Chapter Text
Pablo Gavi had always belonged to the ice.
The first time anyone saw him skate, he was only six. A blur of sharp turns and reckless speed at a local winter rink in Seville. No one taught him how to balance or how to push off—he just did. And when his blades sliced through the frost with too much force, when he fell hard on his elbows or twisted too fast on his ankle, he got up. Always. Silently. Glaring at the ground like it owed him something. Like he was trying to conquer the surface, not dance on it.
He didn’t smile when he skated. He didn’t wave to crowds. He didn’t chase elegance. What he had was something different. Something people couldn’t look away from.
Sharp. Scary. Beautiful in a way that burned.
The boarding school came shortly after. Seville Skating Academy. One of the top training programs in Spain, hidden up in the mountains, known for forging champions and pushing bodies past their limits. Gavi’s parents signed the forms quickly. Too quickly.
He left home at seven years old.
There were other skaters, but Gavi never got close to them. Bonds were weaknesses. Friends were distractions. That’s what Valle said. Valle was the head coach, but to Gavi, he was more than that. He was a judge, a voice, a parental figure to Gavi. The man who woke him at five, corrected his posture by grabbing his neck, who watched his mistakes with quiet disgust and praised him only when he bled.
"You’re not like them," Valle told him once. "You don’t need love. You need to win." And so he did. Over and over. But never with a smile.
The tournament in Barcelona was his first real competition outside of the academy's tight control. Not a major event, but big enough. National-level scouts, a decent crowd, even coverage online. Gavi didn’t care about any of that. He was there because Valle said he had to be.
He was eighteen now. Taller. Sharper. Scarier.
His program wasn’t perfect. The landing on his triple loop was crooked. His spins weren’t the fastest in the lineup. But no one in the stands forgot him. Because Gavi didn’t skate to impress. He skated like he was in a fight and people felt it.
Pedri hadn’t planned to be there.
Twenty-four, retired from competition after a devastating knee injury that ended his promising career in figure skating. It had happened during a landing he’d practiced a thousand times before, but that one time, everything gave out. He spent a year learning how to walk again. Skating was over. Competing was gone. But he couldn't let go of the ice. Coaching wasn’t the plan—it was survival. A way to live through others, to give back what had been taken from him, and maybe, to save someone the way no one had saved him.
He came because a friend mentioned there was talent at this regional meet. That someone different was skating. That he had to see it.
So Pedri stood by the side of the rink, sipping bitter coffee, half-expecting nothing. Until the commentator spoke out after a while stepped onto the ice. Something about him stopped Pedri cold.
“Now taking the ice, representing the Seville Skating Academy; Pablo Gavira. Eighteen years old. Coached by Joaquín Valle. This will be his senior-level debut on the national stage.”
The boy didn’t warm up with elegance. He didn’t flash practiced smiles at the judges or glide across the rink like he belonged in the spotlight. He moved like someone who had learned to survive under pressure, not perform for applause.
His opening pose was sharp, shoulders hunched slightly like he was bracing for something—not a routine, but a war.
Then the music started.
The sound wasn’t delicate or soaring, it was jagged, slow at first, then overwhelming. The boy with fluffy brown hair and dark eyes that shot daggers straight towards the crowd and the judges. He didn’t skate like he wanted to impress anyone. He skated like his soul had claws. Like pain had stitched itself into his bones and he didn’t know how to let it out except through this.
His jumps weren’t clean. The landings quivered under too much strain. His body was lean to the point of fragile, too fragile, like if someone touched him he’d break into a million pieces of shiny glass. Each movement reveals more bone than grace. But still he moved with a fury no one could teach.
Each motion had intent. Each spin ripped through the air like he was trying to cut free from something invisible.
It wasn’t perfect but It was raw. Real. Brutal.
Pedri sat forward in his seat, pulse hammering. He had seen skaters rise and fall his entire career, technicians with flawless timing, performers with dazzling charm but none of them ever made him feel like this.
The young boy looked like he was skating from the edge of something terrifying.
Every arm extension was a silent scream. Every pivot is a crack in the surface. And when he lifted his head for the first time, halfway through the program, his eyes didn’t reach the audience, they looked at the ice. In his own shadow. Like he was chasing something just out of reach.
Pedri swallowed hard, heart in his throat.
The choreography was wild, sometimes messy. There was no polish in his presentation, no ribbon to tie it all together. But that didn’t matter. There was a kind of twisted beauty in the way he moved, like watching someone pour their suffering into motion. Like pain made visible.
He didn’t just skate. He bled.
And by the time the music ended, Pablo stood still, chest heaving, sweat clinging to his temples, eyes vacant.
Pedri could barely put himself back together after the young boy's performance. He just sat there, completely still, a hand pressed to his own chest like trying to settle something shaken loose inside him.
Who was this kid? And how long had he been skating like this with no one noticing? He just sat there, stunned, trying to process it.
Later, in the corridor near the practice rooms, Pedri spotted a man in a tailored Seville coaching jacket, its emblem stitched sharp against the dark fabric. The man was speaking to one of the event organizers, voice smooth but cold, a tone Pedri had heard before in rooms full of ambition and quiet cruelty. He knew that logo. He knew that voice. That had to be Coach Valle—Gavi's coach.
“You’re with Pablo Gavira?” Pedri asked, stepping closer.
The man turned. Smiled thinly.
“Yes. Coach Valle.”
Pedri introduced himself, offering a calm handshake and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Pedri," he said. "Development coach. Been working with a few juniors. Always keeping an eye out for something special."
Valle raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with something close to amusement. "Ah. Another idealist," he said, voice smooth like oil. "They send one every year. You all come thinking you’ll find the next legend. But trust me, some talents aren’t meant to be shared."
Pedri let the words settle, resisting the urge to show how much they grated. He just nodded, filing the arrogance away like a warning bell.
Valle’s smirk deepened. He looked Pedri up and down like he was already dismissing him. "Plenty of talent here," Valle said, voice laced with arrogance. "But Gavi’s not for just anyone. He’s mine. Since he was seven. Every inch of progress, I built it."
Pedri kept his face neutral, though something behind his ribs clenched. The coach's pride didn’t come from nurturing. It came from owning. Pedri nodded slowly.
Valle leaned in a bit, voice quiet. "He’s not like other kids. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t complain. He just works. There’s something in him... you can’t teach that."
Pedri didn’t respond. His stomach turned. Like something was eating at him.
Later, in the corridor near the practice rooms, Pedri spotted a man in a tailored Seville coaching jacket, its emblem stitched sharp against the dark fabric. The man was speaking to one of the event organizers, voice smooth but cold—a tone Pedri had heard before in rooms full of ambition and quiet cruelty. He knew that logo. He knew that voice. That had to be Coach Valle—Gavi's coach.
“You’re with Gavi?” Pedri asked, stepping closer.
The man turned. Smiled thinly.
“Yes. Coach Valle.”
Pedri introduced himself, offering a calm handshake and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Pedri," he said. "Development coach. Been working with a few juniors. Always keeping an eye out for something special."
Valle raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with something close to amusement. "Ah. Another idealist," he said, voice smooth like oil. "They send one every year. You all come thinking you’ll find the next legend. But trust me, some talents aren’t meant to be shared."
Pedri let the words settle, resisting the urge to show how much they grated. He just nodded, filing the arrogance away like a warning bell.
Valle’s smirk deepened. He looked Pedri up and down like he was already dismissing him. "Plenty of talent here," Valle said, voice laced with arrogance. "But Gavi’s not for just anyone. He’s mine. Since he was six. Every inch of progress, I built it."
Pedri kept his face neutral, though something behind his ribs clenched. The coach's pride didn’t come from nurturing. It came from owning.
Valle tilted his head slightly. "He’s raw, yes. But that’s the point. I’ve had him since he was six. Project of mine. You understand."
Pedri nodded slowly. A Project he thought.
Valle leaned in a bit, voice quiet. "Gavi’s not like other kids. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t complain. He just works. There’s something in him... you can’t teach that."
Pedri didn’t respond. His stomach turned.
Still, Pedri kept his posture relaxed. "How long are you staying in Barcelona?" he asked lightly.
Valle blinked, the question catching him off guard. "Why?"
"Just curious," Pedri shrugged. "Your boy is... compelling. I'd like to see more. Even if that means traveling." Valle chuckled, low and smug. "You’re persistent. But trust me, he’s got everything he needs already."
Pedri didn’t answer. Not out loud. But the twist in his gut told him otherwise. The way Valle spoke. About control, about ownership, it made Pedri’s skin crawl. And yet, his eyes kept drifting back to where Gavi had last been. He couldn’t explain it. Just a feeling. A pull. If Gavi was leaving Barcelona soon, Pedri wanted to know where he was going next. He’d follow, if he had to. For answers. For Gavi.
"We're staying here for a few months until the next competition," Valle said, watching Pedri closely now, the curiosity in his tone laced with something sharper. "Funny, though. What does someone like you want with a boy like Gavi?" Valle said roughly.
Pedri's jaw tightened. "Maybe I see something worth paying attention to."
Valle's eyes narrowed. "Plenty of coaches do. They all walk away. They think they see something in him, potential, fire but they don't last. Because they realize soon enough that he's too rough, too cold, too broken."
Pedri held his stare. "Or maybe they just weren’t the right ones." Valle gave a low chuckle, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You think you're different? That you’ll fix him?"
"No," Pedri said calmly. "I think maybe he was never the one who needed fixing."
Valle scoffed, turning slightly. But across the hallway, Gavi stood silently in the corner. He hadn’t left yet. His gaze wasn’t on Pedri, it was fixed entirely on Valle. Watching. Waiting. Studying every word that fell from his coach's mouth.
It wasn’t the first time.
Every coach who had shown interest in him before, everyone who had offered a hand, a change, an escape. Valle had spoken to Gavi afterward with the same tone. Not angry. Disappointed. Cold. He’d say things like, "They don’t understand your potential," or "They’ll ruin you," or worse, "You’ll fail without me."
He always made Gavi feel like he wasn’t enough for anyone else. That only Valle could help him ascend. That only Valle saw him clearly. And Gavi believed it. At least, he used to.
But now, seeing Valle flinch, just slightly at Pedri’s calm defiance, something shifted. Gavi felt it in his chest. Fear, yes. But something else, too. Doubt.
Gavi leaned closer to one of his teammates, whispering just under the buzz of chatter in the hallway. "Who’s that?"
His teammate followed his gaze across the corridor, toward the man still talking to Coach Valle. "Pedri González," he replied. "He was one of the best skaters in Spain a few years ago. Before…"
"What happened?" Gavi asked, brow furrowed.
"Crushed his knee during a landing. Career-ending. I think he was twenty-four when it happened. Never skated again. Looks like he’s coaching now."
Gavi blinked slowly, watching the man—Pedri—speak to Valle. Something about the way he stood, calm and unreadable, unsettled him.
"What’s he doing here?" Gavi asked.
His teammate shrugged. "Not sure. Scouting maybe? But he’s been staring since your routine." Gavi looked down, his stomach knotting.
He should’ve felt proud. He’d performed. Skated the way Valle trained him to. But that man’s eyes didn’t see just technique, they saw him. And that terrified him more than he’d admit.
He looked back toward Valle. His coach was scoffing now, defensive in a way that only showed when someone struck a nerve. But Gavi could see it, Pedri wasn’t intimidated. He was studying. Listening. Calculating. And Valle didn’t like that.
Gavi crossed his arms tighter over his chest, retreating further into the shadow of the hallway, watching the exchange with wide, unreadable eyes.
That night, Pedri watched footage of Gavi’s old routines online. There weren’t many. Valle kept him hidden. Controlled. Every video had the same thing: the sharpness. The eyes. The unspoken ache.
And Pedri couldn’t stop thinking about the way Valle spoke about him. Like Gavi wasn’t a person. Like he was a blade. A tool. A thing he owned.
Pedri stepped out on his balcony, the cold Barcelona air biting at his face, but inside, his mind was far from the night. The images of Gavi on the ice played on repeat in his head, the sharp angles of his jumps, the jagged edges of his spins, the haunted look behind his eyes. He had to see more.
Back in his small apartment, Pedri pulled out his laptop, fingers trembling with a mix of exhaustion and curiosity. He typed in Gavi’s name, hoping for some hidden treasure of footage, a glimpse into the boy’s past. What he found was sparse, just a few low-quality videos scattered across obscure skating forums and social media, carefully controlled, barely enough to piece together a story.
Pedri clicked on the first clip. The footage was grainy, taken from a distant angle, but the raw energy was unmistakable. Gavi, a little younger, skating with a furious intensity that made the air around him crackle. Pedri’s eyes narrowed, tracing every movement, every falter.
The second video showed Gavi’s face up close, his expression cold, eyes sharp, a mask hiding something deeper. Pedri’s heart clenched. He leaned closer, replaying the clip again and again.
“Who hurt you, kid?” Pedri whispered, the words almost lost in the silence of his room.
Hours slipped by as he devoured every second of footage. The boy was fierce, untamed, a force barely held in check. But beneath the bravado, Pedri sensed a fractured soul, someone who’d been pushed too hard, broken too often, but refusing to shatter completely.
He thought of his own past of that knee injury that had ended his skating dreams. The loneliness. The loss. The bitterness of watching others live the life he once had. And now, this boy, this raw, sharp-edged kid, seemed to carry the same weight.
Pedri’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, searching for interviews, mentions, anything that might explain the story behind those piercing eyes. Valle’s name appeared too often, glowing with a harsh, almost ruthless reputation. Pedri’s stomach twisted.
“This isn’t just talent,” he muttered. “It’s a fight for survival.” He shut his laptop, the screen fading to black but the images still burning bright in his mind. Pedri knew one thing for certain: this was no ordinary coaching gig. He wasn’t just watching a skater; he was witnessing a battle, a silent scream beneath the ice. And he wanted to be the one to break him out.
The rink was quiet, the kind of still that felt like holding its breath. It was early morning, before the usual rush of skaters and coaches flooded in. Only a few early risers were scattered around the ice, slicing gentle arcs with measured grace.
Pedri slipped in through the side entrance, careful not to make a sound. The cold air bit at his cheeks as he pulled his jacket tighter around him. His eyes immediately found the center of the rink. There, cutting sharp lines into the ice, was Gavi.
He wasn’t alone. Valle stood nearby, barking orders with that same cold edge, his voice echoing off the walls like a warning. A couple of other skaters circled in slower, quieter practice, but Gavi was the storm in the calm.
Pedri crouched low beside the bleachers, trying to make himself small, a shadow against the early light. His breath was shallow, heart hammering in his chest.
Gavi’s every move was precise, violent even—each jump landing with a jagged thud that made Pedri wince. There was no joy in the boy’s skating, only relentless pressure. Pedri watched, entranced, willing himself to stay invisible. But Valle’s eyes were sharper than a hawk’s.
The coach’s head snapped up, locking on Pedri’s hiding spot like a predator sensing prey. “Hey!” Valle called out, voice sharp and unyielding. Pedri froze. Valle stalked toward him, each step echoing loudly in the quiet rink.
“What are you doing here?” Valle demanded, folding his arms. Pedri stood slowly, meeting the coach’s glare without flinching. “I’m here to watch Gavi skate,” he said evenly. “I want to understand.” Valle’s lips curled into a mocking smile.
“Understand?” he repeated. “You think you can understand what it takes to handle him?” Pedri didn’t answer. Valle’s eyes flicked toward the ice, where Gavi was finishing a difficult spin, breath heavy, eyes distant.
“You’re new here,” Valle said coldly. “But you don’t get to pick and choose. He’s not yours. And he’s not for the faint-hearted.” Pedri took a step forward, voice steady but low.
“I don’t want to own him. I want to help.” Valle’s expression hardened. “Good luck with that.” Pedri turned his gaze back to Gavi, whose silhouette was etched in the dim rink light, sharp, fierce, and unbearably alone.
The buzz of the arena lights faded into background noise as Pedri stood by the rail, his eyes still on Gavi.
Valle had walked away, smug and dismissive, his voice still echoing in Pedri’s head: “He’s not for the faint-hearted.”
Pedri didn’t need the warning. He’d seen that already.
He stayed until the end of practice. Quiet. Invisible, if only barely. A few of the younger skaters glanced his way in curiosity. Gavi never did. But Pedri knew he saw him. Every sharp turn was edged with something more violent. Every landing is heavier. Gavi was skating like he wanted to break the ice beneath him.
The rink was near empty. Cold. The kind of cold that bit at your bones and made silence louder. Pedri waited outside near the side doors, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. Just as he was beginning to think Gavi had gone, the door creaked open.
Gavi stepped out, hoodie pulled over his head, a bruise darkening along his collarbone that Pedri hadn’t noticed earlier. Pedri didn’t move.
Gavi stopped though, startled for a moment, his eyes locking with Pedri’s. He didn’t speak—just stared. Pedri cleared his throat, but his voice was soft. “You skated like you were trying to burn down the rink.” Gavi’s jaw twitched. “Maybe I was.” Pedri didn’t laugh. “You always push that hard?”
Gavi’s gaze dropped to the ground. “Only when I want to be worth something.” That hit Pedri harder than he expected.
“Your jumps—they’re raw. But your transitions…” Pedri hesitated. “You move like you’re trying to claw your way out of something.” Gavi’s eyes flicked back up to him. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Pedri responded faster when he intended to. “Read me like you know me.” The younger's eyes dart to his hands that wouldn't stop picking at the threads of his too big hoodie “I don’t,” Pedri admitted. “But I want to.”
Gavi didn’t look back when he left.
The soft echo of his skates hitting against his duffle bag was the only sound left in the night air, and then even that faded. The door shut behind him with a muted thud. And Pedri was left alone.
He exhaled.
Long and slow. Like he’d been holding his breath since the moment Gavi stepped out of that rink.
Something wasn’t right. He’d felt it before—on the ice, when Gavi’s body twisted in ways that didn’t match his age. When his face, sharp and unreadable, stayed frozen even after nailing a brutal landing. Like applause meant nothing. Like he didn’t hear it.
Pedri leaned back against the wall again. Cold concrete at his back. The silence was different now. Heavy.
“Only when I want to be worth something,” Gavi had said.
Those words scratched at his thoughts like broken glass.
Pedri had seen ambition before. He’d lived it. But this wasn’t hunger. This wasn’t someone who skated to win.
This was survival.
And Gavi? Gavi didn’t trust him. Not even a little.
Pedri raked a hand through his hair, staring down the street Gavi had vanished into.
Why did you look at me like that?
Like I was just another threat?
What happened to you?
The early morning air was still cold, and the rink’s floodlights cut sharp lines across the glossy ice. The usual hum of a busy practice session was absent—only a handful of skaters were scattered around, their breaths visible in the chill. Gavi laced his boots silently, his jaw tight, eyes flickering toward the shadows near the rink’s edge.
There. Pedri was there again. Quiet, watching from the corner, as always.
Gavi’s chest tightened. It was hard not to notice him anymore. Pedri wasn’t subtle. The way he studied every move, every jump—it felt like a weight pressing down on Gavi’s nerves. But Gavi kept his expression cold, distant, pretending Pedri was just another shadow in his peripheral vision.
Valle, standing close with arms folded, caught Gavi’s glance. The older man’s lips curled into a tight smirk.
“You notice him too, huh?” Valle said, voice low but dripping with annoyance. Gavi’s fingers fumbled briefly over the laces, tugging too hard. One snapped, the sting of the frayed end biting into his palm. He didn’t react. just stared at the cut, then quickly finished the knot.
Gavi’s fingers clenched on his skate laces. “I see him.” He kept his eyes down, wary of giving Valle any more to work with.
Valle took a step closer, lowering his voice further, eyes sharp as knives. “That man is trouble. I don’t trust him.” Gavi swallowed. “Why? He hasn’t said anything.”
“Because he watches like a vulture,” Valle snapped, glancing toward Pedri again. “Waiting to swoop in, pretending to care. He’s jealous—everyone is jealous.” Gavi’s lip twitched with a mix of frustration and disbelief. “Jealous of what? I’m not special.”
Valle’s gaze hardened. “You’re sharper than anyone I’ve seen. But that kind of fire draws eyes you don’t want. And Pedri? He lost his chance. Now he’s trying to take yours.”
Gavi finally looked up, eyes cold but confused. “You think he wants to replace you?”
Valle scoffed, crossing his arms. “No, I think he wants to own you. Coaches like that don’t care about your skating. They want control, power. Mark my words, Gavi—stay away from him.”
The rink was silent except for the soft scrape of blades on ice. Gavi felt the walls closing in. Valle’s voice was like ice—beautiful but deadly.
“But he’s just watching,” Gavi whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
Valle’s eyes flicked back to him, sharp as a blade. “That’s the first step to taking everything from you. Don’t be naive.”
Gavi’s breath hitched. He wanted to argue, to say Pedri wasn’t like that, but the fear in Valle’s tone tangled with his own confusion.
Valle’s hand landed on his shoulder. Gavi flinched before he could stop himself. The grip wasn’t bruising. Not this time. But it didn’t need to be. “You’re mine. Don’t forget that.” And Gavi hated that the words didn’t sound strange to him anymore.
Gavi pulled back slightly, eyes flickering away to where Pedri still stood, quiet and unreadable.
For the first time in a long time, doubt settled deep inside him. His stomach was twisted in knots again. Not from nerves, not exactly. It was that sick, familiar emptiness that came with too many mornings without breakfast. Valle said lighter meant faster. But right now, it felt like nothing inside him could hold him up.
And for the first time in a long time, Gavi didn’t know who to be afraid of. For the first time, Valle’s voice didn’t sound like the truth. Just noise. And Pedri... still hadn’t looked away.
The final notes of the music echoed faintly through the rink, swallowed by the cold. Gavi skated harder than he had in days, his chest heaving, sweat clinging to his brow beneath the brutal glare of the overhead lights. Every muscle burned. Every jump landed heavier than the last. But he didn’t stop.
Couldn’t stop.
Not now. Not ever.
Valle stalked the rink’s edge like a predator, arms crossed, gaze unrelenting.
“Faster,” he barked. “Stronger. You don’t stop until I say so.”
Gavi’s body screamed, but he pushed into a final spin, dizzy and half-blind with effort—until his blade caught a soft edge. The ice rushed up. He hit hard.
A crack of pain shot through his wrist, his knee, his chest. Cold radiated into his bones. His breath stuttered. The world swam.
Valle was there in seconds—not with concern, but rage.
“You’re pathetic,” he snapped. “You want to throw away everything we worked for? You’re weak. You can’t even hold yourself up.”
Gavi tried to sit up, wincing, but pain flared hot down his side. He froze, biting back the sound that rose in his throat. His eyes flicked across the rink and landed on Pedri.
Pedri had stepped forward, fists clenched, jaw tight. His voice broke the frozen silence, low and sharp like a blade.
“Enough, Valle.”
Valle turned, fury already brimming. “Who the hell are you to tell me how to coach my skater?”
Pedri didn’t flinch. “I’m someone who’s watched this kid give everything he has. And listened to you cut him down like it’s part of the training. You don’t get to speak to him like that.”
Valle scoffed, stepping closer, the tension crackling between them. “Stay out of this. This is none of your business.”
Pedri’s voice stayed steady. Stronger. “It became my business the second you started breaking him to prove a point.” Gavi’s breath caught.
The ache in his body was nothing compared to the chaos swelling in his chest. Pain. Shame. And somewhere—buried beneath it all—a flicker of something warmer.
Pedri’s gaze shifted toward him, and in that brief glance, Gavi saw it:
I see you. I see everything. And I’m not letting him hurt you anymore.
Valle’s voice rose again, sharp and furious, but Pedri didn’t move.
“You’re wrong,” he said. “He’s not yours to break. Not anymore.”
Silence fell like a blade.
Gavi bit his lip hard, fighting tears. Scared, overwhelmed, but a quiet warmth spread in his chest. For the first time, someone had stood up for him—not because he was weak, but because he was worth it.
Someone had caught him. Not because he was fragile. But because he mattered.
Valle grabbed Gavi’s arm roughly, pulling him toward the rink’s exit after he put his guards on and tossed his bag across his shoulder. The cold air hit Gavi’s face as they stepped outside, the sharp wind biting through his thin jacket.
“Let’s go,” Valle muttered, eyes still blazing with anger. “You’re done for today.”
Gavi’s heart hammered in his chest, the ache in his knee throbbing with every step. But just as they reached the door, he suddenly stopped. His breath hitched. He shook his head.
“I—” Gavi started, voice small but urgent. “I forgot something.”
Valle paused, turning sharply. “What now?”
Gavi didn’t answer. Instead, without waiting for permission, he broke free and darted back inside the rink, the sound of his footsteps echoing loudly in the empty space.
Pedri was near the benches, cleaning off his shoes, when he looked up and caught sight of the small figure running toward him. His eyes widened in surprise.
“Gavi?” Pedri said softly, almost unsure if it was really him.
Gavi stopped just a few feet away, breathing hard, cheeks flushed from exertion and the cold.
“I... I wanted to say—thank you,” Gavi said quietly gnawing on his bruised lips, avoiding Pedri’s gaze. “For... standing up for me.”
Pedri’s stern expression softened immediately, a small, gentle smile tugging at his lips.
“You’re welcome,” he said simply.
Gavi shuffled awkwardly, the pain in his knee forgotten for a moment. “Valle... he’s hard on me. Sometimes I don’t know if it’s for my own good or... something else.”
Pedri nodded slowly, understanding the weight behind those words. “It’s not right to break someone down to build them up. Real coaching means lifting someone when they’re falling, not pushing them harder to break.”
Gavi looked up, meeting Pedri’s eyes with a flicker of hope and something else, something raw and unspoken.
Gavi nodded, still not looking at him. His fingers were twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His voice was small. “He says I need pressure to be great.”
Pedri stepped closer, slowly, like one might approach a trembling bird.
“And what do you say?” he asked. Gavi finally looked up. His eyes were rimmed with something unshed and shaky. “I say... I’m tired.” The words were soft, like a secret. Like a confession. Pedri’s chest tightened.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out—a folded scrap of paper, slightly wrinkled. He held it out between two fingers. Gavi blinked at it.
“My number,” Pedri said, voice gentle. “Just in case.” Gavi hesitated. “In case of what?”
Pedri smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “In case you need someone who doesn’t want anything from you.”
Gavi stared at the paper for a beat longer before slowly reaching out and taking it. His fingers brushed Pedri’s, light and cold. He folded the paper smaller, tighter, as if it were something fragile.
“Thanks,” he whispered. Pedri glanced at the rink lights above them, then back at Gavi. “You don’t have to stay if it’s hurting you.”
“But skating is the only time I feel real,” Gavi said, not missing a beat. Pedri didn’t argue with that. He just nodded. “Then let’s make sure you don’t disappear in the process.”
Gavi didn’t know what to say. For the first time in a long time, someone wasn’t telling him to be better or braver or faster.
Just… safer.
He tucked the number into the sleeve of his hoodie like it was something worth hiding. And then, quietly, turned to leave. Before he slipped out the door, he glanced back once. Pedri was still standing there. Still watching. But not like a vulture. Like someone who might stay.
For the first time in a long time, Gavi felt like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t alone on the ice anymore.
The car ride back to the hotel was silent.
Gavi sat in the passenger seat, his head turned toward the window, watching the Barcelona lights blur past. His hands fidgeted in his lap, clenched and unclenched, and though his mouth stayed shut, his thoughts screamed loud inside his skull.
Pedri.
He hadn’t said much. But he looked at Gavi like he saw something.
And for a second—just a second—Gavi wanted more of that. Not the pity. Not the compliments. Just... the feeling of not being alone in the dark. He didn’t know why it clawed at him so much. Why he couldn't stop thinking about what it would feel like to train under someone like Pedri. Someone who didn’t shove, didn’t sneer, didn’t treat you like a broken machine.
Gavi turned slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think—do you think he’d coach me? Just for a bit?”
Valle’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.
“What?” Gavi hesitated. “Pedri. He asked questions. He watched everything. I just thought—if I could get more eyes on me, more training, even if it’s just for a few days—” The car swerved slightly.
“Don’t be stupid,” Valle snapped. Gavi flinched. Valle didn’t wait. As soon as they reached the hotel, he yanked the keys from the ignition, stormed out of the car, and opened the passenger door so violently it slammed against the adjacent vehicle.
“Get out,” he hissed. Gavi obeyed, head low. They barely made it to the hotel hallway before Valle grabbed his arm—hard.
“You think he’d coach you?” Valle growled, voice low but furious. “You think that washed-up cripple with a ruined knee would understand you? Shape you?” Gavi didn’t answer. Valle slammed him against the hallway wall. The wind rushed out of Gavi’s lungs.
“You ungrateful little shit,” Valle spat. “I built you. From the bones up. You were nothing when you came to me. I gave you strength. I gave you purpose. And this is how you repay me?” His fingers dug into Gavi’s arm, hard enough to bruise.
“I—I didn’t mean—” Gavi started, barely able to speak, the lump in his throat choking him.
Valle hit him.
Not across the face. No. He was too careful for that. But his hand struck Gavi's ribs, low and vicious, and Gavi gasped.
“You don’t get to think for yourself,” Valle said, venom in every word. “You obey. You don’t dream. You don’t wander. You perform. That’s what you’re for.”
He dragged Gavi into the hotel room, slammed the door shut, and shoved him forward. Gavi stumbled, catching himself on the end of the bed. Valle loomed.
“You want to leave?” he sneered. “Go ahead. Try. But don’t come crawling back when the world tears you apart.”
Gavi didn’t move. He didn’t look up. He just stood there, silent, trembling, heart in his throat. The bruise on his arm was already forming. Valle muttered something under his breath—disgusted—and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. And Gavi... Gavi didn’t cry. He never did.
He just sat on the floor, arms around his knees, staring at the wall. But in the space Valle left behind, the silence wasn’t empty. It was filled with something else. A whisper. A face. A thought he wasn’t allowed to have. Pedri.
The next morning, Pedri waited.
He stood just outside the training rink, the early morning frost curling on the glass, breath puffing visibly in the chill air. He’d been there since before sunrise, coffee long gone cold in his hands. He couldn’t sleep the night before—not after what he saw. Not after the look in Gavi’s eyes when Valle manhandled him like he was some burden to correct rather than a boy to guide.
The rink’s side door cracked open eventually. Valle stepped out, looking irritated, muttering into his phone. He hadn’t seen Pedri yet.
Pedri walked up to him slowly, deliberately.
“Coach Valle.”
Valle turned, annoyed at first. Then he smirked faintly. “You again.”
“I didn’t want to make a scene yesterday,” Pedri said calmly, tone firm but respectful. “But I need to say something. About Gavi.”
Valle let out a dry breath, already turning away. “Not interested in lectures from failed skaters.”
Pedri didn’t budge. “I saw he looked tired yesterday. And that ankle—he shouldn’t be practicing on it today. If you push him like that again, he’s going to tear something. He’s too injured to hide it for long.”
Valle scoffed loudly. “He’s fine. He always is. Gavi plays weak when he wants sympathy. He needs pressure, not coddling. You’d know that if you ever finished a season without limping.”
Pedri’s hands clenched in his coat pockets. “He doesn’t need to be coddled. He needs to be safe. You’re going to push him past breaking.”
Valle’s face twisted with disdain. “Don’t come here acting like you care more than I do. I’ve been building this boy since he was six. Every medal he has, every jump he lands—that’s because of me. Not because of some soft outsider who sees one skate and thinks he understands him.”
Pedri stepped closer now, voice low and cutting. “You don’t build champions by destroying children.”
Valle’s mouth curled into a sneer. “And what would you know about it? You couldn’t even stay on your feet. You think Gavi needs hugs and praise to get into the finals? You think he’s some kind of lost soul waiting to be rescued?”
He leaned in, venom thick in his voice. “He’s mine. And he’s going to the finals because I don’t let him get weak.” Pedri stared down at him, eyes hard.
“No,” Pedri said. “He’s going to the finals in spite of you.”
Silence cracked between them like thunder. Valle blinked, the calm finally slipping. “You don’t know him.” Pedri’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “I know what someone looks like when they’re trying not to cry in front of the only person who hurts them and still calls it love.”
The door behind them clicked again. They both turned. Gavi was standing there, skates in hand, shoulders tense. His eyes flicked between the two of them, wide but unreadable. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop but he had.
He saw the anger in Valle’s face. The strain in Pedri’s jaw. He heard the words. The final ones struck deepest. Pedri didn’t break eye contact with Valle.
“Stop hurting him,” he said. “Or I will make sure you can’t.” Valle let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t have that power.” Pedri turned to Gavi. But Gavi was already walking inside—quiet, fast, pretending none of it had happened.
The hotel room was sterile.
White walls. Gray carpet. A small bed Gavi barely fit on anymore. Valle’s room was next door, but it didn’t matter, he was always around. Always checking. Always watching. Gavi didn’t have privacy. He hadn’t had that since he was six.
Dinner came in boxes, delivered from the hotel's restaurant. A salad. Plain chicken breast. Water.
Gavi sat at the edge of the bed, looking at the container like it was mocking him. His hands rested in his lap. The bruises on his arm, deep and sickly ached where Valle had grabbed him.
“You want to eat that?” Valle’s voice came sharp from the doorway. He hadn’t even knocked. Gavi flinched.
“I didn’t say you were done trimming down,” Valle added, stepping inside. “That triple axel’s been dragging. You’re sluggish. Too heavy.” Gavi’s lips parted. “I’m—”
“You’re soft,” Valle cut in. “And you’re distracted.” He walked over and lifted the corner of the salad container, inspecting it like it was poisoned. “You don’t want to embarrass yourself again, do you? Not in Barcelona. Not in front of scouts.”
“No,” Gavi said quickly. Valle tossed the container into the trash. “Then prove it.”
Gavi didn’t eat that night. He hadn’t eaten the night before, either. Or lunch that day.
Food had always been a strange thing for him—something to earn, something to fear. When he was younger, he’d sneak bread rolls from the mess hall after practice, hiding them under his bed. Valle found out. That was the first time he’d gone a full two days without food. Valle called it "correction."
By now, it was second nature. Hunger didn’t feel sharp anymore. It was dull. Numb. Like everything else.
The next morning, he woke before his alarm.
His head pounded. His vision blurred when he stood. He pulled his practice tights on, laced his skates with trembling fingers. His body felt heavy, but hollow. The room swayed slightly when he moved.
In the mirror, he looked paler than usual. His collarbones stood out more. Valle would be proud. But when he turned, he saw something else.
The bruise on his upper arm had bloomed overnight. Deep red, purple, sickly. Valle hadn’t apologized. He never did. Gavvi just pulled a too big of hoodie over his body to hide anything he could.
“You bring this on yourself,” he’d said when Gavi winced getting into the car. “If you weren’t so damn fragile, I wouldn’t have to get your attention.”
Practice was hell.
Gavi fell twice on his opening sequence. His knee buckled on the triple toe. He couldn’t catch the rhythm of his spins. Valle didn’t shout. That would’ve been better. He was quiet. Disappointed. Like Gavi had already failed before trying.
“You’re weaker than last week,” Valle said, clipboard in hand. “Tell me why.” “I don’t know,” Gavi muttered.
“Bullshit. You’re letting that idiot get into your head. That Pedri boy.” Gavi didn’t respond. Valle stepped closer. “You want him to hold your hand during practice too? Want him to rub your little bruises and whisper affirmations while you cry?” Gavi looked away, cheeks burning.
Valle slammed the clipboard against the barrier. The crack of plastic echoed.
“You’re not a damn child,” Valle snapped. “You think the judges care about your feelings? You think anyone cares if you land face-first on the ice in Barcelona? You’ll be a joke. Again.” Gavi’s throat tightened. His stomach was hollow, turning in on itself.
“Look at me.” He looked. “You want to leave me? Run off with someone who’s never won anything that matters? Go ahead. But you’ll fall. They all do.” He paused.
“And I won’t be there to catch you.”
That night, Gavi sat in the hotel bathroom with the shower running to mask the sound of his breathing. He hadn’t eaten all day. He wanted to. Desperately. His body screamed for something. But his mind wouldn’t let him. Valle’s voice echoed too loud.
He brought a protein bar to his lips, only to shove it back under the sink cabinet. His hands shook. His legs ached. His skin buzzed with something awful. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt rested. He curled up in the empty bathtub, knees to chest, and stayed there until the water went cold.
Barcelona’s first season of their finals were just one month away and he couldn’t land a clean jump without falling right on his ass.
He was spiraling. He knew it. But the terrifying thing was—it felt safe. The control. The numbness. The pain. He hated himself more every day, but he didn’t stop. Because maybe Valle was right.
Maybe he was getting soft. Maybe that was why he kept thinking about Pedri. His voice. The way he didn’t yell. The way he didn’t look at Gavi like a project. The way he fought for him.
“Again,” Valle barked, as Gavi landed hard on his hip. It was the fifth time that hour. Gavi blinked up at the ceiling, chest heaving. The cold from the ice seeped into his bones. His mouth tasted like blood. Valle didn’t offer a hand.
“You’re not even trying anymore,” he snapped. “Is this what you want? To lose? You think Pedri would want you if you’re a loser?” Something snapped in Gavi’s chest. “I’m trying,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not hard enough.”
“I’m starving,” Gavi whispered. Valle didn’t flinch “Good,” he said. “You should be.” Gavi’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to scream. He wanted to eat. He wanted to collapse and never get up again. But instead, he stood. And skated again.
That night, Pedri was waiting by the rink exit. He didn’t say anything. Just watched as Gavi limped down the hallway, sweat-soaked, eyes blank. Their eyes met. Gavi paused, like he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating. Pedri stepped closer.
“You didn’t eat today,” he said softly. Gavi flinched. Pedri’s eyes lowered to the boy’s trembling hands, the ghostly pallor of his face, the bruises. He didn’t press. He didn’t touch him. He just stood there.
“I saw your first program,” Pedri said. “Online. Before I came. I watched it ten times.” Gavi blinked. “You looked like you were trying to escape something,” Pedri whispered. “Like every movement was a scream you weren’t allowed to let out.” Gavi’s breath hitched.
“You were brilliant,” Pedri added. “But also… hurting.” Gavi didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. So Pedri stepped back, giving him space. “If you ever want help,” he said quietly, “I’m not going anywhere.” And then, he left.
Later, Gavi sat in the empty changing room. Alone. Cold. He reached into his bag, pulled out the protein bar again. He unwrapped it. And stared at it. For a long, long time. His hands were shaking too badly to hold it steady. He didn’t eat it. But he didn’t throw it away either.
The protein bar sat in Gavi’s hand like it weighed a thousand tons. His fingers trembled around the wrapper, knees drawn up tight to his chest on the empty locker room bench. The hum of the fluorescent lights above was deafening in the silence.
Years ago, his thirteen year old self stood on the ice, dried blood on his knuckles from a fall.his rips ached, his eyes raw, burned from holding back tears. Valle stood at the edge of the rink, arms crossed, unmoved
“Again,” the coach snapped. “But I—” “Again.”
Gavi wiped his face on the sleeve of his too-thin practice shirt, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. He did it again. He landed. Valle didn’t smile. He just nodded once.
“Finally. You’re not useless.”
And in that moment God, how it had felt like love.
Like proof. Like he could earn it. Like if he bled the right way, performed perfectly, he’d be enough.
Now, older, knees bruised and heart empty, Gavi looked at himself in the mirror across the changing room. His body was too slim, too pale, he felt hollow. He hated the way he felt int hat moment. Too weak.
Instead, with the ache in his chest twisting deeper, he reached for his phone. He hadn’t saved Pedri’s number under a name. It was just the digits. Still unread. He tapped it anyway. And stared at the message bar for a long time. Then typed into his phone.
Was it really that obvious?
His thumb hovered. For a second, he almost deleted it.
Then—Send. He stared at the screen. Three dots appeared immediately.
Not to everyone.
Just to someone who’s been there.
Gavi’s breath caught. His grip on the bar relaxed slightly. Another text followed:
You were the only thing on that ice that felt real.
Still are.
He didn’t answer. Just stared at the words until the light dimmed and the screen faded black. But he didn’t feel quite so alone anymore. And he didn’t put the protein bar away. He left it beside him. Still unopened. But still there. Just like Pedri.
The locker room was quiet except for the distant buzz of the rink lights. Gavi sat alone, head down, tying the laces of his shoes. His phone vibrated softly on the bench beside him. He reached over, thumb flying across the screen.
Thanks for checking in. I’m okay. Just tired.
He didn’t even have time to hit send before a shadow blocked out the light.
“Who the fuck are you texting?”
Valle’s voice was low, strained but already simmering on the edge of explosion. Gavi didn’t look up. “No one.” “Bullshit.” The word cracked through the air like a whip.
Valle’s hand darted out. Fast. Too fast. He snatched the phone off the bench, Gavi barely reacting in time to stop him. But he was already scrolling.
Silence. Then Valle’s jaw clenched, tighter than steel. The screen glared back at him—messages. Words. Pedri’s name wasnt saved but he knew already.
“So this is what you’ve been doing?” His voice was barely human now. “Sneaking around behind my back? Feeding him information?” Gavi stood up sharply. “It’s not like that.”
“Like hell it’s not!” Valle slammed the locker behind Gavi with a metallic bang, the sound so loud it echoed down the hallway. Gavi flinched, not at the sound, but at the rage behind it. Valle’s hand was shaking now, clutching the phone like he wanted to crush it. And then he threw it.
The phone smashed into Gavi’s side, right at his ribs, sharp pain splintering across his body. He stumbled but didn’t fall. Didn’t make a sound. Valle closed the space between them in two steps and struck him across the face, open palm, but with enough force to whip Gavi’s head to the side. The taste of blood filled his mouth instantly.
“You ungrateful little bastard,” Valle growled, spitting the words like venom.
“I gave you everything. I made you. And now you’re handing it all to that washed-up nobody? Is that what this is?!”
Gavi breathed hard, teeth gritted, but his face was blank. Still. Refusing to show pain. Refusing to give Valle the satisfaction.
“Say something!” Valle bellowed. Gavi looked up, eyes dull but defiant. “He listens.” That was it.
Vallepulled the younger boy up but his shoulders and shoved him hard. Gavi’s back hit the locker door with a deep thud, metal rattling behind him. The world spun for a second. Still, he didn’t fall. Didn’t cry.
Valle screamed again, fists clenched, chest heaving with rage but Gavi didn’t flinch anymore. He just stood there, blood at the corner of his lip, bruising already blooming on his cheek.
“You’re mine,” Valle hissed. “You don’t get to run to him. You don’t get to leave. You're nothing without me, remember that. Gavi didn’t answer. Because he already had.
Valle stood at the edge of the locker room, chest still heaving, eyes narrowed and full of contempt. Gavi didn’t speak. He just stared at the floor, tasting copper, heartbeat thudding somewhere in his throat.
Valle’s voice came out cold now. Hollow. Like Gavi wasn’t even there.
“I’m going back to Seville. You stay here. Figure your shit out on your own.”
Gavi lifted his head slowly. “What?”
Valle didn’t look back as he grabbed his coat off the hook. “You wanna be grown? Act like it. I’m pulling you from the next competitions. You’re done until I say otherwise.”
His footsteps echoed as he stormed out, door slamming behind him.
Silence. Just like that… gone.
Gavi stood there for a moment, stunned. The lights flickered slightly overhead. Somewhere outside, a Zamboni hummed. Then his knees gave out.
He slid down the cold metal of the lockers, back pressed hard against it, arms limp at his sides. He didn’t cry. He didn’t even move at first—just stared at the cracked tile beneath his shoes like it might open up and swallow him whole.
The blood still dripped slowly from his lip, collecting at the curve of his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, smearing red across his skin. His cheek throbbed. His ribs ached from the phone hitting him. But none of it hurt quite as much as the silence that followed.
He’d always been alone. Or at least… he thought he could handle it. But this? This was different.
He was alone in a strange city. No team. No coach. No plan. Just a bruised body and too many people he couldn’t trust.
His fingers trembled as he reached for his phone from where it had skidded across the floor. The screen was cracked, but it still lit up. He stared at it for a long time. Then, without thinking, without planning, his thumb hovered over one number.
Pedri’s number. He stared at it was too many times since the older gave it to him. He tapped it. Pressed the call button. The ring tone barely buzzed once.
“Gavi?” That voice was soft, warm, panicked beneath the surface.
Gavi didn’t say anything for a few seconds. He didn’t trust his voice. Didn’t trust his heart not to break. But when he finally spoke, it was quiet. Steady. Empty.
“Can you come get me?” Pedri was already moving on the other end. “Where are you?”
Gavi swallowed, glancing down at his duffel bag—the one he’d packed in five frantic minutes after Valle left. “That gas station. The one near the highway, Just by the rink.”
“Are you okay?” Silence again. Then, Gavi whispered: “No.” And that was all it took. Pedri was already out the door. The locker room smelled like metal and blood. Gavi’s fingers fumbled to pull his bag over his shoulder, muscles protesting with every movement. His skates clanked together as he shoved them into the open zipper, a few clothes trailing behind on the floor. He didn’t bother making things neat. His head was ringing too loudly.
Valle’s voice, Valle’s hands, Valle’s absence.
He limped toward the door.
The hallway was long and sterile. The lights above buzzed faintly. He blinked, and for a second, he forgot where he was.
His body moved on instinct.
Outside, the cold slapped him hard in the face. It cut through his hoodie like knives, but Gavi didn’t flinch. He walked. One foot in front of the other. His ankle throbbed with each step, his lip still bleeding, but he didn’t feel it. Not really. It was all dull now, like watching himself from above.
The rink was quiet behind him. Too quiet. No yelling. No blades on ice. No Valle.
Just him. Alone.
The streetlamps cast long, trembling shadows on the pavement as he made his way toward the gas station down the road—the one just past the rink where the vending machines sometimes worked and the old man behind the counter barely looked up.
He didn’t remember how long it took him to get there. Ten minutes? Twenty? Time stretched strangely, elastic and senseless.
When he reached the gas station, he didn’t go inside. The lights were too bright. The humming noise from the ceiling lights was unbearable. Instead, he sat down on the bench just outside the door, bag at his feet, arms curled around his ribs like he had to physically hold himself together.
His breath fogged up in front of him. He blinked slowly. His fingers were cold.
He didn't even remember what he'd said to Pedri. Just that he'd called him. That he had heard Pedri’s voice. And it was enough to make something in his chest unclench—just a little.
But now the silence crept back in.
Doubt crawled in its place.
Why did you call him? Why now? What if he doesn’t come? What if he does? What if he sees you like this and walks away too?
The thoughts looped like static. Gavi stared ahead, eyes unfocused, not really seeing the flickering neon of the store sign or the dark parking lot beyond.
He didn’t hear the car at first.
But then he saw the headlights sweep across the pavement and stop. A black car rolled to a halt at the curb. The engine shut off. The door opened.
Gavi didn’t move.
Pedri stepped out, breath visible in the air, eyes scanning the empty lot until they landed on the small figure hunched on the bench.
He didn’t run. He didn’t call out.
He just walked over quietly.
Gavi looked up, blinking slowly like he was waking up from a bad dream.
“Hey,” Pedri said softly, crouching in front of him. “You okay to stand?”
Gavi didn’t answer. But he shifted, nodded once, and let Pedri gently take the bag inbetween his lets from under him. He winced when he stood, and Pedri caught his arm instinctively—but didn’t hold on too long, letting Gavi guide the pace.
They moved to the car in silence.
Once inside, the heat was turned on, the soft hum of the engine filling the quiet space.
Pedri didn’t drive away immediately.
He glanced over at Gavi, who sat curled against the passenger door, arms folded tight across his chest, head leaning back, eyes blank and staring at nothing.
His lip was split. His cheek already swelling. His knuckles bruised. There was something smeared on his neck—blood, maybe, or just the grime of the floor from the fall.
Pedri’s hands tightened on the wheel.
But he didn’t say anything. Not yet.
Instead, he turned on the radio. Low. Soft jazz crackling through the speakers. Something that filled the silence without needing to be heard.
Minutes passed.
Then, Gavi spoke, voice hoarse.
“He threw my phone.”
Pedri didn’t look at him yet. “I figured.”
“Hit me. In the ribs.”
A long pause.
Gavi’s eyes stayed forward, still far away. “Then he… slapped me. Locker. Face. And then left.”
Pedri finally turned toward him, voice quiet and firm.
“You didn’t deserve that.”
“He said… he said I was off the competitions. That I’m alone now.”
Pedri swallowed hard, kept his voice level. “You’re not.”
Gavi shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what to feel. I feel like I’m floating. Like I’m not even here.”
Pedri reached over slowly, carefully, and grabbed a small water bottle from the center console. Unscrewed it and handed it to Gavi. “You’re here,” he said softly. “You’re safe.”
Gavi took it but didn’t drink.
“I don’t know why I called you,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter now. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”
Pedri’s eyes were warm, but fierce beneath it. “You called me because you knew I’d come.”
They sat like that for a long time.
Not talking. Not moving.
The gas station behind them flickered in the distance. A few cars passed. Somewhere, a dog barked. The city around them went on, unaware.
Inside the car, it was just two boys. One barely holding on. One trying to be the anchor.
Gavi didn’t cry. But he closed his eyes eventually, the bottle still in his hand.
And Pedri just… stayed. Because sometimes, saving someone doesn’t mean fixing everything. It just means showing up when no one else will.
The drive back to Pedri’s place was quiet except for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional shuffle of Gavi adjusting his weight against the car door. His body felt heavy but hollow, like he was watching himself through a fogged window.
Pedri parked in his small driveway and didn’t rush. He helped Gavi out of the car with careful hands, steady and sure. Gavi barely responded, his eyes distant and unfocused.
Inside the apartment, the warm light was almost shocking after the cold night outside. Pedri guided Gavi to the couch, easing him down like a fragile sculpture, afraid to shatter him.
“Let me check those bruises,” Pedri said softly, his voice low, trying to reach the boy behind the numbness.
Gavi said nothing but tilted his chin just enough, allowing Pedri to examine the swelling on his lip, the red marks on his ribs, the scraped skin on his knee.
Pedri fetched a clean cloth, wet with warm water, and pressed it gently to Gavi’s face, wiping away the dried blood and dirt.
Gavi flinched the first time, but soon he stopped resisting. His body was still, his breath shallow.
Pedri moved carefully, like he was afraid to cause more pain.
“Can you stand?” Pedri asked.
Gavi nodded faintly.
Pedri helped him to the bathroom, turning on the warm water. He rinsed the cloth again, then wiped the bruises, his fingers steady but gentle. Gavi closed his eyes, the tension in his face softening just a fraction.
When Pedri finished, he rummaged through his closet and found an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Clothes that hung off Gavi’s thin frame like a shield.
“Here,” Pedri said, handing them over. “You can change in the bathroom.”
Gavi took the clothes without looking up. His fingers trembled slightly as he held the fabric, then slowly disappeared behind the bathroom door.
Minutes passed.
When Gavi came out, the clothes swallowed him whole, too big, too loose. The sleeves covered his hands; the pants dragged just above the floor.
Pedri watched quietly, heart aching at how small Gavi looked.
He sat down beside him on the couch, close but giving space.
“Do you want anything? Water? Food?” Pedri asked gently. Gavi shook his head. “Okay,” Pedri said. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.” They sat in silence.
Pedri’s hand hovered near Gavi’s arm but didn’t move forward. Eventually, Gavi shifted slightly, just enough to lean his head against Pedri’s shoulder. It was the smallest sign, but for Pedri, it meant everything.
Gavi sat curled up on the couch, the oversized hoodie swallowing his small frame. His breath hitched quietly, barely noticeable at first like a whispered secret he tried to hide.
But then, the first tear slipped down his cheek. His body trembled just slightly, shoulders hitching as the weight of years pressed down all at once.
He hadn’t cried like this in so long. Not since… Valle’s voice rang harshly in his ears, calling tears a weakness, slamming doors and fists in his face, telling him he was less for showing pain.
The tears came faster now, wet tracks running unchecked, breaking through the dam he’d built for so many years.
Pedri didn’t say a word. He just reached out slowly, his hands warm and steady, resting lightly on Gavi’s back.
Gavi flinched for a moment, an instinct honed from too many years of fear but then, something in Pedri’s calm presence broke through.
He leaned into the touch, burying his face against Pedri’s chest, the soft fabric absorbing his tears.
Pedri wrapped his arms around him carefully, holding him like he was the most precious thing in the world—because to him, he was.
For the first time in years, Gavi let himself fall apart, shaking with silent sobs. Pedri rocked him gently, whispering nothing but letting the silence be their language.
Minutes slipped into hours. Eventually, Gavi’s sobs slowed, his breathing evened out. His tears dried on Pedri’s shirt, and his body relaxed, heavy with exhaustion.
Pedri stayed with him, holding him through the long, dark night. Neither spoke. Neither moved. They just existed there, two broken souls, finding a fragile kind of peace in the quiet warmth of shared safety.
Morning light filters softly through the curtains, casting pale stripes across the room. Gavi lies curled up on the couch, eyes half-closed but restless. The silence between them is heavy. Not quite peaceful, not quite tense.
Without skating, without competitions, Gavi feels like he’s lost the only thing that made him him. The rink was his world, his purpose. Now, that world is gone, shattered by Valle’s betrayal.
He doesn’t know what to do.
Pedri sits nearby, watching him with quiet concern. The boy next to him isn’t just a skater anymore. He’s someone fragile, scared, lost but also someone Pedri wants to protect, to help find a way.
“You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” Pedri says softly, breaking the silence. “It’s okay not to know.”
Gavi’s eyes flicker open, looking at him. There’s a flicker of something, maybe confusion, maybe hope but mostly just exhaustion.
“I’m not a skater anymore,” Gavi whispers. “What am I?”
Pedri moves closer, carefully, like approaching something delicate.
“You’re Gavi,” he says simply. “Not just a skater. Not just someone on the ice. You’re still you, even without the competitions.” Gavi lets out a shaky breath, the weight of it sinking in. “I don’t know who that is yet,” he admits.
“That’s okay,” Pedri replies. “We’ll figure it out. Together.” There’s a long pause. Then Gavi nods slightly.
For the first time in a long time, he allows himself to believe maybe there’s something beyond the ice. Maybe there’s a future that doesn’t hurt so much. Pedri reaches out, tentatively, and takes Gavi’s hand. They sit there in quiet solidarity. Just two people navigating an uncertain path, one step at a time.