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1.
Hansi stands on the sidelines, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable while he watches the chaos unfold on the pitch. The sun is high which he’s come to experience as a normality as his days in Barcelona pass, beating down on the training ground, air humming with the steady rhythm of boots against grass, the occasional call for a pass, the sharp, impatient whistle of a ball skimming too close to a defender’s reach. Training has been going well, more or less sharp, focused, the kind of intensity he wants from them but then of course it happens.
It coming in the form of Ferran and Pedri
It had started out normal enough. Five-a-side games were always competitive, but nothing out of the ordinary. Until it became clear that neither of them was willing to let the other win.
Pedri plays like he always does smart, calculated, quick in a way that makes most midfielders tumble over themselves too lost in the rush they forget what to actually do, in a way that sneaks up on people. He sees the play three steps ahead, slots passes through the smallest spaces, moves like he’s spent his whole life weaving through gaps no one else noticed. Ferran, on the other hand, plays like he’s got a point to prove. Every sprint is sharp, every shot is an attempt at perfection, every time he loses possession, he gets this look in his eye like it’s a personal insult. They’ve been at each other’s throats since the teams were picked, biting at every loose ball, exchanging offhand comments, throwing in the kind of challenges that don’t quite cross the line but toe right up against it.
And then Pedri fouled him.
Well if it even counted as a real foul.
It was lazy, more of a joke than anything else, an exaggerated lunge forward and an arm slung around Ferran’s shoulder as he tried to sprint away with the ball. It wasn’t a proper tackle, not even a trip, just Pedri throwing his weight against him, dragging him down in a way that shouldn’t possible if you compared their statures to each other. Ferran had barely had time to react before they were both tumbling to the ground, colliding in a graceless heap of hot bodies.
Now, they’re sprawled out on the grass, chests heaving, Ferran lying half on top of Pedri, their legs tangled together in a way that makes it look like they’ve just collapsed out of sheer exhaustion.
No one even reacts at first.
Not because this is normal,this is just what they do.
Then, finally, someone groans.
“For fuck’s sake,” Lamine mutters from where he’s standing a few meters away, hands on his hips. “Get a room already.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then someone ,probably Gavi snorts too loud for someone’s who’s team is losing 2-0 if you asked Pedri .
“They’re so annoying,” Cubarsí mutters under his breath, shaking his head.
Even Robert, who usually makes a point of staying out of these things, exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s reconsidering all of his life choices that led to this moment. Pedri and Ferran, still on the ground, blink up at them in unison.
“What?” Ferran asks, brows furrowing.
Pedri squints. “What do you mean, ‘get a room’?”
Lamine gestures vaguely at them, like the answer should be obvious. “That.”
And only then do they seem to realize the position they’re in, bodies pressed together, their breathing still slightly uneven, Pedri’s arm still slung loosely around Ferran’s back, Ferran’s knee braced between Pedri’s.
They scramble apart immediately.
Pedri sits up first, brushing grass off his shorts with a scowl, while Ferran rolls onto his back for a second before groaning and pushing himself up onto his elbows.
“You literally fouled me,” Ferran points out, like this is something that needs to be clarified.
Pedri gestures at him, exasperated. “It wasn’t even a real foul.”
“You tackled me to the ground!”
“You need to improve your physicality.”
“You assaulted me, an actual crime.”
Before it can devolve into a full-on argument, Hansi claps his hands together once, sharp and impatient. “Enough. Back to the game.”
There’s no room for discussion.
Pedri mutters something under his breath but gets to his feet, and Ferran follows a moment later, brushing the last bits of dirt off his shirt. As he jogs back into position, he feels someone sidle up beside him.
Lamine, of course.
“You’re so obvious, bro you need to play it cool trust me,” Lamine says, low enough that only Ferran can hear his voice dripping with faux wisdom.
Ferran stops in his tracks, turning to face him with a frown. “What does that even mean?”
Lamine just grins, tapping the side of his head like he knows something Ferran doesn’t, before jogging away.
Ferran watches him go, then shakes his head and refocuses on the game. Whatever. It’s not like it means anything.
2.
The restaurant is dimly lit, the kind of warm, intimate glow that makes everything feel a little softer, a little more expensive. It’s one of those places where the chairs are all cushioned, where the walls are lined with sleek wood paneling and understated art, where the air carries the faintest trace of something rich garlic, butter, a whisper of truffle. It’s clear Hansi had chosen well.
They had all tried to talk him out of it. The moment he announced that he wanted to take them out for his birthday, a chorus of objections had followed. Robert, ever responsible, had immediately suggested they all pitch in instead, and Gavi had practically demanded that they let him handle the booking, even though his idea of a nice restaurant was a place that served extra large portions of steak and patatas bravas. Hansi had been unmoved. His birthday dinner his rules.
“You can get me a bottle of wine if you’re so worried,” he had said. “But this? This is happening. No excuses.”
So, here they are.
The room is private, tucked away from the main dining area, the kind of setup meant for important business meetings or, in their case, a group of professional footballers who need a little space to be themselves without the risk of cameras flashing at the worst possible moment. It’s nice but Ferran isn’t paying attention to most of it.
He’s listening, half-engaged in whatever debate is unfolding between Frenkie and Íñigo about some movie neither of them can seem to agree on, but his focus keeps drifting. Because Pedri is still standing, caught in the middle of talking to Gavi, hesitating for a fraction of a second before taking his seat. And before Ferran even thinks about it, his hand is on the back of Pedri’s chair, pulling it out in one smooth, natural motion.
It’s instinct. He doesn’t even realize he’s done it until Pedri hesitates, blinking down at the chair, then up at Ferran with the kind of look that suggests he wasn’t expecting it.
Ferran raises an eyebrow. “What?”
Pedri exhales, barely shaking his head before sliding into the seat. “Nothing. Thanks.”
It should be nothing.
But across the table, Raphinha lifts his glass to his lips and watches the entire exchange with quiet amusement.
The night passes, laughter dipping in and out of the conversation, the table shifting through topics, the occasional complaint from Gavi about how long it’s taking for the food to arrive. The moment the plates are finally set in front of them, there’s a brief pause, a universal moment of silent appreciation before the usual clatter of silverware takes over.
Ferran doesn’t even look at his own plate at first. His fork is in his hand, but his focus is still on the conversation happening to his left, half-listening to Fermin and Cubarsí discuss something about next weekend. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he catches it.
Pedri isn’t eating.
Or, at least, he’s barely eating.
Ferran glances over properly this time, watching the way Pedri nudges his food around his plate, prodding at it with his fork like he’s trying to convince himself to take another bite.
Ferran frowns. “What’s wrong with it?”
Pedri looks up, caught off guard. “What?”
“Your food,” Ferran says, tilting his chin toward Pedri’s plate. “You don’t like it?”
Pedri exhales through his nose, tapping his fork lightly against the edge of the dish. “It’s fine.”
Ferran isn’t convinced. “That’s not an answer.”
Pedri gives him a look, but after a second, he sighs, lowering his voice. “I thought it’d be lighter. It’s just… too rich.”
Ferran glances between their plates. His own dish grilled, simpler, exactly the kind of thing Pedri usually goes for is, sitting untouched in front of him. And Pedri’s? Ferran could eat anything.
So, without a second thought, he reaches for Pedri’s plate.
Pedri blinks. “What are you—”
“Swapping,” Ferran says simply, already sliding his own meal in front of Pedri before he can protest.
Pedri stares at him.
“You don’t have to”
“Just eat, Pedri.”
There’s a beat of hesitation, but eventually, Pedri picks up his fork again, testing a bite of Ferran’s food. His shoulders relax slightly, and Ferran just nods to himself, satisfied, before digging into Pedri’s abandoned dish without hesitation.
And across the table, Raphinha sees all of it.
The chair. The food. The way Ferran had leaned in a little too close, the way Pedri hadn’t even thought to argue, the way it all looked so effortless.
He doesn’t say anything.
Not yet.
3.
The locker room is already alive with the quiet, sluggish energy of a morning training session, bags unzipping, boots being pulled on with tired movements, the soft rustling of fabric as jerseys are adjusted. The scent of clean sweat, faint cologne, familiar, almost comforting in its routine.
Some of the team are awake and alert, already lacing up their boots with practiced efficiency, while others are still moving through the motions like they’d rather be anywhere else. Frenkie is leaning against his locker, arms crossed, yawning into his shoulder as he listens to whatever Íñigo is saying. Gavi is sitting on the bench with his head tilted back, eyes shut, looking like he might just give up and fall asleep right there. Balde and Lamine are huddled over a phone screen, snickering at something neither of them is planning to explain.
In the middle of it all, Hansi stands near the entrance, clipboard in hand, his presence alone enough to keep things from slipping into full-on chaos. His expression is calm but expectant, the kind of look that says he has no intention of waiting around forever. He clears his throat, shifting the weight of the clipboard in his hands, then starts the roll call.
“Ale.”
“Here.”
“Inigo.”
“Yeah.”
“Héctor.”
A lazy “Obviously.”
It goes on like that, each name met with the usual responses, some immediate, some slow, some mumbled through yawns. The team is accounted for, one by one, until it becomes painfully obvious that two names haven’t been called yet.
Hansi sighs, barely looking up from the clipboard. “Where are Pedri and Ferran?”
The room is quiet for half a second, then Lamine, without missing a beat, says, “Probably together.”
There’s no accusation in it, no dramatic suggestion just fact. Because of course they are.
No one has time to respond before the door swings open, and the two of them stumble in.
Ferran is slightly ahead, running a hand through his hair, while Pedri is still adjusting his jacket, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he’s barely put any effort into looking presentable. They’re both a little out of breath, their faces slightly flushed from whatever rush they had been in, but Ferran’s expression is relaxed, unbothered, while Pedri’s gaze flickers across the room, immediately clocking the fact that everyone is staring at them.
“Are we late?” Ferran asks, his tone too casual, considering the fact that they very obviously are.
No one answers at first.
It’s not just the timing, not just the slightly breathless way they walked in like they had sprinted the last few meters to get here. It’s the clothes.
Because Pedri is very clearly wearing Ferran’s.
The training shirt is just a little too loose around his frame, hanging off his shoulders in a way that makes it obvious it isn’t his. The shorts, Ferran’s, too, are cinched at the waist, like he had to tighten the drawstrings to keep them from slipping. It’s not immediately ridiculous, not something that would stand out too much if it were just one item, but the fact that it’s all mismatched, all clearly not his, makes it impossible to ignore.
There’s a beat of silence. Then—
“What’s this,” Raphinha says, flatly.
Pedri pauses mid-step, blinking at him, then at the rest of the room like he doesn’t understand why they’re all looking at him like that.
Ferran doesn’t even register it at first just drops onto the bench beside Cubarsí, stretching his legs out like he hasn’t just walked into a full interrogation scene.
Gavi squints, leaning forward slightly, his gaze darting between them. “Are you—?” He gestures vaguely at Pedri. “Is that—?”
Pedri follows his gaze, glances down at himself, then back up. “Oh.” His expression doesn’t change. “Yeah.” He shrugs. “I slept over at Ferran’s.”
Silence.
A silence that feels far too heavy for such a simple sentence.
Héctor tilts his head slightly, brows furrowing. “I never sleep over at Cubarsí’s place.”
Cubarsí, mildly offended, turns to him. “Do you want to?”
“That’s not the point,” Héctor mutters, shaking his head. He waves a hand vaguely in their direction, like he’s trying to get the words right. “The point is that’s not normal.”
Pedri frowns. “What do you mean? I sleep at his house all the time.”
There’s a soft, disbelieving noise from Gavi throat. “You what?”
Pedri sighs, exasperated, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “It’s not weird.”
“It’s so weird,” Lamine says immediately.
Ferran finally looks up, blinking at all of them. “Why is this a big deal?”
Raphinha snorts, rubbing a hand over his face. “Brother, look at him.”
Ferran does look, gaze flicking over Pedri properly, like he’s only now realizing that this does look a little suspicious, that they did, in fact, show up together, slightly out of breath, both late, and that Pedri is unmistakably dressed in his clothes.
There’s a pause.
Then Pedri, completely dismissive, waves a hand and says, “Nooooo.”
The entire room erupts
Gavi groans, tilting his head back in what looks like actual pain, while Lamine throws his hands up in exasperation. Frenkie mutters something under his breath in Dutch, shaking his head as if he’s decided he doesn’t even want to know anymore. Across the room, Raphinha laughs, not even bothering to hide his amusement, while Balde, ever the instigator, leans forward with his elbows on his knees, grinning like he’s just been given the most entertaining mystery of the week.
Pedri, for his part, does not look like someone caught in a scandal.
If anything, he looks vaguely irritated, like he doesn’t understand why this has become a thing. He exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, then lifts his head to look at them all properly. “You guys are being dramatic.”
“We are not being dramatic,” Lamine protests, pointing directly at him. “You showed up in his clothes. His entire outfit.”
“So?” Pedri shrugs, still completely unfazed. “I didn’t pack any of mine.”
Another wave of groaning ripples through the locker room, like that somehow makes it worse.
Héctor throws his hands up. “Who just doesn’t pack extra clothes? Were you planning on staying the night?”
Pedri blinks at him, then frowns like he’s trying to figure out why this is such a big deal. “No, but I always sleep over, so—”
“Always?” Gavi repeats, eyes widening.
Pedri shrugs again. “Yeah.”
Silence.
Pedri’s reaction is even more extreme. He lets out something between a laugh and a scoff, expression a mixture of disbelief and absolute dismissal. “Nooooo,” he says, stretching the word out, shaking his head so fast his hair flops into his eyes. “No, no, no, no, no.”
Cubarsí snickers under his breath. “That’s a lot of denial for one sentence.”
“I’m not in denial,” Pedri shoots back, scowling at him.
“You kinda are,” Balde mutters.
“I’m not.”
“You so are.”
There’s a pause.
Then, just to be annoying, he adds, “Are.”
Pedri groans, Ferran sighs, and Gavi, who looks entirely exhausted by this conversation, leans back against his locker with a loud thunk. “Can we please just get dressed?”
Pedri, eager to move on, mutters a quiet finally under his breath and yanks his training top over his head, like that’s the end of it.
4.
The morning is a cruel, unrelenting thing if you asked ferran who prided himself in flourishing at night.
It rolls in with the kind of cold that bites through layers, settling deep in the bones, a lingering chill that no amount of warm-ups or stretching can quite shake. The sky is still dark when they arrive at the airport, an expanse of deep navy stretching overhead, the city’s glow fading behind them as they move through the motions of travel. There’s an eerie kind of quiet to the world at this hour, the terminal humming with half-hearted conversation, voices low and heavy with sleep.
Pedri barely makes it onto the bus before his exhaustion catches up with him.
It’s visible in the slow drag of his steps, the way he moves as though swimming through something thick and weighty. His hoodie is pulled up over his head, the strings drawn so tightly that only a sliver of his face is visible beneath the fabric. His bag slips from one shoulder to the other, clumsy, barely held on by muscle memory alone.
The others aren’t faring much better. Balde is slumped against the window two rows ahead, arms crossed, mouth slightly open. Marc is seated just across from them, head tilted back against the headrest, one hand still loosely wrapped around his phone, the other gripping a protein bar he’s already forgotten about. Even Gavi, who usually treats travel days like an opportunity to bother everyone in his immediate vicinity, is uncharacteristically quiet, his forehead pressed against the cool glass as he stares out at the empty stretch of road ahead.
Ferran barely notices any of it. He’s already settled in, headphones half-on, scrolling mindlessly through his phone as the bus lurches forward, the vibrations rumbling beneath his seat. His backpack is wedged between his feet, legs stretched out just enough to be comfortable but not enough to risk the wrath of Inigo, who has very strong opinions about unnecessary personal space violations.
He’s just reaching for his water bottle when something warm and heavy collapses against him.
For a second, Ferran’s brain doesn’t fully register what’s happening. There’s a dull thud, a shift in weight, the faint scent of laundry detergent and something inherently Pedri pressing into his space. And then—
Pedri exhales, slow and even, and Ferran realizes that Pedri has somehow completely, unapologetically climbed into his lap.
Not just leaned against him, not just rested his head on Ferran’s shoulder like he sometimes does after a long training session. No, Pedri, in his sleep-deprived, barely-conscious state, has fully slotted himself against Ferran, legs tucked awkwardly to the side, arms loosely draped in a way that suggests muscle memory more than any actual thought. His face presses against the curve of Ferran’s shoulder, breaths coming in steady, warm puffs against the fabric of his hoodie.
Ferran blinks.
He should wake him up. He should shift, or shake him lightly, or do something to make it clear that this whatever this is probably isn’t the best position for either of them. But Pedri’s already breathing deeply, his body lax with sleep, and disturbing him now feels like something close to a crime.
So instead, Ferran sighs, adjusts his seat slightly, and makes the smallest effort to make Pedri more comfortable. One hand shifts against the curve of Pedri’s back, an absentminded movement, barely a touch. He settles his weight properly, making sure Pedri isn’t awkwardly pressed into anything, and then he resigns himself to the situation.
The bus hums along the road. No one says anything.
It’s early. Too early. He’ll deal with it later.
Later arrives in the form of absolute chaos.
By the time they land, Ferran’s phone is a mess of notifications. It’s been buzzing since they stepped off the plane, the vibrations so frequent that it feels like it’s overheating against his thigh. He doesn’t check it at first, too preoccupied with stretching out the stiffness from the flight, but then Gavi appears at his side, eyes wide with something close to manic glee.
“Ferran,” he says, voice pitched just enough to set off alarm bells. “What the hell is this?”
He shoves his phone in Ferran’s face, and Ferran doesn’t even need to read the caption to know exactly what he’s looking at.
It’s a picture blurry, grainy, the kind taken in haste but damning all the same.
Pedri, asleep in his lap.
Ferran, hand resting against his back, gaze flickering down in something that could easily be mistaken for fondness.
The bus seat cradles them both, a quiet, still moment frozen in time.
The account that posted it isn’t an official one, but that doesn’t matter. The damage is already done.
The group chat is a disaster.
Lamine: ???????
Fermin: oh my god
Balde: is this why pedri ignored me when I tried to sit next to him?
Ferran groans, dragging a hand down his face.
Pedri, who has been blissfully unaware of the digital warzone unfolding, leans over his shoulder, blinking at the screen. “What’s going on?”
Ferran turns the phone so he can see.
Pedri stares at the picture for a full five seconds before he exhales, slow and unimpressed. “…Seriously?”
Ferran gestures vaguely at the chaos in the chat. Pedri hums, scrolling through the messages. His face is completely neutral, unreadable, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Which, for Pedri, maybe it is.
He taps out a single response.
Pedri: i was tired
And then, as if that’s the final word on the matter, he pockets his phone and walks away.
Ferran watches him go.
His own phone buzzes again.
Gavi: THAT’S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY??????
Lamine: bro what do you mean omg????
Fermin: I’m tired too
Ferran sighs.
This is going to be a long, long day.
5.
The key is missing.
Pedri knows this with absolute certainty, the way he knows a pass is off before it even reaches its intended target, the way he knows when a goal is inevitable before the ball has even left the ground. It is a fact, undeniable and absolute, and it is rapidly sending him into a full-blown spiral.
His pockets have been turned inside out twice. His bag has been emptied onto the nearest bench, its contents—headphones, wallet, a loose protein bar that has somehow been in there for three weeks—strewn haphazardly in his frantic search. He’s checked the locker room twice, retraced his steps all the way back to the physio room, and even attempted, in a final act of desperation, to manifest the key into existence by standing in the middle of the hallway and staring at the floor with enough intensity to burn a hole through it.
Nothing.
This is a disaster.
He presses the heel of his palm against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut, mentally running through his options. Call the building manager? No, too much hassle. Go back to the training pitch to see if it fell out there? It’s a possibility, but he really doesn’t want to admit defeat and make that walk of shame.
Across the hallway, the rest of the team is watching him with varying levels of amusement and concern.
Balde, arms crossed, stares at him like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week. Frenkie, ever the voice of reason, is already pulling out his phone, probably ready to call someone to let Pedri crash at their place if necessary. Gavi, on the other hand, looks one second away from demanding an immediate search-and-rescue operation, pacing slightly like he’s waiting for the go-ahead to tear through the facility.
Pedri groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “I swear I had them when I got here.”
“Maybe you left them in your locker?” Robert suggests, not unkindly.
Pedri shakes his head. “I checked.”
“Physio room?” Fermin offers.
“Tore it apart.”
“Could someone have taken them?” Lamine asks, brows furrowing.
Pedri exhales sharply. “Who the hell would steal my keys?”
The group falls into a contemplative silence. Pedri can feel his own frustration mounting, the exhaustion of the day catching up to him, the prospect of being locked out of his own apartment looming like an inevitable fate.
And then—
“Oh,” Ferran says, suddenly.
It’s so casual, so utterly unbothered, that Pedri almost doesn’t register it at first.
The others turn toward him, watching as he reaches into his pocket, rummages for half a second, and then—
He pulls out a key.
Pedri blinks.
Ferran holds it up between two fingers, the way someone might present a winning poker hand, and then—before Pedri can even form a proper reaction—he tosses it to him.
Pedri catches it on instinct, fingers wrapping around the cool metal, pulse still in the middle of catching up to whatever the hell just happened. “Wait—” He turns the key over in his palm, recognizing it immediately. His key. Or, well, a copy of his key.
His gaze snaps up. “Why do you have this?”
Ferran raises an eyebrow, expression neutral, the very picture of someone who does not understand why this is a question at all. “Because you always lose your keys.”
A silence settles over the group.
And then, somewhere in the depths of the hallway, someone sighs.
Audibly.
Pedri doesn’t even know who it is. It could be any of them, really. Lamine, bless his heart, is the first to recover. “So… Ferran just has a spare key to your apartment? Just like that?”
Pedri, still processing, runs a hand down his face. “Apparently.”
“Since when?” Fermin asks, tilting his head.
Ferran shrugs, unbothered. “A while.”
“A while?? What does that mean?”
“How many times has he lost his keys?”
“Why do you even have a spare?”
“Why do you even NEED a spare??”
Ferran, in contrast to the absolute breakdown occurring around him, looks completely at ease. “Because,” he says simply, “he always loses them.”
He says it like it’s the most logical thing in the world.
Pedri, still holding the key, still half-caught between gratitude and absolute bafflement, stares at him. “You just—decided to keep a copy?”
Ferran shrugs again. “Seemed like a good idea.”
Gavi, who has been frozen in the same position since the revelation, finally speaks. “And Pedri just… lets you have one?”
Pedri frowns. “I didn’t even—” He stops, considers. “Wait. Did I ever actually give you a copy?”
Ferran hums, like he’s genuinely trying to remember. “Not… directly.”
Pedri’s jaw ticks. “What does that mean?”
Ferran looks vaguely thoughtful. “You left it in my car once. I figured it was better if I just kept it for emergencies.”
More silence.
Pedri opens his mouth. Closes it. Presses a hand against his temple like he can physically will away the headache forming. “This is insane.”
“Insanely practical I mean now we’re all going home on time thanks to me” Ferran corrects.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that Pedri is grateful. He is relieved. Because, really, who else would think ahead like that? Who else would anticipate his own incompetence and come prepared? Who else would do it so casually, without even making a big deal out of it, without expecting anything in return?
Pedri exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re unbelievable .”
Ferran just grins. “You’re welcome”
+1
The apartment feels different.
Not in any tangible way, not in the way that would make someone pause and say, something has changed here. But in the quiet, in the way the air hums softer between them, in the way shadows stretch longer against the walls—it’s different.
Pedri and Ferran have had sleepovers a hundred times before. Maybe more. It’s a thing that’s settled into the fabric of their friendship, a habit neither of them really questions. Sometimes it’s after long nights when Pedri is too tired to drive home and Ferran’s couch is closer than his own bed. Sometimes it’s after games when exhaustion settles deep in their bones, and the weight of moving seems like too much effort. And sometimes—sometimes it’s just because they feel like it.
Tonight, it had been an afterthought. A casual, barely-discussed plan that fell into place without either of them having to suggest it outright. They had eaten a poorly made dinner that was too salty and didn’t have enough ginge, watched something on TV without really paying attention, and at some point, ended up sprawled out across Ferran’s bed without acknowledging that they had abandoned the couch entirely.
It’s not unusual. It’s normal.
So why does it feel like something is pressing against the edges of that normalcy, shifting it just slightly out of place?
Ferran wakes up before Pedri.
This, in itself, is not strange. Pedri sleeps like someone who has never once feared an alarm clock in his life. He sleeps deeply, thoroughly, as if time itself bends around his rest. Ferran has grown used to this—has grown used to the slow, steady rhythm of Pedri’s breathing beside him, the way he curls into whatever warmth is closest without hesitation.
But this time, something feels different.
Pedri is close. Too close.
Not just in the way he usually is, not just in the way he leans into people without thinking, the way he drapes himself over teammates absentmindedly, thoughtlessly affectionate. No, this is different. This is something smaller, something softer, something unconscious.
Pedri is curled into his side, one hand resting against Ferran’s ribs, his face half-buried against the fabric of Ferran’s hoodie. His breathing is even, the kind that only comes with the deepest kind of sleep, and his fingers twitch slightly where they rest, like even in his dreams, he is reaching for something solid, something certain.
Ferran’s throat goes a little dry.
He should move. He could move. It would be easy to shift away, to put some space between them, to pretend this moment isn’t happening.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he stays still.
Watches.
Feels the way Pedri’s weight settles against him, how his own heartbeat seems to pick up just slightly in response.
And then just barely, just enough for Ferran to notice Pedri moves.
Not away, but closer.
His fingers tighten slightly, his body shifting as though seeking warmth, familiarity, something known. Ferran barely breathes.
It’s nothing.
It’s probably nothing.
But it doesn’t feel like anything.
A thought presses at the edges of his mind, something unspoken, something that lingers in the air between them. He exhales quietly, carefully, like he’s afraid to break the moment entirely.
The room is dim, the glow of the city filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the ceiling. Pedri shifts again, his forehead bumping against Ferran’s shoulder, and Ferran, without thinking, without meaning to—lets his hand settle against Pedri’s back.
It’s warm.
Comfortable.
Easy.
Too easy.
His voice is quiet when he finally speaks, half-afraid to break the stillness. “…You know how everyone thinks we’re dating?”
Pedri hums. A lazy, barely-conscious sound, somewhere between acknowledgment and dismissal.
Ferran waits.
Pedri, still mostly asleep, mumbles, “Yeah.”
Ferran swallows. “What do you think about it?”
There’s a pause. A beat of silence that stretches out between them, thick and weighty.
And then Pedri, drowsy and unconcerned, says, “I don’t think about it.”
Ferran exhales a small laugh. “Do you?” Pedri asks.
Ferran hesitates. His hand, still resting against Pedri’s back, twitches slightly.
He could lie. It would be easy. It would be the simplest thing in the world to shrug this off, to let the moment pass unexamined.
But he doesn’t.
“…Sometimes,” he admits.
Pedri doesn’t move. Doesn’t tense or pull away, doesn’t react in any way that Ferran is expecting. He just stays there, breathing slow and even, and asks, “And what do you think?”
Ferran exhales, his fingers pressing slightly into the fabric of Pedri’s shirt.
“I think,” he says, voice quieter now, softer in the dim light, “you’re pretty.”
His breath feels heavier.
“And nice.”
He doesn’t know what he’s expecting.
But Pedri is still quiet, still tucked against him, still close enough that Ferran can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest.
The silence stretches, presses against the edges of something unspoken.
And then—
Pedri shifts, turning his head just slightly, just enough for his words to brush against Ferran’s collarbone.
“I think you’re kinda ugly,” he mumbles.
A pause.
Then—
“…But cute.”
Ferran blinks.
Pedri doesn’t reiterate.
He’s already half-asleep again.
And Ferran should probably let this go. Should probably stop thinking about it, should let it be what it is, a passing conversation in the haze of sleep, something that will be forgotten by morning.
But he doesn’t.
Because suddenly, the warmth of Pedri against him feels a little heavier. The space between them feels a little smaller. The air feels a little thicker, like the weight of their words hasn’t quite settled yet.
Ferran closes his eyes.
He should sleep.
He knows this. He feels it in the weight behind his eyes, in the slow, steady pull of exhaustion dragging at the edges of his consciousness. But sleep is impossible when his mind is still stuck on Pedri’s words, looping them over and over like an echo bouncing off the walls.
“I think you’re kinda ugly.”
“But cute.”
Ferran exhales softly, shaking his head. Ridiculous. Pedri is ridiculous.
But then Pedri shifts again, nuzzling deeper into Ferran’s side, pressing close like it’s instinct, and well.
Maybe Ferran is ridiculous too.
Pedri sighs.
It’s soft, barely more than a whisper, but Ferran feels it more than he hears it. He frowns, glancing down at him. “What?”
Pedri doesn’t answer at first. He shifts again, curling in on himself slightly, his fingers tightening where they rest against Ferran’s hoodie. And then, barely above a murmur—
“…Cold.”
Ferran hesitates. Just for a second.
Then, without thinking, without even really making the choice, he pulls Pedri in just a little closer.
It’s instinct, really. Muscle memory. The way his hand settles against Pedri’s back, the way his thumb brushes absentmindedly along the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t let himself.
Pedri, still half-asleep, makes a quiet, satisfied sound and relaxes against him.
Ferran’s heart does something complicated in his chest.
He exhales, slow and careful, like if he breathes too hard, he’ll shake loose something neither of them are ready to name.
And then—
“I’ll date you, you know.”
The words are so casual, so effortless, that Ferran almost doesn’t process them at first.
His brain short-circuits halfway through the sentence, latches onto date before anything else, and by the time he’s caught up, Pedri is already settling further against him, like he hasn’t just sent Ferran’s entire system into complete disarray.
Ferran opens his mouth. Closes it. Swallows hard.
He’s careful when he speaks, voice low, steady. “…Yeah?”
Pedri hums. “Mhm.”
Ferran licks his lips. “Just like that?”
Pedri shifts, tilting his head slightly, eyes still mostly closed. “Yeah.” A pause. A slow, almost lazy blink, like he’s just remembering something. “…Unless you don’t want to.”
Ferran breathes out a quiet laugh, something light, something that feels a little like relief.
“I want to,” he mutters.
Pedri doesn’t argue.
Just smiles, barely there, already half-lost to sleep again.
Ferran lets the silence settle. Lets the moment breathe.
And then just because he can, just because he wants to he tightens his hold slightly, pressing his chin against the top of Pedri’s head.