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Pedri is still numb from the chest down when Ferran cries for the second time.
The first was when they put her on his chest, all red-faced and wriggling and alive, wrapped in all her slightly messy, slightly bloody glory. Ferran had laughed through the tears, called her beautiful at least ten times in thirty seconds, and said thank you to Pedri like he was the only person who’d ever done something worth thanking.
Now, though, she’s fast asleep in the hospital bassinet and Pedri is groggily shifting upright, teeth clenched, trying not to let the pain show.
Ferran notices immediately.
“Wait, wait, wait, don’t move, I’ve got it-” He’s across the room in three strides, balancing a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, bumping into the edge of the cot with the other. “Do you want to sit up more? Less? What are we aiming for?”
“Less you hovering like a backup dancer,” Pedri mutters grumpily, squinting as the bed shifts underneath him.
Ferran sets the sandwich on the windowsill, grabs the remote for the mechanical bed, and frowns. “Tell me where it hurts.”
Pedri levels a look at him. “Where do you think?”
“I mean specifically. There’s a scale.” Ferran presses a button, and the bed creaks upward. “One being a papercut, ten being… whatever the hell this was.”
Pedri exhales sharply, not quite a laugh. “Nine and a half.”
Ferran winces. “Brutal.”
He sets the remote aside and crouches at the edge of the bed, resting a hand gently on Pedri’s knee. “Seriously, though. I know you keep brushing it off, but I’m here. You need water? Different pillows? A foot rub? I’m deeply unqualified, but willing.”
“Vale, vale, stop,” Pedri says, eyes closing. “You’re making my head hurt.”
“Noted.” Ferran straightens up, but doesn’t move far. “Want me to hold her while you nap?”
“You’ve been holding her since she came out,” Pedri points out.
“I was bonding,” Ferran says defensively. “There’s science. Skin to skin.”
“You’re wearing a shirt.”
“I would’ve taken it off if it wasn’t for the three nurses in the room.”
Pedri groans into his hands. “You’re the worst.”
“Yeah,” Ferran says, grinning. “But I’m your worst.”
Pedri doesn’t respond. He’s fading, eyes fluttering shut again, breath slowing.
Ferran pulls the blanket a little higher over his lap, adjusts the pillow under his head, then sits back down beside the bassinet. His fingers rest lightly on the rim. Alora makes a soft sound in her sleep, something like a sigh.
“You came out of him,” Ferran whispers. “Unreal.”
The second day is worse.
Pedri’s body is catching up to the painkillers, and Ferran watches helplessly as the exhaustion finally hits. Not the soft kind, the cruel, bone-deep kind that makes Pedri go silent in the middle of sentences, like his brain short-circuits without warning.
Every time he tries to shift in bed, Ferran is up like a shot, Alora in one arm, hovering.
“I got it,” Pedri grits through his teeth.
“I know,” Ferran replies, “but if you pass out while trying to unplug your charger, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“I was stretching.”
“You looked like you were about to fall.”
Pedri narrows his eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”
Ferran glances at the baby, then back at him. “I just watched your stomach get sliced open while you were awake. Let me be dramatic.”
“You didn’t even watch it. You looked like you were about to faint.”
“I was emotionally watching it.”
Pedri exhales a laugh that he doesn’t have the strength to finish. “Fine. Sit down. Stop hovering.”
“I’m just-” Ferran trails off, sighs, then walks around to the other side of the bed. He perches on the edge carefully, still holding their daughter like she’s made of glass. “You could’ve died, you know.”
Pedri blinks, head tilted slightly. “Yeah. But I didn’t.”
“I know,” Ferran says. “But you could have. And I don’t think I processed that until now. Like, after the adrenaline wore off. I haven’t let you out of my sight for more than two minutes.”
“Why do you think I keep pretending to sleep?” Pedri deadpans.
Ferran kicks his foot gently under the blanket.
Later, Pedri’s sitting up, freshly showered with Ferran’s help, breathing through the discomfort and quietly refusing the pain scale questions Ferran keeps throwing out like he’s doing some sort of survey.
“You’re annoying,” Pedri mutters, combing through his damp hair with one hand.
“You’re alive,” Ferran says. “That’s all I care about.”
“You say that, but I bet if she made a noise right now, you’d drop me to go check on her.”
“She’s asleep,” Ferran says, a little too defensively.
“Mhm.”
“I wouldn’t.” Ferran stands, crosses to the bassinet, and checks anyway. Just a glance. Just to be sure.
Pedri watches him do it and smiles.
Ferran doesn’t sleep for two nights in a row.
He insists it’s because of the adrenaline. The crash. The sheer fact of it all. But Pedri knows him too well. He watches the way Ferran checks every monitor, asks every nurse too many questions, and Googles things he definitely regrets seeing pictures of.
“You’re spiraling,” Pedri says from the bed, propped up with three pillows and one of Ferran’s hoodies pulled over his arms.
“I’m researching.”
“You’re preparing for things that aren’t even happening or going to happen.”
“I’m being proactive.”
“You’re stressing yourself out for no reason.”
“I’m preparing for every reason.”
Pedri sighs and holds out his hand. Ferran takes it without question, sliding into the chair beside him.
“She’s going to cry. We’re going to mess up. One day she’s going to say something mean to us and we’ll cry about it privately in the hallway.”
“Okay,” Ferran says. “Harsh.”
“But we’ll be fine,” Pedri adds. “You and me.”
Ferran swallows. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
Discharge day is chaos.
Ferran tries to carry Alora, the hospital bag, and help Pedri down the hall, all at once. It’s a disaster. The bag slips off his shoulder, the baby shifts in his grip, and Pedri nearly collapses laughing when Ferran stumbles over his own foot.
“I’m good, I’ve got this,” Ferran insists, red-faced.
“Do not fall with our child in your arms,” Pedri warns.
“I would never.”
“Give me the bag,” Pedri says.
“You’re recovering.”
“I’m walking, not climbing Everest.”
Ferran hands over the bag. “Fine. But if you feel anything worse than a six, you sit down.”
Pedri rolls his eyes moodily. “You made up that pain scale.”
“I live by it now,” Ferran says. “It’s just how it is. Deal with it.”
The car ride home is silent, save for the soft clicks of the turn signal and the low sound of the baby’s breathing in the back.
Pedri rests his head on the window, eyes half-closed.
Ferran’s hand is on the gearstick, but his pinky keeps brushing against Pedri’s knee like he needs the contact to drive in a straight line.
“You okay?” Ferran asks again.
Pedri nods slowly. “I think so.”
Ferran swallows. “You scared me.”
“You already said that.”
“I meant it every time.”
Pedri doesn’t answer, but his fingers wrap around Ferran’s tightly.
- sofía ✎ᝰ.