Chapter Text
When his phone buzzed, Pedri almost didn’t answer then he saw it was his agent and picked up.
“It’s Barça,” his agent said, voice evident with excitement. “They’ve been watching you for a while. They haven’t approached formally yet but they’re sending scouts soon, maybe in a few weeks. The interest is real, Pedri.”
For a second, the words didn’t land. Then “Barça” started echoing in his head and before he knew it, he was actually laughing. He sat up, pressing the phone tighter to his ear like he needed to make sure he hadn’t misheard. He’d dreamt of this since he was a kid. Barça wasn’t just a club. It was the club, the one he used to draw on his school notebooks, the shirt he’d asked for every birthday. The one his whole family loved. That little kid from Tegueste would never have believed this call was real.
He thanked his agent too many times before hanging up, grinning so hard his face hurt.
He sat there, still a bit dazed, already imagining Fer’s reaction. His parents would lose it. Marco-
Marco.
He jumped up. He had to tell him. Even when things got tense, Marco was the first person he’d always gone to. The one who said he believed in him.
At least, sometimes.
They’d been together a while. They met because they played football in the same circles. Then Marco joined Las Palmas and a year later, Pedri did too.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm down but he couldn’t stop smiling. Marco would understand what this meant. Barça. He knew how much it mattered to Pedri. They’d promised they’d make it together.
When he heard the door open, he turned, grin wide. “Marco-“
Marco looked tired, jaw tight, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “What?” he snapped like he was already annoyed.
“I just got off the phone with my agent,” Pedri said, heart still racing. “He said Barça’s interested in me. Like… they actually want to come watch me soon. Isn’t that insane?”
Marco just stared at him for a second. Pedri waited for a smile, a laugh, a hug anything. But Marco only dropped his bag with a thud.
“Barça,” he said flatly. “Yeah, right.”
Pedri blinked. “Yeah. It’s… it’s crazy, right?” He let out a small laugh. “I can’t believe it.”
“You really think they’ll sign you?”
Pedri’s smile faded. “I-what do you mean?”
Marco shrugged, too casually. “Just saying. Barça doesn’t go around picking up kids who’ve played one decent season in Segunda. You’re good sure but not that good.”
“You haven’t even seen my last few games because of your injury-“
“Oh, I’ve seen enough.” Marco’s voice rose bitterly. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. Don’t make it bigger than it is.”
The warmth in Pedri’s chest turned cold. This wasn’t how he imagined this moment. He’d pictured Marco proud, maybe pulling him into a hug, telling him I told you you’d make it.
Instead, there was that look again, the one Marco gave him whenever Pedri let himself shine too much. And suddenly, the dream didn’t even feel real anymore.
He forced a smile, even though his throat felt tight. “But… they, they might, Marco. My agent said they’ve been watching me for weeks. He sounded serious.”
Marco laughed, low and cutting. “Agents say whatever keeps you happy, amor. They tell every kid the same thing oh Barça’s watching you, Madrid’s watching you just to keep you motivated.”
“No, it’s, he wouldn’t lie. You don’t know him-“
“Oh, I don’t know him?” Marco’s voice snapped. “And you think you do? He’s using you, Pedri. That’s what agents do. You’re just a number to them. You’ll see when they drop you the second someone better comes along.”
Pedri’s smile was gone completely. “Why are you saying this?”
“Because someone has to keep your feet on the ground. You get carried away with this shit.” Marco laughed again, shaking his head. “Barça,” he repeated like the word itself was ridiculous, like it was cute for Pedri to even think Barça could come for him.
“I’m not getting carried away,” Pedri whispered. “I’m just… happy. This was always my dream. I thought you’d be happy too.”
“I just don’t want you setting yourself up for disappointment. You’ll thank me when it doesn’t happen.”
The words hit harder than anything else. Pedri swallowed, the joy completely gone now. “I just wanted to tell you,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”
Marco shrugged and turned toward the bathroom. “Yeah. Well. Don’t get your hopes up.”
The next day, Fer opened the door before Pedri could even knock twice.
“Pepi!” he grinned, pulling him into a hug so tight Pedri could barely breathe. Fer was already talking a mile a minute. “You didn’t give me all the deets properly on the phone man but… Barça? Barça? Are you serious?”
Pedri nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. My agent called yesterday.”
Fer stared for a beat, then let out a shout loud enough to probably startle the neighbour’s dog. “BARÇA!” He grabbed Pedri by the shoulders, shaking him like he couldn’t believe it. “Barça, Pepi, that’s your dream! The one! Oh my god, Mama is going to cry. Wait, wait, I need to film her reaction when you tell them!”
He was already pacing, talking about how their dad would brag to everyone in the neighbourhood. Pedri watched him, something warm flickering faintly in his chest. It should’ve been enough to drown out everything else but Marco’s voice still lingered somewhere in the back of his head:
You really think they’ll sign you?
You’re getting ahead of yourself.
Don’t make it bigger than it is.
Fer turned back, beaming. “I mean, God, Barça, Pepi! Barça! That was our dream since we were kids. The Camp Nou, the badge, everything. You should be losing your mind right now. How are you not freaking out?”
“I don’t know,” Pedri said softly. “It’s just… it doesn’t mean they’ll sign me. They’re just interested. Doesn’t mean it’ll happen.”
Fer blinked, still smiling but a little confused. “Yeah but it’s still huge! That’s how it starts!”
“Yeah but maybe it’s just talk. I shouldn’t get my hopes up.”
Fer’s smile faded a bit. He stepped closer, studying him. “Hey. What’s wrong with you?” His tone softened. “This is everything you ever wanted, hermanito. You’ve worked your ass off for this. Why do you sound like someone told you it’s bad news?”
“I just don’t wanna jinx it,” Pedri mumbled.
Fer frowned then slung an arm around him. “You’re not jinxing anything. Pepi, listen if Barça’s watching you, it’s because you deserve it. You earned it. Nobody’s doing you a favor.”
Pedri nodded automatically but his eyes stayed on the ground. Fer’s words helped like always did. But underneath it all, Marco’s voice was still there:
Don’t get your hopes up.
And as Fer went on, talking about Camp Nou, about maybe playing with Messi, about how proud their parents would be, Pedri only felt smaller and smaller. Like he was disappearing inside his own dream.
Three weeks later, the scouts came and not just scouts, the sporting director of Barça too.
Before kickoff, his coach pulled him aside. “They’re here for you, niño. Just play your football.”
And he did.
For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t thinking about Marco or about what could go wrong. Just the ball, the grass, his coach’s proud smile, Fer and his parents in the stands. He wished Marco could’ve been there but he was still busy in his physiotherapy post injury.
After the game, his agent found him in the tunnel, grinning like someone who’d been waiting to spill a secret.
“They’re serious, Pedri. They’ve been talking to Las Palmas already. It sounds like a deal might be in the works, for real this time.”
Pedri blinked, dizzy. “Wait, actually?”
“Actually. You might want to start thinking about life in Catalonia, kid.”
It hit him all at once. Barça. It might actually happen.
He couldn’t stop smiling the whole ride home. He wanted to tell Marco anew this time. Maybe this time it’d be different. Maybe Marco would see him the way Pedri saw himself tonight, right on the edge of something extraordinary.
But as soon as he unlocked the door, he knew it wasn’t going to be that kind of night. Marco was sitting at the kitchen table, jaw tight, staring at the wall. His bag was on the floor. The tension in the room was heavy enough to wipe the smile off Pedri’s face.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “You’re back early.”
“Got sent back by the idiot physio,” Marco muttered. “He said I’m not working properly on my rehab plan, can you believe the dumb fuck?”
Pedri hesitated, setting his bag down carefully. He knew the signs when to stay quiet, when to keep out of the way.
But tonight, the excitement was too much to hold in. His hands were still trembling as he reached for a glass. He just needed water, something to steady himself. But the glass slipped from his fingers and shattered across the tiles. The sound was too loud in the silence.
“Jesus fuck, Pedri!” Marco snapped, slamming his hand on the table. “Can’t you do anything right?”
“I, sorry, it just-” Pedri crouched quickly to pick it up. “It slipped-”
“It always slips. You’re fucking useless, you know that? You can’t even hold a fucking glass properly.”
Pedri froze. He hated how fast he went small, how easy it was for Marco’s voice to make him feel that way. He reached for the pieces of glass, trying not to cut himself, but his hands were shaking too much.
“I’m not useless,” he murmured.
“Oh yeah? Sure. Keep telling yourself that, kid.”
Pedri stood up, the shards clinking in his hands, his whole body trembling. “Please don’t talk to me like that.”
Marco looked up, eyes cold. “Like what?”
“Like I’m nothing.”
For a second, Marco didn’t answer. Then he smiled, that thin, cruel smile Pedri had learned to dread.
“You think you’re something special now huh? Because Barça sent a couple of scouts? Because some agent’s feeding you dreams?”
Pedri’s throat went tight. “They’re, talking to Las Palmas. My agent said-“
“Oh, my agent said,” Marco mocked in a high, childish tone. “Right. Keep living in your fairy tale, Pepi. You really think they’re going to waste their time on you? Wake up. Be a grown up. Be useful for once.”
And just like that, all the light from earlier from the stadium, the scouts, his agent’s words all vanished.
“I’m trying,” he whispered.
“Then try harder.”
That was that.
Pedri cleaned up the glass in silence. When he finally went to bed, he lay awake staring at the ceiling while Marco slept beside him.
A week later, Pedri was at his parents’ place when his phone rang and it was his agent again.
“Can you come in tomorrow morning? Las Palmas and Barça have settled on a fee between themselves. They’re just waiting to agree on personal terms with you. For now, the plan is to let you stay at Las Palmas for a year on loan so you can develop more and then join Barça officially next season. I’ve got the first draft of the contract waiting for you.”
Pedri stood up so fast he nearly tripped over the table leg.
“Wait, really?” he said. “Like… it’s done?”
“Almost. They just want you to look it over. Standard stuff like term length, bonuses, salary range. Nothing final until you sign, but Pedri…” His agent paused and Pedri could hear his smile through the phone. “It’s happening.”
Pedri barely remembered hanging up. All he knew was that by the time he found Fer in the living room, he was shaking with laughter.
“Fer,” he gasped. “It’s happening. The deal, Barça, it’s ready!”
Fer blinked, then jumped up like he’d been shocked. “You’re kidding. You’re actually kidding!”
Pedri shook his head, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. “They said to come in, they want to go over the personal details but the clubs agreed together. Barça. Me. It’s real.”
Fer’s shout echoed through the house before their parents even came out of the kitchen. His mum covered her mouth when she found out, his dad blinked twice like he needed to be sure he’d heard right. Then everyone was laughing and hugging him, pulling him in, kissing his cheek, patting his back.
The next morning, they all drove to the agent’s office together. Pedri tried to sit still but couldn’t and his leg bounced the whole way. Fer teased him for it. “Relax, Pepi. You’re acting like they’re going to revoke it if you smile too hard.”
“I can’t help it,” Pedri said, grinning. “I’d play for minimum wage if it meant wearing that shirt.”
Fer laughed. “Don’t say that in front of your agent, idiot.”
At the office, the draft contract looked unreal with its thick, crisp paper and the Barça crest at the top. His name on the first line. His agent walked him through everything: the transfer fee, the bonuses, the salary. Pedri tried to listen but his eyes kept catching on the word Barcelona until it blurred.
When his agent asked, “Anything you want to change?” Pedri just shook his head.
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s perfect. I just want it to happen.”
Fer clapped him on the back. His parents’ eyes were wet, his mum whispering you deserve this, hijo.
This was what it was all for, the empty pitches in Tenerife, the early mornings, the bruises. It finally felt like it might all be worth it.
Pedri couldn’t stop smiling on the way home. They’d gone out to lunch to celebrate, his mum calling his grandma to tell her, our boy’s going to Barça. It was everything he’d imagined this day would be. But as soon as he opened the apartment door, that warmth started to fade.
Marco was home. He was slouched on the couch, scrolling through his phone. The TV was on but muted. Pedri hesitated in the doorway, hand still on the knob.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Where were you?”
“At a meeting with my agent,” Pedri said, trying to sound casual though his heart was still racing. “With my family.”
Marco’s brow lifted. “For what?”
Pedri couldn’t hold it in anymore. He smiled, cheeks flushed. “The deal’s done. Barça’s signing me. They had the contract ready for me to go through, I just saw it.”
For a moment, Marco didn’t move. Then he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Barça?”
Pedri nodded, still smiling, though it faltered slightly under Marco’s stare. “Yeah. It’s real now. Official.”
“They’re probably signing you for the B team then.”
Pedri blinked. “No, no, they said for the first team-“
Marco snorted. “The first team? Right. So you think you’ll be playing alongside Leo Messi now?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “What a joke.”
Pedri’s smile disappeared completely. “It’s not a joke,” he said quietly. “That’s what they said.”
“You really believe that? Christ, Pedri, you’re so naive. You think they’re just going to hand you a spot next to world class players? Wake up. You’ll be warming a bench if you’re lucky.”
Something twisted in Pedri’s chest. His throat ached as he swallowed. “Why can’t you just be happy for me?”
“Because I live in the real world,” Marco snapped. “Someone around here has to.”
Pedri opened his mouth but the words tangled and died before they came out. His eyes stung, his lower lip and chin trembled.
Marco noticed and smiled, cruel. “What, now you’re gonna cry?”
Pedri’s breath hitched, his shoulders curling in. “No,” he whispered.
“Oh my lord, you’re actually gonna cry. You’re pathetic. Look at you, nothing more than a crybaby. And you actually think Barça seriously wants you.”
Marco stood, grabbed his keys off the table. “Grow up, Pepi,” he muttered, and slammed the door hard enough to make the picture frames rattle.
The sound echoed long after he was gone. Pedri stood there, staring at the empty space where Marco had been.
He wanted to be angry.
He wanted to say you’re wrong.
But all he felt was small.
So, so small.
A week later, it was official.
Las Palmas posted the announcement first:
Pedri González to join FC Barcelona at the end of the season. Will remain on loan with Las Palmas until next summer.
Pedri’s phone exploded with messages of teammates tagging him, old friends congratulating him, his parents calling, Fer sending voice notes shouting “Barça, hermano, BARÇA!” over and over until Pedri couldn’t stop laughing.
He even got a text from his coach: Proud of you kid. Let’s make this season count.
When he walked into training, people clapped him on the back, grinning, saying, Our Pedri is going to Barça! He laughed, smiled, felt it all sink in.
But when he got home that night, Marco was there again, back after his physiotherapy session. Pedri stopped in the doorway when he saw him.
“Congrats,” Marco said without looking up, voice dry. “Guess it’s official, huh? The big Barça signing.”
Pedri tried to keep his voice light. “Yeah. It’s just for next season. I’ll stay here this year.”
Marco hummed, unimpressed. “So basically nothing changes.”
“Well but it’s done now. Next year I’ll-“
“Next year,” Marco cut in, standing up, “is a long way off. You don’t know what’ll happen by then.”
Pedri bit the inside of his cheek. “I know but still… it’s good news.”
Marco turned, eyes narrowing. “Pedri, do you really think Barça’s sitting there waiting for you like you’re Messi 2.0? You get one injury this year and they’ll send you to the B team and next year you’re gone. Don’t fool yourself.”
Pedri lowered his head, voice small. “I’m not fooling myself.”
“Sure,” Marco said, shrugging. “Just don’t act like you’re some big shot now. You’re still here. Still Las Palmas. Still a nobody.”
Pedri didn’t answer. He’d learned by now that silence was safer, just wait for the storm to pass.
For the next few weeks, that was his routine. He woke early, left for training before Marco even got up and came home late. Every little thing could set Marco off, the TV too loud, a cupboard door not closed right, Pedri laughing at something on his phone.
So he stopped doing all of it.
He stopped laughing at home.
He ate in silence, cleaned in silence, existed in silence.
Fer showed up one afternoon, unannounced.
Pedri had just gotten back from training, hair still damp from the shower, when he heard the knock. He opened the door, blinking. “Fer? What are you doing here?”
His brother grinned, holding up a bag. “Brought food. Mama said you’ve probably been living off cereal again.”
Pedri smiled and stepped aside to let him in. “No, I’ve been eating.”
“Sure you have.”
They sat at the small kitchen table and unpacked the food. Fer talked about their dad yelling at the TV during Barça matches and how their mum had started collecting every newspaper clipping that mentioned Pedri. Pedri laughed, shaking his head.
“She’s gonna need a whole drawer soon,” Fer teased.
Pedri ducked his head, cheeks pink. “She’s just excited.”
“We’re all excited. You’re going to Barça, Pepi! That’s insane. Can you believe we watched them win the Champions League in 2015 with the rest of the penya that our grandfather started and now you’ll join them? It’s crazy, Pepi. I still can’t believe it!”
Pedri laughed softly then glanced toward the closed bedroom door. “Shh, not so loud. Marco’s sleeping.”
Fer raised an eyebrow. “It’s two in the afternoon.”
“He had physio this morning. You know he’s been injured with the whole knee thing and all,” Pedri said quickly. “He gets tired.”
“Okay,” Fer said slowly. “Didn’t realize whispering was part of the house rules.”
Pedri gave a small, nervous smile and pressed a finger to his lips when Fer chuckled too loud a few minutes later. “Fer, seriously, keep it down, he gets upset if-”
“If what?”
“If something disturbs his rest.”
Fer leaned back, watching his brother move around the kitchen like he was being careful not to make a sound, stepping lightly as if his footsteps might be too much. It hit him then how small Pedri looked in his own place: shoulders hunched, voice low, eyes constantly flicking toward that closed door.
Fer felt his stomach twist. He had never liked Marco. He’d told Pedri before that Marco seemed too short tempered, too jealous, too cold. Every time, Pedri would say the same thing: You don’t know him, Fer. He loves me.
But watching Pedri shush him for laughing, Fer couldn’t see love in that apartment.
His hands tightened around his cup. “Pepi,” he said. “You’re acting like we’re in a library, not your home.”
Pedri blinked, startled. “What?”
“You’re walking around like you’ll get in trouble for breathing too loud.”
Pedri frowned, defensive in a way that made Fer’s chest ache. “It’s not like that, Fer. You’re just, you don’t understand him.”
“Maybe I don’t. But I understand you. And right now you look like you’re scared to take up space.”
Pedri looked at the floor, jaw working. “I’m not scared,” he muttered. “He’s just… tired lately. That’s all.”
Fer wanted to shake him, to grab him and say, look at yourself, Pepi, you don’t see it but I do. Instead he exhaled slowly because pushing too hard would only make Pedri dig in. “Okay,” he said. “If you say so.”
Pedri nodded, relief flashing in his eyes as he forced a small smile and reached for his drink. The silence that followed felt heavy.
From behind the closed door came a dull thump. Pedri flinched, eyes darting to the sound. Fer watched the tiny movement and felt something harden in his chest.
He didn’t say it out loud then but he made himself a promise sitting there in that quiet kitchen: he was going to get Pedri out of here.
The next day, Fer took Pedri to the beach. It was a random, unplanned outing.
Pedri sat cross legged, a bottle of water between his hands, twisting the cap open and shut without drinking.
Fer watched him for a moment before saying, “I’ve been thinking about what I saw yesterday.”
Pedri didn’t look up. “About what?”
“About how you shushed me like a five year old when we were in your kitchen.”
Pedri’s jaw tightened. “Not this again, Fer.”
“You were scared, Pepi. You might not want to call it that but I saw it.”
Pedri pressed his lips together, eyes on the horizon. “You don’t know him,” he said softly. “When he’s sweet, he’s really sweet. He looks after me, he loves me.”
“He yells at you,” Fer cut in. “He makes you shrink in your own home. That’s not love, Pepi. That’s control.”
Pedri’s chest rose and fell unevenly. He tried to laugh but it came out thin. “You’re just overreacting. He loves me, Fer. You don’t understand him like I do.”
Fer turned fully toward him. “No, I don’t understand him. But I do understand you. And you’re my little brother and I know what you look like when you’re happy and that was not it.”
Pedri’s lip wobbled. He blinked, voice cracking. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Pepi-“
“Everything is okay,” Pedri blurted too fast, shaking his head. “Everything’s fine, Fer. It’s all fine, really.”
Fer watched the way his brother swallowed, how his throat bobbed. Pedri sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as Fer.
Then he made a small, strangled sound and turned his face away, hiding it from Fer.
Fer’s heart split.
“Hey,” he murmured, reaching out and pulling Pedri toward him.
Pedri didn’t resist. He folded in like he always had, burying his face against Fer’s chest. His shoulders shook, quiet and small, like he was still afraid of being too loud.
Fer wrapped his arms around him, palm pressed to the back of his head. “It’s okay, hermanito,” he whispered. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”
Pedri nodded into him, trying to stop the little gasps, his breath hitching against Fer’s shirt.
Fer wanted to punch something. He wanted to storm back to that flat and tear down the walls Marco had built around Pedri’s confidence, piece by piece. He wanted to make Marco pay. He’d never seen his little brother like this, not the bright eyed kid who used to fall asleep in front of the TV dreaming about Barça, not the boy who used to laugh without care without worrying if he was too loud.
He held him tighter, jaw set, as the wind lifted around them.
“Nothing’s gonna hurt you anymore,” Fer murmured into Pedri’s hair, so softly Pedri did not even hear it.
Fer waited until Pedri had been at their parents’ for two days. He parked with his jaw clenched, climbed the stairs two at a time and knocked. Marco opened the door a few seconds later, wearing that smug look Fer had always hated.
“Well, if it isn’t big brother,” Marco said, leaning against the frame. “What do you want?”
Fer didn’t answer. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside.
Marco laughed, mocking. “You planning to break in now?”
Fer turned to face him, eyes hard. “We need to talk.”
“About what? Judging by your face, it’s something about your brother. What did that crybaby say now-“
“Don’t,” Fer snapped. “Don’t talk about him like that, don’t you even dare.”
“Oh, here we go. You think you can come in here and play the hero-“
Fer’s hand slammed against the door and it rattled. “You don’t get to talk about him like that!” he shouted. “Do you even realize what you’ve done to him? He’s scared to breathe in his own house!”
Marco’s smirk faltered for a moment but he tried to laugh it off. “You’re being dramatic. Pedri’s fine.”
“Fine?” Fer barked, bitter. He stepped closer until they were face to face. “He can’t even laugh without checking if you’re awake. He can’t celebrate the biggest news of his life because he’s afraid of how you’ll take it!”
Marco’s jaw tensed. “You don’t know what happens between us.”
“I know enough,” Fer growled. “I know he used to light up every room he walked into. Now he walks around like he owes the world an apology. And that’s because of you.”
“Watch your mouth,” Marco snapped. “You don’t know shit about-“
“Don’t tell me what I know,” Fer said, voice low and dangerous. “I know exactly what kind of man you are. I’ve seen your type a hundred times: jealous, insecure, pathetic. You can’t stand that he’s going places you never will so you break him down until he starts believing you.”
Anger flashed in Marco’s eyes. “Get out.”
Fer didn’t move. “No. Not until I say what I came here to say.”
He stepped even closer. “You’re done. You don’t talk to him like that again. You don’t touch him. You don’t even breathe near him like that. Because if you do, I swear to God, Marco, I’ll make you regret every single word you’ve ever spat at him.”
Marco glared. For a long second they were both silent. Then Fer opened the door without waiting for an answer. He stepped out and slammed it behind him.
Two days later, when Pedri came back from his parents’ place, he was still humming as he turned the key in the lock. Two days at home had been a relief, two days where he could breathe without feeling like he was intruding in someone else’s space. He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes and turned toward the living room.
“Nice of you to show up,” Marco’s voice snapped from the couch.
Pedri startled. He hadn’t even seen him there, slouched against the cushions, jaw tight, eyes already angry.
“Hey,” he said carefully. “I told you I’d be at my parents’ for two days.”
“Oh, I know where you were,” Marco said, getting up. “I just didn’t realize you’d be so busy complaining about me while you were there.”
“What? No, I didn’t-“
Marco took a step closer, anger flickering in his face. “Your brother came here. Did you forget to mention that?”
Pedri’s stomach dropped. “Fer?”
“Don’t act surprised,” Marco said sharply. “He showed up at my door like some tough guy, telling me to ‘stay away from you.’ What’s that about huh? You send him here to do your dirty work?”
Pedri shook his head quickly. “No, no, I didn’t even know he came.”
“Bullshit,” Marco barked. “You expect me to believe he just showed up out of nowhere? You must’ve gone crying to him again, right? Poor Pedri, the big bad boyfriend’s too mean.”
“I didn’t!” Pedri said, his voice cracking. “I didn’t say anything!”
“You know what’s funny? You really think you’re slick, don’t you? Playing the victim with everyone. Your family, your agent, whoever will listen. Always the sweet, quiet one. So innocent. You should’ve been an actor, not a footballer.”
Pedri opened his mouth but Marco didn’t stop.
“You’re pathetic,” he went on, voice rising. “You think everyone’s gonna keep babying you forever? What happens when Barça realizes you’re not special? When you’re sitting on the bench for the rest of your career?”
Pedri flinched. “Marco, I don’t-“
“What?” Marco snapped. “Don’t what? They’re not signing you because you’re good, Pedri. They’re signing you because you’re marketable. Just a pretty face, that’s it. They’ll get a season out of you, sell a few shirts, if you even play and then you’ll be gone. Back here. Back to me. You’ll see.”
Pedri stood frozen.
“You’d be nothing without me, you know that?” Marco said, voice sharp. “I’m the one who pushed you to train, to focus, to act like a professional. But do I get thanks? No. You just run off to your family and cry about how mean I am. Like some spoiled brat who can’t take criticism.”
Pedri’s heart pounded. He didn’t know what to say. He never did when Marco was like this. Anything he said only made it worse.
“I didn’t tell him,” he said quietly. “I promise, Marco, I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, right,” Marco spat. “Because your brother’s just psychic now huh? He waltzes in here, trying to scare me off like he owns the place. What’d you tell him, that I’m some monster? That I scream and you cower in the corner like a scared dog?”
Pedri shook his head but the tears were already burning his eyes. “No-“
“You’re a coward,” Marco hissed. “A coward and a crybaby. That’s what you are. You can’t stand up for yourself, so you send someone else to fight your battles. Maybe that’s why Barça wants you, you’ll take orders like a good little boy.”
Pedri swallowed hard, hands shaking. “Please-“
“And your brother?” Marco sneered. “Your precious Fer. Maybe he should stop running his mouth about things he doesn’t understand. What’s he gonna do huh? Throw another tantrum? Or maybe he’s just jealous because he’s washed up, not a footballer like he wanted to be and I am.”
That’s when something in Pedri snapped.
His voice came out soft, trembling but sharp. “Don’t talk about my brother like that.”
Marco froze mid step, blinking like he hadn’t heard right. Then he laughed. “What did you just say?”
Pedri’s jaw tightened. “I said don’t talk about my brother like that.”
Marco smirked, stepping closer. “Oh, you’re serious? You think you can tell me what to say now?”
Pedri’s breath hitched but he didn’t back down. His hands were shaking, but his eyes didn’t drop.
“You can say whatever you want about me,” he said, voice steadier now like he’d been holding it in for years. “You can call me a coward or useless or whatever you want. I don’t care anymore. But you don’t ever, ever talk about Fer.”
Marco blinked, thrown off by the edge in his tone.
Pedri took a step forward. His voice rose. “He’s the best person I know. He’s been there for me every time you’ve torn me down. He’s the one who believed in me before anyone else did. Not you, him. You don’t even get to say his name. You don’t deserve to.”
Marco opened his mouth, but no words came out. For the first time since they’d met, Pedri wasn’t looking at him with fear. There was hurt, yes but underneath it, there was fire.
“Say whatever you want about me,” Pedri said again. “But if you ever talk about my brother again, I’ll make you regret it.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Marco glared, chest heaving but he didn’t speak. Pedri didn’t move either. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt but he stayed right there, refusing to look away.
Marco clamped down painfully on Pedri’s arm and shook him, “You fucking coward. Is that all you can do? Cower like a bitch but when it’s about your precious older brother, that’s when you remember you can speak?”
”Marco, let me go, you’re hurting me-“
”Good. That’s what you deserve. Maybe tell Fer this as well and-“
And that’s when Pedri yanked his arm away and pushed Marco back with every strength he could muster. “I told you do not talk about my brother!”
Marco staggered as his back hit the wall and stared at him, his chest heaving. For a second, Pedri braced himself for a hit and he was ready to hit back. But then Marco snatched his keys off the table and went out and slammed the door shut. For the first time in a long time, Marco didn’t have the last word.
The apartment was silent except for the ticking clock. Pedri pressed his palms to his eyes. He’d defended Fer tonight. For the first time, he’d told Marco to shut up, to stop. For a moment, he’d actually felt strong.
And he realised with startling clarity that he couldn’t stay here. And a thought snuck in quietly: you don’t have to stay.
He blinked, looked toward his duffel bag in the corner. Before he could second guess himself, he stood up. His hands moved automatically stuffing clothes, charger, toothbrush, boots, his old Barça hoodie. Every sound felt too loud, the zip of the bag like it could wake the whole building.
Pedri’s chest tightened but he didn’t look back. He slipped out the door as quietly as he could.
By the time he reached Fer’s building, his hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped the bag. It was past two but he pressed the buzzer anyway.
“Yeah?” Fer’s voice came groggy through the speaker.
Pedri swallowed. “It’s me.”
A pause. Then the door buzzed open.
When Fer appeared, hair messy and Tshirt wrinkled, his eyes went wide at the sight of the bag. “Pepi?”
Pedri tried to smile but it cracked. “Can I-” His voice broke. He tried again. “Can I… stay here tonight?”
Fer didn’t answer. He just opened his arms. The second Pedri stepped into them and the door closed behind them, everything inside him gave way. The breath he’d been holding for months came out as a sob, muffled against his older brother’s chest.
“Hey,” Fer whispered, holding him tight. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”
Pedri’s shoulders shook. “I couldn’t, he just, I didn’t want to-“
“Shh.” Fer’s hand came up to the back of his head. “You don’t have to explain. You did the right thing.”
Pedri nodded and held on tighter, his face buried in Fer’s shirt until the sobs started to ease. When they did, Fer pulled back slightly to look at him.
“Come on,” he said softly. “You need to sleep.”
Pedri followed as Fer led him to the guest room. His eyes were burning, his body heavy with exhaustion. Fer didn’t say much. He pulled the blanket up to Pedri’s chest when he lay down, tucking it in like he used to when they were kids.
Pedri’s lip trembled. “I’m sorry for waking you. You don’t have to stay with me,” he murmured.
Fer sat on the edge of the bed anyway, brushing a hand through his hair. “I know,” he said quietly. “But I will.”
Pedri nodded, eyes fluttering shut. The room was quiet and safe. He could hear Fer’s steady breathing beside him.
Fer stayed right there, hand resting lightly on his shoulder, until his baby brother’s breathing evened out and the night fell completely still.
A year and a half later, everything felt different.
The roar of Camp Nou still caught him off guard sometimes, especially when the crowd chanted his name.
Pedri, Pedri, Pedri.
He used to be the kid who dreamt of sitting in those stands, chanting the names of legends who’d played on this same pitch that felt like a cathedral to him.
Now he was the one wearing the Barça crest.
He’d gotten used to the interviews, the photo shoots, the noise but inside, he was still the same boy from Tenerife, the one who used to juggle a ball alone and dream of moments like this.
The trophies came, the headlines called him Barça’s new star boy. When he won the Kopa Trophy for Best Young Player, his mother had cried and Fer had clapped like he was trying to start an earthquake. After the ceremony, they hugged him so tight he could barely breathe. Fer had whispered, “Told you you were born for this.”
Pedri had laughed, cheeks burning, eyes wet. Because deep down, a small part of him, one that Marco had left behind, still whispered, Are you sure you deserve this?
He didn’t talk about that part. He just worked harder.
Before the season ended, Barça offered him a new contract with better terms, higher salary, all the things that used to sound like fairytales. He signed with trembling hands, disbelief still buzzing through him like the first time he’d seen Lionel Messi on the training pitch.
He’d made friends, too. The ones who laughed with him, dragged him to team dinners, sent him memes at 2 a.m. He smiled more now. Gavi called him grandpa for sleeping early, Ansu teased him for still being shy in front of cameras.
But sometimes, when the dressing room got loud, when the voices hit a certain pitch, his chest would tighten before he even understood why. His instinct was still to go quiet, to shrink, to wait for something bad to happen.
After training, he Facetimed Fer a lot. Just to talk and Fer always picked up. Sometimes Pedri told him stories from the locker room or about the manager pulling him aside to praise his game while Fer did his own work on the other side of the screen as Pedri yapped. But he was always listening and would always get proud as ever.
Those calls grounded him. Reminded him of the night he’d packed a bag and walked out. He’d built a new life since then. One where no one yelled at him for breathing too loud or made him feel small for dreaming too big.
When Ferran first walked into the dressing room, Pedri didn’t think much of it.
Transfers happened all the time, new faces, new names, new handshakes.
But Ferran Torres wasn’t forgettable.
He came in like sunlight, bright eyes, open grin, greeting everyone like he already knew them. Within minutes, he was laughing with Gavi, teasing Ansu, patting someone’s shoulder like he’d always been part of the group. It should’ve been irritating, that kind of easy confidence. It wasn’t.
Pedri had never met anyone who carried joy so effortlessly.
Still, he kept his distance.
From his spot at the far end of the locker room, he watched Ferran fit in like it was the most natural thing in the world. Joking in training, staying back to help others run drills, clapping the loudest when someone scored.
He was loud.
He was kind.
And he was nothing like anyone Pedri had ever known.
At first, Ferran didn’t seem to notice how carefully Pedri kept his space. But eventually, he must have.
One afternoon, after training, when most of the squad had cleared out, he called out, “Hey, Canario! You’re too quiet for someone who plays like that.”
Pedri smiled faintly, ducking his head but didn’t say anything else. Ferran grinned. “You always smile like you’re tired.”
Pedri shrugged. “Have you seen the trainings? Of course I’m tired.”
Ferran laughed loudly, the kind of laugh that used to make Pedri flinch without meaning to. But Ferran’s wasn’t sharp or cruel. Still, it made something in Pedri’s chest tighten, not in fear but in memory.
He left quickly after that, mumbling an excuse and grabbing his bag before Ferran could say anything else.
He told himself to not let his guard down. That he didn’t want to get too close to anyone again.
But Ferran was everywhere.
Joking with staff, nudging Pedri’s shoulder after matches, calling him Pepi. Pedri pretended to roll his eyes but the warmth stayed with him for hours.
He told himself to be careful every day. Because Ferran laughed too easily, smiled too kindly and never made him feel small and that scared him more than anything. He didn’t trust easy kindness. Not anymore. He knew what it looked like when sweetness turned bitter.
So when Ferran sat next to him on a flight and started talking about music, food, and the time he almost burnt pasta because he got distracted, Pedri mostly nodded, half listening behind his walls.
But then Ferran leaned back, eyes crinkling as he said something dumb about how Pedri smiled and Pedri felt those walls crumble just a little.
He turned toward the window to hide his smile. And then he rebuilt the wall again. He couldn’t let someone in. He wouldn’t.
But Ferran Torres was sunlight personified. And sunlight had a way of slipping through every crack.
It took months for Pedri to realize how used to Ferran’s presence he’d become.
At first, he kept their exchanges short, a nod, a quiet hum, a faint smile if Ferran was especially funny. Ferran never pushed but he never pulled away either.
One afternoon in March, after training, it happened. They were cooling down on the grass outside the pitch. Ferran was lying on his back, one arm over his eyes, talking about how he’d burned some dish and his sister had roasted him for it.
Pedri was only half listening, scrolling on his phone, when Ferran groaned, “Don’t act like you wouldn’t have done the same, Pepi. It was the most complicated recipe in the world!”
“I know how to use an oven,” Pedri said, huffing.
Ferran peeked out from under his arm, laughing. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Pedri said, a small tug at the corner of his mouth.
Ferran gasped dramatically and sat up. “This is betrayal. First you insult my music taste, now my cooking, what’s next, my fashion sense?”
Pedri finally looked up, trying not to laugh. “Fashion sense?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You wore flip flops on your way to training last week.”
“They were designer,” Ferran said, completely serious. “Limited edition.”
Pedri’s composure broke. The laugh slipped out before he could stop it and it startled him more than it did Ferran.
Ferran froze mid retort, then smiled, so soft and genuine, like he’d been waiting for that moment.
“There it is,” Ferran murmured.
Pedri blinked. “What?”
Ferran tilted his head, studying him with that same easy warmth that always made Pedri feel both safe and exposed. “I just-“ he shrugged, “I wonder why you don’t laugh more.”
Pedri’s smile faded. The air shifted. He looked down, thumb tracing over his locked phone screen. “I do,” he mumbled. Ferran didn’t press. He just watched him for a moment.
Pedri cleared his throat, stood up, brushing grass off his shorts. “I should go. Need to ice my leg before it gets late.”
“Pedri-” Ferran started, but Pedri just gave a small, polite smile. “See you tomorrow,” he said, already walking away.
Ferran stayed where he was, watching him disappear into the tunnel. He sighed and lay back down on the grass.
He’d seen it just for a second but it was there: that light that still lived somewhere inside Pedri. The laugh that surprised even him.
And even if Pedri didn’t know it yet, Ferran thought he’d spend as long as it took to make him laugh like that again.
Pedri started noticing it in small things too, the kind that no one else would.
Like how Ferran, who could be ruthless in training, shouting across the pitch, shoulder barging Gavi, tackling others like it was a final, always softened when it came to him.
He didn’t even try to hide it. If Pedri bumped into him during a drill, Ferran would just step aside with a laugh but if Eric did the same, he’d shove him back playfully.
And maybe that was why it became harder for Pedri to keep the distance he’d promised himself. Ferran wasn’t pretending to be kind, he actually was. He remembered things: how Pedri took his coffee, that he didn’t like surprises, that he went quiet when the locker room got too loud. Ferran never asked why, just lowered his own voice when he talked to him.
He joked constantly too, always trying to make Pedri laugh. He’d make a joke and instantly look at Pedri first to see if he laughed or not. It happened so often that even Pedri began to notice, that small smile Ferran wore only when Pedri laughed.
And against his better judgment, Pedri started laughing more.
One afternoon after training, they sat on the grass, watching Gavi and Ansu argue over something dumb. Ferran nudged Pedri’s knee.
“Five euros says Gavi loses,” he said.
Pedri tilted his head, amused. “Then you don’t know Gavi. He’s too stubborn to ever lose arguments.”
“Yeah but Ansu’s using logic. Gavi’s doomed.”
Pedri smiled. “You’ve got too much faith in Ansu’s logic.”
Ferran smirked. “I’ve got faith in being right.”
Pedri rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched anyway. “You’re literally never right.”
“Harsh.” Ferran pressed a hand to his heart, acting wounded. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”
Pedri chuckled. “You’ll live.”
That sound made Ferran’s face soften, his expression turning warm in a way that made Pedri’s chest feel unsteady. Pedri looked away quickly, cheeks warm.
He couldn’t let it happen, couldn’t get too close. He still remembered what came after sweetness, how easily it could turn into something sharp. He reminded himself of that often, the way you touch a scar just to make sure it’s still there.
But then Ferran would do something stupidly kind, and the reminder would fade.
Like last week, when Pedri forgot his favourite hoodie at the training complex and Ferran showed up at his apartment an hour later, holding it out like it was important.
“Didn’t want you dying of cold,” he’d said, grinning.
Pedri blinked. “You drove all the way here for that?”
Ferran shrugged. “It’s on the way home.”
It wasn’t. Pedri knew it wasn’t.
Ferran hadn’t planned on liking Pedri this much.
When he first joined Barça, he’d thought Pedri was just shy. But after a few months, he realized there was a difference between being shy and being guarded.
They’d somehow become friends. He had wanted to be friends with him for a long time when he joined Barça and it took almost a whole season to gain his trust enough. But after that, he couldn’t even remember when it happened, one day they were just teammates and the next Pedri was coming over for dinner like it was normal.
And Ferran liked having him around.
He liked Pedri’s smile. At first, Pedri would barely laugh and if he did, it always seemed to cost him something. But now his eyes lit up when he talked about football or when Roma, Ferran’s dog, climbed onto his lap.
There was something about Pedri that made Ferran want to slow down, be better. He didn’t have a name for it but it was there.
That night felt easy. Pedri was at his place, sitting at the counter, laughing at something Ferran said, one of those laughs Ferran had come to collect. It felt good.
Then, as Ferran reached for another plate, Pedri’s elbow brushed a glass. It fell and shattered on the floor.
Pedri froze. Then, too quickly, he was crouching, his voice breaking.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching for the shards with bare hands.
“Hey, hey, no, Pepi-” Ferran’s voice came out startled. “It’s okay, don’t-“
But Pedri didn’t seem to hear him. His breath came fast, shallow. “I didn’t mean to, I’ll clean it, I’ll-“
“Pedri.”
Ferran’s tone changed then low and steady, the voice he used to calm Roma during storms. He crouched beside him but Pedri didn’t look up. His eyes were wide and glassy, fixed on the floor like he was waiting for something worse.
So Ferran held out his hand.
“Come here,” he said softly. “You’ll cut yourself. It’s just a glass, okay? No one’s mad. I’ll get a broom.”
For a second, Pedri didn’t move. Then his trembling fingers brushed Ferran’s, and Ferran gently pulled him up, guiding him away from the mess.
“Good,” he murmured. “That’s it. Stay here.”
He made him sit on the counter, then swept up the glass and discarded the shards safely away.
When he turned back, Pedri was still sitting there, shoulders tight, head down, breathing uneven.
“Hey,” Ferran said gently.
Pedri didn’t look up. Ferran noticed the thin red line on his finger, a bead of blood gathering.
“Your finger’s bleeding,” he said.
Pedri blinked at it, frowning. “Oh.”
“Wait here, okay?” Ferran said and went to grab the first aid kit.
When he came back, Pedri was still staring aimlessly into space.
“Let me see,” Ferran murmured.
Pedri hesitated then offered his hand. It trembled a little. Ferran cleaned the cut carefully. Pedri winced once but didn’t pull away.
“Doesn’t look bad,” Ferran said lightly. “You’ll survive.”
He dried the skin, pressed a bandaid over it and didn’t let go. Pedri’s hand was small and warm, pulse racing. Ferran could still hear the faint tremor in his breath.
He didn’t know what had caused that kind of fear but he knew people didn’t flinch like that for no reason or apologise so profusely for something so small. So he just kept holding his hand, thumb brushing slow circles across his skin.
“Hey,” Ferran said quietly. “It’s just a glass, yeah? Nothing to worry about.”
Pedri nodded, eyes still down. “Sorry. I just, I don’t know why I-“
“Don’t apologise,” Ferran said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
That made Pedri glance up. His breathing steadied, little by little, until it matched Ferran’s.
Ferran’s thumb still moved in quiet circles. He told himself it was just to calm him down, to keep him grounded.
But there was more to it, something fierce and protective. He wanted to promise Pedri no one would ever make him flinch like that again.
He didn’t say it. He just held on until Pedri’s shoulders dropped, his breath evened out and his fingers stopped shaking.
One afternoon after training, they were sitting on the grass catching their breath. Most of the squad was heading inside but Ferran dropped beside him, still panting.
“Pepi, I swear mister’s trying to kill us,” Ferran groaned, throwing himself back dramatically onto the pitch.
Pedri chuckled, stretching his legs out. “Maybe you just complain too much.”
Ferran gasped and sat up. “You take that back.”
“No.”
“Pepi!”
Pedri bit down a laugh but it slipped out anyway, like it always did around Ferran.
“See?” Ferran said, satisfied. “I live for that sound.”
Pedri blinked. “For what sound?”
“Your laugh,” Ferran said simply. “You don’t do it enough.”
Pedri’s stomach twisted and he looked away. “You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not,” Ferran said easily, bumping his shoulder. Pedri smiled despite himself. Ferran didn’t look away.
The bus rides became their own kind of comfort.
After away matches, when the team piled in, Ferran always sat next to him. He’d scroll through his phone, earphones in, tapping his foot to music Pedri couldn’t hear.
Pedri leaned against the window, eyes heavy, body aching. When the bus jolted, his head dropped sideways in exhaustion, landing on Ferran’s shoulder. The first time it happened, Pedri tensed, ready to pull back. But Ferran didn’t move. Didn’t even pause scrolling. He just shifted slightly so Pedri could rest more comfortably.
“Sleep,” Ferran murmured. And Pedri did.
On flights, it was the same.
“Oi, you’re gonna drool on me again,” Ferran teased once as they buckled up.
“That was one time.”
“Twice,” Ferran corrected. “You owe me a shirt.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” Ferran tilted his head.
Pedri narrowed his eyes. “You’re so annoying.”
“And yet you keep sitting next to me.”
Pedri wanted to say it was coincidence but it wasn’t. He liked sitting next to Ferran.
An hour into the flight, the cabin lights dimmed and Pedri’s head grew heavy. Without thinking, he let it fall against Ferran’s shoulder.
Ferran barely looked up from his iPad and the show he was watching. “I’ll take that as an apology for the shirt,” he murmured.
Pedri mumbled something like “shut up” and heard Ferran laugh quietly.
After matches, especially after wins, the dressing room would be chaos. Ferran always found him in the noise, eyes bright.
“Our star boy,” he’d say, clapping him on the back, pride written all over his face.
“Shut up,” Pedri would mutter, grinning.
“Never. You were insane tonight. Laporta’s gonna rename the team FC Pedri.”
“Stop talking before I walk away.”
“You won’t.”
Pedri rolled his eyes, pretending to glare, but Ferran always saw the small smile threatening his lips. Ferran would sling an arm around him and Pedri had learned not to move away. Not even when Ferran’s hand stayed on his shoulder a little longer than it needed to.
Somewhere along the way, closeness became habit.
Pedri found himself sitting beside Ferran at every meal, leaning into him on long flights, hugging him tightly after wins. None of it felt strange anymore.
Once, they were in the cafeteria and Ferran cracked a stupid joke about someone’s haircut. Pedri laughed so hard his stomach hurt. Ferran again just stared, grinning like he’d won something.
“What?” Pedri asked, still smiling.
“Nothing,” Ferran said, voice softer than usual. “Just nice seeing you like that.”
Pedri looked down, warmth rising in his chest that he didn’t quite know what to do with.
He told himself it was friendship. It was friendship. But later, when Ferran slung an arm over his shoulders as they walked back to the parking lot, his hand brushed Pedri’s neck, thumb tracing the line of his collar and Pedri leaned in without thinking.
For the first time, he didn’t stop himself. Because it didn’t feel dangerous. It didn’t feel like something that could turn cruel or controlling. It just felt safe.
Fer had been waiting for this lunch for weeks. Between Pedri’s matches, sponsor events and training sessions, it felt impossible to get more than a few texts in. But finally today they were sitting across from each other in a small restaurant near the beach, just the two of them.
Pedri looked good. Better than Fer had seen him in a long time. There was color in his face, a spark that had been missing for years. He was animated, talking with his hands, laughing and Fer just sat there quietly soaking it in.
“That’s what Ferran said that day!” Pedri said in reply to some comment Fer made.
“What did he say?”
Pedri grinned. “We were doing recovery drills the other day and he said the mister’s gonna start banning us from nutmegging Gavi because it ruins morale when he starts complaining.”
Fer chuckled. “He might have a point.”
Pedri laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, Gavi just gets too dramatic about it. Ferran says he needs a therapist for that one nutmeg trauma I instilled on him.”
Fer laughed again, mostly because it was impossible not to when Pedri was smiling like that. But as the minutes passed, he noticed a pattern.
Every few sentences, the name came up again.
“Ferran said the team’s planning a barbecue this weekend-“
“Ferran’s playlist is so bad, he still listens to Pitbull unironically-“
“Ferran made me watch this awful movie, said it was ‘cinematic gold’-“
Even when the topic had nothing to do with him, somehow Ferran found his way into it. Fer leaned his chin on his hand, watching his little brother talk.
There was a light in Pedri’s eyes that had been gone for too long.
“Sounds like you two spend a lot of time together,” Fer said lightly.
Pedri nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. He’s like… he’s easy to be around, you know?”
Fer smiled faintly. “He makes you laugh.”
Pedri’s ears went a little pink. “I guess.” He tried to sound casual but his grin betrayed him. “He’s just… Ferran.”
Fer hummed, letting it go. He didn’t push.
But as Pedri went on, telling him about some inside joke they had, Fer felt a quiet tug in his chest. Pride mostly. Relief too that Pedri could still laugh like this. He deserved that. He deserved to talk about someone without flinching or lowering his voice.
Still, beneath it all, a knot of protectiveness stayed lodged in Fer’s chest. He knew what love could do when it turned mean. He’d seen it hollow Pedri out once, leave him doubting his worth, walking on eggshells in his own home.
Fer took a sip of his drink, eyes soft but thoughtful as Pedri kept talking, words spilling over each other, smile bright. He didn’t interrupt. He just listened, memorising this version of his brother. Whoever Ferran was becoming in Pedri’s life, friend, teammate, something more, Fer just hoped he’d stay good. That he’d keep being gentle.
Because Pedri had already survived enough storms. All Fer wanted now was for him to have a little sun.
When they finished lunch, Fer offered, “Come on, I’ll drop you home.”
Pedri was already gathering his things, still smiling faintly from whatever story he’d just told. He shook his head. “Oh, that’s okay. Ferri said he’ll pick me up later.”
Fer raised a brow, amused. “Ferri?”
“Yeah, Ferran,” Pedri corrected, though the nickname had slipped out easily enough to make Fer want to laugh. “We’re going bowling tonight.”
Fer grinned, watching his brother light up like someone had told him he’d won a prize. “Bowling, huh? You going with the rest of the team?”
Pedri frowned confusedly like he hadn’t even thought about it. “No, just us. We usually plan stuff like that every other week or so. It’s fun with him you know?”
Fer bit down a smile. “Yeah,” he said lightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sounds like fun.”
By the time they walked out to the curb, Ferran had texted that he was outside. His car was parked by the sidewalk and he was leaning against it.
Pedri’s grin widened. “That’s him.”
Fer saw the way Ferran’s face lit up when he spotted Pedri. He pushed off the car, smiling. “Hey, Pepi.” His voice was light and familiar.
Fer watched Pedri duck his head, trying not to smile too much. “You’re late.”
“Traffic,” Ferran said, clearly lying, if the amused glint in his eyes was any clue. Then he looked up, noticed Fer and extended a hand with a smile. “Hi, Fer. Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah.” Fer shook his hand. “Good to finally meet you, Ferran.”
Fer didn’t miss the way Ferran turned right back to Pedri afterwards. Pedri was talking animatedly, gesturing with his hands, and Ferran just listened, smiling the whole time. Then, without even thinking, Ferran reached out and ruffled his hair, earning an indignant “Hey!” and a laugh.
“Come on,” Ferran said, slinging an arm over Pedri’s shoulders like it was second nature. “You’re buying snacks tonight.”
“No, you lost the bet last time, you’re buying.”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
“Oh how convenient,” Pedri muttered, though he was grinning, leaning into his touch.
Fer stood there a moment longer, hands in his pockets, watching them.
Pedri looked light. He was talking fast, laughing without hesitation, matching Ferran’s energy beat for beat. He hugged Fer goodbye and then he was off.
Even if they both insisted they were just friends, the truth was written in the smallest gestures, the way Ferran’s hand brushed Pedri’s arm, the way Pedri’s face softened when he looked back at him. Fer smiled to himself. He’d seen enough in life to recognise what that was.
As the car pulled away, the tightness in his chest eased just a little more. He just hoped Ferran would keep being exactly who he seemed to be, at least for now.
On a random afternoon, Pedri had texted Ferran something small about how he’d finally managed to score perfectly on one of the fitness tests they did every few weeks, the one he always fell short on by a few seconds. He hadn’t meant to bring it up it just slipped out between messages about lunch plans and movies. He didn’t even expect Ferran to care. But Ferran called him immediately.
“Wait, wait, you’re telling me you beat your own record?” Ferran said. “You? The one who said it’s impossible?”
“Yeah, it’s not that big a deal-“
“Not a big deal?” Ferran cut in and Pedri could hear the grin in his voice. “Of course it’s a big deal! I told you you’d do it, didn’t I? I told you!”
“You did,” Pedri said, smiling without meaning to.
“See, you never believe in yourself enough. Next thing I know you’ll be saying it’s no big deal when you win the Ballon d’Or.”
Pedri ducked his head, grin tugging at his mouth. He could hear Ferran moving around on the other end, still talking about how proud he was like it actually mattered, like it wasn’t the smallest, most ordinary thing in the world.
And that’s when it hit him. The difference.
He remembered another day, years ago, when his move to Barça was finally happening, the biggest moment of his life and Marco had barely smiled. Don’t get too comfortable, he’d said flatly. They’ll probably keep you for the B team.
When Pedri had tried to protest, Marco had just laughed, sharp and cold. You? Playing with Messi? Don’t kid yourself.
He’d felt small then. Something in him had cracked and stayed cracked ever since.
And now Ferran was on the phone, acting like Pedri had just conquered the world for shaving two seconds off a sprint drill, genuinely proud, with no envy in his voice. Just warmth. It made something inside Pedri ache.
He didn’t even notice he’d gone quiet until Ferran did.
“Pepi?,” Ferran said. “Pepi, you still there?”
Pedri blinked, chest tight. “Yeah,” he said, forcing lightness into his tone. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay.”
But he didn’t know if he was. He could feel it happening, the slow unraveling of the walls he’d spent years building. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let anyone close again. Wouldn’t hand over the soft parts that could be broken. But Ferran was gentle where others had been cruel, patient where others had mocked, warm where others had gone cold.
And Pedri didn’t know how to stop falling.
“Good,” Ferran said, still smiling. “I’ll see you later, yeah? I owe you a celebration.”
Pedri laughed softly. “For running faster?”
“For proving me right,” Ferran replied.
When they hung up, Pedri sat there for a long time after, phone still warm in his hand. He should’ve been happy. He was happy, Ferran made him happy in ways he couldn’t explain. But underneath it sat a quiet fear. Because now he knew what it was.
He was falling in love with him.
And even though he knew Ferran wasn’t Marco, could never be, his heart still remembered what it was like to be hurt.
He pressed his palms to his eyes and took a slow breath, whispering to himself that it was fine, that it was safe this time.
But his chest still ached and his hands still trembled.
Ferran showed up that evening with takeout and a grin so wide it lit up the whole place.
“Got us dinner,” he said, kicking off his shoes like he’d done it a thousand times. “You don’t get to cook on a day of victory.”
Pedri laughed, shaking his head. “Victory?”
“Of course. You beat your record. That’s a victory.”
He said it like it was obvious, like celebrating Pedri’s small wins was the most normal thing in the world.
Pedri just stood there a moment, watching him unpack the food, humming softly, moving around like he belonged there. So easy in his joy.
He sat down and tried to match Ferran’s energy but under all of it sat that same thought: how could anyone look at him like that and mean it?
Ferran was happy for him. Truly happy. Over something so small.
And Pedri couldn’t stop the old voice echoing in his head, They’ll probably keep you for the B team. Marco had once smiled at him too. Had once been kind. He’d thought kindness meant safety. He’d been wrong.
So even now, with Ferran across from him, laughter bouncing off the walls, that quiet fear stayed in his chest.
Because Ferran had torn through every wall he’d built, just by being himself and Pedri didn’t know how to let that kind of love in without being afraid it would someday turn dark.
He went quieter as the night went on.
Ferran noticed. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning forward. “You okay?”
Pedri blinked, looked down at his food. “Yeah,” he said after a beat.
Ferran didn’t push. He just smiled. “Let’s go watch that movie, yeah?”
So they ended up on the couch, lights low, some romcom playing in the background that neither of them was really watching.
At some point, Pedri’s head drifted against Ferran’s shoulder. It just happened like muscle memory when he was tired now. Ferran didn’t move away and his hand came up to the back of Pedri’s neck, fingers threading through his hair in slow, absent motions.
Then he bent down and pressed a kiss to Pedri’s hair. Just once.
Pedri’s eyes fluttered shut. It scared him because once, a touch like that had meant safety too before it hadn’t. But this was different. Ferran wasn’t demanding anything. He wasn’t trying to own him. He was just there. And for the first time in a long time, Pedri felt safe enough to lean in. So he did.
Ferran crashed on the couch that night, too tired to drive.
In the morning, he made breakfast because apparently Pedri’s victory meant he couldn’t cook for a whole 24 hours or something and Pedri laughed until his stomach hurt watching him curse over burnt toast.
By afternoon, they decided to go down to the beach. Ferran had said it casually, “Come on, we’ll get some sun.” They kicked a ball around barefoot, Ferran laughing so loud it turned heads and Pedri laughed with him.
When they finally collapsed near the shoreline, Pedri leaned back on his elbows and squinted toward the stalls. “I’m gonna get lemonade,” he said, nodding at a small wooden stand nearby. “You want some?”
Ferran turned his head toward him, eyes closed under the sun. “Sure. Extra ice.”
Pedri smiled. “Got it.”
He got up and reached the stall, waiting in line a little farther back, his skin warm and his heart light. He felt okay.
Until he heard the voice.
“Well well well, look who it is.”
Pedri froze.
He didn’t even have to turn. That tone, that smug, sharp voice. He’d know it anywhere.
Slowly, he turned his head.
Marco stood there, sunglasses in his hair, smirk on his face. Older but still carrying that same air of superiority.
“Big shot now, huh?” Marco said, grin widening. “Barcelona’s golden boy.”
Pedri’s body went cold. His hands twitched at his sides. Suddenly he was seventeen again, he felt small, uncertain, heart racing too fast.
Marco tilted his head. “You know, I used to tell people, he’s got talent, sure, but it’s only a matter of time before something keeps him from the top. Guess I was right, huh?”
Pedri’s throat worked. His pulse thundered. The world around him blurred, sound thinning to just Marco’s voice.
“I-“ he started, his voice shaking. “I won La Liga last summer.” Even to himself, he sounded like a child trying to uplift himself and he felt pathetic.
Marco’s smile didn’t flicker. “You also kept getting injured and didn’t play many important games,” he said lightly, still smiling like it was a joke. “Funny how that works, huh?”
Pedri’s jaw clenched. “I started every game before that.”
Marco chuckled, dismissive. “Sure. But the final stretch of the season’s the one people remember, no?”
Pedri’s chest tightened. Every word pressed against an old bruise. Marco didn’t even need to raise his voice. His worst cruelties were always quiet, wrapped in charm, designed to make Pedri doubt himself.
He could feel himself shutting down again.
From where Ferran sat, he could see Pedri clearly.
The sea stretched around him but Ferran’s eyes stayed on Pedri’s small, relaxed figure walking toward the stall. The sun caught his hair and Ferran smiled without realizing it.
Then a man approached. Older, confident in a way that didn’t feel kind. Ferran didn’t know him but the moment the man spoke, Pedri’s body changed. His shoulders drew in. His chin dropped. From this distance, Ferran could see it, the shift from comfort to fear.
The man leaned forward, smiling too wide. Pedri’s body folded in tighter.
Ferran didn’t need to hear a word. His legs were already moving before his brain had caught up.
He reached them and the closer he got, the clearer it was, the man’s tone low, condescending. Ferran knew that tone. The one meant to make someone small.
Pedri stood there, tense, eyes down. Ferran didn’t think. He stepped up beside him, hand finding Pedri’s back, thumb tracing small circles, grounding him.
“Hey, Pepi,” he said softly, voice calm but sure.
Pedri turned like he’d been shaken awake. His eyes were wide, glassy, pupils too big for daylight. Then recognition hit and he let out a shaky breath.
The man still stood there, arms crossed, smirk plastered on his face. When Ferran met his gaze, the man tilted his chin.
“Ferran Torres,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Ferran forced a polite smile. “Yeah?”
“Me and Pedrito were just catching up, weren’t we?”
Pedri didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. His fingers twitched slightly. Ferran could feel the tension under his hand. So he took a step forward, subtle but enough to put himself between them.
“Actually,” he said, voice still even, “we’re kind of in the middle of something, so if you don’t mind-“
The man’s eyes narrowed, smile fixed. “You think you can tell me what to do?”
Ferran’s smile stayed on his face with an undercurrent of something else. “Oh, I’m not thinking anything,” he said. “I’m telling you.”
The air tightened. The man’s smugness slipped for a second, irritation showing through. “You don’t know who I am.”
“Doesn’t matter and I couldn’t care lesser,” Ferran said brightly. “I know what you’re doing.”
That shut him up. He muttered something under his breath and finally turned, walking away stiffly.
Ferran watched until he was gone, then turned back to Pedri.He hadn’t moved. His hands were trembling, eyes still down. Ferran rested a hand on his arm, voice low.
“Hey.”
Pedri blinked up.
“You okay?” Ferran asked.
“Yeah,” Pedri said but it came out thin.
Ferran didn’t believe him, didn’t press either. He just squeezed his arm gently. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go sit down, yeah?”
Pedri hesitated then nodded. Ferran guided him back toward their spot, hand hovering protectively near his back.
The drive back was quiet.
Usually, Pedri filled the car without even trying with his little comments, songs, stories. But now he sat turned toward the window, eyes far away, his fingers were curled into his hoodie.
Ferran didn’t say anything. He wanted to ask who that man was, what he’d said, what he’d done but the look on Pedri’s face wasn’t one that could handle questions. So he just drove.
When they finally pulled up outside Pedri’s place, they sat there for a moment. Pedri reached for the door but Ferran spoke quietly.
“Hey.”
Pedri turned, eyes still distant.
“I’m here for you, okay?” Ferran said.
Pedri blinked, like the words had to travel a long way before they landed. Then he gave a small, tiny smile.
“I know,” he said softly.
Then he got out, shoulders hunched against the night air and disappeared inside.
Ferran watched until the door closed.
On the drive home, his grip on the wheel stayed tight. He kept seeing Pedri’s face, the wide eyes, the tremor in his hands, the way he froze at that man’s voice.
He didn’t know who the man was or what had happened between them but he knew what he’d seen. Pedri had folded in on himself like someone who’d learned to. Fear like that didn’t come from nowhere.
And something inside Ferran burned with a strange anger, helplessness, something protective and fierce.
He just knew one thing clearly:
He never wanted to see Pedri look that small again.