Work Text:
i wish i didn’t like it.
The sky was still tinged with pink when the bus rolled back into Barcelona.
The trophy - golden, heavy, absurdly shiny - had its own seat, seatbelt strapped tight. Every time someone glanced at it, the group would erupt into giggles all over again. Even hours later, post-match adrenaline still buzzed under their skin like electricity. They’d done it. Champions. Undefeated. One of the best seasons La Masia’s Juvenil B girls had ever played.
Alora Torres-González had never felt prouder to wear her name on the back of a jersey.
The team had spilled off the bus in their track pants and windbreakers, half still in cleats, buzzing with energy none of them wanted to let go of yet. Plans started flying, food? beach? celebratory milkshakes? One of the girls suggested her parents' restaurant down by the coast. It took about three seconds for everyone to agree.
So they’d gone.
The restaurant was loud and warm, full of the kind of clatter and brightness only a squad of teenage footballers could create. Alora had barely sat down before someone shoved a plate of patatas bravas in front of her and someone else was mock-interviewing their goalkeeper with a spoon for a microphone. At one point, their coach walked in to hand off a bottle of soda and a round of ice cream, then vanished again with a wink and a wave.
It was easy to laugh. To ride the high of the win. To forget how heavy her legs felt and how sore her knees would be in the morning. Everyone was talking over everyone else, recounting plays from the game like war stories, and Alora was happy.
Lucía had been sitting across from her.
One of their starting wingers. Shorter than Alora but quick and clever and always had something sharp to say on the pitch. Her black hair was in a messy braid, streaked with the kind of gold that only showed up under restaurant lights. Alora caught herself looking at her more than once, for no good reason.
And then later, when the group wandered down the beach, she was still beside her.
The ocean breeze hit the moment they stepped onto the sand, salty and cool and humming with late summer. Someone had a speaker. Someone else was still holding the trophy like it was a pet. They all kicked their shoes off and ran laughing toward the water, socks shoved in pockets, hair unraveling from braids and buns.
Alora walked, slower than the others. Lucía matched her pace.
It wasn’t weird. Not really. They were teammates. Close. Alora knew everyone on the squad inside and out - who hated two-a-days, who always got nervous before a penalty, who snuck snacks into their lockers. But this felt… different. Charged.
Lucía kept glancing sideways at her. Smiling.
“You played out of your mind today,” she said. Her voice was soft over the wind.
Alora felt heat creep up her neck. “You scored. Twice.”
“Because you fed me the ball like five times in a row. You see the pitch better than anyone.”
She shrugged. “It’s just instinct.”
“No, it’s not. It’s vision.”
Alora turned her face slightly, letting the breeze cover her blush. “You’re so dramatic.”
Lucía laughed. “I’m right, though.”
They stopped near the waterline. The sand was damp underfoot, and the tide lapped in gently, dark and glassy.
Alora bent down to roll her track pants a little higher. When she straightened up, Lucía was looking at her in that same way.
“You’re gonna be huge, you know,” she said. “Biggest name since your papá. People are gonna know you for you, not just because of your last name.”
Alora felt her chest twist, her heart thud too hard.
Lucía was close. Not touching. Not even really leaning. Just... near.
And then the other girl leaned in.
It was just a kiss. Brief. Not awkward. Not clumsy like Alora had always worried it might be. Warm. Soft. Lucía’s hand brushed hers, featherlight. Their mouths met, and for a second, maybe two, the world was very, very quiet.
Alora kissed her back.
Just barely. Enough.
Then she froze.
Her body recoiled before her brain caught up. She took two steps back like she’d touched fire.
Lucía blinked. “Hey-”
“I-” Alora’s throat was dry. “Sorry. I didn’t… mean to-”
Lucía’s expression flickered, surprise folding into confusion. “You okay?”
“I have to go.”
“Alora-”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, backing away faster now. “I just- I can’t-”
And then she was walking, too fast. through the sand, past the group still laughing under the streetlights, past the speaker blasting Bad Bunny, past the stupid glint of the stupid trophy, until she reached the road and texted Ferran that she needed to be picked up now.
She didn’t say why.
The car pulled up quicker than Alora expected.
Ferran must’ve dropped everything the second her message came through, because he hadn’t even changed out of his loungewear - hoodie half-zipped, hair a little flattened on one side. He was still wearing the slippers Pedri hated, the fuzzy Barça-themed ones Mateo had gotten him for Christmas.
Alora climbed into the front seat silently. Slammed the door a little too hard.
Ferran didn’t say anything at first. Just glanced over to make sure she had her seatbelt on, then pulled back onto the road. The silence in the car was so heavy it felt like another passenger.
“Did something happen?” he asked gently.
Alora stared straight ahead. “No.”
Ferran hummed like he didn’t quite believe her, but wasn’t going to push. “You left pretty suddenly.”
“I was tired.”
“Did you have fun before that?”
“I guess.”
Ferran glanced at her again. “You guess?”
She didn’t answer.
They passed under a line of streetlights, the light and shadow slicing across her face. Ferran caught it, the tension in her jaw, the way her hands were knotted in her lap, the way she blinked too fast.
He softened his voice. “Alora, hey. You know you can talk to me, right?”
“I know.”
More silence. Ferran turned the radio on, low. Some mellow indie song filled the space between them like mist.
He didn’t try again. Just drove.
But the longer the car moved forward, the more the words pressed against her throat.
She wasn’t even sure what she wanted to say. Or why she felt so wrong. Her skin was buzzing, her heart wouldn’t calm down, and every time she replayed the kiss in her mind, it was like someone shoved her full of ice and heat at the same time.
She hated that she liked it.
She hated that she hated that she liked it.
Ferran slowed to a stop at a red light. Alora’s voice came out before she could stop it.
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Ferran blinked. “Okay.”
“I mean it. I didn’t- it wasn’t bad. Something just happened. And I left. I couldn’t stay.”
He turned to her now, brows knitting. “Alora…”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just needed to say that.”
Ferran nodded slowly. “Alright. You don’t have to explain anything. Just… thanks for trusting me.”
She didn’t answer. Just sank lower into her seat, like if she curled tight enough, the whole night would disappear.
Ferran reached over gently and gave her knee a soft pat.
“I’m here, okay? Whenever you do want to talk.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. The back of her eyes burned. But she nodded.
And they drove the rest of the way home in silence.
The front door opened quietly, but Pedri still heard it.
He looked up from his spot at the kitchen table, half-finished tea going cold beside him, the soft glow from the overhead light giving the room a warm haze. He expected Alora to walk in with a story about dinner, maybe a box of leftover fries, a laugh already spilling out before she even opened her mouth.
Instead, she barely looked in his direction.
“Hey,” Pedri said, brows lifting.
But Alora didn’t respond.
She moved quickly through the entryway, her shoes squeaking slightly on the tiles. Her face was turned away. Her bag still slung over one shoulder. No eye contact. No usual dramatic collapse on the couch to groan about being full. Just a quiet grunt, and then she was gone, her feet already pounding up the stairs before Pedri had even registered it.
He blinked.
“...Okay?”
A few moments later, the door opened again, and Ferran stepped inside. Hoodie loose on his shoulders, keys jangling as he dropped them in the bowl near the front. He didn’t look particularly frazzled, but something about the set of his shoulders made Pedri frown.
“She barely said a word,” Pedri said as Ferran stepped into the kitchen.
“I know,” Ferran replied, exhaling as he slumped into the chair across from him. “She was quiet the whole drive too. Asked to be picked up, didn’t explain why.”
Pedri’s brows pinched together. “Was she upset?”
“Not exactly. But she definitely wasn’t herself.”
Pedri tilted his head slightly. “You think something happened at the dinner?”
Ferran gave a small shrug, fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Could’ve. They won that tournament, right? So it was supposed to be a celebration.”
“Yeah. She was looking forward to it all week.”
Ferran leaned back in the chair, stretching out his legs and letting his head fall against the wall behind him with a soft thud. “She didn’t talk much on the way home. I tried to check in, but she brushed me off.”
Pedri sighed. “She said goodnight but wouldn’t look at me. Just marched past and vanished.”
“Exactly.”
The two of them sat there for a moment, silent except for the faint hum of the fridge.
“You think it was a teammate thing?” Pedri asked, voice low. “Or, like… school?”
Ferran’s face was unreadable. “Could be anything, really. They’re all fifteen, there’s a whole soap opera happening at that age and half of it doesn’t even make sense.”
“Still,” Pedri muttered, tapping his fingers lightly against the side of his mug. “She usually tells us stuff. Even when she’s mad.”
“I know.”
Ferran’s voice was soft now. He rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s just… she looked like she was trying not to cry when she got in the car. Like she was holding it together with tape.”
That sat heavy between them.
Pedri let out a slow breath. “Should I go up?”
Ferran shook his head. “Give her tonight. I don’t think she wants to talk yet.”
Pedri nodded reluctantly. “Okay.”
They both glanced toward the stairs, as if hoping to hear movement. But the house was still. Mateo’s door was shut - probably in there playing music too loud while sewing some elaborate new creation. It was peaceful. But wrong.
“She’s not usually like this,” Pedri murmured.
“No,” Ferran agreed. “Even when she’s in a mood, she’s never… distant.”
“Something’s definitely bothering her,” Pedri said.
Ferran nodded. “We just have to wait it out.”
Pedri looked across the table at him. “I hate waiting it out.”
“I know.”
Ferran reached over, resting a hand lightly on top of Pedri’s. Their fingers threaded together without even thinking about it.
“We’ll figure it out.”
Pedri stared at the wall for a few seconds. “Yeah. Just hope it’s not something big.”
Ferran didn’t answer, because he didn’t know.
And neither of them noticed the softest creak in the ceiling above them - the sound of Alora pacing slowly in her room, trying to figure out how to put herself back together before someone noticed she’d fallen apart.
It had been three days since the dinner. Since the beach. Since the kiss.
Three days of Alora avoiding eye contact, conversations, her own reflection. Three days of holding her breath whenever her parents entered a room, praying they wouldn’t ask what was wrong, and also praying that they would. Just so she didn’t have to carry it anymore.
The tension in the house wasn’t loud. It wasn’t yelling or door slamming. It was worse than that - it was quiet.
Too quiet.
Everyone was treading carefully, like the floor might crack beneath them. Mateo was the only one still acting normal, thank God, bouncing around and chattering about ballet and school. Ferran had stopped making jokes at the dinner table. Pedri kept watching her with those eyes that always saw too much. Alora barely said anything. Not because she didn’t want to - okay, no, she didn’t want to - but mostly because she didn’t trust her voice not to break if she tried.
The worst part was the guilt.
Like this huge, heavy thing sitting in her chest every time she walked past one of them in the hallway and didn’t say hi. Or every time she went to bed without hugging anyone. Or when Ferran left a chocolate bar on her desk and she didn’t even say thank you.
By the time Thursday night came, she was raw.
She didn’t plan to go downstairs. She’d been hiding in her room all evening, staring at the same sentence in her homework for forty minutes. But she heard voices. Low. Familiar. Her papá’s soft laugh, her mamí’s sigh. And something about it made her legs move before her brain could say no.
They were in the lounge. The lamp in the corner was on, casting the room in soft gold. The TV played some background game highlights without sound. Pedri was curled into the corner of the couch, hoodie bunched at the sleeves, barefoot. Ferran had his legs stretched across the ottoman, phone loose in his hand. When she walked in, they both looked up at once.
It was the quiet that did it.
The moment where neither of them said anything. Just looked at her, really looked, like they’d both been waiting.
“Hey,” Pedri said gently, as if she might run.
“Hey,” Ferran echoed, quieter.
Alora stood there, frozen in the doorway. Her throat burned.
“You alright?” Pedri asked.
That was it.
That was the thing that broke her.
The question was too soft, too kind, and it came from a voice that had read her bedtime stories and held her through nightmares and tucked her into bed a thousand times. And now he was asking if she was alright like he knew she wasn’t. Like it was obvious.
Her chest caved in.
The tears came fast, shocking even her.
Her hands flew to her face like she could stop them, but it was too late. A sob escaped, ragged and painful, and then another. She stood in the middle of the room, shaking, arms wrapped around herself, like that might keep her from completely falling apart.
“Oh, mija,” Pedri whispered, already up and moving toward her.
Ferran was right behind him.
She didn’t know which of them reached her first, but suddenly she was in someone’s arms, warm and safe and home, and she was crying so hard she couldn’t breathe. She clutched at the hoodie near her face, buried herself into a chest that smelled like fabric softener and comfort, and just cried.
No one asked anything else.
They just held her. One of them had their arms around her shoulders, and the other rubbed her back in slow circles. Someone whispered soft things in Spanish - it might’ve been both of them - and she let herself lean into it, let the tears soak through someone’s shirt.
It felt like forever.
When the sobs finally started to slow, when her breathing evened out just a little, Pedri eased her down onto the couch, pulling her into his side. Ferran sat close on the other, knee brushing hers.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Ferran said, voice low. “Not until you’re ready.”
The words spilled before she could stop them.
“I kissed her,” Alora said, and then everything inside her seemed to cave in.
She hadn’t meant to say it like that. It just fell out. Ripped straight from her chest.
Pedri didn’t react right away. Ferran barely blinked. They were both staring at her, quiet, still.
Alora’s breathing hitched. She gripped the edge of the couch cushion with white knuckles. “It was stupid. I don’t even know why I did it. It was just one second and I didn’t even think. We were all joking around, and then she smiled at me and I just... I don’t know.”
Ferran leaned in, eyes gentle. “Who?”
“Lucía,” she whispered. “From my team.”
Neither of them said anything, so she kept going, even though her voice was starting to shake. “It was after the dinner, down on the beach. It was late and we were just... sitting there. Everyone else was talking and she leaned in and I didn’t stop her.”
Pedri reached out and rested a hand lightly on her knee. Not pushing, just there. Solid. Real.
“I kissed her back,” Alora said, barely audible. “And for a second it felt... good.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
She shook her head, blinking rapidly. “But then I pulled away, and I didn’t even say anything. I just left. I’ve been ignoring her since. I haven’t told anyone. I’ve been trying not to think about it but I can’t stop.”
A sob clawed its way out of her throat before she could stop it.
Pedri moved without hesitation, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her gently into his side. She didn’t resist. Couldn’t. Her face hit his chest and she cried into the soft fabric of his t-shirt.
Ferran sat on her other side, resting his hand on her back and rubbing in slow, firm circles.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she gasped.
“Nothing,” Pedri said instantly.
Alora shook her head, hair sticking to her face. “No, there is. I’ve been freaking out since it happened. I keep replaying it over and over. I don’t know if I liked her or if I just liked the moment or if I was caught up in the whole thing. And then I start thinking about what it means, and I feel sick.”
Ferran’s voice was soft but steady. “What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know!” she cried. “That’s the whole problem. What if I like girls? What if I’ve always liked girls? What if I’m just gay and I didn’t know and now I do and it’s too late and I hate it?”
Pedri made a quiet noise, something like heartbreak, and pressed a kiss to her temple.
“You grew up with two dads,” she said, muffled. “I should be fine with this. I’ve always said I would be. I’ve never cared when anyone else came out. So why do I feel like this about myself?”
“Because it’s different when it’s you,” Ferran said gently. “It’s your life. Your heart. Your identity. That’s always going to feel bigger and scarier than when it’s someone else.”
Alora hiccupped a little. “I feel so stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” Pedri said. “You’re fifteen. And you just had your first kiss. Of course, you’re overwhelmed.”
“It’s not even the kiss,” she said, breathless. “It’s everything. I feel like I’m lying to everyone. To myself. I’ve been acting weird because I didn’t know how to say it. And even now, I don’t know what I’m saying. I just know I liked her. And that’s messing with my head.”
Ferran leaned forward, hand still on her back. “Did it feel wrong?”
She paused.
“No,” she admitted. “It didn’t.”
“Then maybe,” Pedri said softly, “you’re not lying to anyone. You’re just figuring yourself out.”
“But what if I don’t figure it out?” Alora asked, voice cracking again.
“Then we’ll wait with you,” Pedri said. “As long as it takes.”
Alora sniffled. “Even if I’m... different?”
Ferran pulled her into a proper hug now, one arm around her back, one hand cradling the back of her head. “Mija. If you’re gay, or not gay, or confused, or anything in between - it doesn’t change a thing.”
“Except maybe that you’re braver than you think,” Pedri added.
Alora clutched Ferran’s hoodie tighter and closed her eyes. Her breathing was slowing again, her chest still tight, but not like before. Now it was a different kind of ache. The kind that came with being loved.
Really loved.
Even when she didn’t feel lovable at all.
Alora stayed curled between them, her knees tucked under her, her cheek against Ferran’s chest now. It felt safer somehow. Like maybe if she kept still enough, everything would stop spinning.
Ferran didn’t say anything for a while. He just held her the way he always did when she was little and woke up from a nightmare. His hand moved gently over her hair, his thumb brushing her shoulder. Pedri’s hand hadn’t moved from her knee, a quiet tether keeping her grounded.
Eventually, Alora whispered, “I feel like I’m disappointing you.”
“You’re not,” Ferran said without hesitation.
Pedri nodded slowly. “Not even close.”
“I didn’t want to tell you,” she admitted. “I thought maybe it would go away if I didn’t say anything. Or that if I ignored it, it would stop meaning something.”
Ferran pulled back a little so he could look at her properly. “Does it mean something?”
Alora hesitated. “I think so.”
She sat up a bit, tugging the sleeve of her hoodie over her hand and rubbing at her face. “I don’t want it to change how people see me.”
“It doesn’t,” Pedri said gently. “Not for us. Not for anyone who matters.”
“But it might,” she whispered. “I know how people talk. Even now. Some of the girls on my team joke about that stuff. Like it’s fine until it’s real.”
Ferran’s jaw tightened. “Then they don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“It’s just... I’m already Pedri and Ferran’s kid. I’m already the striker who got signed to La Masia younger than anyone expected. I already feel like everyone’s watching me.” She looked down at her hands. “I don’t want this to be one more thing people talk about.”
Pedri leaned forward. “I get that. I really do. But you’re allowed to be more than one thing. You’re allowed to be brilliant and strong and also figuring yourself out. You don’t have to shrink for anyone.”
“You’re not any less just because you like girls,” Ferran added. “You’re not broken. You’re not confused in a bad way. You’re just growing up. And you’re doing it honestly.”
Alora gave a weak laugh. “I don’t feel honest. I feel like a fraud.”
“Then let us hold the truth for you,” Pedri said, his voice soft. “Until you’re ready to carry it yourself.”
That broke her a little. In a good way. The kind of way that let her cry again, but this time not from fear. Just release.
They stayed like that for a while, all three of them tangled on the couch. No rush. No fixing it. Just being there.
Eventually, Ferran whispered into her hair, “We’re really proud of you, you know.”
“Even now?” Alora mumbled.
“Especially now,” Pedri said.
She sniffled and nodded. “Thanks.”
They didn’t say anything more that night. They didn’t need to. Alora fell asleep on Ferran’s chest. Pedri gave her far too many forehead kisses before Ferran carried her up to bed, tucking her into bed like he used to when she was little, smiling as he sat on the edge of her bed and watched her breathe softly, Pedri standing in the doorway.
- sofía ✎ᝰ.