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The sun hung low over the Estadio de Gran Canaria, casting long shadows across the pristine green pitch. It was a warm September afternoon in 2017, the kind where the air clung to your skin, heavy with salt and anticipation. The stands were sparsely filled: mostly parents, a few scouts, and some diehard local fans; but the energy on the field was electric. Las Palmas U17s were hosting Valencia U17s in a youth league match, and for the players, this was as big as any Champions League final.
Ferran Torres, sixteen and lanky, adjusted his Valencia armband as he jogged onto the pitch. At 1.84 meters, he towered over most of his teammates, his frame still filling out but already showing the promise of strength. His dark hair was pushed back, damp with sweat from the warm-up, and his eyes scanned the opposition. Las Palmas were good, he’d heard: scrappy, technical, with a kid in midfield who was supposedly something akin to a baby Iniesta. Ferran didn’t put much stock in rumours. He’d faced plenty of “prodigies” before, and most of them crumbled under pressure.
On the other side of the pitch, Pedro González López, Pedri, as everyone called him (he didn't like the name Pedro) was tying his boots. At thirteen, almost fourteen, he was the youngest player on the Las Palmas squad, a full year or two younger than most of the boys he’d be facing. At 1.65 meters, he was quite short and he looked slight next to the older, broader players. Who cares, he was going to get another growth spurt soon (Oh my sweet summer child, no you aren't). His mop of black hair bounced as he stood, his brown eyes darting around the field, taking in every detail. Pedri didn’t feel nervous, not exactly. He felt alive. The ball was his language, the pitch his canvas, and he was ready to paint.
The whistle blew, and the game kicked off.
From the opening minutes, it was clear this wasn’t going to be an easy match. Las Palmas moved the ball with purpose, their passes crisp and deliberate. Valencia, though, were disciplined, their defense holding firm and their counterattacks sharp. Ferran played as a winger, different from his normal position as a striker, cutting in from the right, his long strides eating up the flank. He was fast, direct, and dangerous, but Las Palmas’ left-back was giving him a hard time, sticking to him like glue.
In the midfield, Pedri was a nothing short of a revelation. He seemed to glide across the pitch, his touches soft but precise, his vision almost supernatural. He was everywhere -- dropping deep to collect the ball, threading passes through gaps no one else saw, spinning away from challenges with a grace that belied his age. Ferran noticed him early on, not just because of the buzz around him but because he couldn’t not notice. The kid was magnetic. Every time Pedri touched the ball, something happened. A defender left on his back, a teammate found in space, a chance created out of nothing.
“Bloody hell,” Ferran muttered under his breath after Pedri nutmegged Valencia’s holding midfielder and sent a curling pass to the striker, who fluffed the shot. The kid was thirteen. Thirteen. Ferran was sixteen, one of the best in his age group when he felt like it, and he felt a strange mix of admiration and envy watching Pedri dictate the game.
In the 22nd minute, Valencia struck. A quick turnover from one of his teammates chesting the ball off of a goal kick, a long ball over the top, and Ferran was off, his legs churning as he outran the Las Palmas center-back. The goalkeeper rushed out, but Ferran was cool as ice, lifting the ball over him with a delicate chip. The net rippled, and the handful of Valencia supporters in the stands erupted. Ferran wheeled away, fist pumping, a grin splitting his face. His teammates mobbed him, but as he jogged back to his position, his eyes found Pedri. The younger boy was clapping politely, his expression unreadable, but Ferran felt a jolt. Like Pedri was sizing him up.
Las Palmas equalized just before halftime. Pedri, of course, was at the heart of it. He picked up the ball just past the halfway line, shrugged off a challenge, and played a one-two with his winger that carved Valencia’s defense open. His final pass was inch-perfect, and the striker made no mistake this time, slotting it past the keeper. The home crowd roared, and Pedri jogged back to his position, head down, as if he hadn’t just orchestrated the goal of the match.
Ferran couldn’t stop watching him. It wasn’t just Pedri’s skill. No, it was the way he moved, the way he seemed to exist in a different rhythm from everyone else. He was small, yeah, but he didn’t play small. He played like he owned the pitch. Ferran shook his head, trying to focus. They had a game to win.
The second half was a battle. Las Palmas pushed for a winner, driven by Pedri’s relentless energy. Valencia absorbed the pressure and looked to hit on the break. In the 67th minute, they got their chance. A Las Palmas corner was cleared, and the ball fell to Ferran on the right. He drove forward, head up, spotting his teammate making a run through the middle. His cross was perfect, curling away from the keeper, and the Valencia striker headed it home. 2-1.
The final whistle blew twenty minutes later, Valencia holding on despite a late barrage from Las Palmas. Pedri had been immense, hitting the post with a curling shot and forcing a stunning save from the Valencia keeper in stoppage time. When the referee ended the match, Ferran let out a long breath, his legs burning. They’d won, but it felt like they’d been through a war. He looked over and saw Pedri lying on the ground, looking gassed.
As the players shook hands, Ferran found himself searching for Pedri. The younger boy was wiping sweat from his brow, his hair plastered to his forehead, his cheeks flushed prettily from exertion. Wait, what? Ferran's expression changed a little at the thought, brow furrowing, but he shook it off. Ferran towered over him as they approached each other, and for a moment, he felt oddly self-conscious about his height, like he was looming.
“Great game,” Ferran said, extending his hand. His voice came out softer than he’d intended, and he cleared his throat, hoping it didn’t sound weird.
Pedri looked up, his hazel brown eyes wide and a little startled. “Oh, uh, thanks,” he mumbled, taking Ferran’s hand. His grip was firm but brief, and Ferran noticed how small Pedri’s hand felt in his. Fuck, who the hell has hands these soft??? Ferran thought. Pedri’s cheeks, already pink, seemed to flush deeper, and he ducked his head, his hair falling into his eyes. “You were really good too. That goal… it was class.”
Ferran blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. “Cheers, mate. But, like… you were unreal out there. I’ve never seen anyone your age play like that. It's like Xavi and Iniesta had a baby.” He winced when the words fell out of his mouth. He never said weird shit like that. Why was he being awkward? But he'd meant it, and the sincerity in his voice made Pedri’s blush spread to his ears.
“I just… try to play my game, you know?” Pedri said, shrugging, but he was smiling now, a shy, lopsided grin that made Ferran’s chest feel weirdly tight. They weren't friends, so why did Ferran suddenly want to pinch his cheeks? Hell, if he wouldn't have kept his mouth shut, he probably would have cooed at him like a bird.
“Yeah, well, keep it up, and you’re gonna be a star,” Ferran said, beaming at Pedri. Pedri laughed, a soft, nervous sound, and Ferran found himself smiling back wider.
They stood there for a moment, the noise of the dispersing crowd fading into the background. Ferran wanted to say something else, but he didn’t know what. Pedri shifted his weight, looking like he was about to bolt, but then he glanced up at Ferran through his lashes, and Ferran’s stomach did a strange little flip.
“See you around, yeah?” Ferran said finally, because he had to say something.
“Yeah,” Pedri replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “See you.”
They parted ways, Ferran jogging back to his teammates, Pedri heading toward the Las Palmas bench. But as Ferran walked, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had just happened, something he didn’t quite understand. He turned over his shoulder just in time to see Pedri look back over his shoulder as well. Ferran felt giddy the rest of the day and it wasn't because of the goal, even if that's what he told his parents.
That night, Ferran lay in his bed in Valencia, the glow of the streetlights filtering through his curtains. The house was quiet, his parents and sister already asleep. He stared at the ceiling, replaying the match in his head. The goal, the cross, the win. But mostly, he thought about Pedri.
He didn’t know why the kid was stuck in his mind. It wasn’t just his talent, though that was part of it. It was the way Pedri had looked at him after the match, all shy and flustered, his cheeks pink and his eyes bright. Ferran had never noticed anyone’s eyes before, not like that. Ferran thought that they were the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. Not that Ferran was gay or anything, he just had nice eyes. A boy could appreciate another person's eyes. No big deal. He shifted under the covers, his heart beating a little faster than it should’ve been.
Ferran had always been focused on football. Girls, dating, all that stuff...it was background noise. His mates at school were always going on about who they fancied, but Ferran had never really gotten it. Don't get him wrong, he'd slept with two girls and he liked to flirt, but it was just something to do for fun. He liked riling other people up. He’d assumed he was just too busy, too driven. But now, lying here, thinking about a boy he’d met for ten seconds after a match, he felt… confused. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made his skin prickle, like he was on the edge of something he couldn’t name.
He closed his eyes, and Pedri’s face floated into his mind—his dark hair, that soft smile, those fucking eyes. But the part Ferran found himself most stuck on was the way Pedri had looked up at him like he was someone worth noticing. Ferran’s lips curved into a small, unconscious smile as he drifted off, the memory of Pedri’s soft voice in his ears.
Across the sea in Tegueste, Pedri was sprawled on his bed, his room a tidy space, sans the open schoolbooks on the floor. The window was open, letting in the cool night air, and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. He was exhausted, his body aching from the match in the way it always did, but his mind wouldn’t settle.
He kept thinking about Ferran Torres.
Pedri didn’t know why. The Valencia winger had been good, sure. He was tall, fast, deadly in front of goal. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way Ferran had spoken to him after the match, his voice warm and genuine, his dark eyes locked on Pedri’s like he actually cared what Pedri thought. And God, he was tall. Pedri had felt small standing next to him, but not in a bad way. In a way that made his stomach flutter, like he’d just missed a step going down the stairs.
Pedri didn't know why, except that was a lie.
Pedri rolled onto his side, pulling his blanket up to his chin. He was almost fourteen, and he’d never had a crush. His friends at school were starting to talk about girls, giggling over who was prettiest or who’d smiled at them in the hallway. Pedri had tried to join in, but it always felt… off. Like he was playing a role he didn’t understand. He’d never looked at a girl and felt anything close to what he’d felt today, standing in front of Ferran, his heart pounding for no reason at all.
Was something wrong with him? He didn’t know. All he knew was that Ferran’s compliment had made him feel warm all over, like he’d scored the winning goal in a final. And when Ferran had smiled at him, Pedri had wanted to keep that smile forever.
He closed his eyes, and Ferran’s face appeared—sharp jawline, dark hair, that easy grin. Pedri’s cheeks burned, and he buried his face in his pillow, trying to push the image away. But it stayed, lingering like a melody he couldn’t stop humming. As he fell asleep, his last thought was of Ferran’s voice, low and kind, saying, You’re gonna be a star.
The dream came softly, like stepping onto a familiar pitch. Pedri was back at the Estadio de Gran Canaria, but it was different—empty, quiet, the stands shrouded in a golden haze. The sun was low, just like it had been that afternoon, casting long shadows across the grass. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of salt and freshly cut turf. He was alone, or so he thought, until he saw Ferran.
Ferran was standing at the edge of the penalty area, his Valencia kit replaced by a plain white shirt and shorts, his dark hair catching the sunlight. He was kicking a ball lightly, letting it bounce off his foot, his movements effortless and relaxed. Pedri’s breath caught. Ferran looked… handsome. The word startled him, but it fit. The way he moved, the easy grace of his body, the way the light seemed to cling to him—it was like he belonged here, like the pitch was his as much as it was Pedri’s.
Ferran looked up, and his eyes found Pedri’s. That spark was there, brighter now, and his lips curved into a smile. “Hey,” he said, his voice warm, like they’d known each other forever. “Wanna play?”
Pedri’s heart thudded, but he nodded stupidly, stepping forward. The ball was at his feet now, and he passed it to Ferran, a simple, clean touch. Ferran controlled it effortlessly, flicking it back with a grin. They started to play, not a match, not a drill, just… passing, moving, dancing with the ball. It was effortless, like they were speaking the same language, their movements in perfect sync. Pedri felt alive, his body light, his mind clear. Every touch was perfect, every pass a conversation, and Ferran was right there with him, matching him step for step.
They moved closer, the space between them shrinking. Ferran’s grin widened, and he nutmegged Pedri playfully, laughing as Pedri chased after him. Pedri laughed too, a sound that felt free, unguarded. He lunged for the ball, but Ferran was faster, spinning away, and suddenly they were face-to-face, inches apart. The ball rolled away, forgotten.
Ferran’s eyes were on him, intense but soft, like he was seeing all of Pedri, not just the footballer but the boy beneath. Pedri’s breath hitched. He felt exposed, but not afraid. Ferran reached out, his hand brushing Pedri’s arm, and the touch sent a jolt through him, warm and electric. “You’re incredible,” Ferran said, his voice low, and Pedri’s heart stuttered.
He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Ferran’s hand lingered, his fingers warm against Pedri’s skin, and Pedri felt himself leaning closer, drawn in by something he couldn’t name. Ferran’s smile softened, and he tilted his head, his face so close Pedri could see the faint freckles across his nose, the way his lashes framed his eyes. The world narrowed to this moment, this space, this boy.
And then Ferran kissed him.
It was soft, tentative, like a question. Pedri froze for a split second, his mind reeling, but then he kissed back, clumsy but earnest. It felt right, like the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place. Ferran’s lips were warm, and Pedri’s heart was racing, but not with fear—with joy, with certainty. This was what he’d been missing, what he’d never understood until now.
The kiss deepened, and Pedri’s hands found Ferran’s shoulders, anchoring himself. Ferran’s arms slid around him, pulling him closer, and Pedri felt safe, wanted, seen. The pitch, the stadium, the world—it all faded away, leaving just them, wrapped in this moment that felt like forever.
When they pulled apart, Ferran was smiling, his eyes bright with something Pedri couldn’t name but understood. “See you around, yeah?” he said, echoing his words from the match, but this time they carried a promise.
Pedri nodded, his voice caught in his throat. “Yeah,” he whispered.
And then the dream shifted, the way dreams do. Ferran was gone, and Pedri was standing alone on the pitch, the ball at his feet. But he wasn’t afraid. He felt whole, like something inside him had clicked into place. He kicked the ball, and it soared, higher and higher, until it disappeared into the golden light.
Pedri woke with a start, his heart pounding, his skin warm. The room was dark, the moonlight still spilling through the window, but he felt different—awake in a way he hadn’t been before. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, trying to hold onto the dream. Ferran’s face, his smile, the kiss—it was all so vivid, so real. His lips tingled, like the memory of the dream was still on them, and his chest felt tight, not with fear but with something else. Something big.
He was gay.
The realization hit him like a wave, not crashing but rolling over him, steady and sure. He’d never said the word before, not about himself, but it felt right. It wasn’t just Ferran, though Ferran was the spark. It was everything—the way Pedri had never felt that pull toward girls, the way he’d always felt different, like he was watching his friends from the outside. He’d thought maybe he was just focused on football, too young to care about crushes, but now he knew. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he’d been looking in the wrong direction.
He rolled onto his side, curling up under the blanket, his mind racing. The dream had been so clear, so perfect. Kissing Ferran hadn’t felt strange or wrong—it had felt like coming home. He thought about Ferran’s eyes, his laugh, the way his hand had felt on Pedri’s arm. He thought about the match, the way Ferran had looked at him, the way his compliment had made Pedri’s heart soar. Was it possible Ferran felt something too? Or was that just the dream talking, weaving a fantasy out of a moment?
Pedri’s cheeks burned, and he pressed his face into the pillow again, a shy smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t know if he’d ever see Ferran again, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was this feeling, this truth he’d stumbled into. He was gay, and it wasn’t something to be afraid of. It was part of him, like his love for football, like the way he saw the game. It was his.
He thought about telling someone—his brother, maybe, or his best friend at school—but the idea made his stomach twist. Not because he was ashamed, but because it was new, fragile, like a secret he wasn’t ready to share. For now, it was enough to know it himself, to feel it settle into his bones. He imagined Ferran’s smile again, and his heart did that fluttery thing, the one that made him feel alive.
As he drifted back to sleep, the dream lingered, soft and warm, like a promise. He didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time, he felt like he was starting to understand himself. And that was enough.
Five years later, Ferran Torres would sign for FC Barcelona, and Pedri would already be a cornerstone of the team, their paths crossing again in a way neither could’ve imagined that day in Gran Canaria. And eight years after that match, they’d laugh about that match eventually one night whilst cuddled up next to each other, about how they’d both been too young and too clueless to understand the spark that had flickered between them. But for now, in 2017, they were just two boys, separated by sea but underneath a shared sky, falling asleep with the same unspoken feeling in their hearts. A crush they didn’t yet know was a crush, but one that would linger, quiet and warm, until fate brought them back together.
The night was soft and quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes in the early hours when the world feels like it’s holding its breath. In their shared apartment in Barcelona that was supposedly just Pedri's, Pedri and Ferran were tangled together in bed, the moonlight spilling through the half-open curtains and painting their room in silver. It was June 2025, and they’d been dating for a year: months of laughter, stolen kisses, and the kind of love that felt like it had always been there, waiting for them to find it. They were twenty-two and twenty-five now, no longer the wide-eyed boys from that match in Gran Canaria.
Pedri was curled against Ferran’s side, his head resting on Ferran’s chest, one leg draped over Ferran’s thighs. Ferran’s arm was wrapped around him, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on Pedri’s back, the touch so familiar it felt like breathing. The room was warm, the sheets a soft cocoon around them, and the only sounds were their quiet breaths and the occasional hum of a car passing outside. They’d been talking for hours, the way they often did in the middle of the night, when sleep felt less important than the comfort of each other’s voices. The conversation had drifted from training to teammates to a silly argument about who made better paella, but now they were quiet, content to just be.
Pedri’s mind wandered, lulled by the steady rhythm of Ferran’s heartbeat beneath his cheek. He was half-asleep, his thoughts soft and unfocused, when a memory flickered to life, vivid and unexpected. The Estadio de Gran Canaria, 2017. The sun low in the sky, the salt in the air, the electric buzz of the match. And Ferran...tall, lanky, with that grin that had made Pedri’s thirteen-year-old heart stutter. He hadn’t thought about that day in ages, but now it was here, clear as if it had happened yesterday.
He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer to Ferran, his voice a sleepy whisper. “Hey, amor?”
Ferran hummed, his fingers pausing on Pedri’s back. “Mmm? What’s up, cariño?” His voice was low, warm, the kind of soft that only came out when it was just the two of them.
Pedri tilted his head, looking up at Ferran through his lashes. Even in the dim light, he could see the curve of Ferran’s jaw, the way his eyes softened when he looked down at Pedri. “Do you ever think about that match? The one in Gran Canaria, back in 2017?”
Ferran’s eyes widened slightly, a spark of recognition lighting them up. He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at Pedri properly, his arm still draped around him. “The U17s game? Las Palmas versus Valencia?” His voice was a whisper, but there was a smile in it, like he was already reliving it. “God, yeah. How could I forget? You were… unreal out there.”
Pedri’s cheeks warmed, and he ducked his head, pressing his face against Ferran’s chest to hide his smile. “I was just thinking about it,” he murmured, his voice muffled. “It popped into my head outta nowhere. I was, like, thirteen, and you were this big, scary sixteen-year-old scoring chips like it was nothing.”
Ferran laughed softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. He tightened his arm around Pedri, pulling him closer. “Scary? Me? Come on, I was a lanky mess back then. And you—” He paused, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. “You were this tiny kid running circles around everyone. I swear, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
Pedri lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting Ferran’s. “Really?” he asked, his voice soft but curious. “You noticed me that much?”
Ferran’s smile softened, and he reached up, brushing a strand of hair from Pedri’s forehead. “Are you kidding? Pedri, you were magnetic. Every time you got the ball, I was like, ‘Who is this kid?’ You were nutmegging my teammates, threading passes like you were Xavi reincarnated. I was half in awe, half jealous.”
Pedri laughed, the sound light and a little shy. He shifted so he was lying on his side, facing Ferran, their legs still tangled under the sheets. “I wasn’t that good,” he said, but his grin betrayed him. “I mean, I was trying so hard to keep up with you guys. You were all so big, and I was… tiny.”
“Tiny but mighty,” Ferran teased, his voice a warm whisper. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Pedri’s forehead. “I remember watching you set up that goal just before halftime. That one-two with your winger? I was like, ‘Okay, this kid’s different.’”
Pedri’s cheeks flushed, and he reached out, resting his hand on Ferran’s chest, his fingers tracing the outline of Ferran’s collarbone. “I remember your goal,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “That chip over the keeper. I was so mad because it was so good. I was clapping, but inside I was like, ‘Ugh, why’s he gotta be that cool?’”
Ferran’s laugh was soft, almost a chuckle, and he caught Pedri’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “You were clapping, oh my god, I remember that! I thought you were just being polite,” he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I kept looking at you after that, trying to figure out what you were thinking. You had this… unreadable face, like you were analyzing me or something.”
Pedri’s grin widened, and he squeezed Ferran’s hand. “I was! I was like, ‘Okay, this guy’s dangerous. Gotta watch him.’ But also…” He hesitated, his voice dropping even lower, almost shy. “I thought you were kinda… I dunno. Impressive.”
Ferran raised an eyebrow, his smile turning playful. “Impressive, huh?” He leaned closer, their noses almost touching, his voice a teasing whisper. “Is that thirteen-year-old Pedri code for ‘I had a crush’?”
Pedri’s face went pink, and he let out a soft, embarrassed laugh, burying his face in Ferran’s shoulder. “Shut up,” he mumbled, his voice muffled. “I didn’t know it was a crush back then. I just… I couldn’t stop looking at you. You were so tall, and your hair was all sweaty, and you had this stupid grin…”
Ferran’s laugh was warm, and he tilted Pedri’s chin up gently, making him meet his eyes. “Stupid grin? Ouch, amor,” he said, but his voice was full of affection. “For the record, I couldn’t stop looking at you either. I remember jogging back after that goal, and you were just… standing there, clapping, with your hair all messy and your cheeks all pink. I thought you were…” He paused, his voice softening. “I thought you were beautiful.”
Pedri’s breath caught, and he felt that familiar flutter in his chest, the one Ferran always seemed to spark. “Beautiful?” he repeated, his voice a whisper, like he couldn’t quite believe it. Of course, Ferran called him beautiful all the time now, but knowing he felt that way back then too made his heart sing.
Ferran nodded, his eyes locked on Pedri’s, his thumb brushing over Pedri’s knuckles. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I didn’t know what to do with it back then. I was sixteen, clueless, telling myself I was just impressed by your game. But it was more than that. I felt… something. I just didn’t have a name for it.”
Pedri’s heart swelled, and he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Ferran’s lips, lingering just long enough to feel Ferran smile against him. “I felt it too,” he whispered when he pulled back, their foreheads touching. “I didn’t get it either. I went home that night and had this dream about you, and… that’s when I figured it out. That I was gay.”
Ferran’s eyes widened, and he pulled back slightly, his expression a mix of surprise and delight. “Wait, a dream?” he whispered, his voice teasing but curious. “What kinda dream, Pedri? Spill.”
Pedri’s cheeks burned, and he laughed, nudging Ferran’s chest with his shoulder. “It wasn’t like that" he said, his voice shy. “Okay, maybe a little, stop laughing you twat, let me talk! We were on the pitch, just passing the ball, and then… you kissed me. And it felt so real, so right. I woke up and I was like, ‘Oh. Okay. That’s what this is.’”
Ferran’s grin was huge, and he rolled onto his back, pulling Pedri with him so Pedri was half-draped over his chest. “You had a dream-kiss with me at thirteen?” he whispered, his voice full of mock-awe. “God, that’s adorable. I love that so much.”
Pedri groaned, burying his face in Ferran’s neck, but he was smiling. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?” he mumbled, his voice muffled against Ferran’s skin.
“Nope,” Ferran said, his voice a playful whisper. He tilted his head, pressing a kiss to the top of Pedri’s head. “But for real, I’m jealous of dream-me. He got to kiss you way before I did.”
Pedri lifted his head, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yeah, well, real-you’s doing pretty okay,” he said, his voice soft but teasing. He leaned in, kissing Ferran again, slow and sweet, their lips moving together like they’d done this a thousand times. Because they had.
When they pulled apart, Ferran’s eyes were soft, and he reached up, cupping Pedri’s face. “I remember shaking your hand after the match,” he whispered, his voice almost reverent. “Your hand was so small, and it was so soft, and I was like, ‘Who the hell has hands this soft?’ I felt so awkward, towering over you, trying not to say something stupid.”
Pedri laughed, the sound light and bubbly. “You did say something stupid,” he said, his voice a whisper. “You said I was like Xavi and Iniesta had a baby. I was so embarrassed, but… I couldn’t stop smiling.”
Ferran’s laugh was soft, and he pulled Pedri closer, their bodies pressed together under the sheets. “I meant it, though,” he whispered. “You were incredible. I told my teammates about you on the bus ride back. I was like, ‘There’s this kid at Las Palmas, he’s gonna be a star.’”
Pedri’s heart fluttered, and he rested his chin on Ferran’s chest, looking up at him. “Really?” he asked, his voice soft. “You talked about me?”
Ferran nodded, his fingers threading through Pedri’s hair. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a warm whisper. “I couldn’t shut up about you. My captain was like, ‘Okay, Ferran, we get it, he’s good.’ They made a ban on your name like two weeks later. Man, I was so bummed! I must have yapped about you to my parents for at least six months after the game. But it wasn’t just that. I kept thinking about you, even after we got back to Valencia. I didn’t know why, but… you stuck with me.”
Pedri’s smile was shy, and he reached up, tracing the line of Ferran’s jaw with his fingertips. “You stuck with me too,” he whispered. “I kept replaying that moment after the match, when you said I’d be a star. I felt so… seen. Like you actually cared what I could do.”
Ferran’s eyes softened, and he leaned down, kissing Pedri’s forehead again. “I did care,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I still do. Always will.”
Pedri’s chest felt warm, and he snuggled closer, his voice a sleepy murmur. “I love you,” he said, the words slipping out like they were the easiest thing in the world. Because they were.
Ferran’s smile was radiant, even in the dark, and he tilted Pedri’s chin up, kissing him softly. “I love you too,” he whispered against Pedri’s lips, the words a daily ritual that never lost their magic. “So much.”
They fell quiet for a moment, just holding each other, their breaths syncing in the stillness. Pedri’s fingers traced lazy circles on Ferran’s chest, and Ferran’s hand rested on Pedri’s hip, his thumb brushing gently over the skin there. The memory of that match hung between them, sweet and nostalgic, a reminder of how far they’d come.
“Remember how we looked back at each other?” Pedri whispered, his voice soft and dreamy. “When we were walking away, and I turned around, and you were looking too?”
Ferran’s laugh was a soft huff, and he nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a whisper. “I felt like such an idiot, getting all giddy over that. I told my parents it was because of the goal, but… it was you.”
Pedri’s grin was huge, and he pressed his face against Ferran’s shoulder, his voice muffled. “I was the same,” he said, his tone teasing. “I was all smiley the rest of the day, and my brother kept asking me what was wrong with me. I didn’t even know how to explain it. I said it was because of the game, but Fernando was like "You do know you guys lost, right?"
Ferran chuckled, his fingers carding through Pedri’s hair. “God, we were so clueless,” he whispered. “Two dumb kids with no idea what was happening. But I’m glad it did. I’m glad it was you.”
Pedri’s heart swelled, and he lifted his head, his eyes shining in the moonlight. “Me too,” he said, his voice soft but certain. “I wouldn’t change a thing."
But that wasn't completely true. He paused, his fingers stilling on Ferran’s chest, a new thought forming in the quiet. His voice dropped even lower, almost hesitant but laced with resolve. “You know… if I win the Ballon d’Or in November, I’m gonna come out. Publicly. I want people to know who I am. Who I love.”
Ferran’s breath hitched, and he froze, his eyes locking on Pedri’s. For a moment, the room was so quiet Pedri could hear his own heartbeat. Then Ferran’s expression softened, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, a mix of pride and awe washing over his face. “Pedri…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He sat up slightly, pulling Pedri with him so they were face-to-face, their hands still intertwined. “You’re serious?”
Pedri nodded, his hazel eyes steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a whisper but firm. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. If I win… it’s not just about me. It’s about showing people it’s okay to be who you are. To love who you love. I want to do it for us. For kids who were like me, who might be scared or confused. And… I want the world to know I’m yours.”
Ferran’s eyes shimmered, and he let out a shaky breath, a tear slipping down his cheek. He laughed softly, wiping it away with the back of his hand, but his smile was radiant. “God, amor,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so proud of you. You have no idea. You’re so brave, so… incredible.” He cupped Pedri’s face, his thumbs brushing over Pedri’s cheeks, his voice trembling with emotion. “And if you’re doing it, I’m doing it too. I’ll come out with you. We’ll do it together.”
Pedri’s eyes widened, his heart stuttering. “Ferran, you don’t have to—” he started, but Ferran shook his head, cutting him off gently.
“No, I want to,” Ferran said, his voice a fierce whisper, his eyes burning with conviction. “I’m not letting you do this alone. You’re my everything, Pedri. If you’re ready to tell the world, then I am too. I want everyone to know I’m yours, just like you’re mine. I want to stand next to you, hold your hand, and show them what love looks like.”
Pedri’s throat tightened, and his own eyes stung with tears. He laughed softly, the sound shaky but full of joy, and leaned in, pressing his forehead against Ferran’s. “You’re gonna make me cry,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I love you so much.”
Ferran’s smile was soft, and he pulled Pedri into a kiss, this one deep and tender, filled with a promise that went beyond words. When they pulled apart, Ferran’s hands were still on Pedri’s face, his eyes shining with love and pride. “I love you too,” he whispered, his voice steady now. “And I’m so fucking proud of you. You’re gonna win that Ballon d’Or, and we’re gonna change the world together.”
Pedri’s laugh was soft, and he nestled back against Ferran’s chest, his voice a sleepy murmur. “We should go back to Gran Canaria sometime,” he said, his eyes half-closed, the weight of their conversation settling into a warm glow. “Play on that pitch again, just for fun.”
Ferran’s laugh was soft, and he tightened his arm around Pedri. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Just you and me, no pressure. I’ll let you nutmeg me this time."
Pedri’s giggle was muffled against Ferran’s skin, and he yawned, his voice fading. “Deal,” he murmured. “But I’m still gonna win.”
Ferran’s smile was audible in his voice as he whispered, “You already have, amor.”
They drifted off like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, the memory of that long-ago match a warm glow between them. The world outside could wait—training, matches, the chaos of their lives as professional footballers. For now, it was just them, whispering in the dark, their love a quiet, unshakable certainty that had started with a spark on a sunlit pitch eight years ago.