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The air in Barcelona by late September was something special. It shed its summer stuffiness, filling instead with a gentle coolness carried in from the sea, mingling with the warmth still radiating from the cobblestone streets and house walls. The sun, dipping toward the mountains, no longer scorched but bathed the city in a rich, golden light, stretching shadows and hinting at the early, autumnal dusk to come.
Pedri climbed the concrete stairs of the under-construction «Camp Nou» slowly. His steps echoed dully in the empty stairwells. After a morning training session that felt almost private, only those indifferent to Paris remained in the city. The silence on the massive construction site was deafening. No hum of machinery, no shouts of workers — only the distant buzz of the metropolis and the piercing cries of swallows circling high above.
He reached the top tier and approached the temporary railing. The view from here was both majestic and intimate. The enormous bowl of the stadium, still entangled in scaffolding, was already taking on its familiar, flowing contours. At its center gaped the future pitch, while steel beams gleamed in the sunset’s rays. The air smelled of concrete dust, damp earth, and autumn.
Pedri stood leaning against the railing, his face not marked by sadness but by a calm, focused pensiveness. He wasn’t looking at ruins but at a birth. His thoughts were far from the «Ballon d’Or». He hadn’t even watched the ceremony. It felt unreal to him, something happening in a parallel world where individual accolades mattered. Here, before him, was a world of collective effort. A future home. He thought about how, in just a couple of months, these stands would roar with life, how the pitch would gleam under the floodlights. He was the best in his position — everyone who understood football knew it. But for him, that title wasn’t a crown; it was a natural extension of his work. Work for «Barça». A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips, the smile of someone exactly where they belonged.
Footsteps behind him made him turn. Ferran stepped onto the platform. Dressed in dark jeans, his favorite denim jacket, a gray hoodie, hands in his pockets. He walked over and stood beside Pedri, shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing. They stood in silence for a few minutes, gazing at the unfolding panorama.
— So, did you watch it? — Ferran finally asked. His voice was unnaturally calm, almost strained.
— Watch what? — Pedri replied, though he knew exactly what Ferran meant.
— The circus in Paris. Dembélé — «Ballon d’Or». Yamal — second. Rafa — fifth. — Ferran let out a heavy breath, his irritation barely contained. — And you — eleventh. Eleventh, man. Behind some Nuno Mendes. How does that even work?
Pedri merely shrugged, his gaze still tracing the outlines of the future pitch.
— Well, «PSG» won the Champions League. Makes sense their players rank higher. You know how it goes.
— What Champions League?! — Ferran spun toward him, his eyes flashing with angry sparks. — Do you hear yourself? Rafa was the top scorer and assist-maker in the Champions League! He won everything there was to win in Spain with us, got named La Liga’s best player! And he’s only fifth? Meanwhile, Dembélé, who woke up halfway through the season, takes first? They’ve lost their minds! That’s not logic — it’s politics!
His voice grew louder, breaking, echoing off the empty stands. For Ferran, who’d fought through a tough period of adaptation and cherished every achievement, this injustice felt like a slap in the face to the entire team. He’d seen how Raphinha poured himself into the season, reshaping his game for the squad.
— And you… eleventh. — Ferran turned to Pedri again, his voice trembling, not with anger now but something else. Hurt. — You’re the brain of this team. The tactician who finds space, chases down every ball. The one who makes the whole game happen. Without you, it all falls apart. They should’ve put you in the top five at least. Or the top three! If they gave Modrić and Rodri first for their work.
Pedri looked at him carefully. He saw more than just anger. He saw pain. Pain for him, for Raphinha, for the injustice to their shared cause. And that touched him far deeper than any ranking ever could.
— Ferri, calm down, — Pedri said softly.
— No! I’m not calming down! — Ferran ran a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed back on the construction site. — They don’t get it. They don’t see the real work. They’re obsessed with goals, flashy moments. But you — you’re the foundation holding it all together… They don’t value that. They don’t see how you set the rhythm, how without you, there’s no game. You deserved more. And Rafa deserved more. He should’ve taken that ball. He was the strongest this season, and all those so-called experts are just pretending to be objective.
The wind, growing colder, whistled through the metal structures. Pedri shivered slightly in his thin t-shirt. He saw Ferran’s anger, and part of that outrage was his own pain too. But he chose a different path.
— Listen, — Pedri turned back to the stadium, gazing at the construction. — Look at this. You can be the most ornate, intricate brick, but if the wall collapses, what’s the point? We’re building a wall here. A strong one. For the long haul. And for me… it’s more important to be part of that wall. Part of this. — He swept his hand across the horizon. — Than to stand alone on some pedestal. The «Ballon d’Or»… it’s for rules we didn’t make. But this, — he nodded toward the construction, — this is ours. Real.
He spoke with such simple, unshakable sincerity that Ferran’s anger began to fade, giving way to something else. Profound respect. This was the essence of Pedri. Not a prodigy chasing glory, but a mature craftsman who saw meaning in the collective effort.
— But you deserved personal recognition too, — Ferran said, much quieter now. — You deserved for them to see how… — he paused, searching for the word, — how great you are. Not just me.
Pedri finally met his eyes and gave a soft smile.
— The important thing is that you see it.
A pause settled between them. Pedri’s words hung in the air, as simple and undeniable as the concrete beneath their feet. «The important thing is that you see it». There was no grandiosity or attempt to console. It was a statement of fact. A fact that, for Pedri, mattered more than the opinions of every journalist in the world.
Ferran looked at him, and the fury that had boiled in him moments ago began to cool, transforming into a heavy, warm feeling deep in his chest. He saw not stubbornness but conviction. The conviction of someone who knew their worth and didn’t need to prove it with dubious trophies.
— They just don’t understand you, — Ferran finally exhaled, his voice softer, hoarser. — They look at numbers. Goals, assists, tackles. But what you do on the pitch… their stupid metrics can’t measure that. You make the game. You’re like a conductor. Without you, the orchestra’s just noise.
He took a step closer. The wind, growing colder, tousled his hair and crept under the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Pedri shivered slightly, his fingers whitening from gripping the railing so tightly. It was cold, but he held on, as if feeling a connection to this place through it.
— You’re freezing, — Ferran noted, his eyes flicking to Pedri’s thin t-shirt. The concern in his voice felt more natural than his earlier anger.
— Just a little, — Pedri admitted, not moving an inch. He seemed ready to stand there until morning, staring at the outlines of their future.
Without a word, Ferran shrugged off his denim jacket. The motion was familiar, instinctive. He didn’t ask or offer — he simply draped it over Pedri’s shoulders, his fingers lingering for a moment to adjust the collar. The jacket was warm from Ferran’s body and carried his scent, the familiar hint of his cologne. The smell of home.
Pedri reached for the sleeve, gripping the thick denim in his palm, feeling the residual, living warmth. This simple, everyday gesture meant more to him than any words. It was a silent «I’m here», «I’m with you», «my truth matters more than theirs».
— Thanks, — Pedri said quietly.
Ferran only touched his elbow in response. Lightly, almost weightlessly. Their eyes met again, and this time, Ferran’s gaze held nothing but that same truth.
— They think they’re celebrating the event of the year in Paris, — Ferran nodded toward the invisible city, his voice softening, almost pensive. — But the real thing is happening here. Quietly. Without cameras. While they put on tuxedos and smile for the lenses, we… we’re building. Building the future.
Pedri nodded, his smile widening slightly, more visible in the deepening dusk.
— You and I, we know the real truth.
He turned to look at the stadium again, but this time his shoulder gently brushed against Ferran’s. Ferran didn’t pull away. On the contrary, he felt the last of his tension drain from his body. All the noise, all the injustice — it was left somewhere far away, in another dimension. Here, high above, among the concrete and steel, there was only silence, pierced by mutual understanding.
Ferran saw Pedri’s profile in the fading glow of the sunset. Calm, sharp lines. A steady gaze fixed forward, toward the future. And he realized that all his anger was merely an outward expression of something deeper. Profound admiration. And fear — fear that the world wouldn’t see what he saw. But now that fear was gone. Because the world could remain blind. The two of them — they saw. And that was enough.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he placed his hand on Pedri’s shoulder. Pedri flinched slightly, caught off guard, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he seemed to lean into the touch, seeking support against the cold wind.
— It’s just… unfair, — Ferran whispered, no longer angry, just stating a fact. — Unfair for you. For us.
— I know, — Pedri replied just as quietly. — But look at this. — He gestured toward the stadium again. — Isn’t this more important? We’ll play here. We’ll win here. For our fans. For this city. And that… — he waved a hand dismissively, — that’s just a picture.
Ferran looked at him, his heart tightening with a new, unfamiliar tenderness. There was an incredible, mature wisdom in Pedri, one that no academy could teach. He didn’t just play football. He lived it. And he shared that life with him.
The wind picked up again, whistling through the ventilation pipes. Pedri shivered involuntarily, and Ferran felt the movement under his palm.
— Time to go home, — Ferran said, his voice now carrying nothing but care. — It’s getting too cold up here.
Pedri finally tore his gaze from the construction and looked at him. In his eyes, Ferran saw not disappointment but a strange serenity. As if, up here, he had found the answer to questions he hadn’t even asked.
— Yeah, — Pedri said simply. — Let’s go.
But they didn’t move right away. As if spellbound, they stood in the gathering dusk, two dark silhouettes against the gradually darkening sky. The wind now cut to the bone, and Pedri instinctively pulled the edges of Ferran’s jacket closer, wrapping himself in it. The denim held the warmth of Ferran’s body, and that familiar scent, mingled with the cold air, was the most comforting aroma in the world.
Ferran kept his hand on Pedri’s shoulder. He felt the tension slowly ebb from Pedri’s muscles under his fingers. He saw him finally relax, allowing himself to simply be here, not analyzing, not carrying the weight. It was a rare vulnerability, one Pedri seldom showed so openly.
— You know what’s funny? — Ferran said softly, gazing into the darkening bowl of the stadium. — I was watching old interviews this morning. You always talked like this. Even back at «Las Palmas». You said the team was what mattered most. That individual awards were just a nice bonus. And everyone thought, «He’s just a kid, naive, he’ll figure out how important personal success is». But you… you never changed.
Pedri let out a quiet snort.
— I’m not naive. I just know what makes me happy. Scoring a goal — it’s nice. Setting one up — it’s nice. But watching all the pieces come together for a beautiful attack… you making a run, and me already knowing where to send the ball… That’s different. That’s… — he trailed off, searching for the words.
— Real, — Ferran offered.
— Yeah. Real.
He turned to Ferran, and in his eyes, barely visible in the twilight, there was such clarity and purity that Ferran’s breath caught. All the falseness of the Paris ceremony, all the political games and media noise — it was dust compared to this simple, ironclad truth.
— And this stadium… — Pedri looked down again. — It’ll be our field. Our arena. This is where we’ll make real history. For our people. I don’t care that someone somewhere got a shiny golden ball. What matters to me is that tomorrow we’ll step onto the training pitch and prepare for the next game. The next title. Ours. Together.
Ferran listened, overcome by a strange feeling. He, always the more emotional one, more vulnerable to outside criticism and judgments, suddenly felt his confidence returning. Not his own, but the kind that radiated from Pedri. Like drinking from a well that never ran dry.
— They just didn’t deserve to see the real you, — Ferran finally exhaled. — All those voting experts… they see numbers, not the soul of the game. They’re the unlucky ones.
Pedri smiled in the darkness.
— But you’re lucky?
— Damn right, — Ferran answered without a hint of doubt, his hand tightening slightly on Pedri’s shoulder. — I’m the luckiest guy in the world.
He took one final step, closing the last bit of distance between them. Now only centimeters separated them. Ferran saw the wind tousling Pedri’s dark hair, saw him squinting against the cold gusts.
— I’m not angry anymore, — Ferran whispered. — I’m just… I’m with you. And all their rankings—they’re just dust.
Pedri didn’t reply. He just looked at him. And in that look was everything: gratitude, understanding, the quiet joy he found only here, up high, together.
Ferran leaned in. This time, the movement was slower, almost tentative. He gave Pedri every chance to pull back, to retreat, to return to his thoughts about the stadium. But Pedri stayed still. His eyes were wide open, and in them was not anticipation but an invitation.
Their lips met.
This kiss was different. Not a fleeting moment or a passionate impulse. Not a light, exploratory touch, but something deeper, more certain. It carried the full spectrum of the day’s emotions — Ferran’s rage transformed into loyalty, Pedri’s quiet confidence turned into openness. This wasn’t a kiss to escape reality but to affirm their own, the only true reality. A reality where they were partners, each other’s support, two parts of a whole.
It didn’t last long, but it felt like an eternity. When they pulled apart to catch their breath, their foreheads pressed together. They stood, breathing short, warm clouds of vapor into the cold air.
— Now we really need to go home, — Ferran repeated, his voice trembling not with hurt anymore but with the weight of his emotions.
— Home, — Pedri nodded.
This time, they moved. Shoulder to shoulder, in complete darkness, they headed toward the exit from the upper tier. Pedri was still wrapped in Ferran’s jacket, and Ferran could feel his warmth through the thin fabric of his hoodie.
As they descended the dark staircase, they didn’t speak a word. They didn’t need to. Everything that mattered had already happened. Outrage had given way to understanding, pain to closeness, and the cold wind to the warmth they found in each other.
Somewhere out there, in Paris, fanfares blared for new kings. But here, in Barcelona, in the complete silence of the under-construction «Camp Nou», two guys were simply walking home. And they knew that their truth, their football, their future — that was what held real value. Everything else was just noise.