Archive of Our Own ^beta

Just like most days in Barcelona the sun is unrelenting beating down on their skin and bones like a ritual that never fails. It is an intense feeling of heat not sharp but weighty, pressed flat against every surface like an invisible hand, pinning them all down. The grass is dry in some places, uneven and yellowing in others, soft under the soles of their boots where the sprinklers missed their mark. The day is still, with no breeze to cut through the weight of it, no clouds to dull the edges of the sun’s light.

Lamine pulls at the collar of his training shirt where it clings to the back of his neck, already damp. He feels the slow trickle of sweat gather just behind his ear, sliding down the curve of his jaw before he wipes it away with the heel of his palm. They’ve been out here for over an hour, maybe closer to two. Long enough for the sting of morning stiffness to wear off, but not long enough for the real fatigue to settle in. Not for most of them.

Around him, the rest of the squad move with familiar ease. Robert cuts through the drill with his usual fluidity, shoulders squared, form clean. Gavi’s voice carries across the field sharp, laughing something half-joking, half-competitive. Even Cubarsi who is usually besides him complaining about a knot in his shoulder has found his footing today, steady in his turns, quicker on the pass. There’s movement, coordination, the clean thud of boot meeting ball echoing again and again in the air.

And then there’s Pedri.

Lamine has always had a good sense for the tone of a space despite how he knows others perceive him. He notices small things too many, probably. A few extra beats of silence where someone should have spoken, the soft shift in body language when someone’s focus drifts. He doesn’t say much about it usually, doesn’t act like he’s watching. People expect him to be loud, careless, a little too young to see what’s happening just beneath the surface. And most of the time, he lets them think that because why attract more attention where its not worthwhile.

But today, something isn’t sitting right. Something in the usual rhythm.

Pedri’s always been smooth in motion, not showy but sure, precise. Even when he’s tired, there’s a steadiness to him, a certain kind of grace tucked into the way he pivots his foot, or how he shields the ball with his body. Today, though Lamine watches as he falters just slightly while moving into position. Not enough for anyone to call out, not even enough for the Flick to react. But Lamine sees it. The brief pause between steps. The split second delay before the pass. And then again when he shifts his weight to follow through, he moves a fraction too slow. His foot drags slightly, like he’s stuck in a patch of honey.

Lamine doesn’t say anything. He turns away as if he didn’t notice. But the next time the drill resets, he makes sure to end up beside him. Not obviously. Just close enough to fall into step.

Pedri’s hair sticks to his forehead in uneven clumps. His cheeks are pink, flushed high and hot, the kind of heat that doesn’t fade between sets. He isn’t out of breath exactly, but there’s a sluggishness to the way he breathes, the way his shoulders rise and fall like everything’s just a bit too much effort.

“Ready?” someone calls, maybe Balde, already jogging back to his spot. Pedri doesn’t answer. He gives a small nod, barely perceptible, and swipes his forearm across his brow like he’s trying to wake himself up.

Lamine watches him from the corner of his eye.

He stays beside him as they start again. The ball is moving fast, passed between them in sharp touches. Lamine’s footwork is practiced, second nature he doesn’t need to think about it. But part of his attention stays tethered to Pedri’s side.

There it is again his timing , just half a beat off. His eyes are on the ball, but his body is late to follow. When he runs, his posture is slightly curled inward, like he’s trying to hold something in. The sun beats down harder now, unforgiving, and the field is alive with noise shouted instructions, boots skimming across turf, the distant thump of music someone left playing from the gym speakers. Everything is moving, loud, fast.

Except Pedri.

Lamine lets out a loud, exaggerated groan as the drill resets again. He throws his hands up, lets his limbs go loose, and collapses backward onto the grass like it’s all too much. The sun stings his eyelids when he shuts them, warm and drowsy. He hears a couple of the others laugh.

“Lamine’s dead,” Raphinha calls.

Lamine doesn’t answer. He opens one eye and sees Pedri hovering a few feet away, his posture stiff, uncertain.

“Bro,” Lamine says, voice half muffled against the ground, “just lie down. They’re gonna run us into the ground anyway. Might as well die comfortably under the sun.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He reaches up, hooks two fingers in the hem of Pedri’s shirt, and gives a lazy tug. Pedri hesitates but only for a moment.

Then he lets himself sink down, knees folding awkwardly before he shifts sideways and settles into the grass beside him. His legs stretch out straight, unmoving. His eyes are closed now, brows drawn faintly together. He doesn’t say anything. Lamine turns his head toward him slowly.

From this close, it’s easier to see the red flush that climbs too high across his cheekbones, the slight part in his lips as he breathes, the way sweat beads at his temples and doesn’t disappear. His shirt clings to his back, soaked through at the shoulders, and even the fabric looks wrong stiff with heat, heavy instead of damp.

Lamine doesn’t think. He just moves.

His hand finds Pedri’s cheek, fingers brushing the flushed skin, slow and careful like he’s not sure if Pedri will flinch. But he doesn’t. His skin is hot. Not warm like after a run. Not warm like effort. Hot like something deeper. Like something that doesn’t belong.The heat pulses against his palm, steady and wrong.

Lamine doesn’t pull away immediately. His thumb twitches slightly. He presses a little closer, just to be sure. Pedri doesn’t open his eyes, but Lamine feels the shift in his breathing slight, barely there. He pulls his hand back, lets it fall into the grass beside him. He doesn’t say a word. There’s a shout across the field. Flick, barking orders. Time to move.

Lamine groans again, louder this time, drawing another laugh from one of the others as he drags himself upright. He makes a show of brushing grass off his elbows, staggering like his knees barely work. No one pays him any mind they’re too busy filing back into position, focused, the heat barely touching them in the way it’s buried itself under Pedri’s skin.

He turns slightly, glancing back. Pedri is still on the ground for a second too long before he pushes himself up slowly, legs stiff. His eyes are glassy under the sunlight. When he walks, he doesn’t quite straighten his spine.

Lamine slows his pace.

He stays behind with him until they’re both back in line.

If Flick yells at him again for slacking, for drifting too far out of formation, for being too casual he doesn’t mind. Let him shout. Let him assign the laps.

Lamine can run them.

If it means Pedri doesn’t have to, then that’s fine by him.

The changing room bursts into life the second the players file in, the noise rising like steam from a kettle left on too long. It starts with the familiar scrape of boots against tile, the slap of palms on backs, laughter pulled straight from the lungs and flung across the open space like it belongs there. Someone calls dibs on the leftmost shower, already halfway through pulling their shirt over their head.

Pedri doesn’t move with them.

He watches without really watching as Balde and Cubarsi sprint to the showers, skidding just slightly around the corner like they always do, their towels slung over one shoulder, still arguing about something neither of them is truly angry about. The slap of their feet on the tile echoes louder than necessary, a little sharp in his ears. It rings in a way that makes his temples throb.

He could go. He knows the rhythm of this place, knows the little rituals of post-training like the back of his hand. The timing of who gets which shower, who always forgets their flip flops, who takes the longest and who sings under the water without realising how off key they are. He knows all of it, but today he can’t find it in himself to follow.

His limbs feel wrong, wrong in the way a weight feels when it’s not yours, when it settles across your shoulders too slowly to notice at first. His shirt clings to the sweat on his back, damp and heavy, and the air in the changing room feels thick with the kind of warmth that seeps into skin and won’t leave.

Pedri sits down and settles in the corner beside his locker, one knee drawn in, his palm pressed against the tile to brace himself as he lowers down slowly, careful not to let his body tip too far in any direction. The cold of the floor seeps through his shorts. It doesn’t help. Not enough. He leans forward, lifting the hem of his shirt up his back, bunching it up beneath his arms before pressing his spine against the cool metal of the locker behind him.

The cold is a relief and he lets out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding.

It bites at his skin at first, sharp and stinging, like ice tucked between shoulder blades. Then it dulls. Not soothing exactly, but different. A different kind of discomfort. One he prefers. One that doesn’t throb the way his head does now. He presses closer, letting the metal take more of his weight, letting it draw the heat from his skin slowly, not fast enough to matter but enough to make him stay there.

Around him, the noise continues.

Someone’s asking who took their shampoo. There’s a burst of laughter near the sinks, something about last week’s match and a terrible first touch. The showers hiss, one after another, steam curling from the tiled corridor in waves. The smell of body wash mixes with sweat, with heat, with the faint chemical sting of old disinfectant clinging to the grout.

Pedri doesn’t follow the conversation. The words blur together, too fast, too high. They rise and fall like tides, never reaching him properly. He hears voices, knows them, could name each one if asked, but they swim through the fog in his mind like they’re underwater. He shifts slightly, the metal behind him digging into his back. The pinch of it keeps him still. His arms rest over his knees now, forehead nearly touching the folded fabric of his sleeves. His breath comes shallow, measured by necessity more than calm. There’s a pressure behind his eyes that’s growing. A slow, dense ache nestled right between his brows, pressing inward like something trying to claw its way out. It pulses with each heartbeat, soft at first, then sharper. His eyelids flutter once, not quite closed but heavy, and the fluorescent lights above him buzz faintly, too bright against the haze settling over his vision.

His limbs feel heavier now. Not just tired. Not just sore. He shifts again and feels the weight in his thighs resist him. His arms don’t move as easily as they should. It’s not unbearable, not enough to force him to lie down, not enough to draw attention, but enough that he knows something isn’t right. His fingers press into the tile beside him, grounding him again, and he feels the faint tremble in them when he does.

He doesn’t think anyone’s looking. The others are too busy in their own routines. They’re loud and bright and full of post-training energy, alive in a way he doesn’t feel capable of mimicking. And he’s glad for that. Because the idea of trying to explain the lead in his limbs or the fog behind his eyes makes his stomach twist in quiet protest.

He doesn’t want to be asked if he’s alright. He doesn’t want to be told to rest. He wants the buzzing in his ears to stop. He wants to take the weight off his chest and press it into the floor until it flattens. He wants to feel normal. A soft sway tips him slightly sideways, not enough to fall but enough to feel his balance shift. He closes his eyes for a moment, lets it pass, then opens them again. The room feels too bright, too loud, too fast.

And then there it is a voice, clearer than the rest. Familiar. Warm in a way that cuts through the haze.

“Pedri.”

Ferran. Still cheerful. Still bright. Pedri blinks, his head lifting slowly. And suddenly, the noise is back.Ferran drops down beside him with all the ease and thoughtlessness of someone who still has energy to burn. His towel is looped lazily around his shoulders, his knee bumping lightly against Pedri’s without ceremony. The scent of whatever too-citrusy body wash he favours today clings to him faintly, fresh and sharp, a jarring contrast to the heat-damp haze that Pedri is barely holding himself together inside.

He doesn’t speak right away. He lets the moment settle, lets his back hit the lockers with a solid metallic thunk, stretching his legs out like he owns the space. There’s a beat, and then he launches into a story, his voice bright, tinged with amusement.

“Did you hear what Íñigo said during warmups?” Ferran grins, shaking his head like he can’t believe it himself. Ferran laughs at his own retelling, the kind of laugh that wrinkles the corners of his eyes and spills out like it can’t be helped. He glances to the side, expecting a reaction, some low snort of appreciation at least, but Pedri only offers a soft, vague hum. Not even a real one. More of a breath pushed out with barely enough intention to count as a response.

Undeterred, Ferran keeps going.

“And then, to make it worse, Ale joined in, right...”

Another laugh. Another pause. Still, nothing from Pedri. Just a slow blink, the barest dip of his head, like he’s trying to signal he’s listening even though it’s clear he’s not really here with him. Ferran’s smile falters just a fraction. His voice gentles without him quite meaning to.

“You’re really quiet, huh.” He says it lightly, not as a question, still trying to give Pedri the space he clearly wants. “Tired, or just bored of me?”

Another non-answer. A small, muffled sound from Pedri’s throat. Almost a sigh.

Ferran turns fully now, angling his body toward him, his gaze finally falling into focus. It only takes a second to notice what he hadn’t let himself see earlier. The pale cast of Pedri’s skin, the absence of colour in his cheeks where there’s usually the afterglow of effort, of heat, of movement. His face is damp with sweat, but not in the way that speaks of a job well done. There’s a sheen to it that clings to persistently, too coldly. Not the flushed, loose look of post training exertion but something thinner, something sicklier. And then his eyes half-lidded, unfocused. Struggling to stay present. Ferran’s smile disappears entirely.

He knows better. He does. He’s had enough time, enough seasons, enough conversations with Pedri to understand what not to do when something’s off. He’s learned the hard way that Pedri doesn’t like being asked. That he hates being hovered over. That concern, no matter how softly it’s offered, tends to make him pull back faster than anything else. Ferran’s told himself over and over again that the best thing to do is wait. To let him come forward first. To let the silence hold him until he’s ready.

But right now? Right now that patience feels hollow in his chest.He shifts slightly, one leg folding underneath the other, his voice lowering, his gaze sharper now, fixed. “Cariño,” he says softly, almost without thinking, the word slipping from him like it belongs here, like it always has. “Estás bien?”

The reaction is immediate. Not verbal, not even obvious. But Ferran sees it. He sees the flicker of resistance flash across Pedri’s face like the last flare of a match before it burns out. The slight lift of his chin, the straightening of his spine despite the way his body clearly doesn’t want to cooperate. It’s instinct, more than choice. That quiet, stubborn line Pedri draws around himself whenever he feels something he doesn’t want anyone else to notice.

Ferran recognises it. He’s seen it in training, in press rooms, on the pitch. That particular posture of defiance, the subtle tilt of Pedri’s shoulders like he’s bracing for impact and refusing to show it hurts.

It’s familiar, and it makes Ferran’s stomach twist, because the Pedri sitting beside him now looks nothing like the one he’s used to seeing in those moments. There’s no fire in his eyes, no spark beneath the silence. Just a dull haze, a body that looks like it’s trying to hold together something already slipping apart.

Still, Pedri doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t answer right away. But Ferran can see the way his jaw tightens. The way his lips part slightly, only to press shut again. He’s reaching for the excuse. Ferran can feel it before it comes. The lie is already forming. The familiar rhythm of dismissal. He can hear it before Pedri even says it. Ferran watches him carefully, waiting. He sees the moment Pedri’s eyes flick toward him, slow and unfocused, like it takes effort to even shift his gaze. There’s a beat of silence between them, stretched thin by the tension that now coils like wire between Ferran’s ribs. Pedri blinks once, then again, as if trying to reset himself.

“I’m fine,” he says at last, voice quiet but steady. Too steady. Flattened into something rehearsed.

Ferran’s brow furrows, not out of surprise but out of something colder. Something that tastes more like frustration than concern now. He hasn't said anything yet. Just let the silence sit between them for a second longer than is comfortable.

“Why?” Pedri adds, because Ferran hasn’t stopped looking at him. “I said I’m fine. What?”

Ferran exhales sharply through his nose, jaw working as if the breath doesn’t come easy.

“You really aren’t,” he says.

Pedri lets out a soft, almost breathless sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so dismissive. “Ferran.”

“No,” Ferran cuts in, his voice still quiet but firmer now, lower, weighted with the kind of pressure that only builds when it’s been held back for too long. “Don’t do that.”

Pedri shifts away from the locker, only slightly, just enough to sit a little straighter, to give the illusion of more strength than he has. “Do what?”

“You know what,” Ferran replies. “You’re sweating like you’ve run ten laps too many and you’re pale as hell. You haven’t said three proper words in twenty minutes. You can barely sit up. And now you’re lying to me about it.”

“I’m not lying,” Pedri says, sharper now. His hands move automatically, reaching for the towel slung over his bag. “I said I’m fine. That’s not a lie.”

“You’re not fine,” Ferran says again, the words losing their softness, like he’s said them too many times already. “Jesus, Pedri. Look at yourself.”

“I am looking at myself,” Pedri snaps. “You’re the one who needs to stop.”

Ferran blinks, caught slightly off guard by the sudden bite in Pedri’s voice.

Pedri continues, louder now, but still not shouting. Just too firm, too quick, like the words are tumbling out without permission. “You don’t have to hover over me like this. I’m not some kid who needs checking in every time I look a little tired. I can take care of myself.”

Ferran’s mouth tightens into a line. “You’re clearly not doing a great job of that today.”

“I don’t need you to tell me how I’m doing,” Pedri bites, standing now, or trying to. The motion is a little too quick. He stumbles, barely, just a shift in his balance that Ferran catches with his eyes and nowhere else.

His voice doesn’t drop. “God, you act like I’m.. like I’m fragile or something. I’m not. You need to relax.”

Ferran stands too, more slowly, tension radiating off him in waves now. He looks down at Pedri, and for once, he doesn’t hide the frustration on his face. “This isn’t about me needing to relax. This is about you not knowing when to stop.”

Pedri bristles. “I know when to stop.”

“No, you don’t ,” Ferran says, and this time it’s loud enough that the noise in the locker room dips, just slightly, enough for Pedri to notice it. “You keep going until you crash and then you pretend like it’s fine. Like it’s normal. Like we’re supposed to just sit here and watch you burn out.”

Pedri’s lips part like he’s going to say something else, but his eyes flick to the side.

He can feel it, the change in the room.

The noise hasn’t fully stopped, but it’s quieter. Muffled. The sound of towels slapping against skin, the low hush of water behind tiled walls, footsteps softened by attention turned elsewhere. Heads are turning. Conversations are pausing. A breath held in the space between two shouts.

And then through the corner of his eye he sees Lamine walk in.

Still in his training gear, socks pulled halfway down his calves, cleats in one hand, grass trailing in soft little tufts with each movement. The boots knock together lightly, muted clacks with every stride, and there’s a looseness in his posture that doesn’t match the tension thick in the air. His eyes scan the room once, slow and confused, and then they land on Pedri.

There’s no judgment there, not yet. Just curiosity. A faint tilt of the head. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Pedri’s skin crawls.

It’s not the eyes on him exactly. It’s the awareness of them. The way he feels them on his back, on his face, on the heat rising to the surface of his chest and cheeks. He hates it. Hates that he’s being looked at when all he wanted was to disappear. Hates that his body feels like it’s betraying him under fluorescent lights and metal benches and too many half-familiar gazes.

“I’m fine,” Pedri says again, but this time it’s softer, desperate in a way he can’t quite control. “I said I’m fine.”

No one moves to stop him when he ducks down, fingers fumbling for his things. He grabs his towel, the laces of his cleats, his shirt that’s still damp and clings to itself as he crumples it. There’s a water bottle, barely half full, and it slips from his grip once before he snatches it up again. His bag doesn’t zip properly when he tries to close it, so he doesn’t bother. He swings it over one shoulder with too much force, the strap biting into his neck.

Still no one says anything. Ferran stays standing in the same spot, gaze fixed and unreadable.

Pedri moves too fast. The floor is slick in places. His steps are uneven. The motion of it all, the gathering and the rising and the swinging of his bag—it’s too quick. He stumbles again, shoulder clipping the edge of a bench as he passes. Someone murmurs something he doesn’t catch.

He doesn’t look at anyone. When he reaches the exit, his bag slips lower on his shoulder, bumping against his thigh with every step. He stops just at the threshold, just for a second, and that’s when it happens. His shoe catches slightly, one toe dragging over the edge of the mat. Not enough to fall, not enough to trip—just enough to break the rhythm of his escape. He bends down, slowly. Picks up the strap again and slams it down against the floor with more force than necessary.

The sound echoes louder than it should. Hollow. Short. The kind of sound that feels deliberate, no matter how much he’ll try to convince himself later that it wasn’t. He walks out.

Doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t look back.The room remains quiet behind him, the silence bending around the shape of his absence.

In a few hours, he’ll remember it all with a flush of shame. The way the strap hit the floor. The way his voice rose. The way he walked like he was trying to outrun something that had already caught up to him. He’ll sit somewhere quiet, somewhere far away from fluorescent lights and eyes that linger too long, and he’ll bury his face in his hands and try not to think about how the silence felt when it was wrapped around him.

But right now, all he can feel is heat and how it won’t stop crawling under his skin.He doesn’t remember exactly when the tears start. One moment, he’s walking down the corridor outside the changing room, the echo of his footsteps bouncing back at him from whitewashed walls, bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder and bouncing against the curve of his back with each uneven step. The next, there’s wetness on his cheeks, catching on the line of his jaw. Slow at first. Quiet. Like sweat. Like nothing.

He doesn’t notice until his vision wavers slightly and he blinks, hard, and the movement stings. That’s when he realises. That he’s crying.

And he doesn’t even know why. He isn’t upset. Not in the way people mean when they say it. No hurt feelings. No heartbreak. Just a dull, endless pressure building behind his eyes, stretching out into his skull. His head hurts, and it’s been hurting, but now it feels like it’s closing in from the inside, pressing down like a vice. His throat aches too, not sharp but scratchy, and the effort of breathing feels like pulling air through wet fabric, slow and unsatisfying.

His body is loud in a way he can’t ignore anymore.

And still, he doesn’t feel like crying. He’s frustrated, if anything. Annoyed. At Ferran, maybe, but not really. At himself, a little, but more at everything else. The heat. The noise. The way his limbs won’t cooperate. The way his head won’t clear. The way his breath keeps catching at the top of his chest like it’s afraid to settle.

He sniffs, hard, and wipes at his face with the back of his hand. It doesn’t help. The skin there is hot, too hot, and the tears keep coming, slipping down in silence, unchecked. He rounds the corner, out of sight from the locker room now, and slows his pace. The hall narrows ahead of him, the overhead lights buzzing softly. The buzz feels louder than it is. It grates against his ears. Makes the pulse in his temples throb harder.

His throat contracts when he swallows, winces it burns. He doesn't know what to do with himself. There’s nowhere to go, not really. No direction that feels right. The corridor leads to the players’ lounge, the showers, the physio rooms. All of them are full of people. People who will see. People who will ask.

His steps falter again, his hand brushing the wall for balance. He doesn’t know how to make it stop. Not the crying. Not the headache. Not the crushing pressure in his limbs or the way his thoughts feel half-buried under a blanket of exhaustion and fever. He can’t even make himself think clearly enough to plan. His whole body is noisy, and none of it is useful. He sniffles again, lower this time. His shoulders draw in. There’s no one here, not yet, but the idea that someone could walk around the corner makes his heart pound harder. It sits heavy in his chest, an anxious thud-thud-thud that makes everything worse. He sinks onto the bench along the wall. Just for a second. Just until the spinning settles

The next morning arrives quiet and clear, the early light softening the edges of the training pitch, but nothing about it feels settled. Not really. The air is heavy in the way it sometimes is when a storm hasn’t quite passed, when something lingers unseen just beyond the horizon. No one says it out loud, not yet, but everyone feels it. Pedri is not here and that absence is not subtle.

There’s a gap in the usual formation, like someone’s taken a bite out an apple and left nothing behind to fill it. Ferran had barely slept. He had stared at his phone longer than he’d like to admit, the brightness of the screen carving shadows across his room. Message notifications from group chats had come and gone, useless. He’d opened Pedri’s contact four times. Typed a dozen different variations of something he thought might be enough. Or not too much. Or not too vague. Or too late.

I’m sorry. But he didn’t know what exactly he was apologising for. Being too loud? Not backing off? Not pushing harder?

Hope you’re okay. But that felt like a lie, because Pedri had insisted angrily, defiantly, eyes narrowed in frustration that he already was. Saying otherwise now felt like questioning him again, digging deeper into something that already stung.

Sleep well. But that felt wrong too. Dismissive, almost, like pretending the way Pedri had walked out hadn’t happened, like smoothing over the sharp edges of something that was still bleeding.

So he sent nothing.

Now, he stands on the grass, arms crossed over his chest, the morning sunlight brushing the tops of his forearms. He watches as the rest of the team filters into place, some tying laces, others jogging short loops to keep their legs loose. But the spot where Pedri usually stands is always just right of the centre, always half a step behind until the drills begin and stays empty.

When Hansi calls out the roll, it starts normally.

A string of names, answered with present, here, a casual nod.

Then—

“Pedri.”

Silence.

He glances down at the clipboard, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Pedri,” he repeats, slower now, as if saying it again might conjure him into being.

Still nothing.

A few of the others shift. Ferran lowers his gaze, feels his stomach twist, not out of guilt exactly, but something close enough to sting. “Anyone know where he is?” Hansi asks, raising his head from the board and scanning the group. His voice is calm but pointed, the kind that expects an answer.

Ferran opens his mouth, then closes it again. He doesn’t know. Not really. Not in a way that counts.No one offers one.

Hansi turns to him. “Ferran?” The name lands heavily. Ferran lifts his eyes slowly, already bracing. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully, voice low. “He left early yesterday. After we finished. He wasn’t feeling great.” Hansi tilts his head, expression unreadable. “Sick?” Ferran hesitates. He’s not sure what to say. Before he can answer, Lamine speaks from behind him.

“He wasn’t well,” Lamine says, simple, factual. His tone is quiet but certain. “I noticed it yesterday, during drills. He was zoning out, like, a lot. His focus was totally off. And his skin was really hot when we sat down after sprints. I didn’t say anything then because he didn’t want anyone worrying, but yeah. It was bad.”

Hansi nods slowly, taking the information in without comment. His gaze lingers on the space where Pedri should be. Then, with a small exhale, he lifts the clipboard again and taps the edge with one finger.

“Alright. Pairs. Start stretching.”

The team begins to move, some quiet, some louder, as if trying to shake off the strange air that’s settled around them. Bags unzip, water bottles click open. The familiarity of movement offers a kind of reprieve, temporary as it is. Ferran turns without speaking and finds himself beside Frenkie. They don’t say much. He lowers into the first stretch, leg extended, hands braced lightly on his shin. His muscles pull tight across his thighs, but he doesn’t register it. Not really. His thoughts drift, slower now, dragged along by the weight that hasn’t shifted since last night.

He thinks of Pedri. Not just the absence of him, but the shape of what had happened. The way his voice had cracked when he said he didn’t need Ferran’s help. The heat in his face when he’d looked away. The expression he’d worn as he’d gathered his things with shaking hands, walking out like the room had been pressing in too tightly around him. Ferran had wanted to stop him. He hadn’t. He stretches his other leg, slower this time, gaze fixed somewhere on the turf in front of him.

He remembers the way Pedri had slumped against the lockers, eyes half-lidded, skin flushed in a way that was all wrong. The silence between them before the argument, the way it had cracked open like something unavoidable. He remembers the weight of his own frustration, the helplessness behind every word, the knowing look from Lamine when he walked in, the quiet trail of grass left in his wake.

And now the space Pedri left behind. Still and quiet and unmistakable.

Ferran exhales slowly, presses down on his knee, and doesn’t look at the empty spot beside him. Not yet.

Ferran doesn’t make the decision with any ceremony. There’s no moment of clarity, no long internal monologue, just a persistent pressure behind his ribs that builds and builds until it tips into motion. One second he’s leaving the training grounds, towel slung over his shoulder, boots still muddy in his hand. The next, he’s behind the wheel, the engine humming to life beneath him, and he’s turning out of the car park with more speed than usual, tyres catching slightly on the edge of the curb.

He doesn’t tell anyone. There’s no need.

The ache in his legs from drills settles into the muscle like it always does, a dull throb beneath the skin, but he barely registers it. Traffic is heavier than it should be for the hour. Buses swallowing lanes whole. Motorbikes weaving dangerously. Ferran leans forward over the wheel, flicks his indicator on without waiting for the opening to come, and slips into the next lane like something urgent is chasing him.

Maybe it is.

The streets blur a little. Familiar turns taken too quickly. Horns bark at him when he veers into a narrow side street, two wheels mounting the edge of the pavement just enough to make the suspension groan. He parks crooked, the car at a slant between two faded white lines, too close to the hydrant. If he gets a ticket, he gets a ticket. It doesn’t matter.

The building looms quietly above him.

He’s been here enough times to know the path by heart, the way the floor tiles change pattern slightly near the second set of mailboxes, the creak in the third stair on the first landing. It’s not a tall building, four flights at most, but Ferran takes them quickly, each step louder than the last, the blood rushing in his ears like static. His bag is still slung over one shoulder, swinging heavily with each stride, but he doesn’t stop to adjust it.

His breath sharpens when he reaches the door.

Pedri’s door is unassuming, same as always. White paint slightly dulled, the number slightly skewed. Ferran knocks once, firm but not harsh. He waits. Steps back. Nothing.

He knocks again, louder this time, knuckles hitting wood. A pause. A held breath. Still nothing.

He shifts his weight. Something crawls under his skin, tight and itchy. He reaches for his phone with one hand, fingers slipping into his pocket, already preparing to text or call, to say something simple like are you in or open up or please.

And then the door swings open.

Ferran’s heart jerks upward, a sudden spike of adrenaline that doesn’t have time to resolve before he hears the cough. It’s not a soft sound. It claws its way out of Pedri’s throat, dry and rough and low, the kind of cough that sounds like it’s been buried for hours and is only now forcing itself out. His other hand grips the edge of the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

He looks terrible.

It’s the first word Ferran’s brain gives him, unkind but true. Pedri’s hair is damp at the roots like he’s been sweating for hours. His skin is pale, more grey than pink, with two high spots of colour on his cheeks that speak of fever, not warmth. There’s a glazed sheen to his eyes, like he hasn’t really focused on anything in hours, and his lower lip is cracked just slightly, the edge of his mouth tugged down in discomfort.

Pedri squints at him, as if the light from the hallway is too much. “…Ferran?” he says, and it comes out hoarse, nearly a whisper, like his voice is trying to fight through gravel.

Ferran swallows. The blood in his ears hasn’t quieted. He doesn’t answer right away. Just takes a half step forward, looks him up and down, the instinct to touch, to steady, nearly overwhelming.

“Jesus,” he says finally, his voice low, barely audible. “Pedri.”

Ferran steps inside without another word, the soft click of the door behind him sounding far too loud in the stillness of the apartment. The air inside is warm stifling, almost. Heavy with something that clings to the skin and doesn’t move, and Ferran can feel it immediately. The air doesn’t circulate here. It’s thick and humid and unkind. Pedri doesn’t move as he enters, just stands there, one shoulder resting against the edge of the doorframe, his weight poorly distributed like he can’t quite decide which part of his body can carry him the longest. He blinks slowly, unevenly, like his eyes can’t keep up with his thoughts.

Ferran doesn’t ask for permission; he steps close, gently, carefully, and reaches out with one hand. Pedri doesn’t flinch. He just watches, eyes half lidded and glassy, as Ferran brushes the fringe away from his forehead, fingertips slow and deliberate. His skin is damp and too warm. Not warm like comfort or summer. Warm like fever, like illness curling under the surface, simmering just below a boil.

Lamine had been right. He’s burning.

Pedri leans into the touch almost immediately, like a plant bending toward the sun. His body folds into Ferran’s without hesitation, soft and boneless and tired. He exhales a sound, too quiet to be called a sigh, more like a soft collapse of breath. His forehead tips forward and rests against Ferran’s shoulder. One of his arms lifts, vaguely, but never makes it further than Ferran’s waist before falling again, useless with fatigue.

His hands find Pedri’s waist, hold him there. The heat seeps through the fabric of his shirt and into Ferran’s skin. His pulse quickens, not with panic but with something else something deeper, quieter, more painful. He lets Pedri lean fully, supports the full weight of him without saying a word.

“I know you said you’re okay,” Ferran says softly, the words barely louder than a whisper. His breath brushes Pedri’s temple. “And I hate to doubt you, I really do. But Pedri…”

He pauses, his fingers tightening gently around his waist.

“I’m going to take you back to bed. Alright?”

Pedri doesn’t answer with words, not really. Just a soft sound, muffled and cracked and almost a whine, like his body is trying to respond but the language for it has gone missing. If he weren’t in such a terrible state, Ferran might have smiled. Might have teased him gently about the way it sounded, soft and vulnerable in a way Pedri never lets himself be. But now it only makes his heart ache.

He moves slowly, shifting his grip so that one arm wraps around Pedri’s back, the other slipping under his arm to help guide him forward. Pedri doesn’t resist. His steps are slow and uncoordinated, more leaning than walking, and Ferran doesn’t mind. He knows the layout. Has been here enough to navigate the narrow hallway without needing to look. Pedri’s room is dim, the air even warmer here. The curtains are drawn tight, light held at bay. Only a narrow strip of brightness leaks in from the hallway, painting a long, uneven line across the floorboards. The rest is shadow and silence.

Ferran guides him toward the bed with practiced ease. “Here,” he says quietly, coaxing more than directing. “Come on.” He helps him down gently, one hand still braced around his waist as Pedri collapses into the sheets with a soundless breath. The bed dips beneath him, the mattress swallowing his frame like it’s been waiting all day to do so.

Ferran crouches beside him, hands steady, and reaches for the hem of Pedri’s damp shirt. It sticks slightly to his skin, damp with sweat, and Ferran moves carefully, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. Pedri doesn’t help, but he doesn’t resist either. His limbs are loose, pliant with fatigue. His eyes flutter shut.

Ferran drops the shirt to the side without looking at it. Then, he reaches for the glass of water already sitting on the nightstand, half full and catching a sliver of hallway light. He slides an arm beneath Pedri’s shoulders, lifting him gently, the weight feather-light now that it’s so clearly born of weakness.

“Here,” Ferran murmurs, voice low. “Small sips.”

He presses the rim of the glass to Pedri’s mouth and tilts it carefully, watching every movement. Pedri swallows, slow and uncertain at first, then steadier. Ferran tilts the glass with patience, waits between gulps to be sure each one settles right. He watches his throat move, feels the warmth of his skin through his shirt, and every part of him stays still except for the careful motion of his hand.

Pedri’s eyes open briefly, unfocused.

Ferran lowers the glass, his other hand brushing gently against Pedri’s back. “Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. That’s good.”

Pedri sinks back into the bed when Ferran eases him down again. His body curls slightly, the kind of curl that doesn’t seek protection, just relief. Ferran watches him for a moment longer, fingers still lightly resting against his spine, and lets the silence stretch. Pedri is quiet now.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t come from rest, but from the body shutting down everything it doesn’t need. His breaths are slow but shallow, his chest rising just enough to count. One arm is curled in toward himself beneath the blanket Ferran has already pulled up to his shoulders. The other lies slack by his side, fingers twitching occasionally, like his body is still trying to process the world in half-formed fragments.

Ferran sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment, just watching him. The curtain lining shifts slightly with the hallway air before settling again. Everything is still. Pedri’s forehead glows with fever. His curls are damp where they rest against the pillow, the tips plastered against the side of his temple. There’s something delicate about the way his face looks now—washed of colour, lips parted faintly, brows occasionally twitching like his dreams are unsettled.

He looks breakable. Ferran reaches up and brushes his fingertips lightly across Pedri’s cheek, careful not to startle him. The skin is too warm, but the gesture is soft, unthinking, something automatic now, like gravity.

He glances down at himself then. His own shirt is still clinging uncomfortably to his back from the rushed drive over, from the stairs, from carrying Pedri’s body in his arms like something fragile and too precious to jostle. The fabric feels stifling, damp and rough against his skin. He rises quietly, peeling it over his head in one slow motion, careful not to make any sudden noise that might disturb the stillness. The shirt falls into a loose heap at the foot of the bed. He hesitates only briefly before pulling back the other side of the covers and slipping beneath them.

The sheets are warm already from Pedri’s fever, his side of the bed radiant with body heat. Ferran lies close but not too close, the mattress dipping with his weight. For a moment, he lets the coolness of his bare chest absorb the heat radiating from beside him. Skin to skin, but gentle, like a balm. He hopes the contrast will help somehow—will balance something in Pedri’s overheated body.

He doesn’t expect Pedri to move but he does just barely. His eyes flutter open for a second, dazed and half-lost in fever, but they find Ferran’s face like they’ve done it a thousand times before. Like even now, when everything hurts and nothing is clear, his body still remembers where to look. His hand fumbles weakly beneath the blanket, searching blindly until it finds Ferran’s arm.

The grip is faint but Ferran still takes it. He threads their fingers together and shifts in closer, one arm sliding carefully under Pedri’s shoulders, the other curving around his waist with infinite patience. Their foreheads brush. Ferran lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

Pedri shivers once.

Not from the cold. From emotion, maybe. From the ache of everything. His body curls instinctively into Ferran’s, like gravity is pulling them together. He presses his face into the crook of Ferran’s neck and exhales a trembling breath against his skin. A soft sound escapes him. Not quite words. Not quite a sob. Just something small and frayed at the edges, something caught in the throat of someone who doesn’t have the strength to hold himself together anymore.

And Ferran knows this part of him. Knows how sickness strips Pedri down to his rawest self, how his quiet turns needful, how the sharp edges soften into something trembling and unsure. How he lets himself lean more. How he clings, not with desperation, but with the kind of vulnerability he never allows himself when he’s well. He is all instinct and emotion like this, his body asking in ways his mouth never would so he responds the only way he knows how.

He cradles him. Fingers gentle at the nape of his neck. Thumb stroking softly behind his ear. Murmuring nothing words under his breath, just the quiet rhythm of I’ve got you and I’m here and it’s okay repeated again and again into the space between their bodies. Pedri melts into him like he’s made of wax, like his bones are hollow, like he’s been waiting for this permission to stop trying. Ferran stays perfectly still, like if he moves too much, Pedri might break in his arms.

And when Pedri makes that sound again half a whimper, half a sigh ferran just tightens his hold, heart aching so deeply it feels physical. “Now sleep cielo ,” he whispers once more, slower this time and he feels Pedri nod on him

The bedroom is dim when Ferran wakes again, the grey light outside having shifted to something cooler, washed out. Afternoon drifting into early evening. The curtain lets in only the thinnest line of it, tracing along the floor like a pale ribbon. The room smells faintly of fabric softener and sweat, warmth, the lingering edge of fever.

Ferran doesn’t move right away.

Pedri is pressed against him, curled up like something smaller than he usually lets himself be. His forehead is resting just under Ferran’s chin, the heat from it still present but not as overwhelming as before. It’s dulled now, softened. Still wrong, still too much, but manageable. Pedri’s breath is slow, audible. A soft pull through his nose, a slower release through his mouth. One arm is thrown across Ferran’s chest, not gripping, just resting. A quiet point of contact.

They’ve been like this for hours. The nap hadn’t been planned, but neither of them had the energy to resist it. At some point, Pedri had shifted closer, maybe even unconsciously, and Ferran had responded in kind. Now, Ferran runs the pad of his thumb gently across the bony ridge of Pedri’s wrist, over the soft skin there, as if to remind himself he’s still here. Still okay.

He tilts his head slightly, careful not to disturb him. Pedri stirs anyway, a small sigh escaping him. “You awake?” Ferran murmurs, voice low and careful.

Pedri hums, more breath than sound. Then, after a long pause, “Kind of.”

Ferran lets his hand drift slowly up Pedri’s arm. “How are you feeling?”

Pedri doesn’t answer right away. He shifts a little, eyes opening just enough to squint into the pillow before shutting again. “Gross,” he says finally, voice hoarse and thick with sleep. “Heavy.”

Ferran nods, even though Pedri can’t see it. “Still warm.”

“Mm,” Pedri hums again, muffled. “Everything hurts.” His voice cracks a little on the last word, not dramatically, but just enough that Ferran’s heart squeezes in response. He presses a kiss to the top of Pedri’s head and lets his lips linger there for a second.

“I was thinking,” he says gently, “a bath might help. Warm water. Something to loosen you up a bit.” Pedri doesn’t answer right away. Ferran pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at him.

“Too much?” he asks softly. Pedri shifts again, slower this time, eyes opening properly now. They’re bloodshot, ringed with exhaustion, but focused. He blinks up at Ferran and shakes his head faintly.

“No,” he says, voice barely audible. “I… I want to. I just…” Ferran strokes a hand through his hair, already knowing what he means. “You don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “I’ll take care of it. Just let me help you.” Pedri nods, barely. It’s all the permission Ferran needs.

He eases himself out of the bed with as little movement as possible, propping a pillow beneath Pedri’s head so he’s not jostled too much. The blankets fall back from his chest, exposing skin that’s still damp with lingering fever, his shirt riding up at the hem. Ferran tucks it back down gently before straightening up.

The floor is cool beneath his feet as he moves through the flat. The bathroom is small but clean, the kind of space Pedri keeps tidy out of quiet habit. Ferran turns on the tap, adjusting the heat until it runs just shy of hot warm enough to soothe, but not enough to overwhelm. The sound of water fills the room, echoing faintly off the tiles.

He finds the bath salts under the sink, a lavender blend that Pedri probably hasn’t touched in months. Ferran adds a generous handful to the water, watching as it clouds, turns pale, the scent blooming into the air. He tests the water once more with his wrist, then nods to himself.

When he returns to the bedroom, Pedri hasn’t moved. His eyes are closed again, but not in sleep just resting. Ferran leans over him, runs his knuckles gently along his cheek.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “It’s ready.”

Pedri groans softly, but it’s more protest at movement than disapproval. Ferran helps him sit up slowly, one arm behind his back, the other bracing him by the waist. Pedri wavers once, head falling forward to rest briefly against Ferran’s shoulder before he steadies himself.

“You weren’t kidding about the heavy thing,” Ferran says, lips brushing the edge of Pedri’s hairline.

Pedri huffs a quiet breath. “Feels like I’m made of bricks.”

Ferran helps him stand, holding him the whole time. Their bodies stay close. Every movement is slow. Deliberate. Pedri’s knees buckle slightly, and Ferran tightens his grip.

“Okay,” Ferran murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

They make their way down the hallway together, Ferran guiding him with infinite patience. The bathroom light is soft, turned low, the air warm with steam now. Pedri leans against the sink while Ferran gently peels his shirt off, moving slowly so the fabric doesn’t catch.

When Pedri is bare, Ferran kisses him on the neck and whispers how beautiful he is. He helps him into the tub, guiding each leg over the edge, one hand always steadying him. Pedri sinks down into the water with a slow exhale, eyes fluttering closed. The warmth laps over his skin, up to his chest, steam rising around his flushed face. His breathing slows.

Ferran keeps his hand in Pedri’s, the water warming both their skin where their fingers are joined beneath the surface. He lets the silence settle around them, lets it steep, lets the steam curl softly against the tiled walls, lets the weight of the moment be felt without pressing down too hard. The lavender scent is stronger now, floating in the heat, clinging gently to Pedri’s skin. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp curls, and the tips of his lashes are wet, too, from the mist and the fever and the closeness of it all.

He looks like he’s been folded into the water. Not sitting in it, cradled by it. His shoulders slope forward, arms resting along the edges of the tub, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that Ferran watches too closely, eyes tracking every breath.

Pedri’s grip is weak, but constant.

Ferran adjusts his position on the floor, easing himself closer, shifting until he can rest one forearm on the edge of the tub, the other free hand reaching forward to brush lightly along Pedri’s collarbone.

“You’re okay?” he asks, not out of doubt but out of habit. Reassurance, offered like a gift.

Pedri nods faintly. “Feels good.”

His voice is still hoarse, broken at the edges, but there’s a softness in it now that wasn’t there before. A kind of openness that only comes when the body is too tired to hold up its usual walls. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he lets his thumb press weakly against Ferran’s palm, a silent thank you, a wordless I know you’re here.

Ferran reaches for the small plastic cup on the edge of the sink, fills it carefully with warm water from the tub, and leans forward again.

“Okay,” he says gently, “head back a little.”

Pedri tips his head, slow, trusting, and Ferran lifts the cup, letting the water run slowly through Pedri’s curls, guiding it with one hand so it doesn’t splash into his face. The motion is slow, steady, rhythmic. He does it again. And again. Each pour more deliberate than the last. He slides his fingers through Pedri’s hair, untangling knots with patience, brushing across his scalp like he’s afraid of pushing too hard.

Pedri hums again, a faint sound of contentment.

“You always do this?” he murmurs, voice slurred slightly with exhaustion. “Take care of sick people like this?”

Ferran smiles, brushing a curl behind his ear. “Only the ones I’m in love with.” Pedri makes a quiet sound in response, not quite a laugh, not quite a groan. “Unfair.”

“Mm. Life is cruel.” They fall into silence again, but it isn’t empty. Ferran shifts his hand to Pedri’s neck, his fingers gliding over the sharp line of his jaw, over the soft patch of skin just below his ear. Pedri leans into it shamelessly. The neediness in him comes out so easily when he’s like this, when his body is weak, when his guard is down. And Ferran welcomes it, all of it. He cups his cheek with both hands now, thumbs sweeping over flushed skin. “You want me to help wash the rest of you?” Ferran asks, voice careful.

Pedri nods slowly, head still resting against the back of the tub. So Ferran reaches for the soft sponge resting in the basin, dips it into the lavender water, and begins with Pedri’s shoulder, dragging the sponge slowly down the line of his arm, circling over his elbow, pausing over the delicate bend of his wrist. His skin is warm and sensitive beneath Ferran’s touch. Pedri doesn’t speak again, just breathes, and lets himself be moved, lets himself be touched like he’s something precious and quiet and worn thin by the world.

Ferran works slowly, methodically. Across his chest. Down his other arm. Across the soft slope of his stomach, careful not to press too hard. Every now and then, Pedri shifts slightly beneath the water, but he never pulls away. When Ferran pauses, Pedri’s eyes flutter open. “You’re being too nice,” he whispers.

Ferran leans in, resting his chin briefly on the edge of the tub. “There’s no such thing.”

“I’m serious,” he says. “I look like hell. I feel like shit. I’ve done nothing but be a mess. And you’re still here. Still doing this.”

Ferran smiles softly, reaching out to stroke his hair back again. “You’d do the same.”

Pedri doesn’t answer. Just closes his eyes again. Ferran watches his throat move as he swallows. The water ripples quietly with each breath he takes. His body has loosened now, the tension drained from his shoulders. The lines of pain have eased slightly from his brow. When the water begins to cool, Ferran speaks again, voice soft and close. “Let’s get you out.”

Pedri nods.

Ferran helps him stand, supporting him under both arms, guiding him slowly out of the tub. He wraps a towel around him immediately, pressing it to his back, letting Pedri lean fully into his chest. He’s dripping, shivering now despite the warmth, but Ferran holds him steady, nose tucked into the side of his damp hair. 

A while has passed and Pedri is tucked beneath a freshly changed blanket, still damp-haired and soft-eyed from the bath, his limbs folded in on themselves like he’s finally giving his body permission to rest. Ferran had towel dried his curls, rubbed him down with a clean shirt, helped him into it with the same kind of gentleness reserved for carrying something fragile. Now he sleeps in half-shadow, the curtains still drawn, the bedside lamp casting a warm circle of light over the corner of the bed where one hand has crept out from under the duvet, loosely curled.

Ferran lingers in the doorway for a few seconds longer than necessary, watching. Then he turns and heads toward the kitchen, his bare feet whispering against the wooden floor. The moment he steps into the narrow kitchen space, he realises he’s in over his head.

The cabinets are clean, of course Pedri is nothing if not tidy but sparse. Not minimal in a curated aesthetic sense, but genuinely empty in that footballer who gets all his meals planned out and prepared for him type of way. A couple of jars lined along the back wall, a bag of rice secured with a rubber band, three half-full spice containers, one of which Ferran is pretty sure is just cinnamon and not at all helpful. A row of teas. Some crackers. Olive oil. A lonely lemon.

The fridge isn’t much better. One carton of almond milk, a few eggs, a sad-looking carrot in the crisper, and a suspicious container that Ferran chooses not to open. He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair, and mutters to himself.

“This is what you get for loving a boy who lives on takeout.” He opens the freezer on a whim. Three trays of ice, one unopened bag of frozen peas, and a ziplock bag of what looks like frozen tomato paste. His brow furrows. Then he closes it again. He leans against the counter, stares at the cupboard like it might offer a new idea if he looks long enough. Nothing comes. His stomach twists faintly—not with hunger, but with the helplessness that creeps in when you want to do something useful, something kind, and don’t know how. Pedri needs food. Something warm. Something soothing. Ferran wants to be the one who gives it to him.

He glances down at his phone.

After a few seconds of indecision, he unlocks it, scrolls through his contacts, and stops when he hits the Ls.

LEWA.

He stares for a second, thumb hovering over the call button. Then he taps.

The line rings once. Twice. Then a click, and Robert’s voice comes through, crisp as ever.

“Ferran?”

“Hey, um,” Ferran clears his throat, straightening instinctively even though no one can see him. “Sorry. Are you busy?”

“Not really. I’m with the girls, but they’re drawing. Why?”

Ferran hesitates for a second. Then, bluntly, “I need to make soup.”

There’s a pause.

“Soup?” Robert echoes.

“Yeah. Pedri’s sick,” Ferran adds quickly, glancing over his shoulder like the fever might’ve followed him into the kitchen. “Proper sick. Fever, exhaustion, the whole thing. He’s sleeping now. I wanted to make something warm. Something gentle. I just… I opened his fridge and I think he’s been living like a ghost.”

Robert chuckles, low and warm. “Sounds about right.”

“I’m serious. I don’t know what to make. There’s nothing here. I have—rice. A carrot. Some peas. Maybe an onion, if I squint.”

“Do you have broth?”

“No. Water,” Ferran says miserably. “I have water.”

Another pause. Then Robert’s tone shifts, practical now.

“Okay. That’s fine. Listen to me.”

Ferran grabs his phone with one hand, opens the fridge again with the other. “Listening.”

“Do you have garlic?”

Ferran rummages through the tiny basket beside the stove, fingers brushing over a clove. “Yes.”

“Perfect. Onion, garlic, carrot, frozen peas. Start by chopping the onion and garlic. Small pieces. Put a bit of olive oil in a pot medium heat.”

Ferran sets the phone between his shoulder and ear, rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, and grabs a cutting board. “Okay. Doing that.”

He chops with more focus than skill, careful not to make the pieces too big. The garlic clings to his fingers.

“Then what?” he asks, brushing the onion into the pot with his hand.

“Let that cook until it smells good. Don’t burn it. Stir it around a bit. Add salt. Then the carrot slice it thin so it cooks faster.”

“Got it.”

He works in silence for a moment, the sizzle of onion in oil filling the kitchen with something that actually smells like comfort. Like a house that’s being taken care of. Like food that means something.Robert’s voice comes again, softer now. “You’re doing good.”

Ferran huffs a laugh. “You’re surprisingly patient.”

“I’ve had practice,” Robert says. “With the girls. With sickness. With… life. You learn to get better at this sort of thing.”

There’s a pause where Ferran adds the carrot, stirs, then leans against the counter again, watching the pot. “He was really out of it,” he says, quieter. “He’ll be okay,” Robert says gently. “Sickness makes people strange. Emotional. But he’s young. Strong. And he has you.”

Ferran swallows. “I didn’t know what to do. Yesterday we argued. And then today he just didn’t show up. I went to his flat and he looked—God. He looked awful.”

“But you went,” Robert says. “You’re there now.”

Ferran nods, even though the phone’s no longer against his ear.

He adds the frozen peas, a pinch of salt, and more water than necessary. Robert tells him to let it simmer.

It does. The scent rises with the steam, soft and earthy. Not gourmet, not complex but warm. Ferran exhales slowly, closing the cupboard door. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “Really.”

“Anytime,” Robert replies. “Let me know how he is.”

“I will.”

Ferran hangs up, setting the phone gently on the counter.

The soup has finished simmering by the time Ferran turns the burner off. The steam curls upward in lazy spirals, carrying the warm scent of garlic and carrot and something gentle, something like comfort. It’s not perfect. He's well aware the rice is slightly overcooked and the peas were probably frozen for too long but it smells like something you give someone when you love them. And Ferran does.

He ladles the soup carefully into a shallow bowl, wiping the rim with the corner of a clean towel, because Pedri’s the kind of person who notices those small things even when he’s sick. Even when he’s too tired to speak. The spoon goes onto the tray next, then a glass of water with a slice of lemon floating listlessly near the top, followed by a soft cotton napkin folded into a loose square.

He carries it all with both hands, walking slowly down the hallway like the floor might shift beneath him if he moves too quickly. There’s a hush in the apartment now, the kind that makes every sound feel sharper. The clink of the spoon. The faint tap of his heel against the wood. The quiet shift of the tray when he adjusts his grip. 

The bedroom is still mostly dark when he steps in, the curtains undisturbed, the bedside lamp casting a low golden glow over the sheets. Pedri’s still tucked under the blankets, curled slightly onto his side, one arm slung across the pillow. His breathing is audible, but softer now, more even. His curls are flattened on one side from sleep, and his lips are dry, slightly parted.

Ferran kneels beside the bed, setting the tray down gently on the nightstand. “Pedri,” he says softly, almost a whisper.

Pedri stirs, lashes fluttering as he blinks himself awake. He turns his head slowly toward the voice, his movement lethargic but deliberate. His eyes are red-rimmed, the whites still glazed with fever, but there’s a flicker of focus in them now. A recognition. “Ferran,” he murmurs, voice raw and rasping like sandpaper.

Ferran smiles, pushing a hand through Pedri’s hair to coax it off his forehead. “I brought soup. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s warm. You should try to eat a little.” Pedri exhales through his nose, the breath catching briefly. “You made soup?”

“I did,” Ferran replies, brushing his thumb across Pedri’s cheek. “Robert talked me through it like I was five, but it counts.” Pedri huffs a weak, breathless laugh, followed by a cough that shakes his frame. Ferran immediately props a second pillow behind him, helping him sit up slowly, one hand always steady at his back.

Once Pedri is upright enough, Ferran picks up the bowl and sits beside him on the bed, knees tucked under him. He blows gently across the surface of the soup and offers the first spoonful. He opens his mouth obediently, letting the warmth settle on his tongue before swallowing with effort. His throat tightens visibly. He winces.

“Too hot?” Ferran asks quickly. Pedri shakes his head. “No. Just sore.”

“Okay,” Ferran says softly. “We’ll go slow.”

He feeds him one spoonful at a time, waiting between each for Pedri to swallow, to breathe, to settle again. The soup smells better here in the quiet, each bite given with care. Pedri doesn’t speak at first. He leans into Ferran’s side when he can, rests his forehead on his shoulder between sips. His whole body is pliant, trusting.

“Lamine,” Pedri says suddenly, voice cracked but thoughtful.

Ferran glances down. “Hm?”

Pedri’s eyes are closed, face tilted toward him. “Yesterday. He was so, he stayed near me during drills. Didn’t say anything, but I could tell. He knew I was off.”

Ferran nods. “He told Flick this morning. Said you were zoning out. That you were too hot.”

Pedri coughs again, twisting slightly into Ferran’s shirt as the fit runs through him. When it passes, he lets his head rest there. “He’s smart,” he mumbles, “for a little shit.”

Ferran smiles, lets his fingers run through Pedri’s curls slowly, rhythmically. “He is,” he agrees. “He cares. We all do.”

There’s a long pause where Ferran feeds him another small spoonful. Then another. Pedri swallows, eyes closed, breath catching a little as the warmth works through him. After the next sip, Pedri speaks again, his voice quieter, more fragile.

“Ferran,” he says. Ferran hums in acknowledgment, watching the way Pedri’s fingers curl into the blanket. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” Pedri says, the words sticky and slow like they cost him something to say. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I was just so… tired. And angry. At myself. Not at you.”

Before he can say more, Ferran places the bowl back on the tray and takes Pedri’s hand in his, squeezing it gently. “Hey,” he says, leaning close enough that their foreheads touch. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.”

“But I—”

“No,” Ferran interrupts softly. “You were sick. You are sick. You don’t need to apologise for being human. I’m just glad I’m here now. With you.” Pedri’s mouth trembles, like he’s trying not to cry but too exhausted to succeed. Ferran cups his face gently, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes even though no tears fall.

“You’re allowed off days,” Ferran murmurs. “You don’t have to carry everything on your own.” Pedri leans into the touch like it’s the only thing tethering him to the room.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I love you .”

Ferran presses a kiss to his temple, lingering there. “Love you too..”

Pedri sinks further into him then, warmth seeping from the bowl, from Ferran’s arms, from the soft weight of being allowed to rest at last. The soup will cool eventually, but Ferran doesn’t move to reheat it. Not yet