Chapter Text
chapter 1.
17 years old. Mumbai, India. U-17 World Cup, 2017.
The hotel room smelled like cheap detergent and the faint, stubborn scent of grass that clung to their socks no matter how many times they showered. Outside, somewhere past the glass balcony doors, the hum of a foreign city pulsed - car horns, laughter, a dog barking into the humid night. It was late, later than they were supposed to be awake, but neither of them had the energy or desire to sleep.
The match from earlier still lived in Pedri’s legs, a kind of buzzing exhaustion that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Every now and then, his muscles twitched under the sheets - phantom movements, echoes of sprints, of the ball at his feet.
Ferran was lying on the other bed, headphones around his neck, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. The blue light washed over his face, catching in his eyes, softening him. He looked peaceful in that way only people who were too tired to think could be. Pedri liked him best like that, when the world wasn’t watching, when the captain badge wasn’t pressing against his arm.
The two of them had spent the last few months in and out of national team camps together - just kids, really, representing Spain’s U-17 squad at this year’s U-17 World Cup in India, wearing the same badge but living in different worlds. Ferran was already Valencia’s bright young thing, his name starting to make its way into local headlines. Pedri was still the boy from Tegueste, too small, too shy, the one nobody really noticed until the ball was at his feet.
And yet, somehow, they fit.
Maybe it was because Ferran talked enough for both of them. He filled every silence, cracked jokes even when they were losing, and never seemed to stop smiling. Maybe it was because Pedri listened, quietly, the way nobody else did. When Ferran spoke - about pressure, about scouts, about the strange ache of being noticed - Pedri didn’t offer advice. He just nodded, eyes thoughtful, and said things like “You’ll be fine.” Simple, but it always calmed Ferran down.
Tonight, they were roommates again. They always ended up together, even when the coaches shuffled the lists. Ferran had a theory that it was because they were “low-maintenance” - no loud music, no rule-breaking, no girls sneaking up the stairs. Pedri had shrugged and said it was probably because they both brushed their teeth before curfew.
Now, though, the room was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the muffled voices of their teammates somewhere down the corridor. Ferran’s phone screen dimmed and finally went dark. He tossed it aside and rolled onto his back, hands folded behind his head.
Pedri watched the ceiling. The light between the curtains cut the room in half, the silver glow reaching across the floor and stopping just before his bed.
He thought about the match, the feeling of the ball leaving his boot, Ferran’s shout from the wing, the brief moment where their eyes met before the goal. It had felt easy, instinctive, like they were speaking a language nobody else understood.
That was the thing about Ferran. He made the pitch feel smaller. Simpler.
Pedri turned his head just enough to see him - the curve of his jaw, the sharp edge softened by fatigue. His hair was messy, curling slightly at the ends from the shower. He looked older in the dark, not sixteen, not seventeen, but something else entirely. Someone the world was already beginning to claim.
A part of Pedri - the part he didn’t like to look at too closely - wondered how much longer they’d have nights like this. How many more call-ups before Ferran was gone for good, too big for U-17s, too busy for kids like him.
He didn’t realize he was staring until Ferran spoke, voice low and rough with sleep.
“You ever think about what happens after this?”
Pedri blinked. “After what?”
“All of it,” Ferran said. “When we’re older. Clubs, careers… everything.”
Pedri thought for a moment. “Not really.”
Ferran laughed softly. “You should. You’re gonna be big, Pedrito.”
Pedri rolled his eyes, but his chest warmed. Ferran said it like it was fact, not flattery.
He didn’t answer. The silence settled again, the comfortable kind. Ferran shifted under the blanket, and Pedri heard the faint creak of the mattress.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the balcony door. Pedri closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his mind wouldn’t quiet. He thought of their first camp - how awkward he’d been, how Ferran had thrown an arm around him during the first team dinner like they’d known each other for years.
He thought of how Ferran always found him after matches, even if he’d played poorly, to say, “You did good, hermano.”
He thought of how, on nights like this, when everything slowed down, Ferran’s voice felt softer. Almost fragile.
They were just kids, but sometimes Pedri wondered if this was what real friendship felt like, something that anchored you without asking to be named.
A knock echoed from the hallway, one of the staff doing rounds, and both of them froze instinctively. Then, when the sound faded, they burst out laughing, muffling it into their pillows.
Pedri felt light again. Like they were safe here, in this in-between place - too young to be grown-ups, too old to be kids, just existing in the quiet hours before morning.
He didn’t know that this night - this simple, forgettable night - would stick with him for years.
Later, when everything got louder - the crowds, the big contracts, the noise - he’d think back to this room. To the hum of the air conditioner and the horrific humidity of Mumbai. To the sound of Ferran breathing across the dark. To the way something unspoken had hung between them, gentle and full of promise, long before either of them had the words to name it.
For now, though, they were just two boys with matching Spain kits hanging up in the closet, lying in twin beds, the world waiting for them on the other side of sleep.
And somewhere, between the half-dreaming and the quiet, the seed of a promise would soon take root - one neither of them meant, not really.
But it would stay.
The quiet stretched on for a long time, not heavy, just… slow. Ferran had that restless energy that never quite disappeared, even when he was tired. He shifted again, tossing one arm over his eyes.
“I can’t sleep,” he muttered.
Pedri smirked into his pillow. “You never can.”
“That’s ‘cause you snore,” Ferran shot back automatically.
“I don’t snore.”
“You do. Tiny little ones. Like-” Ferran made an exaggerated squeaky noise, grinning.
Pedri laughed softly, a muffled sound in the dark. “You’re such an idiot.”
“I’m your idiot,” Ferran said, half under his breath.
Pedri didn’t answer. He didn’t think Ferran even realized what he’d said. The words just slipped out the way things sometimes did with him - easy, thoughtless, warm.
He rolled onto his side, facing Ferran’s bed. The dim light from the hallway outlined Ferran’s silhouette: his shoulder rising and falling with each breath, his hand draped over the edge of the mattress.
“Do you ever get scared?” Pedri asked suddenly.
Ferran peeked out from under his arm. “Scared of what?”
“I don’t know. The future. Playing bad. Getting dropped.”
Ferran hummed, thinking. “All the time,” he admitted. “You think I’m not?”
Pedri shrugged, though Ferran couldn’t see it. “You never show it.”
“That’s the trick,” Ferran said, turning on his side to face him fully now. “If you act like you’re not scared, people start to believe it. Then maybe you start to believe it too.”
Pedri smiled faintly. “Does it work?”
“Sometimes,” Ferran said. “Mostly when you’re around.”
Pedri felt something twist in his chest - not uncomfortable, just sharp. “Why me?”
“Dunno. You don’t expect anything.” Ferran’s voice had softened. “You don’t look at me like I have to prove I deserve to be here.”
Pedri stared at him, caught off guard by the honesty. “You do deserve it.”
Ferran smiled lazily, a little sad. “Maybe. But it’s nice hearing it anyway.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air conditioner hummed again, kicking on with a low buzz. Ferran reached for his water bottle, took a sip, then tossed it back onto the nightstand. The sound of plastic hitting wood was loud in the stillness.
“Sometimes I think about leaving Valencia,” Ferran said, voice low.
Pedri blinked. “Really?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I love it, but… I don’t know. I wanna see what else is out there. Maybe England, maybe somewhere big.”
Pedri hesitated. “You’d leave everything?”
“Not everything,” Ferran said, and his eyes found Pedri’s across the dim space. “You’d still be around.”
Pedri’s breath caught - just for a second.
It was stupid, the way that made something inside him unfurl. It wasn’t like Ferran meant it like that. But still, it felt like a small tether pulling tight between them - quiet reassurance in a world that already felt too big.
“Maybe I’ll be playing somewhere else too,” Pedri said, half teasing. “Maybe I’ll be the one who leaves first.”
Ferran grinned. “Nah. You’re gonna stay in Spain forever. You look like you belong here, sunshine kid.”
“Sunshine kid?”
“Yeah. You’ve got that face. Everyone loves you already. Even the kit man smiles more when you walk in.”
Pedri ducked his head, hiding a laugh. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious,” Ferran said, sitting up slightly on one elbow. “You’re gonna be massive, Pedrito. Just don’t forget me when you’re famous.”
“Don’t forget you?” Pedri snorted. “You’ll be the one on posters.”
“Then we’ll both be on posters,” Ferran said simply, like that was something they could decide right there, between hotel beds and mismatched socks.
The thought made Pedri’s chest ache in a strange, full way - like he wanted to believe it. Like he already did.
Outside, a car horn blared, sharp and distant. Pedri rolled onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling.
“Do you ever think,” he said slowly, “that one day we’ll look back at this and laugh?”
“At what?”
“All of it. These camps. The bunk beds. The long flights. The nerves before matches.”
Ferran’s voice softened. “Yeah. We’ll miss it too.”
Pedri nodded, though he didn’t know if Ferran could see. “Feels like… I don’t know. Like one day it’ll just be a memory.”
Ferran hummed in agreement. “That’s how it goes, no? You don’t realize something’s ending until it already has.”
The words settled over them like dust, quiet and true.
Pedri felt a lump form in his throat, the kind that came from good things, from knowing how rare they were. He wanted to say I hope we don’t lose this, but it felt too much, too heavy for the space between them.
Ferran broke the silence first, a small laugh escaping. “We’re getting all dramatic now.”
Pedri smiled. “You started it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ferran shifted under the covers again, voice muffled. “Still. If everything changes, we’ll just… I don’t know. Make sure we don’t lose touch.”
Pedri looked over at him, the outline of his friend soft in the low light. “You promise?”
Ferran tilted his head toward him, grin visible even in shadow. “What, you want me to sign something?”
Pedri rolled his eyes, but he was smiling too. “No. Just-”
“Alright, alright,” Ferran said, cutting him off playfully. “I promise, Pedrito. I won’t disappear.”
Something in the way he said it, light, but certain, made Pedri’s chest go warm again.
He didn’t know why it mattered so much. Maybe because in their world, people always left. They got signed, transferred, promoted, forgotten. Maybe because at sixteen, the idea of keeping someone felt impossible and precious.
For a while, neither of them spoke again.
The hum of the air conditioner filled the space, and the city outside fell quieter, as if the world had decided to rest. Pedri’s eyes grew heavier, but he forced them open, not wanting the night to end yet.
He thought about how Ferran had said sunshine kid. How easily Ferran said things that stayed with him.
Across the room, Ferran’s breathing evened out, deep and steady.
Pedri smiled faintly, whispering into the dark, “Don’t disappear.”
Ferran didn’t answer - maybe asleep, maybe pretending.
Either way, it didn’t matter. The words hung there, soft and unbroken, as if the air itself had agreed to hold them until morning.
And though Pedri didn’t know it yet, that promise - half a joke, half something holy - would follow them both, carried quietly through years, through clubs, through everything that came after.
💛
The air in the room had gone cool, the kind that made the blankets feel heavier and softer than they really were. Ferran was lying on his stomach now, scrolling through something on his phone again, chin propped on his forearm. Pedri had been half-dozing, not quite asleep but close enough that he could hear the clicks of Ferran’s screen through the quiet.
“Why are you still awake?” Pedri mumbled.
“Because I’m bored,” Ferran said without looking up. “And because if I close my eyes, I’ll start thinking about how early training is tomorrow.”
Pedri groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
Ferran snickered. “At least you don’t have to run the wing drills. My legs are gonna die.”
“Maybe if you didn’t do all those stupid stepovers,” Pedri teased. “You waste half your energy showing off.”
“‘Showing off’ is what gets the scouts watching,” Ferran shot back, still grinning.
Pedri smirked. “You think the scouts care about your little tricks?”
“Yes,” Ferran said simply. “Everyone loves me. Haven’t you heard?”
Pedri rolled his eyes, pulling his blanket up to his chin. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you still room with me,” Ferran said, tossing a pillow across the gap between the beds. It hit Pedri square in the chest.
Pedri didn’t even move. He just let it sit there, blinking at the ceiling. “Congratulations,” he said flatly. “You’ve won.”
“Thank you,” Ferran said proudly, lying back down.
They were quiet again for a minute before Pedri threw the pillow back - not hard, but enough to make Ferran yelp in surprise.
“Oh, so that’s how it is,” Ferran said, pretending to be offended. “You wait until I let my guard down.”
“That’s how football works too,” Pedri said, smiling into the dark. “Patience.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“You love me.”
Ferran didn’t answer, and Pedri didn’t push it. The silence between them wasn’t awkward - it never was. It was the kind that filled rooms with quiet understanding, something steady and safe.
Pedri rolled onto his side again. “You think we’ll ever get our own rooms at these things?”
Ferran scoffed. “Not unless one of us starts scoring hat-tricks every match. Then maybe.”
“You’d still sneak into mine anyway,” Pedri said.
Ferran grinned. “Obviously. Who else am I supposed to annoy before bed?”
Pedri laughed under his breath. “I can think of about twenty people who’d kill to take my place.”
“Yeah,” Ferran said, still smiling, “but none of them laugh at my jokes.”
“That’s because they’re not funny.”
“They’re hilarious,” Ferran insisted.
Pedri chuckled, shaking his head. He could feel the drowsiness creeping in again, that strange fuzzy feeling that made everything sound slower, softer.
For a while, they just listened to the sounds outside - a siren somewhere far away, a door slamming, muffled voices from down the hall.
Then Ferran said, “Did you hear what happened last night?”
Pedri blinked sleepily. “What?”
“Sergio,” Ferran said. “Apparently he snuck a girl into his room.”
Pedri turned his head, half-interested. “Seriously?”
“That’s what Mateo said. He saw her leaving around two in the morning. Said she was wearing his hoodie.”
Pedri laughed quietly. “They’re going to get caught one of these days.”
“Oh, definitely,” Ferran said, smirking. “And when they do, I hope I’m there to see the coach’s face.”
Pedri grinned into his pillow. “You sound jealous.”
“Of Sergio?” Ferran scoffed. “Please. I have standards.”
“Yeah?” Pedri teased. “What are they?”
Ferran hesitated, then shrugged, the motion barely visible in the dark. “I don’t know. Someone who doesn’t care about football, probably.”
Pedri frowned slightly. “Why not?”
“Because,” Ferran said, turning onto his back again. “Then it feels like they only like you because of it. You know? The attention, the badge, all that stuff. I want someone who couldn’t care less if I scored or not.”
Pedri nodded slowly. He got it. Maybe not in the same way - his life hadn’t gotten big enough yet for that - but he understood the idea of wanting something real.
He thought for a moment, then said, “You think you’ll ever have time for that?”
Ferran let out a quiet laugh. “No idea. Probably not anytime soon.”
Pedri hummed in agreement. “You ever had a girlfriend?”
Ferran glanced over, a grin tugging at his mouth. “What, you writing a report or something?”
“Just asking.”
“Not really,” Ferran said. “A few things that barely lasted. You?”
Pedri shook his head. “Nah.”
“Not even in school?”
“Didn’t really talk to anyone. I was always training.”
Ferran made a dramatic noise. “So tragic. The lonely footballer.”
Pedri smirked. “At least I didn’t date someone just so she’d post about me.”
“Alright, low blow.”
Pedri laughed, quiet and breathy. “You said it, not me.”
Ferran pretended to throw another pillow, but he didn’t move. His voice softened again. “I just think… it’s weird, no? Being our age and having everyone expect us to already be… something. Grown up. Famous. In love.”
Pedri nodded, eyes tracing the faint outline of the curtain against the window. “We’ve got time.”
“Yeah.” Ferran exhaled. “Still, would be nice to have someone.”
Pedri turned his head slightly. “You lonely?”
“Maybe,” Ferran said. “You’re good company, though. So I’ll survive.”
Pedri smiled, small but real. “Lucky you.”
“Very,” Ferran said with mock seriousness, then ruined it by yawning.
Pedri threw his arm over his eyes, stifling another laugh. “You’re such an idiot.”
“And yet you adore me,” Ferran said through the yawn.
Pedri didn’t bother denying it this time.
The air felt softer again, that fragile hour of night where everything slowed - thoughts, words, breathing. Ferran’s voice came quieter now, almost thoughtful.
“You think you’ll ever get a girlfriend?”
Pedri shrugged, half under his blanket. “Maybe. Haven’t really thought about it.”
“You’ve never thought about it?” Ferran asked, incredulous.
Pedri grinned. “I mean… sure. But I’m not in a hurry.”
“That’s because you’re married to football.”
Pedri laughed. “You’re one to talk.”
Ferran made a noise of agreement. “Yeah, fair.”
He rolled onto his side again, facing Pedri. “Still. You’re gonna have to start dating eventually, sunshine boy. You can’t just kick a ball forever.”
Pedri looked over, eyes faintly amused. “You sound like my mother.”
“Your mother’s right,” Ferran said, smug.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ferran smirked. “If you ever find someone, she’s gonna have to go through me first.”
Pedri raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Gotta make sure she’s good enough.”
Pedri snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Protective,” Ferran corrected. “Big difference.”
“Sure.”
“Hey,” Ferran said, mock-serious. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same for me.”
Pedri pretended to think. “Eh, depends who it is.”
“Rude.”
“I’m honest.”
“Brutally,” Ferran said, grinning again.
Pedri rolled his eyes, but there was a fondness to it. This was what they did - pushed, teased, circled around the things they didn’t have the words for. It wasn’t complicated. It just was.
The laughter faded again, replaced by that half-silence that only existed when two people were too comfortable to fill it.
Pedri stretched under his blanket, sighing. “You think we’ll both still be single when we’re older?”
“Define ‘older,’” Ferran said.
“I don’t know. Twenty-five?”
Ferran let out a laugh, somewhere between a scoff and a groan. “If I’m still single at twenty-five,” he said, shaking his head, “I’d date you.”
Pedri blinked, surprised into a laugh. “What?”
Ferran grinned, eyes glinting in the dim light. “You heard me.”
Pedri snorted, grabbing his pillow and half-covering his face. “You’re such an idiot.”
“I’m serious,” Ferran said, still laughing. “Think about it, we already get along, we travel together, we don’t annoy each other too much-”
“You annoy me all the time,” Pedri cut in.
“Details,” Ferran said with mock solemnity. “Point is, we’d make it work.”
Pedri couldn’t stop grinning now, the sound of Ferran’s voice mixing with the warmth of the room and the exhaustion in his bones. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m realistic,” Ferran countered, fighting back a smile. “At least I know I won’t die alone.”
Pedri rolled his eyes but played along. “So, what, you’re saying we make a deal?”
Ferran raised an eyebrow. “A pact.”
Pedri groaned. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m serious!” Ferran insisted, trying not to laugh. “If we’re both single at twenty-five, we’ll… I don’t know. Go on a date. Just to see what happens.”
Pedri shook his head, laughing softly into the dark. “You’re insane.”
“C’mon,” Ferran said, propping himself up on an elbow now. “Shake on it. Pact of honor.”
Pedri sighed, pretending to think about it for a moment before reaching out lazily across the space between the beds. Ferran met him halfway, their hands clasping briefly in the middle - warm, calloused, a firm shake that was somehow both stupid and serious at the same time.
“Fine,” Pedri said, smirking. “Deal.”
“Deal,” Ferran repeated, a grin tugging at his mouth.
They let go, both falling back onto their pillows at the same time, the ceiling spinning faintly above them.
Pedri was still smiling. “You’re gonna forget this tomorrow.”
“No, I won’t,” Ferran said, already half-yawning. “You’re stuck with me now, sunshine.”
Pedri laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Lucky me.”
Ferran mumbled something in response - probably another joke, maybe a tease - but his voice was already fading, slipping into the edges of sleep.
Pedri stayed awake a little longer, eyes tracing the shapes of the shadows on the wall. He could still hear Ferran’s breathing, slow and steady, the rhythm syncing with the hum of the hotel air conditioner.
It wasn’t a serious promise. Just a late-night joke between friends, the kind that dissolved in laughter and sleep.
But something about it, the way Ferran’s hand had felt warm in his, the ease of the smile that lingered, stuck with him longer than he expected.
By morning, they’d be back to teasing, training, pretending nothing ever happened. But tonight, in that small, quiet moment, it felt like something only they would understand.