Work Text:
From the café at Port Vell where Pedro works you cannot see the Mediterranean. Instead, the windows face the Rambla directly, as though a river of people spilling into the sea at its mouth. Sometimes, when business is slow, Pedro can get a good look. The yachts floating by the pier, the tourists marveling at the gothic facades, the plane trees that seem to carve the path which will eventually lead uphill, and the viewpoint that ties them all together.
Moments like these don’t always follow with a profound sense of emptiness, but today they do. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he’ll be going on his last date with Unai later, after his shift is over. He’s been dreading this moment for the last few days, fearing the awkwardness of what will, hopefully, be their final interaction. And the date will be awkward, there’s no way around it. First of all, Unai isn’t yet aware it’s their last date. Secondly, Unai and Pedro have been awkward for the entirety of the whooping three months they were together, so hoping for an exception to the rule would be naive.
He wishes he could talk to someone about this, but his current roster of potential confidants include his work friends, each more incompetent than the rest. There’s Ferran, who has worked in the café longer than him, but cannot for the life of him get a grasp of coffee machine logistics. Lamine might make a mean espresso, but he is a) seventeen and b) addicted to Block Blast, which reduces conversations with him to a series of grunts and hums that he deems sufficient enough responses. God forbid someone bring it up though, because Lamine conveniently carries his newly acquired ADHD diagnosis everywhere he goes and throws around ableism accusations whenever he is asked to get off his phone.
His best bet would probably be Fermin, but Fermin’s on sick leave. And he’s openly straight, so he’d probably advise Pedro to suck it up and get married. Or have a child. And then Pedro would have to explain to him that two gay men cannot produce a child and adoption is a bit difficult when you’re in university and you’ve got a shitty part time job and you share a forty square meter flat with a roommate. And then Fermin would get sad because he always gets sad when he learns about a new injustice, which is why no one is allowed to be ableist to Lamine anymore. Pedro’s lack of uterus would replace period cramps as Fermin’s top concern of the week and that’s not something he’d like to go through.
And so Pedro braves through his shift, trying to divert his thoughts from the impending embarrassment and discomfort. He succeeds, largely, mostly because Ferran breaks the coffee machine and they spend a solid hour or so trying to fix it. It would have taken them shorter if not for the fact that Lamine paused the YouTube tutorial every two or so minutes to get a hit of Subway Surfers. As he complained about the lack of split screen on his iPhone, Pedro decided that if he were ever to grow a womb and then a child in said womb, he would have to move to Pennsylvania and raise them Amish so that they could never come close to an iPad.
At least the walk didn’t take long. When Pedro said he wanted to meet up over call the other day, Unai told him of a park near La Rambla they could go to. Pedro would rather pick someplace with remote shadow, or preferably air conditioning, but he agreed anyway. Something about Unai always elicited a performance out of him, an act of complacency.
"Where is it exactly?" he asked.
"It’s near your work, actually. Like, if you walk a bit down Passeig Josep Carner.”
“Huh?” Although Pedro has been living in Barcelona for a few years now, he could not tell you the name of more than ten streets. He knows where he lives, which metro line to take to university and how to get to work from either of those places. “Where is that?”
“You have to, uh, follow where Columbus is pointing and pass the Maritime Museum.” Unai explained.
Now, on his way there, Pedro begins to feel a little guilty. Not even because he is breaking up with his boyfriend, but because of the delay in doing so. He doesn't know why he prolonged something he had known was inevitable one week into dating Unai. Perhaps it was denial, wishful thinking that they'd click once they got to know each other better. Maybe it was wanting to give Unai a shot because he is sweet, kind, smart, funny, and Pedro would be an idiot not to appreciate that. It could be the futile attempt to remain oblivious to the crippling realization that Pedro has a type and whoever doesn't fit type is out of the question.
It’s better not to think about that, though.
It's not that Pedro doesn't like him, in the most rudimentary, platonic understanding of the word. Because he does. Unai is sweet, kind, and all of the above. But so is his brother Fernando’s wife Alba. So is Ferran, on a good day. So is his dentist Luisa, and so is approximately 78.2% of the people he’s just passed by on La Rambla. Unai may be more attractive, younger, and less genetically related to Pedro than the lot of them, but it still doesn't exactly cut it.
It all became crystal clear to him during one painfully boring shift at the café when Pedro asked his friend from work Alexia what she likes about her girlfriend, Aitana. Without much thought, Alexia answered that Aitana hisses whenever they take the metro and the station names are announced in Spanish, not Catalan.
"She thinks she's a freedom fighter," Alexia said with a fond smile. "It's endearing. Last week, she wrote her third letter of complaint to the Generalitat about this."
"And you like that?"
"Yeah," Alexia nodded. "She ignored me the entire night, but it was nice to watch her."
Unai doesn't send letters of complaint to the Catalan government. Pedro doesn't particularly mind that, but if anyone asked him what made Unai stand out from all the other people, so much that Pedro decided to give him three months of his life, he wouldn't quite have the answer. Worse, he'd make up a lie on the spot so that he wouldn't look like a horrible person. Nothing quite as genuine as Alexia.
He spots Unai waiting at the gates of Jardins del Baluard, walking up with an awkward expression. "Uh, hi."
"Hi," Unai hugs him, rather half-heartedly, but presses a kiss to his cheek. "How was work?"
"Good, yeah. How are you?"
"Nice, great. Happy to see you." They stand in silence for a short while before Unai proposes they go inside. They walk up the stone stairs, gravel scratching the surface under their feet.
The park isn't as pretty as others in Barcelona tend to be. Benches rusty, with paint chipping off, gardens unkempt and wilting. Still, it's a nice view of the port, so Pedro doesn't mind. It’s become a familiar place, which isn’t always the case in a city as large and overwhelming and difficult to carve a space for yourself in.
"Do you think the Mirador is a good look?" Pedro tries to stall. Which is within the usual, because he often finds himself trying to fill the silence between the two of them when they meet, as though finding things for them to talk about when there aren’t any. “For the city, I mean.”
“In what sense?”
“Like, in the…like, you know. Like it’s not like Columbus was a good person.”
"Uh, okay?" Unai seems pretty confused. “Because he was Italian or…?”
"No, not exactly. I mean it feels like endorsing, you know…”
“Know what?”
“Nevermind. But I don’t really like it. Like the pointing, too. So arrogant, makes me wanna snap the finger off.”
“That could get you in serious trouble,” Unai worries.
"I’m not actually—nevermind. Anyways, how did you find this place?" Pedro asks.
"Oh, I googled it. I wanted it to be close to your work."
"Ah. That’s really considerate."
It's how hanging out with Unai usually plays out, both of them with sticks perpetually stuck up their asses. It's a dynamic that Pedro has grown bored of. He proposes they sit down.
"You wanted to talk?" Unai says.
"Yeah, yeah, uh..." he pauses, "Unai, we're, like, together."
Unai nods slowly. "Yeah, we are."
"Okay," silence. “And we have been. For three months.”
“That’s right.”
"Then what is it that you like about me?" Pedro asks.
“Huh?”
“Like, what have you really grown to like about me, in these three months?”
"Well," Unai clears his throat, and pauses, "for starters, I think you're really smart. And you're funny too. You're always really sweet."
In his second year of university, Pedro managed to score a cheap rental in Gràcia, the subject of many a friend’s envy. It’s what you would call a good neighborhood, more local than Gótico or el Raval, but nonetheless charming architecture and greenery that is now in full blossom. It’s conveniently located, too. While others are forced to commute from the outskirts or share a seven person accommodation in UB dormitories, Pedro’s home is a few minutes away from the metro line. Unfortunately, those few minutes of walking involve tackling a substantial incline. With the sweltering air more typical of summer than mid-spring, he sweats the whole way up, navigating the maze of grocery stalls and cars parked way past the curb of the pavement.
When he finally makes it to his apartment block, the lift is out of service, so he climbs up the five flights of stairs with a grimace. He digs out the keys from his back pocket and opens the door. His flatmate must be home, judging by the shoes in the hallway.
"Hey, it’s me," he calls out weakly.
He hears shuffling from inside the apartment, and soon enough, Pablo emerges, still in his sleepwear. "Oh, good morning!"
"Hi," Pedro sighs. "It's like, 3 p.m."
"And I have a dysfunctional sleep schedule, get with the program," Pablo reminds him. Pedro doesn’t know how he’s been able to get through three years of Engineering at UPC with this kind of attitude. Alas, he’s at the top of his class while Pedro struggles to juggle his barista job and a degree in linguistics, so maybe he’s the problem. "What’s with the face?"
“What face?”
“Your ugly mug.”
“What about my ugly mug?”
“More ugly and tortured than usual.”
"The lift's out of service," Pedro explains. "And I broke up with Unai."
Pablo's amused grin quickly turns into an expression of concern. "Hey, it’s breakfast time, let me cook you something."
Pedro snorts. "Is that you trying to be comforting?"
"No, I’m hungry as fuck, to be fair. And I know you are, too, because that asshole never takes you out to get food," a scowl etches itself on Pablo’s ever-expressive face and does not subside on the way to their microscopic kitchen, where he rummages through the fridge. “Leftover tortilla or, uh, bread with fuet?”
“We have to get groceries soon,” Pedro helps him with the tortilla, unwrapping it from cling film and stuffing it into the microwave. The tight space should hinder it from being a two-person job, but him and Pablo make do. “Unai is not an asshole.”
"He’s not your boyfriend anymore, you don’t have to defend poor widdol Unai from me," Pablo grabs two plates and some cutlery from the cupboard. "Do you want some tea? We are running low on that green tea you like, speaking of groceries. "
"No, I’m good with coffee," Pedro grabs the kettle and fills it up with water. "I'll make you some, too? You're still probably groggy."
"Well yes," Pablo grins, rubbing his eyes. "I can barely comprehend what's happening currently. I’m so out of it I can’t even properly register the fact that I will never have to see Unai’s fucking face around these streets again. I don't get how you work morning shifts."
"Life's tough when you have to pay rent from your mall barista paycheck," Pedro grabs Pablo's favorite vanilla-flavored instant coffee and adds two teaspoons straight to Pablo’s . The microwave pings, and Pedro has to remind Pablo not to touch the bottom of the plate like he always does, or he'll burn his fingers.
"Thanks," Pablo smiles sheepishly. “Do you think if I burn my fingers enough I’ll no longer have fingerprints? Like, I could kill someone, and leave no trace?”
“You make it really scary to live with you.”
“Oh, shut up, you know I’d never kill you. Even when I’m mad at you, you don’t crack top 50.”
“Top 50 what?”
“My list of Top 50 people I want dead. I can show you, later.” Before Pablo walks out to the living room with the food, he turns to Pedro. "You know the drill, right? One teaspoon—"
"—of sugar and 2 tablespoons of cream. Who do you think I am?" Pedro jokes, pouring in the water into both cups. He takes the flower-shaped silicone lids that Pablo got from Ale-Hop and covers the drinks, because Pablo likes his coffee warm, and Pedro likes to match him.
"So," Pablo says, cutting a generous piece of tortilla and dropping it onto Pedro's plate. "Unai. Never liked him, by the way."
"I know," Pedro replies. "You’re very vocal about it. Even if you weren’t, you always do that funny thing when you see people you hate, where you try to smile, but your lips are pursed, and you look like an idiot."
"Shut up, I don't," Pablo laughs. "Anyways, I was right. He’s an even bigger idiot than I expected if he broke up with you."
"Wow, harsh. You think I was the dumpee? I broke up with him, for the record."
“Oh, did you?” Pablo looks more impressed than surprised. “Good for you, then. Finally came to your senses or…?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
"And how do you feel about it?" Pablo asks. Pedro sighs.
"I'm probably gonna sound like an asshole, but pretty good, come to think of it," he stares ahead through the window. Their view is hardly impressive—a row of balconies in the building across the street—but he likes it either way. He takes note of the Catalan flags suspended on the railings.
"Why am I wasting tortilla on you, then?" Pablo jokes but cuts him another slice for good measure.
"I just realized this whole thing was kinda pointless. I feel like an ass for, I don't know, leading him on?"
"Okay, I know I’m not exactly impartial—”
“—You could say that, yeah—”
“But from an outsider's point of view, I don’t think I see it that way, you know?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Both of you cared for each other on a similar level," Pablo says. "I always thought both of you dated each other out of convenience. What I didn’t understand is why you had to settle for that. Is there, like, a shortage of gay men in Barcelona?"
Pedro smiles wryly to himself. Pablo is dangerously perceptive, has the ability to read Pedro deeper than anyone else. It's what makes them work well together, neither of them having to verbalize how they feel for the other to understand.
"Hey, unrelated, but can I ask you something?" Pedro changes the subject. "Actually, it's kind of related, but play along."
"Fine," Pablo shuffles on the couch so that his head is rested against its back, one leg perched on the other in the air. Pablo isn't one to care for sitting like a normal person or protecting his already hunched spine from more damage.
"Can't you like, use anything else?"
"Is that the question? Then no, I can't," Pablo jokes, and Pedro threatens to stab him in the eye with a fork.
"Okay, so. Imagine we're, like, uh, no, let me word it differently. Is there something you like about me?"
Pablo's eyes widen. "Well, you're, like, my friend? So I like you? As a friend?"
"No, no," Pedro corrects himself. "No, like, what is something I do or like, something I am that makes you like me. I know it's weird, I'm sorry. You don't have to answer."
"No, no, it's fine," Pablo assures him. "Uh, okay. You mean it like, platonically or like if I were Unai—?"
"No, you. In whatever way, I don't care," he lies.
"Hm, fine. Uh, I like your laugh," Pablo says.
"My laugh?"
"Yeah," Pablo nods, eyes focused on the ceiling. "You have this, I don't know, boyish laugh? Like, it's loud and kind of obnoxious. And when something is really funny, you literally just go 'HA! HA! HA!' and your eyes go all wide. I don't know, your facial expression is really weird." He can see the corners of Pablo's mouth shift upward ever so slightly.
"So I have a weird laugh, and that's what you like about me?"
"Essentially," Pablo confirms. "I like it that you slip into your Canarian accent sometimes. I like that you got all these books about ADHD because you think Lamine is your child. I like when you come back from the dentist and your face is all swollen. But most of all, I like that you work near an aquarium because I can visit you and then go look at the fish"
"You do love the fish," Pedro comments.
"Yeah. It's a pity that they have to spend their days looking at Columbus. You, too. I pity you, he’s got one of those ugly mugs, just like Unai. It’s ridiculous that you had to deal with both. And that fucking finger…”
“The finger is just presumptuous.”
“Precisely. Not a good look. I was walking back from seeing you one day and I thought to myself: could I snap it off? Unfortunately, it’s harder than it looks. Columbus is anywhere from like, five to seven meters tall. Which would make his finger, uh, like twenty-ish? Centimeters long. The diameter is more important, though. It’s, like, maybe five or six centimeters. And you might think that it’s not a lot, but we have to consider the density of the finger. Which I did once, mind you, but I don’t have my GDC with me, so I’ll just work with estimates. The statue is made from bronze, which is a tin alloy, but the composition is not uniform, it depends on the mix of other metals. It’s somewhere between seven and nine thousand kilograms per cubic meter. Obviously, it would be more intuitive to use grams per centimeters cubed, but it’s easier later on to substitute the equations, which are largely Newton-based. Anyways, for simplicity, let’s assume the finger is a perfect cylinder, with a diameter of six centimeters, and a density of eight thousand kilo per meter. To break a cylinder of such density and diameter, assuming it’s got the strength of four hundren mega pascals at least, you would have to exert seven hundren kilonewtons of force. Easy to do with a decently sized hydraulic press, but we have to think about logistics. Who is climbing up Columbus with a hydraulic press? I was thinking of a hand drill of some sort, but that would take time and make significant noise that would most certainly alert the Guardia Civil. And we would have to consider the hardness of the drill itself, I forgot about that in the grand scheme of things.”
“So,” Pedro cuts in, having lost the train of Pablo’s thought a few minutes ago, “from what I understand is we have to wait for the CUP to finally successfully campaign for his removal?”
“Precisely,” Pablo sighs. “It’s just so fraudulent. He isn't even pointing in the right direction."
Pedro raises his brow. “What do you mean?”
“Like, he’s literally pointing towards the sea. Which—I know you’re not great with maps, but this is primary school Geography—Barcelona is famously on the Mediterranean coast, with the sea east, south-south-east, if we’re being exact, to the land. Naturally, if you point South-East from the Mediterranean coast of the Iberian peninsula, which Columbus is doing, you are not pointing towards America, you would be pointing towards Algeria? Libia, maybe? I’d have to check with my compass. Either way, he’s not pointing to the New World. If he were, he’d be pointing up the hills. But that’s not poetic, or whatever. You could make the point that you have to leave the port in the direction of the finger to sail to the New World, but you’d still have to be headed more South—”
Pablo is interrupted when Pedro bursts out laughing, holds his stomach as he bends in half, trying to catch his breath. "God, you’re something!"
"What's so funny?" Pablo looks confused. “I’m serious, this is serious to me.”
"I know, it’s just that—you're right. You're right, actually" Pedro slaps his forehead. "He was pointing in the wrong direction."