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The late afternoon sun at Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán slapped against faces like a warning. The temperature was above thirty degrees, the air dry, and the sun hung low but merciless. From the stands, the light reflected onto the pitch, making everything appear a little blurry—or maybe it was just Pedri’s vision, already tired from holding back frustration.
Barcelona weren’t good enough today. They struggled to match the opponent’s intensity, paired with a chaotic defense. Everything looked half-hearted. And in the middle of it, Ferran kept running tirelessly on the left side, trying to press the opponent with whatever strength he had left.
22nd minute.
A slightly late tackle, a sharp whistle, and a yellow card held high.
Pedri lifted his face, watching Ferran raise his hand as if to explain himself—but the referee didn’t care. And when Ferran turned around, Pedri knew from the tension in his shoulders that it wasn’t just disappointment toward the referee’s decision. There was something deeper than that.
Seconds later, they met in the middle. No one really knew what was said, but everyone could see how their expressions changed. Ferran with a clenched jaw, Pedri with a furrowed brow. Quick hand movements, voices slightly raised, and their eyes locked under the blazing sun—enough to make Olmo glance over, enough to make De Jong try to mediate with a brief look.
No loud shouts, no physical push—just two people who usually understood each other, this time colliding with emotions at the wrong time.
After that, Ferran’s play changed. His steps were still quick, but his runs often fell out of sync with his teammates. His passes meant nothing, no shots, no successful dribbles. As if he was playing without direction, without any real intention to press. Maybe his body had been there from the start, but his mind wasn’t.
Pedri, on the other hand, kept trying to lead the tempo, but his focus was split. Several times he glanced left, and each time his eyes met Ferran’s, there was only a cold look that turned away quickly.
The cooling break came as a pause, but also as a mirror. Players stood by the sideline, gulping water and splashing their faces. Ferran stood a bit apart, hands on his hips, head lowered. No conversation. Pedri almost walked over, but his steps stopped halfway. This isn’t the time, he thought. There was still a half to finish. But somehow, his chest felt tight because of that decision itself.
He knew Ferran was more sensitive when it was him doing the scolding. Ferran could easily brush off harsh criticism from others, but when it came from Pedri, he always took it as a sign of deep disappointment. That wasn’t what Pedri meant. He only wanted to push him forward.
Hansi Flick spoke quickly during the short break, giving new instructions, trying to reignite the team’s rhythm. Pedri listened, but his eyes still searched for Ferran from time to time. That face was blank, empty, without reaction. And maybe that was when Pedri realized that the words he’d said on the pitch—however brief—had struck harder than any referee’s whistle.
68th minute.
The number seven appeared on the substitution board. Ferran lowered his head slightly, took a deep breath, then walked off. Small cheers were heard—whether from the opposing fans or their own disappointed supporters, no one could tell. Flick patted his shoulder briefly, but there was no eye contact. Ferran sat on the bench, staring straight ahead, his face stiff like a mask.
Pedri watched from afar. Just a glance. But behind that brief look were so many things he wanted to say—an apology, an explanation, or maybe simply, I didn’t mean to make you feel small.
Barcelona eventually fell 4–1 at Sevilla’s home. The last two goals came in the 90th minute and stoppage time, when Ferran had already been sitting too long in his silence. The final whistle sounded like something that ended more than just a match. A defeat that felt more like losing direction than merely losing points.
Pedri walked toward the bench. His eyes swept along it, searching for Ferran. He found him sitting on the farthest seat, head down, a towel draped over his neck—but he couldn’t find the right way to start. Everyone knew they were together—it wasn’t a secret anymore. But this evening, it felt as if the world had purposely pushed them a few steps further apart than usual.
The locker room after the match was quieter than usual. So quiet that the sound of a zipper could be heard clearly. No laughter, no comments. Losing four-one wasn’t unfamiliar, but this afternoon felt different. Maybe it was the lingering heat in the air, or maybe it was because Ferran’s gaze never once turned toward him.
Ferran was still silent. And Pedri hated that silence more than any defeat. Usually, Ferran talked a lot, always sought eye contact—even when frustrated. Now, his face was blank, sitting at the far end, staring at the floor as if it could give him answers. His shirt was still damp, his boots still on. He hadn’t changed, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t lifted his head once since leaving the pitch.
Pedri sat on his seat, slowly removing the knee pads from his legs. Across from him, Balde tried to break the mood with a light comment about Sevilla’s defense, but no one truly responded.
Hansi Flick walked past without saying much—just a pat on the shoulder of several players, including Pedri. A small sign that tomorrow they would talk more deeply.
Lewandowski was sitting on the bench next to him. His voice was low, almost a whisper so as not to draw the attention of the other players.
“Talk to him later,” he said quietly, his eyes glancing briefly toward Ferran who was still silent at the far end of the room. “Only you can calm him down.”
Pedri only nodded.
The sentence wasn’t really surprising—almost everyone in that room knew the same pattern. If Ferran was angry or disappointed, only he could calm him. But that was exactly what made it feel heavier; because this time, the source of the problem was himself.
The bus was just as gloomy.
The seats vibrated gently following the streets of Seville, but no one spoke more than a word or two. Pedri sat in the same seat with Ferran, as usual, but this time the space between them felt wide, even with only a few centimeters of air.
Ferran stared out the window, earphones covering his ears. The glass reflection showed his face—calm, but tired. Pedri studied that reflection for a long time, trying to read his thoughts, but there was only emptiness.
He almost spoke, but his throat felt dry. Maybe later at the hotel, he thought. Maybe Ferran still needs more space.
About half an hour later, the bus stopped in front of the hotel. The players got off one by one, greeting the staff with faint smiles. In the lobby, Ferran was still walking ahead, his shoulders slightly lowered, his steps slower than usual. Some staff looked at him with sympathy—everyone knew today’s result was heavy.
That night, most of the team had dinner together in the hotel dining room prepared by the club. Although the atmosphere wasn’t as lively or cheerful as usual after the night’s result, the faint clinking of plates and soft conversations could still be heard, slowly fading as the weariness of the day settled in. The air grew quieter as they began to eat. And one seat remained empty.
Ferran didn’t show up.
Since getting off the bus, he had gone straight to his room, only giving a slight nod when some teammates greeted him. No one really made an issue of it—they knew defeat, or even victory, sometimes had its own way of weighing someone down.
Pedri watched from a distance, but didn’t stop him. He thought maybe Ferran just needed time. But as the minutes passed, his worry grew—and, for some reason, so did a small feeling of guilt that wouldn’t stay quiet.
After finishing dinner, Pedri excused himself first. His steps were quick toward the upstairs corridor, his heart beating a little faster than usual. He stopped in front for a moment. As soon as he opened the door, he immediately saw Ferran there—sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor without expression. The room’s light was only half on, casting faint shadows around his face.
Pedri hung his jacket on a chair, trying to sound casual. “Do you want something to eat? I can order food, have it sent to the room.”
Ferran shook his head slightly, not even turning. “Not hungry.”
His voice was flat, like a thin boundary he didn’t want touched.
Pedri tried to smile, to stay light. “But you haven’t eaten anything since the afternoon. At least some fruit or a snack—”
“Pedri.” Ferran cut him off, his tone firm but without anger. “I don’t want to eat anything.”
Silence hung. Pedri stopped mid-step, staring at him for a long time. He knew Ferran was pulling back, but somehow this time it felt colder, farther away.
Pedri walked to the other side of the room, and began unpacking his bag, searching for his toiletries. His movements looked casual, but from the way he pulled the zipper too quickly, it was clear he was hiding his nervousness.
He glanced at Ferran sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor, then tried to start a conversation. Trying to bring up light topics— about dinner downstairs, about anything that could ease the tension a little.
But Ferran stayed silent, answering briefly, without really engaging.
Pedri stared at him a few seconds longer, a little fed up with the endless silence. His chest felt tight, the air in the room seemed heavier. He exhaled softly before finally speaking—
“Why do you always act like you’re not wanted?” His voice was low but sharp, piercing the silence.
Ferran looked up, his eyes narrowing briefly. “I’m not. You just don’t get it.”
Pedri stared back, his jaw tightening. “Yes, you do. Why are you always like this? Blaming yourself over and over. You’re always too hard on yourself. You’re always punishing yourself like this—acting like no one wants you. Acting as if everyone in the world has thrown you into some far corner where no one lives. You always distance yourself from everyone, blaming yourself excessively—”
“Because you don’t understand!!” Ferran cut him off sharply, his voice rising, almost breaking.
Pedri stared at him, eyes burning. “What is it that I don’t understand? WHAT?”
Ferran lifted himself slightly, his body tense. “You’ll never understand because people never criticize you! You’ll never understand because everyone cares about you! You’ll never understand because you never make mistakes or play badly like I do! You’ll never understand what it’s like when no one wants to understand or listen to you! You’ll never understand what it’s like when no one believes in you! You’ll never understand if—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence. How dare you say something like that?” Pedri’s voice trembled—not from fear, but from a mix of anger and heartbreak.
“What? Why? I’m just telling the truth! Because there really isn’t a single person who—”
“ME, FERRAN!” Pedri exploded, his tone sharp, but his eyes teary. “I’M THE ONE WHO CARES ABOUT YOU! I’M THE ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS YOU! I WANT TO LISTEN TO YOU! I’M RIGHT HERE, TRYING. TO. HELP. YOU!!”
The room fell silent instantly, leaving only their uneven, heavy breaths. Ferran froze, his face tense, then slowly softened. Guilt flickered clearly in his eyes.
Pedri stared at him for a long moment, disappointment weighing in his voice when he finally spoke, quieter now. “How dare you say something like that in front of me?”
“Pedri, that’s not what I meant,” Ferran finally managed, his voice shaky. “I’m sorry… I just got too emotional and couldn’t think straight. I just—”
Pedri sighed, lowering his gaze, trying to contain the swirl of emotion still burning in his chest.
“I understand,” he murmured softly. “Calm yourself first. We’ll talk again after I shower.”
Ferran didn’t answer. He just nodded faintly, eyes fixed on the floor, his fingers gripped the edge of his shirt tightly.
Pedri walking into the bathroom without another word. The door closed gently behind him, leaving Ferran in a silence heavier than before.
Inside the bathroom, the sound of running water blended softly with the beat of an unsteady heart. Pedri leaned against the cool wall, eyes closed. He tried to make sense of it all—tried to understand where that pain came from, why Ferran was so harsh on himself. The disappointment didn’t feel greater than the worry — just how deep must Ferran’s fear and insecurity have been, to the point that he even doubted him. He realized he might have pushed too fast, too hard, wanting to help so badly that he forgot to give space.
Meanwhile, outside, Ferran still sat on the edge of the bed. His hands covered his face, breaths coming slow and heavy. Guilt pressed in his chest—he knew he shouldn’t have said those things to Pedri. He knew Pedri didn’t deserve the outburst meant for himself.
He stared blankly toward the bathroom door, his mind filled with words he hadn’t yet managed to say.
And between the sound of flowing water and the slow ticking of the clock, the two stubborn heads stayed silent—each lost in their own version of solitude, unaware that both were trying to understand each other in exactly the same way.
A few minutes later, Pedri came out. Warm steam still clung to his shoulders, his hair damp and soft against his forehead. He paused at the doorway for a moment, as if searching for something in Ferran’s expression. The other man still sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.
Pedri walked around the bed and climbed up from the other side. He pulled the blanket slightly, sitting back against the headboard. His movements were slow, careful, like someone still measuring the distance between them.
“...Come a little closer, let’s talk.”
Pedri patted the empty space beside him.
Ferran hesitated for a few seconds before obeying, his movements slow and cautious, as if afraid to make a sound. The space between them narrowed, yet the air still felt distant.
“Do you want a hug?” Pedri’s voice was soft, even, but sincere.
Ferran froze, hesitant, but eventually moved closer.
When their bodies met, Pedri realized just how cold Ferran’s skin was—and how fast his heartbeat pounded. There were no words, only a deep breath that seemed to say everything.
Their embrace lingered for a long time. There were no excessive movements, no sounds except the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing. Outside the window, the Sevilla night had already turned dark, the leftover heat still hanging in the air, but inside the room, all that remained were two people who had held everything in for far too long.
Ferran took a deep breath, and Pedri’s hand stayed at his back. Pedri watched his face closely. His eyes were red—not from crying, but from exhaustion. Exhaustion from the heat, from the pressure, from everything.
Pedri leaned in a little closer, his voice almost a whisper.
“What do you feel right now?”
Ferran was silent for a few seconds before answering quietly, “Everything.”
Pedri looked at him, eyes filled with sympathy. “Sad?” he asked.
Ferran lowered his head slightly, exhaling a long breath. “Yeah,” he answered briefly.
There was a slight tremor in his voice — not from tears, but from exhaustion that had been held back for far too long.
“Disappointed?” Pedri continued, his voice gentle but steady.
Ferran nodded slightly without looking up. “Yeah, of course.”
His sweaty hands fidgeted with the hem of Pedri’s shirt as if searching for words there.
“Angry?”
Ferran looked at Pedri this time, his gaze deep and honest. “Very angry.”
The tone came out hoarse, and Pedri could see the flicker of emotion Ferran had been holding in finally breaking through to the surface.
Pedri tightened his embrace, gentle but full of resolve, as if he could hold all the weight Ferran had been carrying alone.
“You’re always allowed to feel all of that,” he whispered softly in Ferran’s ear. Ferran stayed silent. His breathing was slow, but the tightness in his chest began to ease just a little.
For the first time that night, he didn’t resist the touch, didn’t try to hold anything back. He simply let himself stay still in Pedri’s arms, like someone who had finally found a safe place to rest after a long war in his own head.
“Pedri, I’m sorry about—”
“Shhh,” Pedri interrupted softly, his fingers tracing circles across Ferran’s back. “Let’s focus on your feelings first, okay? I’m fine. I understand.”
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have said those things to you,” Ferran whispered.
Pedri took a long breath, his voice steady even though his eyes still carried a trace of hurt. “Well, I’m a little disappointed about that, and you’ll have to make it up to me later. But let’s deal with this step by step first.”
Silence settled between them again, filled only by the sound of their breathing blending in the small room.
“I wasn’t angry earlier because I didn’t believe in you or because I underestimated your feelings,” Pedri said softly. “I was angry because I was sad—because I can’t stand watching you keep doubting yourself. You work hard, you fight. But every time something goes wrong, you immediately blame yourself, as if you don’t have the right to fail.”
He took another breath, trying to steady the emotions still swirling in him. “Listen, Ferran… I also need to apologize for our argument on the pitch. I didn’t consider how much my criticism could affect you. We all know the match earlier was rough—everyone seemed to have their own battles to fight. I never meant to hurt you; I only wanted to help you avoid more mistakes.”
His gaze softened, his voice trembling slightly. “I always care about you. I always worry about you, just so you know that. I never intended to make you feel small. I never meant to hurt you, or to make you think that no one in this world can see your potential beyond your flaws. I said what I did because I know your process—I know how hard you try to get better, to make fewer mistakes in every game, to control your emotions, to fight to keep being trusted. I just don’t want you to regret even more things.”
He smiled faintly, sad but sincere. “I’ve always believed in you, Ferran. I can see how much you’ve changed for the better. I know how hard you’ve fought to earn your minutes again. I know how people have started to trust you again. All that support… I just want to help you hold onto it. My criticism was never meant to bring you down. Do you really think I’m such a bad partner that you’d think that way?”
Ferran lowered his head, eyes glistening. “No, baby. I should never have doubted you. I doubted myself—and that feeling grew and scared me when I realized you could see my mistakes too.”
“But I see your mistakes so I can help you fix them, not to judge how bad they are,” Pedri said gently, his hand still resting on Ferran’s shoulder.
“Yeah.” Ferran nodded slightly. “I understand that now. I’m sorry. I really couldn’t control my emotions after everything that happened today.”
Pedri looked at him tenderly. “I understand that, but I don’t want you to keep repeating it, and remember this, Ferran… everyone’s still here. Everyone still wants you to come back. There are still people who have faith in you. Playing badly in one game doesn’t mean the world has ended. We can face this together, okay?”
And so Ferran finally nodded firmly, and hugged Pedri again—this time tighter, without hesitation, as if afraid he’d lose his footing if he ever let go again.
The embrace was no longer just a comfort. There was something new within it: understanding, relief, and a quiet sense of gratitude—for still having someone willing to stay beside him, even in his darkest moment.
After that long talk and argument, when every word between them had finally run out, there was nothing left but silence.
They stayed in each other’s arms — simply breathing, feeling the rise and fall of two rhythms slowly finding their way into one. And the sound of each other’s heartbeats — so real, so near — filled the quiet between them.
Ferran lowered his head, his forehead resting softly against Pedri’s shoulder. Their breaths mingled in the air that was slowly warming around them. Pedri’s hand brushed the back of his neck in a tender motion, his voice coming out half-teasing, half-smiling.
“Feeling better now?”
Ferran lifted his face slightly, the corner of his mouth curling into the hint of a smile.
“Yeah… much better. Because you’re here,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper.
“You still owe me, you know — for what you said earlier,” Pedri replied softly, his tone somewhere between serious and playful.
Ferran looked at him, eyes widening a little under the dim light of the room. There was something there — guilt, yes, but also something subtler, gentler, like a faint spark that refused to fade out completely.
He swallowed before speaking, his voice rough, quiet.
“...Tell me how I should make it up to you,” he said, his breath brushing against Pedri’s cheek. “I’ll do it however you want.”
For a moment, the world around them went still.
Pedri didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered, drifting from Ferran’s eyes to his lips, then back again.
The air between them grew taut — not from anger, but from a closeness so thin and fragile it no longer felt safe to call it distance.
Their eyes met in a space too small for mere looking. And without another word, Ferran made his amends — in a way far simpler, and far more honest, than a thousand apologies could ever be.
The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fire — it was something that grew slowly, quietly, from the ache of what had been hurt toward the softness of healing.
Ferran’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling fast. But this time, he didn’t pull away. He just leaned in — closer, closer — until the last of the distance between them disappeared, and everything left unspoken poured out through a single, long, heavy kiss.
Pedri closed his eyes, letting time still itself between the silence and the touch that finally felt like home.
The room grew warmer, the soft light from the bedside lamp casting shadows of two silhouettes unwilling to part.
No more words followed — only the kind of quiet that said neither of them intended to let the night end just yet.