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It was supposed to be a peaceful Sunday.
They had the day off from training, and the plan was simple: stay home, watch dumb reality shows, maybe nap, and absolutely not think about football. Ferran was lounging on the couch in a Barça hoodie, hair still damp from his shower, scrolling aimlessly on his phone when he heard the telltale rustle of packaging from the kitchen.
He didn’t think much of it. Pedri had been on and off craving snacks at the weirdest times of day ever since he started showing. This time, though, Ferran smelled something.
Something...wrong.
He peeked around the corner to see Pedri hunched over the counter, dipping a pickle spear into Nutella with laser focus. That wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that beside him on a paper towel sat an already unwrapped chocolate chip Pop-Tart. Ferran watched, frozen in disbelief, as Pedri stacked the Nutella-covered pickle onto the Pop-Tart like it was a gourmet sandwich.
“¿Estás bien?” Ferran asked, somewhere between horrified and amazed. “Cari, that’s... that’s criminal.”
Pedri looked up, mid-bite, his eyes wide and betrayed. “What?”
“That’s not even a craving, that’s a hate crime against snacks,” Ferran joked, grinning as he walked over. He meant it lightheartedly, really, he was teasing, like always.
But Pedri’s lower lip trembled.
“Hey, I’m just playing,” Ferran added quickly, wrapping his arms around Pedri’s waist from behind, but it was too late. The trembling lip turned into a choked sob, and before he could react, Pedri was full-on crying into the half-eaten Nutella-pickle-Pop-Tart combo.
Ferran froze.
“Oh shit- no, no, no, amor, I didn’t mean it like that-” he started, instantly flipping from teasing boyfriend to emergency comfort mode. “I was joking, I swear, it’s totally fine that you want to eat… whatever the hell that is.”
Pedri hiccupped through his tears, voice muffled. “It’s not weird to me.”
“I know,” Ferran said, guiding him over to the kitchen stool, crouching to rub his back. “I’m the weird one. I’m the freak who doesn’t understand the beauty of sweet and salty and… pickles dipped in hazelnut spread.”
Pedri sniffled, rubbing his sleeve across his face like a sulky toddler. “You laughed.”
“I’m an idiot. The biggest idiot.” Ferran kissed his knee, then his knuckles. “You’re carrying our baby and you’re growing a whole human and I’m over here making fun of your sandwich like a dick.”
Pedri’s mouth twisted in a pout, but the crying was slowing. “It tasted good.”
“I believe you,” Ferran said solemnly. “I might even try it. I’ll eat the whole thing if you want me to.”
“You’d hate it,” Pedri muttered.
“Doesn’t matter. If it makes you happy, I’d eat twenty of them.”
Pedri was still pouting, his cheeks blotchy and flushed, but the edges of his lips curled slightly. “You’re dramatic.”
“Takes one to know one,” Ferran teased gently, reaching up to brush his thumb over Pedri’s cheek.
“...You really think it’s gross?” Pedri asked in a tiny voice.
Ferran leaned in and kissed him soft and slow, careful. “I think it’s iconic,” he murmured against his mouth. “Just like you.”
Pedri looked at him for a moment, then quietly held out the rest of his Pop-Tart monstrosity.
Ferran took it with the reverence of someone being handed a sacred relic. He bit into it, chewed, and managed not to gag.
“See?” Pedri said, smug now.
“I see,” Ferran croaked. “Incredible.”
And just like that, Pedri was smiling again - tears drying, arms wrapping around Ferran’s shoulders, their baby bump pressing between them. A weird craving, a tiny breakdown, and a whole lot of love.
Sundays at home were never boring.
They were supposed to be going to dinner.
Just something casual, Pedri had insisted. Somewhere nearby, low-key, no cameras. Just them and maybe some overpriced pasta. Ferran had showered first and was in the bedroom fixing his hair when he heard a muffled curse from the closet.
“¿Todo bien?” he called out.
Silence.
Then: “Sí.”
That was the most unconvincing "sí" Ferran had ever heard. He padded across the room and leaned against the closet doorway, arms folded, waiting.
Inside, Pedri stood in front of the mirror with a pair of jeans halfway up his thighs and a look of absolute defeat on his face.
Ferran took one step forward. “Want help?”
“No.”
“Okay…”
Pedri huffed. “They don’t fit. They don’t-” He tugged at the waistband again, trying to force the button shut over his little bump. “I used to wear these all the time.”
“They were always kind of tight-”
“Don’t.”
Ferran bit his lip to keep from smiling. “Okay.”
Pedri turned toward the mirror again, examining the way the jeans clung to his thighs and refused to meet in the middle. He let out a frustrated noise and yanked them off entirely, chucking them across the closet. They hit the wall with a pathetic flop and slumped to the floor.
And that was when it happened.
The tears. Quiet at first, just a little sniffle, but then Pedri covered his face with both hands and started full-on crying.
Ferran immediately knelt in front of him, hands on his hips, voice soft. “Hey. Cari. It’s alright.”
“I’m getting so heavy,” Pedri choked out, swiping at his cheeks but not really helping the situation. “Nothing fits. I’m gonna need a whole new wardrobe. I can’t wear any of my stuff. I’m just… just huge.”
“You’re not huge,” Ferran said gently.
Pedri flopped onto the floor, back against the closet wall, still sniffling. “I look like I swallowed a football.”
“You kinda did,” Ferran joked before immediately backtracking. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean- shit. No. I mean-”
Pedri let out a watery laugh, which gave Ferran enough courage to sit beside him and pull him close.
“I love you,” Ferran murmured, resting his hand on Pedri’s belly. “I love you exactly like this. Even when the jeans won’t fit. Even when you cry over the jeans that don’t fit.”
Pedri sniffled, leaning his head on Ferran’s shoulder. “What if I just keep getting bigger?”
“Then I’ll just keep buying you bigger clothes.”
“I’m not letting you pick them. You have awful taste.”
“Says the man who used to have a closet full of skinny jeans that could be considered leggings.”
“Doesn't count,” Pedri huffed.
“Oh, it so does,” Ferran teased.
Pedri chuckled again, breath shaky. “I just… this is dumb, I know.”
“It’s not dumb.” Ferran kissed the side of his head. “You’re growing a baby. Of course your jeans won’t fit. You’re supposed to change. Your body’s working overtime.”
“But I liked my old jeans.”
Ferran got up, grabbed his softest Barça training pants from the dresser, and offered them like a peace offering. “Wear these. Stretchy. Comfy. Hot.”
Pedri raised an eyebrow. “Hot?”
“Oh yeah. Nothing sexier than my boyfriend in my clothes, pregnant with my baby, stealing my sweatpants.”
Pedri rolled his eyes but smiled, tugging them on. They fit perfectly. He looked down at the stretchy waistband over his bump, then back at Ferran.
“Better?” Ferran asked.
“Better.”
They ended up skipping the dinner and ordering delivery instead, curled up on the couch in mismatched pajamas. Pedri in Ferran’s clothes, Ferran with one hand on his belly the entire time like he couldn’t bear to let go.
And the jeans? Still crumpled in the corner of the closet. Forgotten.
For now.
Ferran had been dreaming of something peaceful. Waves, maybe. The beach. Something soft and distant.
So when the bedside light flicked on at 2:08 a.m. and he was jolted awake by the rustling of blankets and the sound of sniffles, he blinked into the brightness, disoriented and blinking sleep out of his eyes.
“Pedri?”
No answer, just a long, wobbly breath.
Ferran sat up fast. Pedri was perched at the edge of the bed in one of Ferran’s shirts, clutching his phone and looking utterly heartbroken.
“Hey. Amor. What’s wrong?” Ferran asked, sliding across the bed to press a hand to his back.
“I want…” Pedri started, then swallowed. “I want the honey mangoes. The ones from that fruit shop near the stadium.”
Ferran blinked. “Okay… we can go tomorrow-”
“No,” Pedri interrupted, voice cracking. “I want them now.”
Ferran glanced at the clock. “Cari… it’s two in the morning.”
“I know,” Pedri whispered, lip trembling. “But I can’t stop thinking about them. My mouth hurts. I can feel how much I want them.”
Ferran reached for his hand, instantly switching into gentle mode. “Did we not have any left?”
Pedri shook his head, eyes already glassy. “I ate them all yesterday. And now I’m awake and the baby wants mangoes and I need them.”
Ferran bit his lip to stop himself from smiling. It was both adorable and tragic, the way Pedri clutched his stomach like it personally betrayed him.
“Okay, okay,” he said softly. “Let me check what’s open.”
He grabbed his phone and opened every delivery app they had. “Okay, um… no fruit shops. No groceries. No… wait- no, that place’s mangoes suck.”
Pedri let out a miserable noise and buried his face in his hands. “Everything’s closed,” he whispered.
Ferran leaned in to kiss his shoulder. “Yeah, mi vida, because it’s the middle of the night…”
“I know,” Pedri snapped… then immediately winced. “Sorry.”
“You’re allowed to be emotional. You’re pregnant and adorable and have a very demanding mango-loving baby.”
Pedri sniffled, cheeks flushed. “This is so stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“It is. I’m crying over fruit.”
“You’re not just crying over fruit,” Ferran said, pulling him into his arms. “You’re crying over disappointment and exhaustion and a craving you can’t fix. That’s a lot.”
Pedri let himself be held, his head resting against Ferran’s chest. His hands slid over his bump, rubbing gentle circles like he was trying to soothe the baby inside.
Ferran kissed the top of his head. “Tell you what,” he murmured. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll be at that fruit stand the second it opens. I’ll buy every honey mango they have.”
“You will?”
“I’ll run there if I have to.”
Pedri didn’t say anything for a moment. Just breathed in slowly, then out. His voice was small when he finally spoke again.
“I don’t want anything else. Just those.”
“Then that’s what you’ll get.”
Pedri nodded against his chest, the worst of the sobbing passed. “And maybe… some of those tamarind gummies, too?”
Ferran chuckled. “Done. Mangoes and tamarind gummies. I’ll build you a whole shrine of cravings.”
Pedri yawned, the adrenaline from the emotional spike starting to wear off. “You’re too good to me.”
“You’re literally growing my child. It’s the least I can do.”
They curled back under the blankets together, Ferran spooning Pedri from behind with a protective arm over his belly. Pedri finally drifted back to sleep, cheeks still damp, but his face soft with relief.
And Ferran? He set an alarm for 6:45, because when a pregnant Pedri wanted mangoes, no force in the world, not even sleep, could stop him from getting them.
It was the kind of afternoon Ferran loved most. Overcast skies, soft drizzle outside, and zero plans. Just the two of them curled up on the couch under a too-warm blanket, the house quiet except for the occasional snuffle from one of their dogs sleeping nearby.
Pedri was tucked into Ferran’s side, legs tangled, head resting against his chest. His belly rose and fell steadily, full from the mid-afternoon pancakes Ferran had made him. Ferran had one hand resting on the bump like it belonged there, fingers moving in lazy circles as he felt the little kicks against his finger. Roma was curled up like a giant loaf at the end of the couch, her big head resting on Ferran’s ankle. Nilo was on the floor next to them, belly up, paws twitching in a dream.
It should’ve been a moment of peace.
But Ferran felt the shift before he heard anything. Pedri stiffened slightly, shoulders going tense.
Then came the sniffle.
Ferran blinked. “¿Bebé?”
Pedri didn’t respond.
Another sniffle. This time louder. And when Ferran leaned forward to check, he found Pedri wiping at his face.
“Are you crying?” Ferran asked gently, alarmed. “What happened?”
Pedri shook his head, but he couldn’t speak. His mouth was wobbling, and he was trying so hard to hold it in, but it was no use. A little sob escaped, and his face scrunched up like it physically hurt to feel this much.
Ferran sat up instantly. “Okay. Okay. What’s going on?”
Pedri sucked in a breath and pointed toward the foot of the couch.
Ferran followed his gaze… and saw Roma.
She’d shifted in her sleep, and one of her front paws was now resting gently on top of Nilo’s outstretched paw where he lay below. Their paws, different sizes and colors, were pressed together like they were holding hands.
That was it.
That’s what had Pedri falling apart.
“They’re best friends,” he whispered, voice cracking as a fresh wave of tears spilled over. “They love each other.”
Ferran stared at the dogs.
“Yeah, I mean… they do.”
“They weren’t even friends at first, remember?” Pedri’s voice broke completely now, eyes glassy and full of devastation. “They didn’t get along. Roma used to steal Nilo’s toys. And now… now they’re cuddling.”
“Bebé,” Ferran said softly, trying not to smile. “They’re asleep. I don’t think they even know they’re touching paws.”
“But they are,” Pedri insisted through tears. “They chose to nap like that. They trust each other. That’s- so much growth.”
Ferran pulled him back into his arms, chuckling as he kissed the top of Pedri’s head. “You’re seriously crying over our dogs holding paws.”
“It’s not just that,” Pedri mumbled into his chest. “It’s everything. I love them so much. I love you so much. I’m full of feelings.”
“I can see that.”
Pedri sniffled and wiped his nose on the sleeve of Ferran’s hoodie, which Ferran chose not to comment on.
Ferran tucked the blanket tighter around them and let Pedri melt against him, his hand smoothing up and down Pedri’s side, his other hand still resting on the bump. “Hormones hitting you hard today, huh?”
Pedri nodded miserably. “I think I’m gonna cry forever.”
“That’s fine,” Ferran murmured. “Cry forever if you want. I’ll be right here.”
Pedri tilted his head up just enough to look him in the eye. “They’re so soft, Ferran.”
“I know, bebé.”
“So soft and pure. I just- ugh.” He groaned and wiped at his face again. “I’m a mess.”
“You’re my mess,” Ferran said, kissing him sweetly on the cheek. “And for the record, they are best friends. You were right.”
Pedri let out a watery laugh. “I know.”
They stayed like that a while longer, blanket wrapped tight, hearts full, dogs dozing in their own cozy world, and when Roma shifted and put her head on Nilo’s belly, Pedri started crying again.
And Ferran? He didn’t even bother asking this time.
It started with socks.
Pedri was sitting on the edge of their bed, struggling to get his socks on. The baby bump was making it harder every day, and today… today was just not the day. He managed to tug one on with great effort, then bent down to grab the other, but paused.
Ferran had just walked in from the bathroom, towel slung over one shoulder, toothbrush still in his mouth when he noticed Pedri staring at his feet like they’d betrayed him.
“Everything okay?”
Pedri didn’t answer right away. He blinked down at his foot like it didn’t belong to him, then touched it gently. “Why does it look… like that?”
Ferran spit out the toothpaste. “Like what?”
“Like it’s… puffing.”
He knelt beside him to take a closer look, instantly shifting into his soft-voice mode. “It’s just a little swollen, amor. That’s normal. You’ve been on your feet all day.”
“No,” Pedri said, sounding scandalized. “Look at it. It’s ugly.”
“It’s not ugly,” Ferran said carefully.
“Yes, it is. I have hobbit feet.”
Ferran blinked. “I- what?”
“They’re puffy and weird and my ankles are gone and I used to have nice feet! Like, decent, not freakish. And now… now they look like overfilled balloons with toes!”
Ferran would’ve laughed if Pedri didn’t look so genuinely distressed. His face was crumpling in that all-too-familiar way, bottom lip trembling.
And then came the tears.
Big, fat, immediate tears rolling down his cheeks as he pulled his knees up and covered his face. “I hate this. I hate this. I look ridiculous.”
Ferran sat beside him and pulled his hands away gently. “You don’t. You look pregnant. Because you are. You’re growing a baby in there. Your body’s doing everything it needs to do to take care of them.”
Pedri didn’t look convinced.
“My feet look like squished bread,” he mumbled. “Squished, shiny bread.”
Ferran reached down and took Pedri’s foot in both hands, lifting it carefully into his lap. “Okay, dramatic boy,” he said softly. “Let me help.”
“What are you doing?”
“You’ve earned a massage.”
“You’re just trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
Pedri sniffled and gave a little shrug, eyes still glassy. “A little.”
Ferran smiled and started gently kneading the swollen arch, thumbs moving with slow, practiced pressure. Pedri’s breath hitched for a second, then softened as his body relaxed under the touch.
“You do not have bread feet,” Ferran murmured. “You have brave, tired, overworked feet. Warrior feet. Champion feet.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“You started it with the hobbit thing.”
Pedri let out a watery laugh, tipping his head back. “I can’t believe I’m crying over my feet.”
Ferran kissed the inside of his ankle, right where the swelling stopped. “I can. Everything about you is changing and that’s hard. But I see you, every day, being so strong and carrying our baby and still getting up for training, still pushing through the discomfort, still letting me steal your pancakes.”
“That was one time.”
“It was a sacred moment.”
Pedri sighed, content despite himself, and let Ferran switch to the other foot. “Can you do this every night until I give birth?”
“Every night,” Ferran promised. “Even after.”
Pedri leaned into his shoulder, arms around his waist. “Even when my feet are back to normal?”
“Especially then.”
They sat there like that for a long while, Pedri half crying, half laughing, Ferran massaging both feet like they were priceless artifacts.
And just before they turned in for the night, Pedri muttered, “Still a little bread-y, though.”
Ferran only smiled. “My favorite kind.”
Pedri tried to play it cool.
He said all the right things the night before, wished Ferran luck, told him to focus, even helped zip up his suitcase. He leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed over his belly, teasing Ferran about forgetting his charger like always, kissing him a little longer than usual at bedtime. He didn’t cry.
Not then.
He even kept it together the next morning, standing by the front door in one of Ferran’s oversized hoodies, watching as the team bus pulled away from the curb. Ferran had kissed him one last time, warm and lingering, his hand splayed protectively over Pedri’s bump like always. And Pedri had smiled and said “go win,” and waved.
But the second the door shut and the house went quiet again, it hit him.
He was alone.
Not alone like alone, of course. Nilo and Roma were there. The baby was there. But still, it wasn’t the same. Ferran was in another country, across the sea, hours ahead in a hotel room that Pedri wasn’t allowed to be in because flying wasn’t safe anymore. He was seven months along now, and the idea of sitting on a plane that long was a no from every doctor he asked.
And even if Pedri agreed with the reasoning, it didn’t help the ache in his chest.
He made it to the couch before the tears started. Tried to distract himself with TV, then scrolling, then pacing. But everything reminded him of Ferran. His shoes in the hallway. The coffee mug he forgot to rinse. His stupid cologne on the pillow.
By the time Ferran FaceTimed him from Riyadh, Pedri was curled on the couch under two blankets, cheeks blotchy and eyes red.
“Hola, mi vida,” Ferran said, smiling into the camera. “You okay?”
Pedri shook his head, too overwhelmed to answer. “I miss you,” he croaked, voice already cracking.
“I miss you too,” Ferran said instantly, his expression softening. “I hate being away from you.”
“It’s only two days,” Pedri sniffled, clearly trying to convince himself. “It’s not even a full weekend. I’m being ridiculous.”
“You’re not,” Ferran said firmly. “You’re not ridiculous at all. You’re pregnant and emotional and I’m halfway across the world and we’ve never been apart this long since… I don’t even know.”
Pedri’s eyes filled again. “What if something happens and you’re not here?”
“I’ll be on the next flight home if anything does. You know that, right?”
Pedri nodded, pressing a hand to his stomach. “They've been kicking all morning. I think they miss you.”
Ferran’s face melted. “Put the phone down there. Let me talk to them.”
Pedri rolled his eyes but obeyed, lowering the phone to his bump.
“Hey, little baby,” Ferran cooed. “It’s Papá. Be nice while I’m gone, yeah? No ninja kicks. I’ll be home before you know it. And I’m bringing you something cool, okay? So don’t give him too much trouble.”
Pedri laughed through his tears. “They just kicked. I think they heard you.”
“Claro que sí. They're smart like their dad.”
Pedri gave him a look. “Which one?”
“Both.”
They stayed on the call until Ferran had to go to dinner with the team, and even then, he made Pedri promise to text the second he needed anything. That night, Pedri fell asleep in Ferran’s hoodie, hugging one of his pillows, Nilo curled at his side and Roma stretched across his feet.
He still cried. Quietly. But he managed.
When Ferran finally walked through the front door late the next night, slightly jet-lagged and exhausted but beaming, Pedri burst into tears again. This time, from pure relief.
Ferran dropped his bag and rushed to him without a word, pulling him into the tightest hug he could manage around the belly between them.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m home.”
Pedri buried his face into Ferran’s chest. “You smell like airports.”
“I smell like victory. We won.”
“I don’t care. Don’t leave again.”
“I won’t if I can help it.”
Pedri clutched him tighter. “Promise?”
Ferran pulled back just enough to press a kiss to his lips, slow and sure.
“Promise.”
And for the first time in 48 hours, Pedri felt like he could breathe again.
- sofía ✎ᝰ.