Chapter Text
“Ferri, I will never ever drink with you again.”
“I didn’t know you were such a cute little lightweight.” Ferran’s tone was playful, but his eyes lingered too long on the younger boy’s flushed cheeks, on how his lips trembled as if they couldn’t quite form the words.
“We’ve been friends for soooo long. You should know that by now.” Pedri pouted, his lower lip jutting out in a way that made Ferran’s chest tighten.
“Well, you never wanna go out with me. How was I supposed to find out?”
“We always go to the cinema.”
“I mean to the club, baby.” Ferran’s voice dipped, a teasing lilt. His hand lifted almost of its own accord, fingers brushing along Pedri’s jaw before tilting his chin up. The skin was warm, softer than he should’ve noticed.
“I don’t like the club.” Another pout, lips still wet and glossy from the drinks and Ferran’s pulse kicked hard. Pedri shifted closer without even realising it, swaying a little on his feet as though the gravity between them had pulled him in. His gaze flickered up, wide and glassy, lashes heavy with the haze of alcohol. There was nothing guarded in it, no filters—just raw, unshielded Pedri staring at him like he was the only person in the world.
“Me neither,” Ferran muttered, bitterness hidden in his tone, roughened with something darker. His jaw clenched as the memory rose unwanted - the memory of a dozen hungry eyes dragging over Pedri like they owned the right to look, greedy hands lingering too long on Pedri’s waist as they passed by the bar. Ferran had stood there, fists balled at his sides, tasting bile, tasting rage, unable to gulp down one single drink. He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t drag the boy out of there without revealing himself, without confessing everything he shouldn’t. Hated that he had to stand back and watch shameless men practically devour him with their eyes.
The words he spoke now sounded casual, almost careless, but his heart was burning as he added, “Not anymore.”
“Really? I thought you loved the club.” Pedri blinked innocently like he didn’t even realise the effect he had.
“Yeah, but now I have a girlfriend. Tonight was the last time.” In truth, Ferran didn’t even love his girlfriend. He only felt compelled to find himself one, because he couldn’t have what he really wanted – his best friend. With a girlfriend on his arm, Pedri would never question Ferran’s lingering touches, the way his stares lasted too long. Pedri would assume Ferran only liked girls. Which was true, in theory - except for Pedri. Pedri was the only boy Ferran had ever been drawn to, the only one who had ever made him feel like this. He didn’t even like men. He only liked Pedri. And besides, it wasn’t like his “girlfriend” wasn’t benefitting from the arrangement. She got the image, the attention, the status, even if the relationship wasn’t real. Ferran had made sure she understood before they were ever seen together - that she couldn’t cause a scene when he inevitably failed to hide the adoration in his eyes whenever Pedri was around.
“So that’s why you begged me to come? To look after you and make sure you don’t cheat?” Pedri teased, voice sloppy but laced with warmth.
“I’m no cheater. You should know that by now.”
“Didn’t you tell me Sira broke up with you because you cheated?”
“It wasn’t that. I didn’t really do that.” Ferran’s jaw tightened. “She just accused me of cheating emotionally or whatever shit of an excuse to separate it was.” Because Sira had suspected it. She’d suspected the truth Ferran was still too cowardly to admit. She had looked him in the eyes and told him that he wasn’t in love with her - that he was in love with Pedri. Back then he denied it, even convinced himself she was wrong. He let himself wallow in the heartbreak, pretended it hurt because it was supposed to. But in hindsight, Ferran realised he had only clung to the role of the broken-hearted ex because it made Pedri dote on him. Pedri had fussed over him, cheered him up, stayed close. Ferran had been greedy for it - for every ounce of Pedri’s attention.
“And who did you allegedly cheat with emotionally?” Pedri’s question was too dangerous, his voice too innocent. Ferran’s stomach dropped. If Pedri ever pieced it together, if he ever found out just how much Ferran loved him - how Ferran thought of him, craved him - it would destroy everything. It terrified him.
“And aren’t you supposed to be drunk?” Ferran growled, pulling him closer, hands sliding to Pedri’s ribs as he tickled him mercilessly, relishing in the way Pedri was squealing and giggling and twisting in his grip. Pedri’s drunk brain lost the thread of the conversation. Exactly how Ferran wanted it.
“I’m sleepy,” Pedri yawned, ridiculously adorable.
“We’re almost there, baby.” Ferran steadied him with an arm around his waist.
“Why did we even walk all the way home?” Pedri whined, his words slurring. He leaned heavier into Ferran with each step, body pliant.
“You were so drunk you would’ve immediately passed out in the car. Then you’d wake up with a brutal hangover in the morning. Fresh air sobered you up a little, didn’t it?”
Pedri hummed, chewing on his lip. “Hmm… maybe.” His eyes fluttered shut for a beat, then opened again, glassy but earnest. “You always take care of me, Ferri. I love it.”
Another beat passed, the silence stretching between them, broken only by the sound of their shoes on the pavement. Then Pedri’s voice came again, quieter this time, even softer. “I love you.”
Ferran’s step faltered, his heart thundering. Every nerve in his body lit up at once. He swallowed hard, praying Pedri didn’t notice.
Pedri was the one who caught Ferran off-guard though - hugging him all of sudden, stumbling into his chest with the gracelessness of the drunk, burying his head against Ferran’s broad frame like he belonged there. Like a kitten starved for affection, clinging and sweet. It was so pure it hurt. So innocent Ferran could almost convince himself Pedri didn’t mean it. That he was drunk, careless with his words. Or maybe he did mean it, but only in the harmless, friendly way Pedri always seemed to mean everything. He was that kind of boy - so sweet, so genuine, so painfully trusting.
Ferran shouldn’t read into it. They were best friends. He should be used to hearing it. It should slide right off his back. But it didn’t. It sank into him like a blade. Because nothing about his own feelings for Pedri had ever been brotherly. Not remotely. And the thought of pretending they were - it disgusted him.
He was the sober one. He should take responsibility. He should guide Pedri home, tuck him into bed, and never let his mind wander where it wanted to go.
But what he did next was the furthest thing from responsibility.
Ferran gently steered Pedri sideways, his arm firm around the boy’s small waist until Pedri’s back met the cold stone of the wall nearby. Pedri gave a faint start, blinking up, his lashes brushing against his flushed cheeks. His head lolled for a moment, then lifted - tilted up so that his eyes met Ferran’s.
It nearly undid him.
God, he was perfect. Every detail - those honey-brown eyes, wide and liquid, framed by lashes most girls would kill for, his flawless dark brows, the sexy curve of his nose. And then there was that mouth - plush and pink, lips parted ever so slightly. The kind of mouth that begged to be kissed, ruined, worshipped. But nothing compared to the blush painting his cheeks, that soft rosy bloom no makeup could ever imitate.
Ferran wanted to devour him. Wanted to press him into the wall and take, to eat him alive, to claim what he knew could never be his. You’d think Ferran was the drunk one, the way forbidden thoughts clawed their way up and refused to be silenced. Normally he’d shove them down, bury them deep. But not tonight. Not with Pedri warm and pliant in his hold, drunk enough not to remember.
Words slipped out before he could stop them. “You’re so pretty. I just wanna stare at you all the time.”
He froze the moment they left his lips. Fuck. He hated himself for that, hated the sudden courage alcohol hadn’t even given him.
Pedri’s blush deepened immediately, blooming brighter across his skin. His lashes lowered, and then - God help him - he batted them, soft and coy. “Am I prettier than her?”
“The prettiest,” Ferran breathed without thinking, without even processing the full question. He didn’t need to. It didn’t matter who “her” was. The answer was instinct. There was simply no one - no one in the world - prettier than Pedri.
That answer made Pedri’s entire face light up, a soft glow that drew Ferran’s gaze straight down to his lips. Those sinful lips.
It was over for him.
He couldn’t resist. No man could. And he wasn’t just a man - he was a man who had starved himself of this for years, denying, suppressing, punishing himself for every stolen glance, every lingering thought.
What gave him the final push was the knowledge that Pedri wouldn’t remember. That tomorrow, this night would be a blur of drinks and laughter and being guided home. Ferran could steal just one thing. Just this one thing. His one wish.
Everything else fell away - the fact that he had a girlfriend, the fact that they weren’t even home yet, the fact that they were standing in a dark alley, dangerously exposed. He forgot even his own name.
There was only Pedri. Gorgeous, irresistible Pedri.
And Ferran leaned in, closing the space inch by torturous inch, until their lips finally touched.
The world stopped.
It wasn’t fireworks or explosions - it was something quieter, deeper, like everything finally falling into place. Like the axis of Ferran’s universe had shifted and realigned around this one, singular truth: kissing Pedri was the only right thing in the world. His lips were soft, warm, yielding, and Ferran knew with terrifying certainty that this was what he’d been starving for all along.
Pedri. His best friend. His soulmate.
Ferran kissed him gently at first, careful, almost reverent, as though afraid Pedri might break apart in his hands. But the gentleness was laced with something far hungrier, a slow, simmering passion that made his pulse roar in his ears. He cupped Pedri’s jaw with one hand, thumb brushing the flushed cheek, while the other anchored itself at his slim waist. Pedri was so delicate in a way that overwhelmed Ferran with the urge to worship him.
He should feel bad. He should feel ashamed for taking advantage of his drunk best friend. But doing the wrong thing had never felt so devastatingly good.
The kiss deepened without him even realising it, his mouth coaxing Pedri’s open, tasting him - sweet, intoxicating, like a forbidden fruit he couldn’t stop biting into. His hand slid lower, down the smooth plane of Pedri’s back, until it found the sinful curve leading to his tempting little ass. Ferran squeezed without thinking, his groan swallowed by Pedri’s lips, and Pedri only arched closer, pressing into him instead of into the cold wall at his back.
Pedri’s petite hands climbed, clumsy but desperate, finding their way around Ferran’s neck. His fingers laced together at the nape, clinging, as though his drunk body knew exactly where it belonged. Their bodies aligned like puzzle pieces, snapping together so seamlessly Ferran could barely breathe. This was how it was meant to be. This was everything.
When Pedri moaned into his mouth, the sound nearly ruined him. Ferran swallowed it greedily, possessively, because the very thought of anyone else hearing Pedri make a sound that wanton made something primal flare inside him. That moan was his. It belonged to him alone.
And that was when reality slammed back in.
They were outside. In a dark alley, yes, but still outside. Anyone could see. Anyone could catch them like this, bodies pressed tight, lips bruised, hands wandering. And Pedri - careful, cautious Pedri - would kill him if he woke up to headlines exposing two Barça players devouring each other’s lips.
With every ounce of restraint he had left, Ferran broke the kiss.
Pedri’s eyes opened slowly, dazed, lips swollen and spit-slick. His blush burned hotter than ever, his pout deep and irresistible. “Why do you stop?” he whispered, his voice hazy, breath still mingling with Ferran’s.
Ferran’s chest constricted painfully. He brushed his thumb across Pedri’s puffy bottom lip, mesmerised by the softness beneath his skin. Entranced. Destroyed. “I need to get you home first, gorgeous,” he murmured, his voice thick with restraint he didn’t feel.
Pedri grumbled, like he’d forgotten they were even outside, as though the world beyond Ferran didn’t exist. He let Ferran take his hand, pliant, dainty fingers slotting into his bigger ones. Ferran lifted it to his lips, kissing his knuckles with aching reverence.
“Come on, baby,” he whispered against his skin. “I’ll kiss you breathless once we’re inside.”
That promise seemed to satisfy Pedri, who hummed approvingly and leaned into him again. Ferran guided him by the waist, every step of the walk home agonising, because he wanted more, needed more, but had to keep Pedri upright. His little body swayed, soft and pliant against him, and Ferran knew he couldn’t trust him to walk alone.
So he bore his weight, heart racing. The walk home wasn’t long, but for Ferran it felt like torture. Each step dragged out, every second stretched unbearably thin under the weight of anticipation. His whole body burned with the need to feel Pedri’s lips again, to claim another kiss, to taste him once more before the night ended. But by the time he opened his front door, Pedri was nearly asleep, his head heavy against Ferran’s shoulder, his body slack. Ferran was practically carrying him upright, each breath soft and even like he’d already slipped halfway into dreams.
Ferran’s heart cracked. He knew he had to let Pedri sleep. He’d already stolen too much tonight. Already taken what wasn’t his to take. He couldn’t wake him, couldn’t shake him just because he was desperate and aching, just because his body screamed for more.
But God, it hurt.
He almost wanted to cry. Was that really it? Just one kiss? One fleeting taste of heaven that had ruined him forever? He hadn’t drawn it out long enough. Hadn’t gotten to pin Pedri down beneath him, to devour his lips like he’d dreamed about for years. And now the memory mocked him, a black hole threatening to swallow every ounce of dignity left. One kiss would never be enough. Never. If anything, it had made everything worse.
How was he supposed to wake up tomorrow, lace up his boots, go train, laugh and joke like nothing had happened, when the best kiss of his life had burned itself into his soul? How was he supposed to pretend it didn’t change everything?
He couldn’t. But he had to. Because living without Pedri glued to his side wasn’t an option.
That thought was what finally pulled him back to earth, grounding him. He tightened his grip on Pedri and guided him inside, shutting the door behind them. Technically, he could have taken Pedri to his own apartment - he had a key, after all - but tonight, selfishness won. Ferran loved when Pedri slept over. Loved waking up to the boy’s sleepy face inches from his own. Loved how Pedri’s scent clung to his sheets for days afterward, so maddening he sometimes pressed his face into the pillow and breathed it in like a drug. Like an addict.
Okay, maybe he was more of a creep than he wanted to admit. But sue him - he was helpless when it came to Pedri.
He knelt to tug off Pedri’s sneakers while holding him upright with his other hand, then rose to slip of his jacket, moving gently so as not to wake him. Pedri mumbled something incoherent but didn’t stir. Ferran quickly toed off his own shoes before crouching low. Carrying Pedri upstairs by foot would be impossible in this state, the boy was practically out cold. So Ferran hooked his arms beneath him and lifted him bridal-style.
Pedri curled instinctively against him, small hands resting limply against Ferran’s chest. The warmth of him, the trust of it – it drove Ferran crazy.
He carried him upstairs until he reached his room, nudging the door open with his shoulder and laying Pedri down on his bed. The younger immediately burrowed into the blankets as if they belonged to him, sighing into the pillow like he was home.
The sight punched the air from Ferran’s lungs. Pedri looked so natural there, so perfect in his space, like he was meant to be there. Like he belonged there. Fuck, it wasn’t even the first time Pedri had slept in his bed, but the feeling never dulled. It always left Ferran raw, aching, burning with a mix of love and desperation.
If he were a decent person, he’d have put him in the guest room. But why would he? Just because Pedri was drunk? Ferran wasn’t an animal. He could control himself. Besides, they always slept in the same bed during sleepovers - it would be stranger, more suspicious, if Pedri woke up alone in a different room tomorrow.
That was how Ferran managed to fool his conscience, tucking Pedri in like nothing was wrong.
While Ferran gradually got rid of his clothes, he glanced at his phone when he dug it out of his jacket pocket. Just a few meaningless messages from his girlfriend. He didn’t even open them. She could wait. Anyone who wasn’t Pedri could wait.
Maybe he was a horrible person. But around Pedri, all sense, all reason, all morality slipped away. He couldn’t think straight when the boy was near. He couldn’t think at all.
Ferran stripped down to his boxers, the fabric straining against the half-hard outline of his cock. His body still burned from that kiss outside, the ghost of Pedri’s lips haunting him with every breath. No one would ever know, but the ache between his legs was a constant reminder of everything he shouldn’t want.
He leaned over Pedri, telling himself it wasn’t selfish. He only wanted him to be comfortable, to sleep well. Carefully, gently, he peeled away the younger’s clothes, leaving him in nothing but his briefs. Pedri stirred faintly, murmuring something incoherent, but didn’t wake. Ferran’s chest tightened. He wasn’t doing this for himself. He wasn’t.
From the closet, he pulled one of his shirts - the soft, oversized one Pedri always stole during sleepovers. He remembered how the Canary would complain about being cold at night, burrowing under blankets until Ferran’s body heat inevitably drew him close. Tonight, he didn’t need to worry about any of that. Ferran would keep him warm. He would keep him safe.
He lifted Pedri upright with painstaking care, slipping the shirt over his head, guiding limp arms through the sleeves. Pedri sagged against him, pliant, head lolling against Ferran’s shoulder for a moment before he was lowered back into the bed. And God - he looked unfairly beautiful like that. Drowned in Ferran’s shirt, cheeks flushed pink even in sleep, lips parted as he breathed slowly. Innocent. Angelic. Pure.
Ferran quietly slipped into bed next to Pedri. He didn’t even realise how close he’d gotten until his lips hovered over Pedri’s. It was supposed to be nothing - a fleeting brush, a goodnight kiss. Just something small, to soothe the desperate hunger gnawing at his chest. But the moment he tasted those lips again, Ferran shattered. He couldn’t stop himself. The kiss deepened, slow and hungry, his hand cupping Pedri’s soft jaw, thumb tracing over the delicate skin as if committing it to memory.
He kissed him like a starving man (which he was).
His other hand slid down, resting at Pedri’s narrow waist, clutching him close. He felt like he was holding something impossibly precious, something he had no right to touch. Pedri sighed into the kiss, his lips parting unconsciously, and Ferran swallowed that sound like it was the sweetest nectar in the world.
He knew it was shameless. Knew he was an addict, chasing a fix he had no right to. Knew he’d wake up tomorrow hating himself, drowning in guilt. But in this moment, he couldn’t care. He just needed one more taste.
And then Pedri moaned softly against his mouth.
It should have been everything Ferran wanted. Should have fanned the flames of his arousal until he burned alive. Instead, it broke him out of the trance. The sound was too raw, too real, too vulnerable. It reminded him that Pedri was asleep. That he wasn’t giving this, wasn’t choosing this.
The shame hit like a bucket of ice water.
Ferran tore himself away, chest heaving, his lips tingling with the phantom of what he’d stolen. He stared at Pedri - his best friend - sleeping soundly, oblivious to the line Ferran had already crossed tonight.
He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, forcing down the wave of self-disgust. Enough. Enough. He couldn’t keep doing this. Not to Pedri. Not to himself.
And yet, his body still ached with longing.
If Ferran was honest, he was terrified of morning. Terrified of Pedri remembering even fragments of this night. Of him pulling away in disgust, eyes wide with betrayal. Of Pedri hating him. Of Pedri looking at him like he was scary. Or worse - of Pedri feeling uncomfortable around him, flinching from his touch, no longer curling up at his side like he always had. Those possibilities haunted Ferran so much it made his stomach turn. He had to get a grip. He had to stop. He had to let Pedri sleep in peace.
The shame twisted so violently inside him that he actually shifted back, putting space between their bodies for the first time in hours. The absence burned, but he deserved the punishment. He had already crossed too many lines tonight. It was revolting, the way he had given in to his hunger.
But then - not even one heartbeat passed before Pedri stirred, frowning in his sleep. And like it was instinct, he rolled closer again, tucking himself right into Ferran’s chest.
Ferran froze, his resolve crumbling instantly. Fuck. He didn’t have it in him to push Pedri away twice. His willpower was paper-thin, useless against the way Pedri’s small body fit so perfectly in his arms. Maybe he was only chasing warmth in his sleep. Maybe it meant nothing. But Ferran couldn’t help it - he ate it up like a starving man.
His arms wrapped tight around Pedri’s slim waist, protective, greedy. He pressed a soft kiss to the silky mess of hair falling over his forehead, then another to the crown of his head. Pedri sighed, the sound soft and trusting, and Ferran’s chest ached so much it almost hurt to breathe.
He pulled Pedri even closer, burying his nose into the curve of his neck. The scent was intoxicating - sweet, warm, him. Ferran inhaled like it might be the last time, but it never felt like enough. It never would be enough. He could hold him for a hundred nights and still crave him the moment he let go.
Tomorrow, the weight of his reckless actions would come crashing down. Tomorrow, he would have to face the truth, the guilt, the shame. But tonight - just tonight - he would let himself have this.
Tonight, he would savour Pedri’s warmth pressed against him. Savour the rise and fall of his chest. Savour the way his angel clung to him without even knowing. He let himself relish in every stolen second.
Because as long as Pedri wasn't truly his, Ferran was damned to this madness.