Work Text:
the quiet life.
It started with the smell of pancakes.
Mateo was the first one up, feet padding across the hallway in those fuzzy purple socks Alora had ironically bought him last Christmas. He drifted into the kitchen with his sketchbook clutched to his chest, squinting against the early sun filtering through the wide windows.
Ferran was already at the stove, whistling something tuneless. His curls were a mess, his hoodie was on inside out, and he was flipping pancakes with the kind of exaggerated flair only someone showing off for an invisible audience would use.
“Morning, príncipe,” Ferran said, without turning around.
“I’m not a prince,” Mateo replied automatically, sliding onto one of the stools. “I’m a lead.”
“Right. Lead ballerino.” Ferran finally turned and grinned. “Same thing.”
Mateo ignored that. “Are those chocolate chip?”
“Half. The other half have banana.”
Mateo made a face. “Mamí’s influence.”
“Correct. Your mamí wants you to have potassium and live forever. I just want you to be happy and full of sugar.”
Mateo giggled into the crook of his arm. “You’re gonna get in trouble.”
“I live for the thrill.”
Pedri entered then, bleary-eyed, wearing Ferran’s Barça hoodie from 2021. He dropped a kiss to the top of Mateo’s head, one to Ferran’s shoulder, then immediately stole a pancake from the cooling rack.
“Thief,” Ferran said mildly.
“Hungry thief,” Pedri corrected.
From upstairs, a door slammed, followed by the rapid thud of socked feet. Alora barreled into the kitchen with half her hair braided and the other half wild. “Did I miss pancakes?!”
Pedri held up his stolen one in silent response.
Alora launched herself into a seat next to Mateo. “If all the chocolate chip ones are gone, I swear-”
“Relax, striker,” Ferran cut in, plating two and sliding them toward her. “I would never betray you like that.”
She grinned and started eating.
It was noisy, chaotic, and full of dumb inside jokes, but it was normal. And lately, that meant everything.
The rest of the day unfolded in soft, unscheduled chunks. Alora had an afternoon match but wasn’t due to leave for a few hours. Mateo had ballet practice in the early evening, but only for an hour. In the in-between, they lived.
Alora and Mateo did a dumb dance in the living room to an old Shakira song. Pedri filmed it, threatening to post it on his story. Alora tackled him in protest, yelling, “Don’t you dare!” while laughing so hard she almost dropped the TV remote.
Mateo sprawled on the rug afterward, sketching a costume idea with a pink pen. “What if I made my own outfit for the next show?” he asked.
“That’s ambitious,” Pedri said.
“But he could,” Ferran added, reading over his shoulder. “You’re better at sketching than half the stuff I’ve seen on runways lately.”
Mateo beamed.
Alora snuck off to the garden with her headphones on, doing tiny solo drills with the ball, not because anyone asked, but because she wanted to. That was always how she worked. Ferran watched from the window, heart full.
“She’s turning into you,” he said to Pedri quietly.
“Don’t insult her like that.”
“No, seriously. The way she trains. The way she zones out into her own little world.”
“She has your hunger, though,” Pedri replied. “Your shameless confidence.”
Ferran raised a brow. “You think I’m shameless?”
“I think you’d celebrate a hat-trick by taking your shirt off in winter.”
Ferran grinned. “Only if you’re watching.”
Pedri rolled his eyes, but he smiled too.
Later, when it was time to drop Alora at the match, they all piled into the car like usual - Ferran in the driver’s seat, Pedri fiddling with the music, Alora tying her boots in the backseat, and Mateo humming along to the wrong melody.
“Don’t embarrass me if I score,” Alora warned as they pulled up outside the youth complex.
“No promises,” Ferran said, dramatically blowing her a kiss.
Alora made gagging noises but smiled anyway. She had her game face on as she climbed out, but everyone could tell she was excited. Mateo rolled down the window and shouted, “Break ankles!”
“Bye, idiots!” Alora yelled as she jogged off.
At home, Pedri and Ferran shared the house chores in that quiet telepathy of long-term domestic life. Dishes. Washing. Tidying the mess left by pancake carnage. Ferran folded Mateo’s recital outfit. Pedri refilled the snack cupboard.
Mateo followed Pedri around like a duckling, telling him about the dream he had last night, which included a haunted Nutcracker, a magic spotlight, and Alora as a football-playing ghost ballerina.
“Sounds terrifying,” Pedri said.
“It was actually pretty funny.”
They picked Alora up in the early evening. She was sweaty, scraped up, and glowing. She’d scored. Twice.
“She’s getting better every week,” Ferran whispered to Pedri in the stands.
“She wants it more every week,” Pedri whispered back.
Dinner was leftovers. Easy. Everyone piled into the lounge floor and ate on blankets like it was a picnic. Ferran made them all take turns saying their highlight of the day. Mateo’s was scoring a candy bar from the vending machine. Alora’s was nutmegging her rival. Pedri’s was seeing Alora’s celebration. Ferran’s was, “When Pedri let me eat the last pancake without judging me.”
“I was absolutely judging you,” Pedri said.
Mateo climbed onto the couch with a bowl of cereal just because he felt like it. Alora dozed off halfway through a documentary she’d insisted on watching. Pedri carried her to bed like he used to when she was little. She didn’t wake up, just murmured something about cleats and curled into her pillow.
Ferran kissed her forehead before turning off the light.
Back in their own bed, Pedri pulled Ferran close.
“These days are numbered,” he whispered. “Soon she’s gonna be out all the time. Mateo too. They won’t need us like this.”
“Then we enjoy every second now,” Ferran replied. “And let them fly when it’s time.”
Pedri nodded, then tucked his head into Ferran’s shoulder, smiling against his skin.
He was tired, but not in a bad way.
Just full.
- sofía ✎ᝰ.