Archive of Our Own

The sky is still dark when Pedri peels himself out of the warm blankets. With a soft groan, he shuts off his alarm and waddles into the bathroom. Pale cheeks, a rough stubble and dark eyebags laugh at his tired reflection, and he quickly strips out of the sleep shorts and boxers he was wearing to jump under the shower. 

His bedroom is so warm when he comes back freshly cleaned up, the only light coming from his small nightstand lamp. It would be so easy to slip back under his blanket, scoot over to the occupied side of the bed and soak up all the warmth his boyfriend’s sleeping body would provide him. 

He almost feels envious of Ferran as he lies there, hair disheveled, mouth slightly agape and one arm carelessly flung over Pedri’s pillow. But then his boyfriend shifts, the blanket with it, and within a second his face contorts into one of pain. 

Pedri immediately crawls onto the mattress, forgetting that his towel is already on the floor, and kneels beside Ferran while he grabs his thigh softly to relocate it on the thin pillow underneath. 

Ferran stirs and blinks open his eyes, exhaling through his nose as his muscles relax again. 

“Hey,” he whispers, voice gravelly from sleep, and Pedri smiles softly. 

“Hey, go back to sleep, I’ll say goodbye in a bit,” he quietly tells him, but Ferran shakes his head.

“Don’t worry, I’m awake now,” he mumbles, rubbing one eye. His gaze falls to Pedri’s legs before they widen comically. “Are you naked?”

Pedri halts and looks down at himself, then shrugs. “Yeah, just got out of the shower.”

Ferran stretches his arm out. “Come here, you should get under the blanket and get warm,” he murmurs, and Pedri laughs.

“I have to leave soon, you know?” Yet he leans down to kiss Ferran’s cheek. 

The striker immediately wraps an arm around his bare back and pulls him down on top of him. 

“Ferri,” Pedri chuckles as his face hits his boyfriend’s collar bone. 

“Have some mercy on me, I wanna cuddle my naked boyfriend before he's leaving for two whole days,” Ferran pouts. And who is Pedri to deny him? 

He slips beneath the blanket, laughs at how Ferran’s hands instantly run over his back, butt and thighs as if he's trying to memorize his body before he has to leave.

“How much time do you have left?” he mumbles against his forehead in between a zillion kisses that render Pedri with a blush and a smile.

“About two hours,” he replies, and Ferran hums in relief. His hands gently knead the flesh of his hips and butt, up and down, and Pedri thinks about how sweet it is that the touch seems so tender instead of arousing. 

He burrows closer into his boyfriend’s chest, hiding his face under the blanket and wrapping his arms around Ferran's head so he can stroke his hair. 

“It’s gonna be so cold in Prague,” he whispers then, words half muffled. 

Ferran kisses his head again, lingering and ending it only with a purposely loud sound, making Pedri grin. 

“Oh, my poor baby,” he cooes. 

Pedri allows himself to bask in his older boyfriend’s affection, allows himself to be small and whiny and bring out the Ferri-version of his usual composed, mature self. 

“I won't even have anyone to keep me warm in training,” he adds with a pout. “I’ll have to put on gloves and a hat and a scarf and two trousers and two shirts under the long sleeve.” 

Ferran’s big hands move over his thighs now, effectively heating the skin up and cuddling his slim boy closer. 

“Oh no, and no one will hug and pester you without me there,” he whispers. 

“Exactly,” Pedri whines softly. “And in the hotel nobody will be my personal heater while I sleep. What if I get sick?” 

Ferran squeezes him closer and groans into his shoulder. “Stop it, pequeño, I feel so bad already.” 

Pedri leans up on his chest now, his smaller hands resting on Ferran’s chest and shoulders as his wide doe eyes look back at him. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “I'll just sleep in your clothes and call you until we fall asleep.” 

Ferran pouts and kisses him, first a dozen pecks in a row, then staying longer and deepening the kiss with a hand on his jaw. 

“You should put on my coat,” he tells him then and kisses his nose. Pedri frowns. 

“Which coat? I have to wear Amiri on the plane.” 

Ferran smiles. “Exactly, take my coat.”

Pedri's lips curl up. “But does it smell like you?” 

“It will,” his boyfriend promises with a grin and kisses him again. 

They move into the kitchen, Ferran sitting on the chair at the counter with sweatpants, the brace around his thigh and his coat on while Pedri makes both of them a smoothie for breakfast. 

“Will you order some take out while I’m gone? Or ask Fer if he wants to come over for a meal?” Pedri asks as he sits down next to him and slides a glass over to his boyfriend. 

“I thought Fer was gonna fly with you?” 

Pedri shakes his head. “He can't, he didn't get the day off tomorrow. But he told me he can come over and watch the game with you,” he explains and Ferran smiles. 

“Yeah, that would be nice. I’ll text him later.”

Pedri stands back up and walks to the dishwasher, and Ferran frowns as he studies how he just deftly drags one leg behind the other and walks slower than usual. 

“Pepi,” he calls out in his stern voice, and the midfielder already turns around in anticipation of being scolded. 

“Yeah?” 

“What's up with your legs?” 

He furrows his brows and looks down. 

“Walk around the kitchen again,” Ferran demands. 

When Pedri does, he raises both of his eyebrows and the younger one waves his hand down. 

“I’m just still a bit sore from training yesterday and the match on Sunday,” he explains. 

“Pedri,” Ferran warns. “Promise me you will not play if you still feel like this tomorrow. Your body is not an endurance machine, yeah?” 

Pedri rolls his eyes. “Yes, papá. I promise.” 

Ferran drapes the coat over Pedri’s shoulders and smoothes down his tie, kissing his pouty lips while he hums. 

“I love you, bebi,” he tells him and pulls him closer by his hips, claiming his mouth in a kiss once more while Pedri smiles widely. 

“I’ll miss you so much,” he mumbles back. “And I love you too.” 

“Keep the coat on, eh?” 

Pedri grins and lifts up one side of the collar, sniffing it. “Did you put your cologne on it?” 

“Mhm.” Ferran cradles his cheeks and looks him up and down, feeling absolutely satisfied at how the thick fabric swallows his boyfriend’s smaller frame and surpasses his hands. 

“Be careful, baby. Okay?” 

Pedri nods and pinches his arm. “And you even more so. I don't want to come home and see any evidence of you straining your leg, eh?” 

———

Pedri spent most of his time alongside Dani, Eric and Joan, and each of them made sure to tease him when they noticed the coat he was wearing was at least one size too big. His legs still felt heavy during the last training session before the game, and Ferran teased him for his ridiculous training outfit during their nightly call, while Pedri softly told him to shut up and pulled his black hoodie further over his jaw and chin. 

He is sharing a room with Dani, but their two friends somehow don't leave his side for long throughout the two days. 

Even as he jogs onto the pitch to warm up now, Joan bumps into him with a smile. 

“All good?” 

Pedri smiled and nods. “I’m excited,” he tells him. “Ready for another clean sheet?” 

Joan laughs. “Obviously.” His gaze moves down to his legs then. “And you're sure you're fine? I thought I saw you limping earlier.” 

Pedri shakes his head, though the lie is already clouding his conscience. “Don't worry, that was nothing.” 

Joan nods with a frown and squeezes his shoulder. 

“Take care, though, yeah?” 

Pedri gives him a reassuring smile. 

Before they walk out into the tunnel, he spots Joan wrapping his arms around Eric’s shoulders from behind in the locker room. The defender leans into him and receives a kiss on the cheek, causing Pedri to smile, even though a part of him withers as the lack of Ferran’s presence increases. 

He takes out his phone and sends a quick selfie to his boyfriend, receiving one back of him and Fer on the couch, Ferran's message telling him that both are wearing the number eight tonight. 

When he looks back up and pockets his phone, he finds Eric’s eyes on him while Joan whispers something into his ear, causing him to frown. Pedri raises an eyebrow and Eric suddenly just smiles and winks at him, then turns around in his boyfriend’s hold. 

The first half goes by with four goals already, Lewandowski getting scolded and mocked for his own goal in the locker room at half time. 

The game goes on, Pedri feels his muscles protesting somewhere in the distance, feels Eric’s hand on his back as they retreat back to their positions after a shot saved by Joan, watches his questioning glance and just reassures him with a smile and nod. 

But then, in the sixtieth minute, it happens. As if someone up there in the universe was laughing menacingly down at the young midfielder, as if his injury-free time had a limit he surpassed. 

He doesn’t even register how it happens, only realises he’s lying on the ground when the sharp pain shoots through the back of his thigh. He almost believes it’s just a phantom pain, just an illusion fed by too many previous instances like this, of his face smelling the grass, sweat trickling down his back, the same spot in his thigh hurting and burning. 

The hamstring. Always the hamstring. 

He faintly notices his teammates gathering, Joan jogging over half of the field and crouching down with worried eyes, Balde leaning down, his captain already up to argue with the ref. 

But the worst thing about it isn't even the pain. It’s the tears that are stinging in the corners of his eyes. Tears of frustration, of hopelessness, disappointment. The constant fear in his mind being proved right once again because he's just too fucking weak to make his body perform the way it should. 

Physios are stabilising him, helping him limp down the pitch, a worried call from Flick passing his ears, his own gloved hand covering his eyes. He doesn’t want the world to see that the damage is stronger in his mind than in his thigh, that all he wants is to curl up under a blanket and cry, out of desperation and not pain. 

Ferran flickers through his mind then. His warm arms, his gentle kisses, his soothingly spoken words meant to comfort him. The lump in his throat starts to become impossible to swallow. 

He didn't even keep his promise. He’s here now, in Prague, in the middle of the cold, all alone, his boyfriend injured himself and probably angry as ever about the news and Pedri’s reckless weakness. 

Pedri knows that Ferran would yell at him for a few minutes, voicing his frustration over the midfielder going over his limits once again. He also knows he would cradle him into his chest moments after, let his tears seep through his shirt, hold the back of his head protectively in his palm and kiss his hair. 

His heart aches, his thigh aches, even the rest of his muscles are burning, and he almost starts sobbing right then and there in the small doctor’s office in the Czech stadium.

Hours later, Pedri is completely spent. He’s finally back in his hotel room, finally feels the medications and supporting bandages do their work, and is finally able to let his tears run free as Dani is still downstairs in the dining hall. 

He knows there are at least twenty missed calls on his phone, maybe all of them from Ferran alone, but this is the first calm minute he’s got since he went down on the field, and neither his voice nor brain are able to form a coherent sentence. So he allows himself to pull Ferran’s hoodie higher up over his nose and squeeze his eyes shut as silent tears flow down his cheek. 

It’s not long before he hears voices in front of his door, one of them hushed and gentle, the other low and alternating between whispers and clear sentences spoken to someone else. 

Pedri huffs and dries his cheeks, tugs the blanket up higher as he waits for a knock. 

“We can’t just barge in, Jo, if he’s finally asleep now then that is good for him.”

“And if he's not? If he’s spi- Ferran, I know that, we’re literally in front of his door.”

“Should I knock and see if he opens?”

“Yeah. No, we’re not breaking in, tío, I know you’re worried but calm down, yes? He’s alive, I promise.” 

A soft, hesitant knock makes Pedri finally sit up and open the door with bleary eyes. 

An apologetic Eric looks back at him, Joan standing behind him with his phone pressed to his ears and a grimace before he greets Pedri with a careful smile.

“Hey, we wanted to see how you’re doing,” Eric tells him softly, and Pedri nods and lets them in before hobbling back to the bed. 

Joan quickly moves forward and supports him, half-carrying him the rest of his way and helping him back into bed after handing the phone to Eric. 

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” the goalkeeper assures him, and Eric suddenly winces at the loud voice against his ear. 

He shakes his head and passes the phone to Pedri. 

“It’s Ferran, he won’t stop yelling at us to give him to you since he couldn’t reach your phone,” he whispers, and Pedri accepts with a soft sigh, anticipating a round of yells. 

“Hey,” he begins, turning onto his back. A long exhale follows on the other end of the line. 

“Pepi.” Ferran’s voice is hoarse from anger and worry. “Pepi, my goodness. How- no. I know how you are. Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

“I’m sorry, Ferri, it was… it was too much, the injury, the chaos, the physios, and I just can’t really talk, I don’t know,” he mumbles, voice still broken from his earlier cries. 

Ferran sighs. “I was scared to death.” Pedri almost smiles. So dramatic.  “You didn’t listen to me, did you? You felt sore and uncomfortable and you still played. Now look.”

Pedri pinches the bridge of his nose, notices how Joan and Eric stand in the corner with apologetic expressions on their faces. Pedri only half listens to Ferran’s frustrated rant and smiles weakly at both of them, mouthing a thank you.

“Text me when you’re done?” Joan tells him, since he’s on his phone, and Eric slaps his forehead. 

“He has your phone, dummy.” Pedri is aware of how fond the words sound, and in any other circumstance, he would tease the two fresh boyfriends for it. But now he just grins a little and holds a finger up. 

“Ferri,” he starts, trying to interrupt his boyfriend. “Ferran.” 

“What,” the striker snaps, but he sounds more exasperated than annoyed. 

“Cariño, I’m gonna call you back in a minute on my own phone. Okay? Then we can talk in peace, yeah?” 

Ferran grumbles something, and they hang up a moment later. Pedri heaves out a small sigh. 

“How much did he yell at you guys?” 

Joan waves his hand through the air and shakes his head, and Eric shrugs before stepping closer and passing a caring hand over Pedri’s head. 

“We’re worried about you,” he mutters, and Pedri nods. 

“I know and I appreciate it, but this is not your fault, not in the slightest,” he assures them. Joan joins Eric at the edge of Pedri’s bed.

“Should we have stopped you from playing? You’re an adult, so we thought that no, of course we can’t do that,” he admits. “But should we have done it?”

Pedri shakes his head adamantly. “Guys please, you can’t feel guilty for this. Okay? Whatever Ferri has told you is very emotion and heat driven, he’ll come around tomorrow. I’ll be fine, this is life, no?”

The couple looks back at him, both equally compassionately, and Eric nods. 

“Please don’t hesitate to call or text about anything, okay? We can tell Dani to stay with us for a while until you’re okay with company, or just the whole night,” the defender offers, and Pedri nods thankfully.

As soon as they’re gone, Pedri takes a deep breath and dials his boyfriend’s number. His leg is starting to hurt again, just a dull pain, the one that his painkillers can’t reach fully. 

“Baby, hey.” Ferran’s voice comes through the speaker then. Pedri takes it in, how it finally sounds calmer, not anymore driven by frustration and disappointment and probably the regret that his boyfriend is somewhere across the continent, injured, miserable, and without him. 

“Hey,” Pedri whispers, and before he knows it the tears are flowing again. He closes his eyes, presses a hand to his mouth and tries to keep his breathing steady, to not let Ferran hear as a cry tries to hiccup its way through his throat. 

“I’m sorry I was angry,” his boyfriend whispers. The tone of his voice is so gentle, so warm yet concerned, that Pedri all but squeezes his eyes even more closed until he can trick his mind into thinking Ferran is next to him, stroking his cheeks and the rumble of his chest as he speaks lulling him to peace.

“I’m not angry at you, my love. I mean,” the Valencian huffs. “It's not your fault, and I hate that I can't be there for you right now. I just wish you would finally take better care of yourself, not just when your boyfriend is there to force you to take a break.” 

Pedri nods, then stops when he realises Ferran can't see him anyways. He clears his throat, praying that Ferran doesn't hear the high-pitched whine hiding in the sound. 

“I know,” he croaks out, vision still blurry. The call is silent for a moment. 

“Since when are you holding back your cries in front of me?” Ferran asks then, quietly, like Pedri is currently made out of glass. 

And now Pedri’s breath hitches, his chest heaves, and he turns to hide his face in his pillow, the phone grasped tightly as his hand lays on the pillow with it. 

“I just-” A hiccup interrupts him. Ferran waits. “I didn't want to disappoint you, Ferri.” His voice gives out in the end, cracking like a teenager. Which he still is. 

“No,” Ferran says immediately, and there's rustling on the other end of the line, as if Ferran just sat up because the agitation and pain inside him became too much. “No, Pepi, no, no, no. You could never disappoint me, angelito, oh my god.” 

Pedri hiccups again, the action starting to hurt in his chest, and licks away a tear that rolls over his lip. 

“Pedri, all I want is that you’re healthy and happy. For yourself. I never want you to feel like you have to perform for other people, and least of all for me. I don't care if you never want to play football again, if you want to become a couch potato and rot on it for the rest of your life, as long as it makes you happy. Genuinely happy. But I know what makes you happy now, I know what makes your heart break, what makes your stomach clench in discomfort and anxiety.” 

He pauses for a second. 

“I only want you happy. And I know what you're thinking right now, all those destructive thoughts, I know the pain you're feeling. And I know if you were just a little softer with yourself, a little more brave about standing in for yourself, you wouldn't have to suffer through this now. That's all this is. That's why I'm frustrated. Because I want you to cherish yourself as much as I cherish you.” 

Pedri is nodding again, cheek rubbing against the white fabric of the hotel pillowcase, irritating the skin even more. 

“You don't have to say anything, baby. Yeah? I’m just here. You can cry, and you can know that I’m listening, catching the tears,” Ferran softly says then.

And Pedri can't hold back anymore. He cries, still muffled by the pillow, but he just lets himself go, listens to Ferran’s voice piping up gently now and then, saying silly things like ‘I got you, I’m here’ even though he's not; silly things that make the weight ease from Pedri's chest. 

By the time Pedri finally calmed down again, finally let the big lump of emotion dissipate with Ferran’s voice coaxing him through it, the pain in his thigh is noticeably more bearable. He knows it’s not possible, but a small voice in his head whispers how that’s the magic of love, how just his boyfriend’s voice alone could mend a piece of his hurt. 

“Are you wearing my hoodie?” Ferran asks him.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, picking at the sleeve. “It's wet at the collar now.” 

“That's okay, that's what it's there for.” 

Pedri thinks that he has to be the luckiest boyfriend on earth. Because the warm timbre of Ferran’s voice wraps him in a hug no matter where they are, no matter how many kilometres and seas are separating them. He always has his hug right there, he only needs to close his eyes and listen. 

“Are you hurting?” Ferran asks, a bit quieter. 

“No, right now, no, just very faintly. Thank God,” Pedri replies in his scratchy voice. 

Ferran lets out a sigh. 

“At least there's that,” he whispers. “Do you want to talk? Or sleep? Want me to talk?” 

Pedri closes his eyes and settles further into the pillow, putting the phone on speaker next to him. 

“Can you talk? Your voice always calms me down,” he admits softly, tiredness stripping his vulnerability bare. 

“Of course, cariño. Do you want to sleep then? Or is there anything in particular you want to know? I can read to you too.” 

Another tear slips down his face, but this time it doesn't hurt as much. 

His boyfriend starts talking, starts telling him about his day and the food Fer cooked, about how alright his leg felt most of the time, how he's still in Pedri’s jersey. And the midfielder listens, hums here and there, just enjoys the sound of home. 

“You know Fer’s been meal prepping for hours now, I think,” he tells him then, and that gets a tired chuckle out of Pedri. 

“That means he's worrying,” he mumbles. 

“Yeah, he's cutting up basically all of our vegetables. I figured I shouldn't tell him that it's unnecessary,” Ferran joined with a soft laugh. 

“Do you want to talk to him?” 

Pedri turns around on his back, careful not to move his leg, and rubs his eye. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I also need to text my parents.” 

“I can call them for you, if you want. If you're too tired,” his sweet, sweet Ferran offers. 

“Thank you, I think it's okay, though. I can text them and talk to Fer, call them tomorrow morning.” 

“Okay, Pepi. Your flight is at twelve, no?” 

“Yes,” Pedri yawns. “I can't wait to see you again.” 

Ferran takes a shaky breath. “Me neither, baby, me neither.” 

“Ferri?” 

“Hm?” Ferran hums. 

“I love you so much,” Pedri murmurs. 

“I know, sweetie,” his boyfriend whispers. “I know and I love you back tenfold.” 

After the call with his brother, Pedri texts his parents, Joan and Gavi, who had bombarded him with messages during the game as well. 

Dani comes in later at night, moving quietly but smiling when he sees Pedri still awake. 

“Hey, are you doing okay?” he asks softly, and sits down at the edge of Pedri’s bed with something in his hand. 

Pedri nods and smiles back, grateful to be sharing the room with someone as thoughtful and calm as his friend. 

“Did you have dinner? They cut up some fruits and I thought maybe you'd like it, easy to stomach?” Dani puts the small box on Pedri’s nightstand, and the Canario pouts. 

“Thank you so much,” he murmurs, voice tired out after the long call, and Dani squeezes his arm. 

“Do you need anything else?” 

Pedri shakes his head. “I’m just going to sleep, but thank you, really.” 

“You can wake me up if you’re not okay, yeah? I mean it,” Dani insists. Pedri promises to do so, even though he knows he would be too proud for it if it happened, and it doesn't take long before the lights are out and both footballers are soundly asleep. 

The morning is a lot more chaotic as much as it's calmer than Pedri expected.

Joan and Dani bring him breakfast, Flick pops by as well, Raphinha, Balde, Frenkie and Lamine too, and by twelve o’clock, he slumps into the airplane seat and hopes the painkillers will soon do their work. 

Joan sits next to him, leaving him the window seat, and Pedri couldn't be more grateful for the quiet care of their goalkeeper, tugging a blanket over his legs, offering him water and snacks, telling him to say if something’s wrong. 

To his luck, he soon drifts off into a rocky, uneven sleep, his only peace coming from the dark blue amiri coat engulfing him, the collar flapped up and pressing into his cheeks like a warm blanket, like the illusion of Ferran's chest under his face. 

Pedri almost lets out a sob of relief when he sees his brother’s car in the parking lot of El Prat. 

Ferran stands there, wrapped in a black jacket and a cap, hair curling at the back of his head, and Fer is already coming towards him. 

“Hermanito,” he says with a small smile and presses him closer, kissing his head, and Pedri soaks in the smell of home. Fer quickly takes off his bag and suitcase and walks slowly beside Pedri, who’s hobbling over the paveway with his crutches. The impact of his advils has lessened again, and his thigh is cramping from all the moving. When they reach the car, Fer stows the luggage away in the trunk, while Pedri finally falls into the arms he’s craved for two days. 

“Hi,” Ferran mumbles, and doesn't waste time before he's cradling his head and pressing him into his chest. Pedri squeezes his eyes shut, leans one crutch against the car and wraps his arm around Ferran’s back. He inhales and focuses only on Ferran. Ferran’s warmth, Ferran’s Tabac cologne, Ferran’s touch, Ferran’s beard scratching his temple. 

And suddenly, the pain in his leg begins to subside, just softly, as if his senses are throwing out the ache and pulling in his boyfriend’s presence instead.

“I missed you so much,” Pedri whispers then, voice clogged, and Ferran rubs his back up and down, too aware of the many eyes around them. 

“Let's get you inside, my love.” 

Pedri shakes his head.  “This feels good.” 

Ferran smiles and squeezes him in his arms. “It’ll feel even better when you’re at home lying down,” he whispers, and gets Pedri to carefully sit down. 

Ferran helps his boyfriend settle in, hobbling on his own leg, and Pedri laughs softly at the image of both of them injured. 

He hears the trunk being shut, doesn't hear his brother come in, so he uses the moment and turns to grab Ferran’s face as soon as the door is shut. 

Their kiss is messy, long, and so deep. Ferran cups his cheek, tilts his head and breathes into the kiss as if it's making their problems disperse, and Pedri lets out a soft whimper. Not one of pleasure, not really, more one that sounds like ‘finally’, like his body only now allows itself to relax and split open for his boyfriend to catch. 

At home, both of them make it only to the couch, their legs already protesting, and Ferran maneuvers his smaller boyfriend until he's lying against his chest, legs propped up safely on the couch and his head rolling onto Ferran’s biceps, with how is arms are holding him against his chest, caressing his little stomach. 

Fer smiles at the two from where he comes into the living room, walking over quietly and leaning over one end of the couch. He retrieves a blanket and drapes it over his brother and his boyfriend, catching Ferran’s blinking eyes. 

“I have to go to work now, but I’ll come back later, yeah?” he whispers to Ferran, who nods. 

“Thank you for everything.” 

Fer replies with his hands ruffling through both his and Pedri’s hair, and the younger González stirs awake when the main door closes. 

“Hey,” Ferran whispers as he cards through his boyfriend’s hair. Pedri blinks, disoriented, and grabs Ferran’s free arm to hug it to his chest and squish his cheek against it. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, and Ferran kisses his temple. 

“You don't have to thank me for anything,” he murmurs back and sees Pedri’s cheeks bunch up in a smile. 

“I'm never ever letting us be separated again,” he tells Ferran, who chuckles, causing Pedri’s back to vibrate. 

Gosh, how much he missed him. 

“No?” 

Pedri turns his head, his small eyes wide and big as he shakes his head. 

“No, never. See? Only bad things happen when we're not together.” 

Ferran can hardly stop himself from exploding from the cuteness that is his little Pedri. He leans his head up and tilts it, pressing one desperate peck after the other to the skin behind Pedri’s ear and squeezing him even closer. Pedri sighs, content, completely melting against his boyfriend, against the safest place on earth. 

“Okay. I’m never letting you out of my sight again, then. Keeping you in a two meter radius. Is that good?” he mumbles. 

Pedri wants to crawl into his chest and let the vibrations of his deep, warm voice engulf him. 

“That's perfect.”