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This was a bad idea.
Ferran Torres recalls saying it out loud because in any other scenario, he loves a good bad idea. Hell, he was the one that dragged them through American bars in the dead of night while everyone else was asleep, and to this day, he swears whatever happened in Ibiza will fucking die in Ibiza.
And still. Ferran said it. Told them this is a bad idea.
“MUSSSSTAAAAARRRDDDDDD,” Pedri bellows, waving his arms up.
“Why does he keep saying that,” Fermín groans, holding his head like he’s got a headache. “They haven’t played that song.”
Ferran knows exactly why Pedri’s screaming the word. Atlético Madrid posted a reel of Antoine Griezmann running around their practice grounds while shouting the lyrics. Pedri sent it to him the other night, laughing at the man. Something along the lines of Atlético's social media admin losing their minds.
“The fuck do I know,” Ferran grumbles. He signals the bartender for another water.
No, that's definitely not what's playing. A dance remix that sounds vaguely familiar pounds through the speakers, though they're huddled in the far corner of the bar area in a pitiful attempt to save their hearing. Somewhere out on the dance floor are their teammates, finally letting loose after weeks of games and practices and media responsibilities. One weekend of rest before they have to gear up for the next La Liga matches. Flick warned them to be careful but otherwise, the world is theirs. And Ferran had every plan to be on the dancefloor with them, until he saw Pedri at the bar.
Ordering another drink.
“This is a bad idea,” he warned Fermín, who ordered Pedri’s first drink and swore up and down that he’d keep an eye on him. They remember what happened in Berlin. One drink, and Pedri was fine. All jokes and laughing too loud and singing along even when he doesn’t speak German. One drink, and Pedri was grabbing Ferran’s arm like he’d never seen a bicep before. Dancing with David Raya even while sitting in his chair.
Then, three drinks in, and Pedri was lamenting that he didn’t actually win the Euros. Because he was injured and on the sidelines. Three drinks in and Pedri was clutching onto Ferran’s arm, stuttering that he should give up on playing professionally if he keeps getting injured.
“He’s okay, he’s laughing.”
But history has a way of repeating itself, Ferran thinks as he watches Pedri drain the glass.
“Right, Pepi!? Feeling good?”
“Yeah! With my best friend!” Pedri smacks Ferran’s back. “Right?”
Fermín points behind him. “Okay, great, because…”
“Whatever,” Ferran flatly huffs. “Just leave.”
Fermín is more than happy to oblige, running back into the crowd and leaving Ferran with his hands full. There, both watch Fermín twirl around with his girlfriend, the pretty blond laughing as Fermín buries his face into her neck. Any other guy would complain. Ferran did, more than once, something about needing space. Maybe that’s why he’s been single for a year. Or maybe Berta is cool like that. Fermin doesn’t seem to mind. He wanted her to come. He dragged her here, and he’ll leave with her.
Must be nice.
“Everyone else has someone except me,” Pedri slurs, just as entranced by the pair as Ferran.
Inevitable.
“No. Half the team's single.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why don’t I have anyone?”
“I don’t know,” Ferran sighs. “Maybe because you stay at home and play with your dog all day?”
Pedri makes a face. “Is that a euphemism?”
“That’s the truth.”
“Can I get another-”
“No,” Ferran cuts in, looking the bartender dead in the eye. “He’s had enough.”
Another face. “I can decide when I’ve had enough.”
“Pedri.” Ferran shakes his head at the bartender, who, having seen God, walks towards another patron.
Pedri folds his arms, but stumbles forward. Ferran catches him swiftly, straightening him up even though the midfielder is still mad. “You have it easy,” Pedri loudly insists. “You can… be tall.”
Ferran tries not to laugh. “What?”
“You’re tall,” Pedri murmurs, eyes bright like it’s the first time he’s noticed Ferran’s height.
“That’s not-”
“You could get anyone you want,” Pedri exclaims. “I message one girl on Instagram and I get ghosted after five messages. What gives?”
Ferran swallows the hard lump in his throat. “I can't get anyone I want,” he grits out.
“Then it's me.”
“It's not.”
“Maybe I'm too hard to love.”
“Stop.”
“That has to be it, right?”
Here we go. Just like Berlin.
“Pedri, you’re not-”
“There has to be a reason.” Pedri laughs, and it sounds nothing like a laugh. “It’s cuz I’m short, right?”
It’s not fun anymore. Being here. It’s worse than Berlin, where Pedri was moping about his leg. At least they could repeat all the optimism of the medical team. This time, Ferran’s watching Pedri slide straight into the hell that is self-doubt.
Wait. No. Pedri is literally sliding.
The midfielder trips, and his head thumps against Ferran’s chest.
“For fuck’s sake-”
“I’m always alone.”
A chill runs down Ferran’s spine.
“Do you really feel that way?” Ferran asks. Pedri doesn’t answer. “Pedri? Can you hear me?”
Still no answer.
“Dumbass thought he could handle three drinks. Idiot. Dumbass.”
Silence.
“You’re easy to love.”
Nothing.
“Loving you is so damn easy. I would know. Been doing it for years.”
Pedri mumbles something, but it’s totally incoherent, and his head digs heavily into Ferran’s sternum.
“What?”
“I said, can we go home?”
Ferran tightens his arm around Pedri's shoulder, the same way his chest tightens when Pedri’s phone lights up from another Instagram notification. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”
The car ride is quiet as Pedri sags into Ferran’s passenger seat, and by the time they pull into Pedri’s apartment complex, Ferran finds him half asleep. “Do I have to carry you,” he grumbles.
Pedri makes a noise, wakes up, and rubs his eyes. “Your place?”
“Yours.”
“Oh.”
“Do you need help going upstairs?”
“No.” Pedri slaps his hand against the door, trying to find the handle.
Yes, he does.
It takes time: dragging Pedri out, listening to him pant and mumble about dying alone, finding Pedri’s keys, finding the right key, getting inside, watching Pedri stumble about as he kicks off his shoes and tears off those awful jeans before collapsing on the couch.
“You want to sleep on the couch?”
“Just tired,” Pedri groans.
“Go to bed then. You’ll fuck up your back.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“Yeah, yeah. Come on.”
Ferran pulls on Pedri and guides him to bed. Pedri falls face first into and Ferran laughs his first real laugh of the night: Pedri, sprawled out like that. He ought to take a picture just for the blackmail, and he would, if Pedri wasn’t so mopey and sad. Pedri finds the covers and pulls them over himself. “Pervert,” he glares at Ferran.
“I’m not the one who got undressed in the living room. Goodnight.”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Stay.”
“What? Here?”
“It’s night,” Pedri mutters, already slipping back to sleep. “Too dark to drive.”
Ferran sighs. He’s painfully sober, and even worse, wide awake. And yet, he wanders into the kitchen, stripping off his jacket and tossing it over the arm of the couch. He gets water, painkillers, and one of those hydration gels in Pedri’s favorite flavor: mixed fruit. Placing them by Pedri’s bedside, Ferran finds Pedri’s phone next to him. He kneels to find the cord that Pedri keeps under the bed and plugs in Pedri’s phone.
More notifications from Instagram.
He’s about to go back to the couch when Pedri catches his arm.
“Ferran.”
He looks towards the bed, still on his knees. Pedri hangs off at the edge of it, looking at him with a sleepy hood to his eyes, just barely propped up by his shaky arms.
“What’s wrong, Pedri?”
“Nothing.”
“Going to vomit?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Then?”
“Ferran.”
“Yes?”
“Ferran.”
Is Pedri coming closer?
“Why do you keep saying my name? Go to sleep.”
Pedri blinks slowly. “I am asleep.”
Ferran can see each eyelash, each fleck of gold in Pedri’s eyes. Can feel his exhale on his-
“Pedri,” Ferran warns. “Don’t. Not…” Not like this. I don’t want you like this.
“It’s just a dream,” Pedri whispers, closing his eyes before dropping his head onto Ferran’s shoulder. “Right?”
“Just a dream,” Ferran repeats. Suddenly, his body is weak, and he cannot hold Pedri up anymore. He gently pushes Pedri back down onto his bed. “Sleep.”
“Thank you, Ferran.”
Ferran shuts the door behind him and leans against it. He wants to leave, to be anywhere else. But Pedri asked him to stay. There’s no danger, but Ferran can’t help but imagine Pedri waking up in the middle of the night, calling for him, and not finding him. Irrational. And irrationality works in Pedri’s favor: Ferran remains rooted outside of Pedri’s door, and despite having exactly half a beer hours ago, Ferran has no recollection of crashing out on Pedri’s sofa.
When he wakes in the morning, it’s because of Pedri noisily stumbling into the kitchen.
“You stayed.”
“You asked me to.”
“Ah.”
Ferran gets up and stretches. “You’re never drinking again, by the way. This is twice I’ve had to save your ass.”
Pedri laughs, even though he’s fishing out more meds from the bottle. “What did you save me from? Myself?”
“Yeah, you freak. You were practically ready to play in traffic.”
“I don’t remember being that bad.”
Ferran’s heart stutters. “Do you not remember last night?”
“Only Fermín making out with Berta. After…” Pedri shrugs before wincing. “Ugh, I need to lie down.” He puts the bottle down before going back into his bedroom. “Where’s my phone?”
Moving mechanically, Ferran follows Pedri. “It’s on your table.”
“It’s not.”
“I put it there.” Ferran looks at the bedside table, but doesn’t find Pedri’s phone. “You must’ve moved it last night.”
“I didn’t. I slept through the night. Can you check under the bed?”
“Why can’t you?”
“I might not get back up. Or something else might come up.”
Ferra rolls his eyes, but drops to his knees. He sticks his head under and checks, only to find dust and shoe boxes. “Nothing here.”
“Oh.”
Ferran comes out from under, only to find Pedri crouched as well, mere inches away.
“What the fuck-”
“Hi.”
“What are you doing,” Ferran croaks, immediately aware of how warm the air around Pedri feels.
Pedri leans in. “This… is not a dream,” he mutters.
If aliens came down from the skies, Ferran Torres would not feel remotely compelled to tear his eyes away from his friend. A smile creeps onto Pedri’s face as realization dawns upon Ferran.
“Idiot. You remember.”
“I do.”
“I hate you.”
“I thought loving me is easy.”
“I take it back.”
“You can’t take it back!” Pedri laughs. “You can’t say something like that to me and take it-”
Ferran swiftly moves in, cutting Pedri off with a kiss, pushing him against the bedside table. He hopes it’s uncomfortable because damn Pedri for messing around. For making him worry, for thinking even for a moment that Ferran would leave him alone, ever. Thankfully, Pedri is done toying, for he kisses back just as earnestly.
“You smell terrible, by the way,” Ferran complains.
“Is that going to stop you?”
“No.” Ferran kisses him again, harder.
It’s not long before Pedri pushes back. He should’ve known. Pedri doesn’t melt, doesn’t become putty. Since when, in the years of knowing the Canarian, has Pedri ever been passive, in anything? Ferran staggers and falls backwards, unable to stop Pedri from crawling over him. They break apart for a second, only to have Pedri crash back into him. Turns out Pedri’s the pervert; his kiss is deviant, wet and exploratory, like he’s coaxing Ferran to lose control.
And if this continues any further, Ferran might.
“Okay,” Ferran gasps, hands against Pedri’s chest. “Okay, hold on. One question.”
“What?”
“Where the fuck is your phone?”