Work Text:
doing life together.
The morning sun slides through the window, painting warm shapes across the kitchen counter. Pedri’s perched on a stool at the island, chin propped on his hand, pretending to scroll through his phone while Ferran cooks at the stove.
He’s not fooling anyone. Least of all himself.
The pan hisses as Ferran tosses something in it - eggs, maybe, or the last bit of vegetables left in the fridge. He’s barefoot, wearing black shorts and a loose Barça shirt that clings to his shoulders when he moves. The fabric stretches across his back as he stirs, showing the subtle roll of muscle with every movement.
Pedri’s gaze follows the motion without meaning to.
There’s something about mornings like this, the sound of sizzling, the smell of garlic, the rhythm of Ferran moving through the small kitchen like he owns it - that makes Pedri’s chest go warm and strange.
“Stop staring,” Ferran says without turning around.
Pedri blinks. “I’m not.”
“Liar.”
Pedri grins, pressing the rim of his mug to his lips to hide it. “If I were staring, it’d be because you’re cooking in my kitchen.”
Ferran glances over his shoulder, smiling, eyes bright. “Our kitchen.”
The correction makes Pedri’s heart thump harder than it should. He looks down at his coffee. “Right. Our kitchen.”
Ferran goes back to stirring, and the silence that settles is easy - comfortable, even. Pedri watches as Ferran moves between the counter and the stove, how his back flexes slightly when he reaches for the salt, how his forearms tense as he lifts the pan.
He’s never seen someone look so beautiful doing something so ordinary.
Ferran plates the food and slides one dish across to him. “Here.”
Pedri takes it, their fingers brushing. His skin tingles at the contact. “Gracias, chef.”
“Eat before it gets cold,” Ferran mutters, turning to grab a fork for himself.
Pedri does - but he keeps sneaking glances, the kind that burn slow. The morning hums along quietly, their soft chatter blending with the sounds of the city outside.
💛
Later, Pedri’s outside on the terrace with a basket of laundry. The air smells faintly of detergent and sunlight. He hums as he works, hanging shirts one by one, each clothespin snapping in place.
Down in the small patch of yard below, Ferran’s playing with the dogs - Vader bounding ahead, Nilo barking, Roma trotting in that steady, watchful way she always does.
Ferran’s laughter rises up, warm and unguarded. Pedri glances down, smiling. It’s a nice view: Ferran in a white tee and shorts, hair messy, cheeks flushed from running around with the dogs.
He looks happy.
Pedri reaches up to hang another shirt, stretching on his toes to pin it to the line. The motion lifts his shirt just enough to expose a strip of skin - sun-warmed, tanned, a little soft from too many of Ferran’s home-cooked dinners.
Ferran looks up at that exact moment.
He freezes. The dogs bark around him, tugging at a toy, but he doesn’t even notice. There’s just a heartbeat of stillness - him, staring up at Pedri framed by sunlight, shirt ruffled by the breeze, mouth curved in a lazy smile.
He swallows hard, forcing himself to look away before his brain short-circuits.
“Vader!” he calls, too loud. “Sit!”
The dog ignores him completely.
Pedri looks down, puzzled. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Ferran says quickly, voice not quite steady. “Just… dogs are crazy today.”
Pedri chuckles, pinning up the last towel. “Maybe they learned it from you.”
Ferran huffs out a laugh, though his ears are still pink.
💛
By the time the sun has shifted, they’ve moved inside. Ferran’s taken over cleaning duty, vacuum in hand, while Pedri folds the last bit of laundry on the couch.
The hum of the vacuum fills the living room, drowning out the soft music playing from the speaker. Ferran moves with easy focus - dragging the hose, lifting it under the coffee table, pausing to nudge Vader out of the way with his foot.
Pedri watches him again. He can’t help it. The way Ferran’s shirt clings to his shoulders, the line of his spine visible when he bends, the small crease between his brows when he concentrates.
It shouldn’t be this attractive. Vacuuming should not be this attractive.
When Ferran straightens up, catching him staring, Pedri immediately drops his eyes to the pile of socks in his lap.
“What?” Ferran says, turning off the vacuum.
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m just…” Pedri shrugs, laughing softly. “You take vacuuming too seriously.”
“That’s because you always miss spots,” Ferran says, mock stern.
“Maybe I like leaving you something to fix.”
Ferran grins at that, shaking his head. “You’re hopeless.”
But he’s smiling too.
💛
An hour later, Ferran’s on a step stool in the hallway, changing the burnt-out lightbulb. Pedri stands below him, holding the new bulb box, pretending to be useful.
“Be careful,” Pedri says again, like he hasn’t already said it three times.
“I’m fine,” Ferran mutters, stretching up. The motion pulls the hem of his shirt up tighter, squeezing the biceps Pedri wants to take a bite out of.
Pedri looks away instantly… or tries to. But his eyes betray him, lingering on the curve of muscle, the small dip where spine meets waist.
The bulb clicks into place with a faint metallic sound. Light floods the hallway, too bright. Ferran squints down at him, smiling. “Told you I got it.”
Pedri’s still staring up at him, words slow to form. “Yeah,” he manages. “You… uh. You got it.”
Ferran steps down, the stool creaking under his weight. They end up close, almost chest to chest, both holding the empty box now for no reason at all.
For a second, neither moves.
Then Vader barrels between them, tail wagging, and the moment breaks.
Ferran laughs, bending to pet the dog. “You jealous or what?”
Pedri’s heart’s still racing, but he finds his smile again. “Of you or the lightbulb?”
“Of my incredible multitasking skills,” Ferran teases, standing up straight again. “Changing bulbs, cleaning, cooking - you should pay me rent.”
Pedri scoffs. “You moved into my house.”
“Exactly. Lucky me.”
The words hang there, gentle, genuine. Pedri meets his eyes and feels that quiet gravity again - the one that sneaks up on him between jokes, between shared breakfasts and the sound of the vacuum.
He wants to say something. Something small and stupid like I like living with you, but it catches in his throat.
Instead, he nudges Ferran’s shoulder. “Lunch?”
Ferran nods, eyes soft. “Yeah. I’ll cook.”
“Obviously,” Pedri says, smiling.
💛
Later, when the smell of food fills the kitchen again, Ferran hums the same tune as before, moving easily between counter and stove. Pedri sits where he always does, at the island, watching.
The domestic rhythm settles back around them - clinking plates, dogs padding across tile, low sunlight spilling over the floor.
Pedri doesn’t even bother pretending this time. He just watches Ferran move, watches the curve of his back as he leans to stir, the easy slope of his shoulders, the warmth in the way he exists in the space they’ve built together.
Ferran glances over his shoulder, catching him mid-look. “You’re staring again.”
Pedri smiles. “I know.”
Ferran’s face softens - a small, unguarded thing. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” Pedri murmurs, gaze steady. “But you like it.”
Ferran laughs, shaking his head, but he doesn’t deny it.
Outside, the day hums quietly on. Inside, two boys and three dogs live in the kind of silence that feels like home - full of laughter, glances, and the slow, impossible warmth of love growing in the ordinary.