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They have completely different sleep habits but always end up tangled together.
Pedri falls asleep instantly, curled tight like he’s conserving energy. Ferran sprawls, limbs everywhere, sheets a mess. Every night Pedri starts far on his own side, muttering, “No te acerques, hace calor.” But by dawn he’s plastered to Ferran’s back, his leg thrown over Ferran’s hip. One morning Ferran wakes to Pedri snoring softly against his neck. “Thought I was “a human heater”,” Ferran whispers, smirking. Pedri makes a sleepy noise, burrowing closer. “Shut up… you’re warm.” Ferran doesn’t move for a long, long time.
Their love languages don’t match, but they learn them for each other.
Pedri finds Ferran in the bathroom mirror, shoulders tense. “What’s wrong?” he asks quietly. Ferran shrugs, trying to play it off. Pedri steps behind him and starts fixing the crooked collar of Ferran’s shirt, smoothing the fabric with careful fingers. “You know I’m proud of you, right?” he murmurs. Ferran blinks rapidly at the unexpected words. Later that night, Ferran taps Pedri’s thigh during a movie and whispers, “Thanks… for earlier.” Pedri leans into him, pretending to watch the screen. “Always,” he answers, letting Ferran rest his head on his shoulder.
They cook together, and Ferran tries to teach Pedri - with limited success.
“Pedri, no, no, no- stop stirring like that, you’re breaking the pasta,” Ferran groans. Pedri holds the spoon like it’s going to bite him. “How the hell do you break pasta?” he mutters. Ferran laughs, sliding in behind him to guide his hands. “Mira, suavemente.” Pedri relaxes into Ferran’s chest, rolling his eyes. “This is stupid. Order takeout?” Ferran shakes his head and kisses Pedri’s cheek. “No. You’re learning.” Twenty minutes later, the pasta is… edible-ish. Pedri eats it happily anyway. “Best chef,” he declares. Ferran beams like he’s won an award.
Pedri steals Ferran’s hoodies constantly.
Ferran opens his wardrobe. “¿Dónde está mi sudadera azul?”
Pedri doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Which one?”
“The one you’re literally wearing right now,” Ferran says, pointing.
Pedri glances down at the oversized sleeves swallowing his hands. “Oh. This one.”
He looks so unbothered that Ferran wants to scream and kiss him at the same time. Later, when Ferran finds five more of his hoodies on Pedri’s side of the room, Pedri just shrugs. “They smell like you.”
Ferran tries to stay annoyed. He fails immediately.
They have a ritual before big matches: forehead touch + whispered promise.
Just before the team leave the locker room to go to the tunnel, boots clacking on hard floors, Ferran grabs Pedri’s wrist and tugs him closer. Their teammates are too busy joking to notice. They lean in until their foreheads touch, breath mingling. Pedri closes his eyes. “Hazlo por mí,” he whispers. Ferran squeezes his hand, replying softly, “Hazlo por mí.” It lasts only a second, but it anchors them both. When the whistle blows later, they play like men who know someone out there is believing in them with their whole chest.
Their arguments are quiet but intense.
The house is painfully silent. Pedri sits at the kitchen table, jaw tight; Ferran leans against the counter staring at the floor.
“You didn’t listen,” Pedri says quietly.
“You didn’t tell me,” Ferran fires back, equally soft.
The tension hums. Eventually Pedri pushes up and walks over, hesitating before touching Ferran’s wrist with two fingers. Ferran exhales like he’s been underwater.
“I hate fighting with you,” Pedri murmurs.
“Then come here,” Ferran says.
They fall into each other’s arms, all warmth and relief and fragile apologies.
Pedri always falls asleep on Ferran’s shoulder during team travel.
On the team bus, Pedri starts insisting he’s not tired. “No me duermo, ¿vale?” he mumbles, already blinking slowly. Ten minutes later his head drops onto Ferran’s shoulder. Ferran adjusts subtly so Pedri’s neck doesn’t twist. Someone snaps a picture; Ferran glares until they put the phone away. Pedri stirs once, murmuring nonsense, then settles again with a soft sigh. Ferran watches the countryside roll by, the weight on his shoulder warm and familiar. He doesn’t move until they arrive.
Ferran gets jealous, Pedri gets quietly possessive.
After a match, a fan leans over the barrier and gushes at Pedri, flirting shamelessly. Ferran stands nearby, arms crossed, pretending he’s not watching.
Pedri keeps smiling politely - until he feels Ferran’s mood shift. Without looking, he steps backwards, pressing himself lightly into Ferran’s side.
Ferran blinks, surprised, as Pedri’s hand lifts to rest casually on his waist.
“Vamos, mi amor,” Pedri says lightly, guiding him away.
Ferran’s jealousy melts instantly. Pedri’s little smirk tells him he meant it.
Their affection switches depending on mood.
Some nights Ferran is the one sliding across the mattress first, flopping half on top of Pedri with a dramatic groan. “Necesito mimos,” he complains, arms wrapping around Pedri’s waist like he’s a human pillow.
Other nights Pedri is the quiet one, inching closer until his forehead presses between Ferran’s shoulder blades, fingers tugging gently at Ferran’s shirt.
One particularly soft night, Pedri crawls into Ferran’s space and whispers, “Hold me?”
Ferran immediately turns, pulling him close.
They fall asleep tangled together, breathing steady, the roles shifting but the warmth always constant.
They hide gross love notes in each other’s training bags.
Pedri discovers a neon sticky note inside his boot: Te amo, mi mediocampista.
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. After training, he sneaks a note into Ferran’s bag: Remember to drink water or I’ll tell Ara you cried at that romance movie and you’ll never live it down.
The next day Ferran pulls it out and bursts into laughter. A teammate asks what’s funny, and Ferran just shakes his head, shoving the note in his pocket.
Later he texts Pedri a picture of himself drinking water. Pedri replies: mi hombre hidratado 🫶🫶.
Ferran nearly combusts.
Ferran talks to animals like they’re people.
Pedri finds him crouched on the sidewalk, chatting seriously with a cat.
“No, escúchame, you can’t just walk into the road like that,” Ferran scolds gently.
The cat meows.
“Exactly,” Ferran nods.
Pedri folds his arms. “Making friends?”
Ferran stands, brushing off his knees. “She has trauma.”
Pedri snorts. “You don’t know that.”
The cat rubs Ferran’s leg.
“See?” Ferran says, smug.
Pedri shakes his head - but later snaps a picture of them and makes it his wallpaper.
He overthinks compliments for hours.
After a fan meetup, Ferran is uncharacteristically quiet.
“What’s going on in your cabeza loca?” Pedri asks.
“That girl said I have a nice smile,” Ferran mutters.
Pedri raises a brow. “You do.”
Ferran blushes instantly, looking away.
Pedri laughs softly. “Are you thinking about it?”
“No,” Ferran lies.
Pedri pokes his cheek. “You totally are.”
Ferran groans and buries his face in a cushion.
Pedri smiles to himself - Ferran absorbs praise like sunlight but never knows what to do with it.
Ferran collects tiny objects for sentimental reasons.
Pedri walks into their room to find him sorting items on the bed: ticket stubs, a shell, a scrap of ribbon.
“What’s all this?” Pedri asks.
“Memories,” Ferran says simply, holding up a crumpled napkin. “You drew a smiley face on this.”
Pedri blinks. “That was months ago.”
“Yeah,” Ferran says, placing it gently into a box. “It was a good day.”
Pedri feels something in his chest tighten - soft, warm, dangerous.
He adds a new doodle to the box before he leaves.
Ferran cries easily when overwhelmed.
One night after a rough match, Ferran excuses himself to the bathroom. Pedri knocks gently a minute later.
“Déjame,” Ferran whispers, voice thick.
“Only if you don’t want me,” Pedri answers calmly.
The door cracks open. Ferran stands there with wet lashes and a trembling exhale.
Pedri steps forward quietly, wrapping him in a warm, grounding hug.
“You don’t have to hold everything alone,” he murmurs.
Ferran clings to him, the tears silent but heavy.
Pedri stays until Ferran’s breathing steadies.
Ferran loves rainy days.
When a storm rolls over Barcelona, Ferran immediately turns cozy. Pedri walks into the living room to find him curled under a blanket, hoodie swallowed over his hands, watching raindrops race down the window.
“You look twelve,” Pedri teases.
“Shut up and get under here,” Ferran says, lifting the blanket.
Pedri hesitates just a moment before sliding in beside him.
The world outside is grey and loud, but inside it’s warm - Pedri’s head on Ferran’s shoulder, the blanket shared, their hands brushing until they finally stay touching.
Ferran is Pedri’s personal IT man.
Pedri stands in the living room, holding his frozen tablet like it’s personally betrayed him.
“It won’t turn on,” he groans.
Ferran takes it, taps the screen twice, presses a button Pedri didn’t know existed, and the device immediately lights up.
Pedri stares. “How did you- I literally tried everything.”
“You panicked,” Ferran says, handing it back with a shrug. “Phones can smell fear.”
Pedri narrows his eyes. “You’re making that up.”
Ferran winks. “Maybe.”
From that day on, Pedri brings him every glitching thing he owns.
Ferran’s secretly a night owl.
At 2:47 AM, Pedri wakes to the sound of laughter from the living room. He finds Ferran on the couch watching dumb compilation videos.
“¿En serio?” Pedri rasps. “Go to bed.”
“This is important,” Ferran insists, eyes glued to the screen.
Pedri groans and flops down next to him. “Five minutes.”
Twenty minutes later they’re both laughing uncontrollably, faces lit by the screen.
Pedri eventually falls asleep with his head in Ferran’s lap.
Ferran smiles softly, turns the volume down, and keeps watching.
Pedri gives silent affection more than verbal.
Ferran complains about a bad session as they walk to the car. “I was terrible today.”
Pedri doesn’t argue. Instead, he reaches out and fixes the edge of Ferran’s jacket, smoothing it gently, brushing dust from his shoulder. Then he rests a hand on Ferran’s back for a few seconds.
Ferran stops mid-rant.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he murmurs.
“What thing?”
“The… comforting thing.”
Pedri rolls his eyes, cheeks pink. “Shut up and get in the car.”
Pedri gets bashful with direct compliments.
Ferran walks in and wolf-whistles jokingly. “Mi hombre guapo, ¿eh?”
Pedri freezes, ears turning red. “Amor…”
“You are!” Ferran grins.
Pedri ducks his head, trying to hide his smile. “You’re annoying.”
Ferran steps closer. “Say thank you.”
Pedri groans, face fully flushed. “No.”
Ferran laughs. “Shy.”
Pedri pushes him weakly but keeps smiling like a silly teenage girl for minutes after Ferran leaves the room.
Pedri absolutely hates the cold and bundles up like a marshmallow.
Barcelona hits 10°C and Pedri appears in three layers of pyjamas, two hoodies, and a blanket cape.
Ferran stares. “You’re being dramatic.”
“It’s freezing,” Pedri argues, shivering aggressively for effect.
Ferran touches his cheek. “You’re warm.”
“I’m dying,” Pedri insists.
Later, Ferran finds him tucked under four blankets on the couch, only his eyes visible.
“Hot cocoa?” Ferran asks.
Pedri nods pitifully from inside his nest.
Ferran sighs and makes it for him anyway.
He traces patterns when he’s deep in thought.
Pedri sits beside Ferran on the bed, silent, clearly mulling something over.
After a moment Ferran feels a finger drawing tiny circles on his thigh, slow and absentminded.
“What are you thinking about?” Ferran asks.
Pedri blinks, startled. “Nothing.”
“You’re doodling on me.”
Pedri pulls his hand back, sheepish. “Sorry.”
Ferran catches it before it retreats. “I don’t mind.”
Pedri’s cheeks warm as he resumes tracing, softer now - like thinking feels easier when Ferran is beneath his fingertips.
Pedri is expressive with people he trusts.
Around cameras he’s calm, composed. But at home, one joke from Ferran has him scrunching his nose and grinning so wide his dimples hurt.
“Stop laughing at me,” Ferran complains.
“You’re funny-looking,” Pedri shoots back, still grinning.
His whole face lights up, eyebrows dancing, reactions dramatic.
Ferran always watches fondly - this version of Pedri, open and animated, is one only he gets to see.
“Don’t tell anyone I smile like such an idiot around you,” Pedri mutters.
“Never,” Ferran promises.
Pedri is absurdly competitive at board games.
A quiet night turns chaotic as Pedri slams down a UNO card. “I win.”
“You cheated,” Ferran accuses.
“Cry about it,” Pedri smirks.
Ferran glares. “Rematch.”
“Nope. I like ending the night on a win.”
Ferran narrows his eyes. “You’re scared.”
Pedri immediately shuffles the deck. “Best of three.”
They end up playing until 2 AM, Ferran cackling every time Pedri loses his composure.
When Pedri finally wins again, he stands and bows like he’s conquered the world.
His love language is remembering tiny details.
Ferran mentions once, once, that he likes a specific chocolate.
A week later he opens the pantry and finds three full bags.
“Why do we have these?” Ferran asks, touched.
Pedri shrugs. “You like them.”
Another day Ferran wakes from a nap to find a glass of water beside the bed - ice cold but no condensation, exactly how he prefers.
“How do you remember this stuff?” he asks.
Pedri shrugs again, avoiding eye contact.
“I pay attention,” he says simply.
Pedri is secretly obsessed with documentaries and falls asleep to them every night.
Ferran walks into the living room at midnight to find Pedri curled on the couch, wrapped in three blankets, eyes drooping as a narrator calmly explains the migration habits of Arctic foxes.
“Estás viendo esto?” Ferran asks, incredulous.
Pedri nods sleepily. “It’s relaxing…”
“You’re gonna fall asleep in five seconds.”
“No voy a-” Pedri’s head immediately falls onto Ferran’s shoulder.
Ferran laughs softly and adjusts the blankets around him.
On screen, the documentary continues.
Pedri snores quietly.
Ferran whispers, “Unbelievable,” but doesn’t move.
They tape their rings instead of taking them off for matches, and write each other’s numbers.
The locker room is buzzing, cleats squeaking on the floor. Pedri sits on the bench, peeling tape from the roll. He slides his wedding band onto his finger, then wraps it snug with athletic tape. Carefully, he writes a little “7” on top.
Ferran glances over, grinning as he does the same with his own ring, taping it tightly and scrawling a tiny “8” for Pedri.
“You’re ridiculous,” Pedri mutters, but his fingers linger over the tape.
“Yeah,” Ferran says, linking their pinkies under the bench. “But married ridiculous.”
Pedri smiles, pressing their knuckles together. “Always.”
They leave the locker room like that - rings hidden, numbers visible, their connection tucked safely under tape as they head onto the pitch.