he should kiss the guy of his dreams back. And he does; he probably sucks at it because he’s managed to go nineteen lousy years without being kissed. So he just kinda… puckers his lips and moves his mouth a little. If he’s shit at it, which he probably is, Pedri either doesn’t think so or doesn’t care, because he keeps going.
It’s so foreign to him, and in such a good way. He’s thought so much about what it would be like to be kissed. He’s had dreams about it, but they all end before the deal is sealed because his brain and nerves literally don’t know what the sensation feels like and therefore can’t replicate it.
He doesn’t think about what this means. That Pedri returns his feelings for him. He doesn’t think about any of that because his brain can barely process the fact that he’s kissing Pedri.
The seconds bleed into what has to be a minute, and still they sit there, lips moving against each other as Pablo tries desperately to figure out how to be good at this.
Pablo thought that his first kiss would be a kiss rather than a series of them, a one-and-done kinda thing. But Pedri is still keeping it going, tilting his head just so, and Pablo is not about to punch this gift horse in the mouth, so he goes along with it.
And it’s good. He’s kissing the boy of his dreams and he feels a cold hand slipping under his shirt and trailing up his abdomen-
It’s visceral, the panic that shoots up from his gut through his spinal cord to his brain and alerts his primal senses that he’s in danger, sending his sympathetic nervous system into high gear.
A sound, some cross between a yelp and a whimper, escapes his mouth as he backs up to the foot of the bed in record time. He yanks his white t-shirt down to cover up what had been exposed, and wraps his arms around his torso in a sorry attempt at a shield.
“What’re you doing?!” he says, sounding as scared as he feels.
“I, uh, I-” Pedri stammers, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water and blinking rapidly, as if to process all the movement that happened in the past half second. His hand remains resting in the air parallel to the mattress.
Pablo doesn’t say anything, a new and frankly unwanted feeling of uneasiness settling in his bones.
“You- you don't,” Pedri sputters some more, before his facial expression changes to that of a man who’s just had something terrible dawn on him. “Oh, my God,” he says, sounding right mortified as he moves closer to the headboard, putting more distance between himself and Pablo. “You don’t feel the same way, I completely misread this, oh my God.”
Pablo’s feeling so many things he can’t put them into words, but at the center of it all is utter confoundment. How could Pedri say Pablo didn’t feel the same way? How could he say that after he had spent several minutes kissing him back?
“I- I just figured, with all the… With all the touching and the hugging and affection you give me that-”
Something flares up inside Pablo, and he doesn’t want to call it anger because he could never be angry at Pedri, but it certainly is something. Something that makes him feel gross and wrong. “That I’m easy?” he snarls, for he isn’t stupid. He knows that the hand up his shirt wouldn’t have stopped there. That it would’ve led to the things that the guys talk about in the dressing room, the things that make Pablo want to vomit at the thought of participating in any part of those things.
He’s not denying that Pedri has feelings for him; the man said so himself. But the blush on his cheeks and the sheer mortification on his face tell Pablo the sad truth: that Pedri wanted to do more than kiss.
“Just that you at least liked me back!” Pedri says defensively. He gets up and Pablo fears that he’s going to leave.
“Of course I like you ba-”
“Yeah, yeah, you like me as a friend; trust me, I get it,” Pedri says as he slips his sneakers back on and grabs his hoodie.
Pablo’s about to respond by telling him he likes him as far more than a friend, but Pedri looks at him pointedly and that’s enough to shut him up.
“Pablo, I really, really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry I did. I thought you felt the same way, and I shouldn’t have kissed you, and… I- I feel awful, I-” He spends a moment figuring out what to say next, and when he yields nothing, he’s out the door, footsteps getting quieter and quieter as he descends the stairs.
Had it been any other day, Pablo would spring out of bed. He’d run full speed at Pedri and grab him by the shoulders, tell him that it wasn’t the kiss that made him uncomfortable, stupid, it was the hand up his shirt and the insinuation that Pedri wanted more.
But he can’t. His stupid, stupid knee won’t allow it. And his even stupider pride won’t let him attempt to hop after Pedri on his crutches.
He hears the front door shut. The first tear glistens as it falls.
* * *
It’s a month later. The surgery went well; Pablo can walk without his crutches but only for short bursts of time. It’s better than nothing, he supposes.
Barca’s fourth in the league. He wonders if that would still be the case had he not been injured. He’ll never know.
It’s late at night when he’s on the phone with Fermín, catching up on the happenings with the team. Pablo’s pacing around his room as they talk, which is technically against doctor’s orders as he’s already done his daily allowance of walking today, but he’s seemingly incapable of staying put while having a phone conversation.
“So how late were you guys out?” Pablo asks, curious to know more. Fermín’s telling him about some clubbing him and the guys did last night. Even if Pablo was healthy, he still wouldn’t have gone. He’d always found clubbing painfully boring.
On the other end, Fermín takes a moment to think. “Well, I left at like, three. Oh, but Ferran started getting sick at like, two, so he left. So of course Pedri had to leave, too,” he says, and he has this tone that suggests he’s rolling his eyes at that last part.
Pablo’s gotten good at pretending the mention of Pedri’s name doesn’t make him feel like he’s about to burst into tears, at least on the outside. “What do you mean?”
Fermín just scoffs on the other end. “Well, y’know.”
“I don’t think I do,” he says, and he’s starting to get worried.
He hears Fermín gasp over the phone. “Oh, shit, do you not know?! They’re going out! Pedri and Ferran!”
Fermín says it so joyously. Like it’s something to be celebrated. He says it like it’s an announcement of getting accepted into college, or getting engaged, or expecting a baby. Like it’s not the worst news of Pablo’s life.
It’s worse than when the doctor said that he’d be out for the season. It’s so, so, so much worse.
Unfortunately for Pablo, his go-to emotion for unpleasant situations is anger, and his hand that’s holding his phone shakes with it. “How long?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. Like a terminal patient asking how much time they have left on this Earth.
Fermín is oblivious, and for that Pablo remains grateful. “Couple weeks now. I just can’t believe you didn’t know! I mean, I assumed Pedri would tell you, you’re like, best friends.”
Best friends don’t ghost each other for entire weeks. Best friends don’t kiss their best friend and date someone else a few weeks later like it’s nothing.
“Oh, hey, I gotta go,” Pablo says. “My mom’s calling me down for dinner.”
“What? It’s like ten at night-”
Poor Pablo doesn’t let his friend finish his sentence, hanging up and chucking his phone onto his bed with all the force he can muster. Naturally, it bounces off the mattress and onto the wall, then onto the mattress again, and clatters to the floor. Pablo doesn’t care.
It’s then that he feels his knee start to ache, and he knows he’s overworked himself with all the pacing. He limps the short distance back to his bed, whimpering once or twice as he does so.
He crashes onto his bed, curling up like a wounded animal on the side adjacent to the wall. Unable to control the tightening in his throat and the stinging in his eyes, he cries. And oh, does he cry. It doesn’t take long for the silent streams of sadness racing down his face to become audible. Logically, he knows that outwardly sobbing won’t do anything to make him better, won’t do anything to make him normal, but he does it anyway, because the pain needs some kind of outlet. He bundles up his favorite, softest blanket and buries his face in it to muffle the noise he’ s making. Feeling a need for something to latch on to, he picks up his favorite stuffed animal, the one he’s had since he was a baby, from his spot on Pablo’s pillow and clutches him to his chest, squeezing the plush against his chest as an extra comfort measure. And as he lies there, on the spot on his bed Pedri kissed him on, sobbing so hard he sometimes has to gasp for air, he does a lot of thinking.
He thinks about how he wishes he could be mad at Pedri, mad at him for breaking his heart like this. But he can never be angry at Pedri, never carry any ill will towards him, because it just doesn’t feel right.
And how can he blame Pedri for wanting what a normal guy wants? It’s Pablo who’s the weird one, the abnormal, the defective. Pedri’s just a normal guy who wants normal guy things.
If anything, Pablo’s angry at himself. For freaking out the way he did, and for making Pedri think he was rejecting him. Because Pablo does love him, and he’s never been more certain about anything in his life. Loving Pedri is easier than breathing, and he wants to sit Pedri down and yell that fact at him until he believes it.
Pedri has no idea just how much Pablo likes him back. He has no idea the lengths he’s willing to go for him. He’d die for Pedri. Without hesitation, in complete secrecy, without a soul ever knowing of his sacrifice. More than that, he’d kill for him. He’d count every grain of sand in the world, he’d steal every star in the sky, he’d go to hell and back and do it again if it meant putting a smile on Pedri’s face.
He just wouldn’t screw him. And, unfortunately, that seems to be a dealbreaker for everyone who isn’t named Pablo Gavira. Pablo Gavira, who has so much love in him it threatens to build up and kill him. He’s made of love, he thinks. It’s in every interaction he has, every hug and every display of affection. Without words, his love is there.
Unfortunately, Pablo was born into a world where men don’t want love unless they can fuck it out of you.
Oh, how can Pedri not see?! That Pablo will be the best boyfriend he can ask for, if he only gives him the chance! He’d text him good morning every day, he’d learn how to cook so Pedri can have something in his belly when the two of them come home from training, he’d spend time with Pedri’s family, he’d cuddle him every single night.
He hates the idea that Pedri interprets him not wanting more than kissing as a sign of rejection. More than that, Pablo hates himself for having the audacity to crave Pedri’s affection and not give him what he wants in return. The gall of him, to want Pedri to love him and kiss him and hold him and touch him but only in a way that Pablo deems appropriate.
He thinks of Ferran, and his arms shake with anger as he continues to sob pathetically into his blanket. Ferran, who’s a good boyfriend. Something Pablo can never be because of his stupid little asexuality. Ferran probably lets Pedri touch him however he damn well pleases. Ferran probably doesn’t flinch when Pedri sticks his hands underneath his clothes; hell, he probably enjoys it. He gives Pedri what Pablo can’t-
Pablo stops his train of thought right there. It’s not that he can’t give Pedri sex. He’s physically capable of it. It’s that he won’t, and that little distinction just makes Pablo feel that much worse. Because he can give Pedri that thing he wants, that thing all guys want, if he could get over his fear.
Because, at the end of the day, that’s what it is. Yes there’s disgust and yes there’s adverseness, but at the core of it all, the thought of having anyone do those things to him, or doing them to someone else… He finds the act horrifying. It’s vile and cruel and not something you do to someone you love.
He gets to the point in his crying where his nose is blocked up and he can’t breathe through it. He sits up, hoping gravity will help in unblocking his airway and letting him breathe again.
In the midst of his wallowing, his mind goes to the one place it always does, in good times and in bad.
He thinks of God. His God that he turns to every day, that he loves and in whom he always has faith in.
He wonders why his loving, merciful God did this to him. Why He made him this way. And why this way specifically? Why couldn’t Pablo be aromantic as well? Then it wouldn’t hurt as much. He wouldn’t have to deal with wanting love but being rejected due to his distaste for sex.
He wonders if it’s a punishment, to crave love this bad and have an abnormality that ensures that no one will give it to him. Maybe he’s atoning for something he did in a past life. What kind of abhorrent sin did he have to commit to warrant this? He truly, genuinely wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy.
Still clutching his plushie to his chest, he brings his knees in and presses his head against them, making himself smaller. “Please,” he begs, his Spanish strained with how much it hurts to speak. “Please make me normal.”
It’s a weird thing to pray for, to be a horny teenager. But it’s the only way someone will love him.
He thinks that it’s not even about Pedri at this point. Hell, maybe it never was. He just wants to be loved. Everyone says that to be loved is the greatest thing on Earth, that it makes you feel so special and cherished. He just wants that. To be loved by someone. Not for his body or for how he makes them feel in bed, but for who he is. Why is he the only person on Earth who grasps that concept?
And it’s not fair. It’s not fair that everyone gets to enjoy this amazing thing called love and Pablo doesn’t. That he’ll never get to experience it, for reasons beyond his control.
He knows his prayer is futile. He can’t change. He doesn’t know why he’s like this; maybe a hormone imbalance or suppressed trauma or whatever. But if he could change, he would have by now.
It sets in, then. This is his life. His hands shake and his crying intensifies as it sets in that he’ll never be loved. He will live the rest of his life carrying this love around with nowhere to put it. It’s going to grow and grow every day, and he will never be free of it. He’ll never have a nice boy hold his hand and cuddle him and give him his jacket and introduce him to people as “mi novio, Pablo.” Those are all things for normal people. They simply aren’t for him.
He’ll never be proposed to. He’ll never get married.
And that’s the nail in the coffin. He’s crying so hard and is so hurt and angry and confused he wants to just scream.
Turns out he’d been bending his bad knee at an odd angle, and is now in physical pain as well.
He grabs a pillow and shoves it in his face, allowing himself a short but frustrated scream.
Somehow, he hasn’t run out of tears to cry. They continue to come, stinging his sad brown eyes as they do so, and he’s so worked up he has to audibly gasp to let air in.
He has to face the facts, because they are set in stone. He is Pablo Gavira, asexual, and therefore doomed. Doomed to live a long life completely unloved. He will die totally alone. Worse, he will live totally alone. There are no other people like him. There is no prince charming who’s going to sweep him off his feet and say “I love you so much I’ll be with you even though you won’t give me what I crave. I’m fine not having sex for the rest of my life.” That’s all Pablo wants, really. But no amount of wanting, no matter how intense or soul-crushing, will give it to him.
Alone in his room, he cries and cries and cries. Nobody ever comes to help him. He will remain there, crying, injured, and so, so alone.
He’d better get used to it.