Chapter Text
Sant Jordi had never meant much to Ferran before.
Growing up in Valencia, it had always been something that happened somewhere else. A Catalan thing. Something you might hear about on the news, maybe see a few posts about, but not something that wrapped itself around your day the way it did here, in Barcelona. Here it felt like the whole city breathed differently on the twenty-third of April. The streets filled with books and roses, stalls lining the sidewalks, people walking hand in hand with petals tucked behind ears or held carefully like something fragile and important.
Last year had been the first time Ferran had really noticed it.
Not the festival itself, but Pedri.
Pedri had tried to play it off, of course. He always did. Quiet, a little shy, not one to ask for things. But Ferran had seen the way his eyes lingered on his phone in the dressing room, scrolling through Instagram stories. Teammates posting pictures of bouquets, of handwritten notes, of books with little dedications inside. Girlfriends smiling into the camera, tagging them, hearts and roses everywhere.
Pedri had smiled too, but it had been small. The kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Ferran had sat beside him, bumping their shoulders together lightly. Asked what he was looking at. Pedri had shrugged and said nothing important. Then he had locked his phone and changed the subject.
But later, when they were alone, when Pedri had curled into his side on the couch, quiet in that soft way he got when something was bothering him, Ferran had asked again.
“Do you want something for Sant Jordi?” he had said, trying to keep it casual.
Pedri had hesitated. Just for a second.
Then he had shaken his head. “It’s fine. It’s not… it’s not really for us, you know?”
And that had been that.
Except it hadn’t, not really. Because Ferran had seen the truth anyway. In the way Pedri lingered near the flower stalls when they walked past them. In the way he picked up a book once, flipping through it absentmindedly before putting it back like he didn’t have a reason to buy it.
Ferran had let it go at the time. Not because he didn’t care, but because he hadn’t known how to fix it. It had felt complicated. Like stepping into something that wasn’t his tradition, not his place.
This year, though, was different.
This year, Ferran had a plan.
He woke up early on the twenty-third, before Pedri, which in itself was an achievement. Pedri loved his sleep, especially on days off, and Ferran had learned to let him have it. But today he slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake him, pausing for a second to look back.
Pedri was sprawled across the mattress, half buried in the sheets, hair messy, face soft in sleep. There was something unfair about how peaceful he looked. Something that made Ferran’s chest tighten in the best way.
He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his temple.
“I’ll be back,” he whispered, even though Pedri couldn’t hear him.
The city was already alive when Ferran stepped outside.
He hadn’t expected that. It was still early, but people were already out, moving between stalls, carrying flowers, laughing. There was a warmth in the air that had nothing to do with the weather. Something bright and soft and a little bit magical.
Ferran felt out of place for about five seconds.
Then he squared his shoulders and walked straight into it.
He started with the roses.
That part, at least, was easy. Or so he thought.
The stalls were full of them. Red, mostly, but also yellow, pink, even white. Some wrapped simply in paper, others tied with ribbons or decorated with little charms.
Ferran hovered in front of one stall longer than he meant to.
“Què busques?” the vendor asked, smiling at him.
What are you looking for?
Ferran blinked. “Uh. Una rosa..”
A rose.
The man laughed, gesturing around. “Ets al lloc correcte, doncs.”
You’re in the right place, then.
“Sí,” Ferran said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jo només... no sé quin.”
Yeah. I just… don’t know which one.
The vendor’s smile softened. “És per a algú especial?”
It’s for someone special?
Ferran didn’t even hesitate. “Sí, molt especial.”
Yes, very special.
“Aleshores no cal que sigui perfecte,” the man said. “Simplement ha de ser teu.”
Then it doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours.
Ferran glanced back at the roses.
His eyes landed on one that was simple. A deep red bloom, wrapped in brown paper with a thin piece of twine tied around it in a bow. No glitter, no extras. Just… a red rose.
He picked it up.
“Aquest.”
This one.
Next came the part Ferran had been working on for weeks.
The real gift was already waiting at home, hidden carefully in the back of his wardrobe, tucked inside a shoebox that Pedri never touched.
A scrapbook.
Ferran had never thought of himself as the kind of person who would make something like that. It sounded like too much. Too sentimental. Too… organised.
And yet.
The first time he had started it, Pedri had been out with Gavi and Balde, just a casual dinner. Ferran had been alone in the apartment, restless, thinking about last year, about that small, quiet sadness Pedri had tried to hide.
So he had printed one photo.
Just one.
It had been taken months ago, after a match. They were both still in their kits, sweaty and exhausted, sitting on the grass. Pedri had been laughing at something Ferran had said, head tipped back, eyes closed, completely unguarded. Someone must have caught it from the stands. It had ended up online, one of those candid moments fans loved.
Ferran had stared at it for a long time before gluing it onto the first page.
After that, it had become a habit.
Every time Pedri left the apartment, Ferran would pull the scrapbook out. Sometimes he only had ten minutes. Sometimes an hour. He would sit at the kitchen table, surrounded by photos, ticket stubs, little scraps of things he had started collecting without even realising.
There were so many pictures.
Some were public. Match photos, celebrations, training shots. Moments where they stood close enough that anyone paying attention might notice something more. A hand lingering too long on a shoulder. A look that lasted just a second too much.
But most of them were private.
Selfies taken late at night when they couldn’t sleep. Blurry pictures from holidays. One of Pedri half asleep on the couch, mouth slightly open, wrapped in a blanket Ferran had tucked around him. Another of Ferran himself, taken by Pedri, mid laugh, completely unaware.
There were photos from dinners with friends. From quiet mornings. From nothing special days that had somehow become everything.
Ferran arranged them carefully, page by page.
He added little notes sometimes. Dates. Places. Short sentences that explained nothing and everything at once.
And every few pages, he tucked in an envelope.
That part had taken the most effort.
Ferran wasn’t good with words, not like this. Not when it mattered. But he forced himself to sit down and write anyway, pen in hand, heart pounding like he was about to step onto the pitch.
One letter about his favourite memory of them. The first time Pedri had stayed over and fallen asleep on his chest, trusting him without even realising it.
Another about the moment he knew. Not the first kiss, not the first time they had crossed that line, but later. A quiet morning, sunlight through the curtains, Pedri mumbling something in his sleep and reaching for him automatically. That had been it. That had been the moment Ferran had realised he was gone.
He wrote about the hard parts too.
The fights. The misunderstandings. The way they had both struggled at times, with themselves, with everything around them. The fear. The pressure. The things they couldn’t say out loud back then.
He didn’t hide from any of it.
Because loving Pedri wasn’t just the easy parts. It was all of it.
And at the end of the scrapbook, he left one last envelope.
That one had taken him the longest.
By the time Ferran finished buying the rose and the book, his nerves had started to creep in.
It was one thing to plan all of this in quiet moments alone. It was another to actually do it.
Still, he carried everything home carefully.
It was still silent when he got back. Pedri was still asleep.
Of course he was.
Ferran smiled to himself, setting the rose and the book on the counter before slipping into the bedroom. He paused again, just watching him for a moment, trying to steady himself.
“Pepi,” he murmured, nudging him gently. “Wake up.”
Pedri groaned, burrowing deeper into the pillow. “No.”
Ferran huffed a quiet laugh. “Come on. I’ve got something.”
That did it.
Pedri blinked awake slowly, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. “What?”
“Just come,” Ferran said, holding out his hand.
Pedri took it without question, letting himself be pulled up and guided into the kitchen, leaning into Ferran like he always did when he was still waking up.
Then he saw the counter.
He froze.
The rose. The book. And beside them, something new. Something bigger.
The scrapbook.
For a second, he didn’t say anything.
“Happy Sant Jordi,” Ferran said, trying to sound casual and failing just a little. “I know it’s not really my thing, but… I wanted to do it properly.”
Pedri stepped closer, eyes fixed on the scrapbook now.
“What’s this?” he asked softly.
“Open it,” Ferran said.
Pedri hesitated, like he was almost afraid to touch it. Then he reached out, fingers brushing the cover before lifting it carefully.
The first page.
The photo.
Pedri’s breath caught.
“Ferri…” he whispered.
Ferran said nothing. He just watched.
Pedri turned the page.
And then another.
And another.
Each time, his expression shifted. Surprise melting into something softer. Something deeper. His fingers traced over the photos like he was trying to hold onto each moment.
“You kept all of this?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” Ferran said. “Well. Not all of it. But… a lot.”
Pedri huffed out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head slightly.
“This is insane,” he murmured. “You’re insane.”
“Good insane?” Ferran asked.
Pedri glanced up at him, eyes already shining.
“The best kind.”
He kept going.
When he reached the first envelope, he paused.
“What’s this?”
“Just… read it,” Ferran said.
Pedri slid the letter out carefully.
Ferran watched his face as he read. The way his brows pulled together at first, concentrating. Then softened. Then lifted slightly, surprised.
By the time he finished, his lips were trembling.
“Ferran,” he said, voice quiet and full.
Ferran swallowed. “Keep going.”
So he did.
Page after page.
Letter after letter.
Pedri read about Ferran’s favourite memory. About the moment he fell in love. About the nights they had argued and the mornings they had fixed it, slowly, carefully.
At one point, Pedri had to stop.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, laughing weakly.
“You’re making me cry,” he said. Pedri shook his head, but he was smiling through it. He kept going anyway.
By the time he reached the last few pages, the tears had started properly. Silent at first, then heavier, slipping down his cheeks as he tried and failed to hold them back.
“Hey,” Ferran said gently, stepping closer. “It’s okay.”
Pedri laughed again, breath hitching. “No, it’s not, this is… this is too much.”
“Pero te gusta?”
“I love it,” Pedri said immediately. “I love it so much.”
He turned to the final page.
The last envelope.
His hands were shaking now as he opened it.
Ferran felt his own heart pounding, loud and steady, like a countdown.
Pedri unfolded the letter.
He read.
Ferran didn’t interrupt. Didn’t move. He just watched, memorising every second.
Pedri’s expression shifted again. Softer than before. Something deeper. Something that made Ferran’s chest ache.
When he finished, he didn’t say anything right away.
He just stared at the page.
Then, slowly, he lowered the scrapbook.
“Ferri…” he started.
And stopped.
Because Ferran wasn’t standing anymore.
He was on one knee.
Right there in the middle of the kitchen, ring box open in his hand, fingers steady even if everything else about him felt like it was shaking.
Pedri’s breath caught, sharp and broken.
“Oh my god,” he whispered.
Ferran let out a small, nervous laugh.
Pedri just stared at him, eyes wide, tears still slipping down his cheeks.
“I know this is a lot of emotion all at once,” Ferran said, voice softer now, more serious. “And I know we’re still relatively young, and everything is kind of crazy all the time. But I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”
He took a breath.
“I love you,” he said simply. “All of it. The good, the bad, the complicated parts. You’re… you’re my favourite person. My best friend. My home.”
Pedri’s lip trembled.
“And I don’t care about traditions or what people expect of us or what anything is ‘supposed’ to look like,” Ferran continued. “I just know that I want this. I want you. For as long as you’ll have me.”
He opened the box a little wider.
“Pedro González López, will you marry me?”
For a second, everything was still.
Then Pedri made a sound that was half sob, half laugh, placing the scrapbook onto the counter without even looking.
“Yes,” he said immediately. “Yes, of course, yes.”
Ferran barely had time to process it before Pedri was moving, practically falling into him, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders.
Ferran laughed, catching him, the ring box still clutched in one hand.
“Careful,” he said, breathless. “I haven’t even put the ring on you yet.”
“I don’t care,” Pedri mumbled into his neck. “Just do it.”
Ferran leaned backwards just enough to smile at his fiancé’s face. He gently pulled Pedri up, and they shared another hug and kiss. Ferran pulled back just enough to kiss away some of Pedri’s happy tears and slide the ring onto his finger carefully.
It fit perfectly.
Pedri stared at it for a second, then back at him, fresh tears spilling over. The ring was simple, no big rock sitting on top of the band, but instead had small diamonds encrusted into the thin silver.
“I hate you,” he said weakly.
Ferran grinned. “You just agreed to marry me.”
“I know,” Pedri said, laughing through his tears. “That’s why I hate you.”
Ferran kissed him then, soft and warm and full of everything they had just said and everything they hadn’t needed to.
When they pulled apart, Pedri rested his forehead against his.
“Te amo,” he murmured.
Ferran smiled.
“Te amo más.”