Work Text:
inspired by 「メロウ」 by 須田景凪
I never knew a habit could have a sound
until Ferran Torres becoming part of my life.
Sometimes, that sound was the locker room door being pushed open too hard, followed by footsteps that were always hurried even though he arrived earlier than most of the other players. Sometimes, it was the zipper of his bag getting stuck, followed by a short curse that made Gavi laugh from the other end of the room. Sometimes, it was a seventeen-second voice note sent at eleven at night, only to tell me that he had seen a dog wearing a Barcelona jersey on the pavement and felt that I needed to know immediately.
I did not know exactly when those things began to hold a special place in my day.
Perhaps it had started when he moved to Barcelona and decided that the seat beside me on away trips belonged to him, even though there had never been any rule saying so.
Perhaps it had started the first time he took my water bottle from my hand without permission, drank from it casually, then returned it while saying, “Don’t look at me like that. We’re on the same team.”
I remembered staring at him in disbelief.
“Being on the same team does not mean you get to drink my water.”
“It does now.”
He smiled like someone who had just won an important argument, then walked away before I could take the bottle back and throw it at his head.
Or perhaps it all began much later than that, on a morning that should have been ordinary, when I walked into the dining area at the training facility and found a cup of coffee already waiting at the seat I usually took. Not too sweet. A little milk. Exactly the way I liked it.
Ferran sat across from it, cutting a piece of bread with an unnecessarily serious expression.
I stopped beside the chair.
“Is this mine?”
He glanced up briefly. “No. It’s table decoration.”
“Ferran.”
“Just drink it before it gets cold.”
I sat down without saying anything else. At the time, I considered it nothing more than a small kindness from a friend. He had watched me make coffee a few times. Remembering something like that was not difficult.
I did not think about why he had gone to the trouble of making it.
I did not think about why he looked pleased when I finally took a sip and did not complain.
I did not think too much about Ferran back then.
Or at least, that was what I always told myself.
Days at the club had their own way of becoming similar. Morning training. The gym. The pitch being watered before we stepped onto it. The sound of a whistle. A body learning to keep moving even when its muscles began begging for rest. Afterwards, there was lunch, video analysis, physiotherapy, the drive home, and then everything repeated itself again.
I did not mind the repetition. I liked routine. Routine meant I knew what would happen; it meant there were things I could control among matches, injuries, people’s comments, and all the pressure that came with living as a footballer.
Then there was Ferran, who seemed never to have received the memo that my life was already orderly enough without him.
He sat beside me during meals, even when every other table was still empty.
He placed his legs too close to mine on the bus, then pretended not to notice.
He sent terrible photos of me from training to our small group chat, then protested when I retaliated with a photograph of him asleep on the plane with his mouth open.
He called my name from across the pitch merely to ask for a pass he could easily have requested with a hand gesture.
“Pedri!” he shouted one afternoon.
I sent the ball to him with the outside of my foot. It landed perfectly in his path, and he finished it into the corner of the goal before turning toward me with both arms spread wide, as though we had just scored the winner in a final rather than completed a small training drill that did not even count.
“Did you see that?” he said.
“I saw it. I was the one who gave you the ball.”
“The goal was still beautiful.”
“The pass was what made it look beautiful.”
He laughed, then ran toward me. Before I had time to move away, his hand had already landed on the back of my neck, his fingers pressing lightly against the sweaty skin beneath my hair.
“That’s why I always choose you,” he said.
The sentence should not have meant anything.
In training, everyone had a partner who was easier to read. Every forward had a midfielder whose passes felt right for their runs. Ferran was only talking about football.
Of course he was only talking about football.
And yet his hand remained at the back of my neck for one second longer than necessary.
And I, who usually knew exactly when to move, when to run, when to release the ball, simply stood still and let him.
Gavi saw us from several metres away, then raised an eyebrow in that irritating way I knew far too well.
I decided to ignore him.
It was a poor decision, because after training ended and we were walking toward the locker room, Gavi caught up with me in quick steps.
“So,” he said.
I did not turn around. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“Whatever you’re about to say, the answer is no.”
He chuckled. “You know, if the two of you become even slightly more disgusting, the club could put you in next year’s Valentine’s content.”
I stopped walking and looked at him flatly.
Gavi’s smile only widened.
“He touched the back of your neck like that in front of everyone.”
“Ferran touches everyone.”
“Not like that.”
“It was only training.”
“Of course. And I’m the calmest person on the team.”
I started walking again, trying not to think about how certain his voice sounded.
Gavi continued beside me. “Seriously, Pedri. You two are strange.”
“We’re friends.”
“Right. Friends.” He made the word sound like something amusing. “Friends who always eat together. Friends who sit beside each other on every trip. Friends where one nearly loses his mind if the other gets tackled too hard during training.”
I finally looked at him. “Ferran didn’t lose his mind.”
“Last week, he nearly argued with the coaching staff because you fell over.”
“That was because Marc’s tackle was bad.”
“See? You’re even defending him.”
I let out a quiet scoff and pushed open the locker room door. I did not say anything else because Ferran was already inside, sitting on his bench with wet hair dripping onto his clean shirt. He lifted his head when I came in, and his smile appeared so easily that my entire conversation with Gavi suddenly felt far too loud inside my head.
“Are you going home now?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“With me?”
I glanced at him. “What happened to your car?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why do I have to go with you?”
“Because I’m hungry, and you always know places to eat that aren’t crowded.”
Behind me, Gavi made a small sound suspiciously similar to a suppressed laugh.
I did not turn around. “Five minutes. I need to change first.”
Ferran smiled in satisfaction. “I’ll wait.”
That was the problem with Ferran. He always waited as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
He waited for me to change my shoes after training.
He waited for me to finish physiotherapy even though he had already been free to go home nearly forty minutes earlier.
He waited for me in the stadium corridor after matches, when everyone else was moving quickly toward the bus or the interview area.
He waited for me when I was at my worst—when my legs did not respond the way I wanted them to, when one bad match made my thoughts noisy for the entire night, when my body felt like something that kept disappointing me.
Ferran never asked too many questions. That was one of the things I liked about him, even if back then I was not yet brave enough to use the word like honestly.
On bad days, he simply came.
He came carrying food that I was certain he had deliberately bought too much of.
He came carrying an extra controller and saying I could destroy him in a game if it would improve my mood.
He came, stretched himself out at one end of my sofa, and began commenting on television programmes he was not even truly watching.
Sometimes, he made everything louder.
Strangely, sometimes that was the only thing capable of making the inside of my head quiet.
That afternoon, after training and after Gavi’s teasing, which I tried very hard not to think about anymore, Ferran took me to a small restaurant far from the areas usually crowded with supporters. We had been there twice before, and the owner was kind enough not to draw attention to us when we walked in wearing caps and training clothes.
Ferran ordered too much food. As usual.
“There are only two of us,” I said when the third plate was placed on the table.
“I’m hungry.”
“You always say that, then half of it ends up on my plate.”
“That’s called sharing.”
“That’s called being unable to measure the capacity of your own stomach.”
He grinned as he stole a piece of potato from my plate, even though the exact same potatoes were sitting in front of him.
I lightly slapped the back of his hand. “Take your own.”
“Yours looks better.”
“It’s the same food.”
“Different experience.”
I wanted to say that he made no sense. Instead, I realised I was smiling.
Ferran watched me for a moment. His face changed slightly—not much, only enough for his teasing smile to become something softer.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I am sitting in front of you. It would be difficult not to look at you.”
I lowered my head and picked up my fork, pretending to focus on my food.
I was not shy. Not like that. I had stood before tens of thousands of people, played in matches that made an entire city hold its breath, answered journalists’ questions deliberately designed to provoke a reaction.
But Ferran had an irritating ability to say something in a casual tone and then leave me unsure where I was supposed to put my eyes.
“You’re strange today,” I said.
“Only today?”
“Stranger than usual.”
He laughed quietly. “Maybe I’m just happy you agreed to eat with me.”
The sentence was simple.
Too simple to make something inside my chest shift.
I lifted my eyes, intending to answer with a joke, but Ferran had already lowered his head to cut his food, as though he had not just said something that made my hand stop above the table.
I did not know what to do with the feeling that appeared then. It was too small to be called anything, but too warm for me to ignore completely.
So I did the easiest thing.
I ate the last potato from his plate purely to make him protest.
Ferran stared at his empty plate, then at me.
“You took the last one.”
“Yours looked better.”
He was silent for one second before laughing loudly enough that the restaurant owner turned toward our table.
And, like an idiot, I kept the sound of his laughter in my memory for days afterwards.
There were many things about Ferran I learned without ever meaning to.
I knew he liked his music too loud when he drove alone, but he lowered the volume whenever I sat beside him because he knew I liked sleeping on the way home.
I knew he always complained when he had to wake up too early, but almost always arrived on time.
I knew he could not cook nearly as well as he claimed, except for eggs, pasta, and one kind of fish he had once made in my apartment while forcing me to admit it tasted good.
I knew the left corner of his mouth lifted first when his smile was genuine, different from the smile he gave cameras.
I knew he ran his hand through his hair repeatedly when he was nervous.
I knew that when he was genuinely annoyed, he became quieter than usual, and when he was sad, he tried to make everyone laugh more often.
I knew all of that because we were friends.
At least, that was the explanation I chose.
Friends paid attention to each other. Friends knew when to send a message, when to knock on a door, when to sit quietly without trying to fix anything.
Friends could keep each other’s hoodies in their apartments.
Friends could fall asleep on a sofa with their legs tangled together after watching a terrible film neither of them remembered the ending of.
Friends could wake up in the morning and find Ferran standing in the kitchen with messy hair, wearing one of my black T-shirts that fit his body far too well, while the smell of coffee filled the room.
I stood in the bedroom doorway that morning, still half asleep, and for several seconds, I only watched him.
Ferran did not know I was awake. His back was turned toward me, one hand resting on the kitchen counter while the other held a mug. Morning light entered the apartment through the large window in the living room, falling across his shoulders and the side of his face as he turned slightly to look at the coffee machine.
There was… something strange about that sight.
Not because Ferran was in my apartment. He had stayed over several times after we arrived home too late or were too exhausted for him to drive himself back.
Not because he was wearing my shirt either. He always took whatever was available, then claimed mine were more comfortable.
What was strange was how easily the sight felt right.
As though he was not merely staying over for one night. As though the shirt had always been meant to be on his body. As though some part of my life had deliberately left room for Ferran to stand in my kitchen in the morning, making coffee and humming quietly without realising it.
I cleared my throat so he would know I was awake.
Ferran turned quickly.
“Morning,” he said, showing no trace of guilt over having taken over my kitchen.
“You’re wearing my shirt.”
“Mine smells.”
“You have a spare shirt in your bag.”
“Yours is more comfortable.”
I walked closer, still trying to shake off the strange feeling that had not completely left my chest. “Where’s my coffee?”
He pointed toward another mug on the counter. “I already made it.”
“Of course you did.”
“What is that tone supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No, you sound like you’re accusing me of something.”
I picked up my mug. It was still warm. It tasted exactly the way I liked it.
I took a sip, then looked at Ferran over the rim of the cup.
“I’m just amazed that you can be so annoying and useful at the same time.”
He laughed, low and rough from sleep. “That’s my charm.”
“Being annoying?”
“Being useful.”
I sat on one of the kitchen chairs. Ferran took a plate from the shelf without asking, pulled out some bread, then began searching through my refrigerator as though the apartment belonged half to him.
I wanted to complain. I should have complained.
Instead, I only watched him move from the refrigerator to the counter, from the counter to the stove, grumbling because I did not have enough breakfast ingredients to satisfy his standards.
“You need to go shopping more often,” he said.
“I eat at the club.”
“And on your days off?”
“I can order food.”
He looked at me as though I had just insulted the entire concept of domestic life. “That’s depressing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, that’s your problem. You’re too used to being fine.”
The hand holding my mug stopped.
Ferran himself did not seem to realise what he had just said. He had already returned his attention to the pan and the eggs, his hair falling slightly over his forehead as he looked down.
I did not know why the sentence lodged itself so firmly inside my mind.
Perhaps because he was right.
I was used to being fine. I was used to living my days alone, taking care of my own body, keeping my disappointments to myself. I had family, friends, teammates I loved very much, but in the end, I had always felt that—certain parts of myself were easier to carry alone than to hand over to someone else.
Ferran had never asked me to hand anything over.
He had only entered slowly, filling small spaces I had never realised existed.
A cup of coffee.
One seat in a car.
A stupid message late at night.
A shirt that now somehow looked much better on his body than it ever had on mine.
“You’re spacing out,” he said suddenly.
I blinked. “No, I’m not.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“It’s difficult not to look at you when you’re making a mess of my kitchen.”
He looked around. “This is art.”
“This is egg on the counter.”
“Part of the art.”
I scoffed, then got up to take a cloth and clean it. As I passed behind Ferran, my arm brushed his back. Accidentally, only briefly, but my body suddenly became far too aware of the small distance between us.
Ferran did not move away.
He only tilted his face, close enough for me to see the faint shadow of his lashes beneath the morning light.
“Pedri,” he said.
His tone had changed.
I swallowed. “What?”
He looked at me for one second longer, then the corner of his lips lifted.
“You’re standing in front of the cutlery drawer.”
I turned and only then realised I was genuinely blocking his way.
I stepped back quickly. “You could have said so earlier.”
“I enjoyed watching you look confused.”
“Idiot.”
“And yet you still let me make you breakfast.”
I did not answer.
Because I knew that if I opened my mouth then, something I was not yet ready to hear myself might come out.
Everyone liked Ferran.
That had never surprised me. Ferran possessed a kind of warmth that made it easy for people to approach him. He could speak to a young player newly promoted to first-team training as though they had been friends for years. He could laugh with the kitchen staff, chat with the physiotherapists, or sit with anyone in the dining room without making the atmosphere feel awkward.
I liked that about him…
Until one day, I did not like it at all.
We had just finished a light training session that day. I left the recovery room later than the others because the staff wanted to check my leg for a little longer. When I finally walked toward the parking area, I saw Ferran standing near the exit with one of the academy players who occasionally trained with the first team.
The boy looked nervous, holding the straps of his bag with both hands. Ferran stood in front of him, listening with that patient expression I knew so well. A moment later, he laughed softly, ruffled the boy’s hair, then said something that made him smile widely.
It was a good sight.
I should have been pleased to see Ferran making someone feel welcome.
Instead, what I felt was something small and ugly, something that slipped beneath my ribs and stayed there without permission.
I did not approach them. I only walked to my car, opened the door, and put my bag onto the back seat harder than necessary.
“Pedri!”
I closed my eyes briefly when I heard his voice.
Ferran jogged toward me, still smiling. “You’re finished?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to tell you.”
His smile faded slightly. “I was waiting for you.”
I looked toward the spot where the young player had been standing, but he had already gone.
“You looked busy.”
Ferran followed my gaze, then shrugged. “He was asking me a few things. It was his first full training day with us. He was nervous.”
“Right.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
He stepped a little closer. “Does your leg hurt?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
I opened the driver’s door. “I’m going home.”
Usually, if Ferran said he had been waiting for me, I would nod and let him into the passenger seat, whether it was to eat somewhere together or simply so he would have an excuse to bother me for the entire journey. But that time, I only sat down behind the wheel and fastened my seatbelt.
Ferran stood beside the still-open door, his forehead furrowing.
“Am I coming?” he asked.
“Isn’t your car here?”
He fell silent.
Suddenly, I hated myself. Not because I wanted to go home alone, but because I could hear how cold my voice sounded when I spoke to him.
“Pedri,” he said quietly.
“I’m tired, Fer.”
It was not a lie. I simply was not tired because of training.
For several seconds, he said nothing. Then he took one step back, both hands sliding into the pockets of his training trousers.
“Okay,” he said. “Get some rest.”
I nodded and closed the door.
When my car moved out of the parking area, I saw him in the rear-view mirror. Ferran was still standing in the same place, watching my car drive away with an expression I could not read from that distance.
The unpleasant feeling followed me all the way home.
I hated jealousy because it was not logical. Ferran did not belong to me. He had never promised that his small acts of attention were only for me. He had every right to smile at anyone, ruffle anyone’s hair, wait for anyone.
That was simply how Ferran was.
Warm.
Kind.
Able to make people feel special with ease.
Perhaps all this time, I had only been one of many people helped by the way he existed in the world.
That thought should have calmed me. It should have given me a simple explanation for everything that had begun to feel too large.
Instead, I lay in bed that night with my phone beside my pillow, waiting for the message that usually always came.
At ten, there was nothing.
At eleven, still nothing.
At fourteen minutes past midnight, my screen finally lit up.
Ferran:
Does your leg really not hurt?
I stared at the message for a long time.
I could imagine his face while typing it. His brow furrowed. His lips pressed slightly together. Perhaps he was lying on his sofa, still wondering why I had left like that.
My thumb moved across the screen.
Pedri:
No. Just tired.
His reply came quickly.
Ferran:
Okay. Get enough sleep.
I’ll bring you coffee tomorrow.
My chest felt even more uncomfortable.
He did not ask again. He did not force me to explain. He did not get angry, even though I had treated him badly.
That was exactly what made everything harder.
I typed you don’t have to, then deleted it.
I typed thank you, then deleted that too.
In the end, I only sent:
Pedri:
Yeah.
I did not sleep well that night.
And when Ferran truly came the following morning with coffee in his hand, smiling at me as though nothing had happened, I knew I was in trouble far worse than momentary jealousy.
Because I did not only want Ferran’s attention.
I wanted the meaning behind it.
A few days later, Ferran did not come to training.
I knew before the coach explained anything because the seat he usually occupied in the dining room remained empty. There was no second cup on my table. No large bag carelessly placed near my feet. No voice calling my name from the end of the corridor.
I stared at the empty chair for slightly too long.
“Minor injury,” Gavi said as he sat down across from me. “Something with his thigh. Nothing serious.”
I lifted my head. “I didn’t ask.”
“Your face did.”
“I was only looking at the chair.”
“Right. The chair Ferran happens to sit in every day.”
I did not answer. I picked up a piece of bread, but I was not truly hungry.
Ferran sent me a message a few hours later.
Ferran:
Apparently I have to rest for a few days. Tragic.
The team will miss my goals terribly.
I let out a quiet scoff, even though there was no one near me to see it.
Pedri:
The team might enjoy the peace.
Ferran:
You’re lying.
You must miss me already.
My fingers stopped above the screen.
Usually, I would have answered with something sarcastic. Something like it’s only been three hours, or I’d already forgotten you weren’t here. But that time, the words felt wrong.
Because the most annoying part was that he was right.
I missed him before the training day was even over.
I missed his runs in front of my passes. Missed the way he protested if I did not give him the ball. Missed his shoulder constantly knocking against mine when we stood listening to instructions. Missed his hand at the back of my neck, his laugh that was too loud, his ridiculous comments that should have ruined my concentration but now only made the pitch feel far too wide without him.
Pedri:
Just rest.
Ferran reply came in the form of an overly dramatic sad-face emoji, followed by a photograph of himself lying on his sofa with a blanket pulled up to his chest.
Ferran:
I’m dying here alone.
Pedri:
Your injury is minor.
Ferran:
Still. I require emotional support.
I smiled despite not wanting to.
Pedri:
Call a doctor.
Ferran:
I want you.
The sentence appeared on my screen just like that, short and light, perhaps sent without much thought.
But I read it over and over again.
I want you.
When training ended, I did not go straight home. I stopped at the small shop we had once visited together, bought the food I had realised Ferran liked because he always took the largest portion whenever we ordered it, then drove to his apartment while trying to convince myself that it did not mean anything.
He was injured.
I was his friend.
Friends brought food when their friends were injured.
That was all.
But when the door to his apartment opened and Ferran stood there in loose sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his hair messy, his eyes widening when he saw me, every logical explanation I had arranged during the drive suddenly felt terribly weak.
“Pedri?”
I lifted the bag of food. “You said you needed emotional support.”
His smile appeared slowly. Not the teasing smile he usually used to irritate me, but something far softer, something that made my chest feel too full.
“You came.”
“Don’t make it sound dramatic. I just don’t want to hear you complain tomorrow.”
“Come in.”
His apartment was messier than mine, though not as bad as I often accused it of being. There were shoes near the sofa, a few jackets thrown across a chair, and a water bottle on the living room table. The television was on without sound, showing an old match he clearly had not really been watching.
Ferran walked a little more carefully than usual. He was not limping badly, but it was enough to make me pay attention to every step.
“Sit down,” I said.
He turned toward me. “This is my apartment.”
“And you still need to sit down.”
“You’re very bossy.”
“Sit down, Ferran.”
He obeyed, still smiling. I placed the food on the table and began opening it. When I looked up again, Ferran was watching me.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“You keep saying that every time you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like…” I stopped because there was no safe word with which to finish the sentence.
Like I matter to you,
Like you are happy I am here for more than the fact that I brought food.
Like all the things I am beginning to imagine might be real.
Ferran rested his head against the sofa. “I just didn’t think you would come.”
“Why?”
“Yesterday, you looked like you wanted to stay away from me.”
I went still.
He said it without accusation. Only as an observation, but I still felt as though I had been caught doing something embarrassing.
“I was tired,” I said again.
“Yeah.” Ferran nodded slowly. “You said that.”
There was a small distance in his voice. A distance I had made myself.
I lowered my gaze to the food containers. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For acting strange.”
Ferran watched me for a long time, as though deciding whether he should ask me to say more. In the end, he only shifted slightly on the sofa, leaving a space beside him.
“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll forgive you if you let me take the food first.”
I laughed shortly, relieved and disappointed at the same time that the conversation stopped there.
I sat beside him. Our shoulders almost touched. Ferran picked up a fork and began eating like someone who truly had not been fed for days, even though I knew the club must already have arranged everything he needed.
“I know you bought this because you love me,” he said through a mouth still half full.
I choked on my drink.
Ferran laughed, patting my back with one hand. “Relax. I’m joking.”
Of course he was joking.
I stared at the table in front of us, trying to steady my breathing again.
“Your jokes are terrible.”
“But your reaction was excellent.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You still came.”
I did not know why our conversations always ended there. At the fact that, however much I complained, I always came. Always answered his messages. Always kept a seat for him. Always let him come too close.
That night, we watched an old match on his television. Ferran occasionally offered unnecessary commentary, protesting decisions made by a referee in a match that had ended years ago, then laughing whenever I told him to be quiet.
Around an hour later, his voice became less and less frequent.
I turned and found his head tilted toward me, his eyes closed. Perhaps the medicine or the exhaustion had made him sleepy. His shoulder fell lightly against my arm.
I should have shifted so he could lie down more comfortably.
I should have taken a pillow.
I should have gone home.
Instead, I only sat still.
From that close, Ferran looked younger, quieter, without the confident smile or the comments that always made it seem as though nothing ever weighed on him. His hair fell over his forehead. His breathing was slow. His right hand lay on the sofa, so close to mine that the slightest movement would make our fingers touch.
I felt foolish for not even daring to make a movement as small as that.
Then Ferran moved in his sleep. His head fell fully against my shoulder, and his hand shifted unconsciously until the back of his fingers brushed mine.
I did not breathe for several seconds.
Nothing great happened. There were no words. No promises. Ferran was not even aware he was touching me.
But right there, with his warm body leaning against mine and his apartment quiet except for the low sound of the television, I could finally no longer hide behind the word friend.
I loved him.
The realisation did not arrive like a violent collision. It did not stop the world or make my chest explode with anything dramatic.
It arrived like afternoon light slowly filling a room—soft, silent, and already far too wide by the time I finally noticed it was there.
I loved Ferran in all the small things I had once believed were ordinary.
I loved the coffee he made too early in the morning.
I loved his pointless messages.
I loved the way he waited for me.
I loved the way he made me feel that I did not always have to be fine by myself.
And because I had just discovered something so precious, the first thing I felt was fear.
Fear that Ferran had never meant to give so much meaning to everything he did.
Fear that I had misunderstood his warmth.
Fear that one day he would do the same things for someone else, and I would have to pretend I had never thought myself special.
Ferran let out a small sigh in his sleep and shifted closer.
I looked at our almost-intertwined hands, then slowly, very carefully, allowed my little finger to touch his.
Only that.
Anything more felt too brave for someone who did not even know whether he was loved in return.
Ferran returned to training three days later.
I should have been happy.
I was happy—at least until he appeared in the dining room with a wide smile, dropped his bag onto the chair beside mine, then bent down to give my shoulders a brief hug from behind before sitting.
“I’ve returned to life,” he said.
I nearly dropped my spoon.
Gavi, who was sitting across the table, looked at me with an expression that was not helpful in the slightest.
“How is your leg?” I asked, far too quickly.
“Much better. I’m not back in full training yet, but I’m well enough to annoy you.”
“Unfortunately.”
Ferran smiled at me. “You don’t sound genuinely sorry.”
I lowered my gaze to my plate.
After that night in his apartment, everything had changed. Not Ferran. He was still the same: still warm, still close, still behaving as though his place had always been beside me.
I was the one who had changed.
Now I knew why his touch made it hard for me to think. I knew why I recognised his laugh more quickly than anyone else’s voice in a room. I knew why his attention felt so important.
And that knowledge made every small thing dangerous.
When he rested his arm along the back of my chair during video analysis, I had to try much harder to focus on the screen.
When he asked me to pass him a water bottle and deliberately brushed his fingers against mine as he took it, I stared at him too long, trying to determine whether he knew what he had done.
When he said he had missed my passes on the pitch, all I could do was nod because what I wanted to say was that I had missed far more than that.
I began keeping my distance in small ways.
I sat beside Gavi on the bus before Ferran arrived.
I went home more quickly after training.
I replied to his messages more slowly.
I said I was tired whenever he asked me to eat with him.
Ferran noticed.
Of course he noticed. He had always been more perceptive than people believed.
On the fourth day after he returned to training, I was putting my boots into my bag when someone’s shadow fell across me. I did not need to lift my head to know who it was.
“Are you busy tonight?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing?”
I closed my bag. “Resting.”
“That isn’t being busy.”
“It is to me.”
He did not laugh as he usually would have.
I stood, intending to walk past him, but Ferran shifted to block my path. Not aggressively. Only clearly enough to say that this time, he would not let me leave with a half-answer.
“Are you angry with me?” he asked.
I looked at him. “No.”
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t use my answer to avoid this.”
“I’m not avoiding anything.”
“Pedri.” His voice was quiet, but there was something inside it that made me stop trying to look calm. “You don’t sit with me on the bus anymore. You keep going home before I can catch up with you. You barely reply to my messages. If I did something, tell me.”
I turned my face away, looking toward the row of almost-empty lockers. Most of the players had already left. All I could hear was the shower running in the next room and the footsteps of staff growing more distant.
“You didn’t do anything,” I said.
“Then why does it feel like I’m being punished?”
There was something in his face then that broke through the rest of my defences. Ferran did not look annoyed. He looked hurt.
I had never meant to hurt him.
I had only been trying to protect myself from something that had not even truly happened yet.
“I’m not punishing you,” I said softly.
“Then tell me what’s happening.”
I swallowed. Every sentence that should have been easy to say felt far too exposed in front of the person whose answer mattered most to me.
“I…” I stopped, lowering my head for a moment. “I’m just trying not to misunderstand.”
His brow furrowed. “Misunderstand what?”
I gave a small laugh, but there was no humour in it. “You.”
For the first time since I had known him, Ferran looked genuinely lost for words.
I should have stopped. I should have said to forget it, picked up my bag, and gone home before I embarrassed myself any further.
But perhaps there was a limit to how long someone could keep something hidden once it had already filled every space inside him.
“You’re always there,” I said, my voice lower than I wanted it to be. “You make me coffee. You wait for me after training. You come into my apartment as if it’s your home. You send me messages about every small thing that doesn’t even matter. You touch me, look at me, say things as though…” I drew in a breath that hurt. “As though I’m different.”
Ferran remained silent.
I nodded slightly, as though answering myself.
“And maybe that’s my fault. Maybe you are simply like that with everyone. You’re kind. You’re warm. Everyone likes you. I know that.” I gripped the strap of my bag too tightly.
“But you shouldn’t make someone get used to you if, to you, all of it is only ordinary.”
The silence after that sentence felt far worse than any rejection I had imagined.
I could no longer bear to look at his face.
“Forget it,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Pedri.”
I took one step away, but his hand closed around my wrist.
His touch was not hard. Only warm. So warm that I could no longer force my feet to move.
“Look at me,” he said.
I did not want to. I truly did not want to, because if his face showed pity, I might never be able to come to training the same way again.
But eventually, I turned.
Ferran was looking at me as though I had just said something that made him want to laugh and cry at the same time.
“I’m not like that with everyone,” he said.
I remained silent.
He stepped closer, still holding my wrist.
“I don’t make coffee for everyone because I remember how they like it.” His voice was soft, barely louder than a breath. “I don’t wait for everyone to finish physiotherapy when I could already have gone home. I don’t search for excuses to sit beside everyone every time we travel.”
My chest began beating far too fast.
“Ferran—”
“I don’t fall asleep on just anyone’s sofa and wake up wearing their shirt simply because it’s comfortable.” A small smile appeared on his lips, nervous in a way I had almost never seen from him. “Fine, the shirt part may actually be because it’s comfortable. But you understand what I mean.”
I wanted to laugh. I also wanted to cover my face and never look at anyone again.
“Why did you never tell me?” I asked.
Ferran looked at me for a long moment. “I thought you knew.”
A short breath escaped me, almost sounding like frustrated laughter. “How was I supposed to know?”
“Because I was being extremely obvious.”
“You’re also annoying to everyone. How was I supposed to tell the difference?”
He laughed softly, then shook his head. “Okay. That’s fair.”
His hand slipped from my wrist, but before I had time to feel the absence of his touch, his fingers slid between mine instead.
My entire body seemed to forget how to breathe.
Ferran looked at our joined hands, then back at my face.
“I like you,” he said.
Simple.
No long speech. No grand words. Only his slightly rough voice, his fingers holding mine, and eyes that suddenly looked more honest than all the attention I had allowed to become a mystery.
“I’ve liked you for quite a long time,” he continued. “Maybe too long, considering how stupid we both look now.”
“Both of us?”
“Yes. You, because you avoided me instead of asking. Me, because I thought drinking from your water bottle and constantly annoying you counted as a confession you could understand.”
“That was not a confession. That was bad behaviour.”
“And yet you still let me do it.”
I looked at him, and this time I could not stop the small smile that appeared.
Ferran looked relieved to see it.
“So,” he said, moving his thumb across the back of my hand, “does this mean you like me too? Or are you only very emotional because you lost your dining companion for a few days?”
I almost hit his shoulder with my free hand, but he laughed and caught the movement.
“Seriously,” he said, more gently this time. “I want to hear it.”
I had never been good at saying things that made me vulnerable. On the pitch, I could trust instinct. My body knew where to move before my mind had time to question it. But in front of Ferran, I felt as though everything had to come out perfectly, or this feeling would become too large for me to hold.
“I missed you when you weren’t training,” I said at last.
Ferran did not look away even slightly.
“I thought I was only used to you. To your loud voice, your stupid messages, all your distractions.” I lowered my eyes briefly to our joined hands. “Then you weren’t there, and everything felt wrong. Even when you came back, I was frightened, because I realised I didn’t only want you near me.”
I lifted my gaze.
“I want to be your reason for staying.”
Ferran’s smile slowly disappeared, replaced by an expression so gentle it felt far more dangerous than any teasing he had ever directed at me.
“You already are my reason,” he said.
I did not know who moved first.
Perhaps Ferran, because he had always been the one brave enough to come closer.
Perhaps me, because for the first time, I did not want to step away.
All I knew was that one second we were still standing in front of the locker room bench with our hands clasped together, and the next, Ferran’s lips were touching mine.
The first kiss was not perfect.
Our noses almost collided because I did not know which way to tilt my head. Ferran laughed quietly against my lips, making all the courage I had worked so hard to gather turn into hot embarrassment across my face.
“Don’t laugh,” I whispered.
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You are clearly laughing.”
“I’m happy.”
Before I could say anything, he kissed me again.
More slowly this time.
His fingers tightened around mine while his other hand rose to the side of my face, his thumb touching my cheek carefully, as though I were something he had wanted for a long time but still did not fully believe he was allowed to have.
I had once thought falling in love must feel like losing control.
It did not.
Kissing Ferran did not feel like falling. It felt like finally stopping my flight from a place I had wanted to reach all along.
When we parted, his forehead remained pressed against mine. His breath was warm. He smiled faintly, and I suddenly became very aware that I had just kissed my teammate in a locker room anyone could enter at any moment.
“This is a bad idea,” I said, even though my hand still had not let go of his.
“The kiss?”
“The location.”
“Good. I was starting to feel offended.”
I rolled my eyes, but he laughed again, a sound that now felt different because I finally knew I was allowed to love him.
“So what happens now?” I asked.
Ferran pretended to think seriously. “Now you stop avoiding me.”
“That’s all?”
“And let me sit beside you again.”
“You always sit beside me.”
“True.” He smiled. “I only want to make sure my rights haven’t been revoked.”
I shook my head slowly. “You haven’t changed at all.”
“No need. You already like me this way.”
I hated that he was right.
Ferran lifted our still-joined hands, then pressed a brief kiss to my knuckles, a gesture that suddenly removed every trace of teasing from the air.
“Go home with me?” he asked.
I should have said that we had brought separate cars.
I should have said that we had training tomorrow and needed to be careful not to look strange in front of everyone else.
I should have thought about many things.
But there was a small hope in Ferran’s face that was far too sweet for me to refuse.
“Yes,” I said.
His smile appeared in full.
“Good. I’m hungry.”
I laughed for the first time without having to hold anything back.
“Of course you’re hungry.”
“This is a big day for me.”
“For you?”
“I finally managed to get my favourite midfielder to confess his love.”
“I did not use the word love.”
Ferran opened the locker room door for me, still holding my hand on the side hidden from the corridor.
“Not yet,” he said lightly. “I’m patient.”
It was strange how safe that one word felt when it came from him.
I did not say it that night.
I did not say it when we eventually chose to eat at my apartment because Ferran insisted on making pasta to celebrate what he called “the most important victory of the season.”
I did not say it when he made an even worse mess of my kitchen than before, then tried to bribe me with short kisses so I would stop complaining.
I did not say it when we sat on the sofa, empty plates on the table, the television on without truly being watched, and Ferran placed his head in my lap with new confidence, as though he had been waiting far too long for the chance to do so.
But when my fingers drifted into his hair without thinking and Ferran closed his eyes with a small smile, I knew I would say it one day.
Not because he needed reassurance.
But because some feelings, after being hidden for too long, deserved to be given a name.
The following morning, Ferran woke me with the sound of the coffee machine.
I opened my eyes still confused and found my side of the bed empty. It took several seconds before the memory of the night before returned in full: Ferran’s hand in mine, his lips, the way he had said I was his reason for staying.
I sat up slowly, staring at the bedroom filled with morning light.
Ferran’s shirt lay on the chair near the door. His bag was on the floor. From the kitchen came the sound of a drawer opening and closing, followed by Ferran quietly cursing because he had probably once again failed to find whatever cooking tool he wanted.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
When I left the bedroom, he was standing in front of the kitchen counter wearing my shirt again.
I leaned against the doorframe. “Are you genuinely planning to take all my clothes?”
Ferran turned. His face immediately brightened when he saw me.
“Morning,” he said.
“You haven’t answered.”
“I think it’s one of the benefits of being your boyfriend.”
I went still.
He went still too.
For the first time that morning, Ferran looked nervous.
“Or…” He scratched the back of his neck. “We haven’t discussed what to call this. I just thought—”
“Boyfriend?”
He looked at me carefully. “Too soon?”
I walked closer. He was still holding a small spoon in one hand, his hair messy, and there was a small trace of flour or sugar on the side of my shirt that he was wearing. Not a single part of the sight looked like anything I needed to fear.
I picked up the cup of coffee he had already made for me.
“No,” I said.
Ferran’s eyes softened. “No?”
“Not too soon.”
He smiled so widely that I immediately regretted giving him such an easy victory.
“So I’m allowed to call you my boyfriend?”
“Not in front of everyone today.”
“Fine.” He took half a step closer. “Only when we’re alone?”
I drank my coffee to hide my smile. “Maybe.”
“Maybe means yes.”
“You talk a lot for someone who hasn’t made breakfast yet.”
“I’m busy falling in love.”
I almost choked on coffee for the second time in less than a week.
Ferran looked extremely pleased with himself.
“Don’t say things like that first thing in the morning,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not awake enough to answer.”
He placed the spoon down, then walked around the counter until he stood in front of me. There was nothing rushed in his movement. No excessive teasing. He only took the cup from my hand, set it gently on the counter, then touched my waist with both hands.
“You don’t have to answer now,” he said.
Then he kissed me.
Morning light glowed behind him. The scent of coffee still lingered warmly between us. My kitchen was a little messy, my hair probably looked terrible, and we would be late if Ferran continued kissing me in a way that made my legs particularly unwilling to move.
I did not care.
All this time, I had thought happiness was something grand. An important goal. A victory. A stadium calling your name. A moment worthy of being included in the season’s best highlights.
Apparently, happiness could also be a man who stole your shirts, made coffee too early in the morning, then kissed your lips as though there were nowhere else in this entire city he would rather be.
When we finally reached the training facility, Gavi was already standing near the entrance. He saw me getting out of Ferran’s car, then looked at Ferran walking much too close beside me.
His gaze dropped to the hoodie I was wearing.
Only then did I realise the hoodie belonged to Ferran.
Gavi closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, like someone who had spent far too long waiting for confirmation from the two slowest people in the world.
“No,” I said before he could speak.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“I know your face.”
“My face is saying I was right.”
Ferran, who possessed absolutely no instinct for preserving a secret, only grinned and briefly placed his hand at my lower back as he walked past Gavi.
I elbowed him in the ribs.
“Ow,” he said, still laughing.
Gavi looked at us with a disgust far too dramatic to be sincere. “I don’t want to know anything.”
“Good,” I said.
“But I do want to say that I already knew.”
“You already said it.”
“And I will say it again later.”
Ferran laughed beside me, then leaned slightly closer, close enough that only I could hear him.
“He’s going to be extremely annoying about this.”
“I know.”
“We can ignore him.”
“You have never been able to ignore anyone.”
“True.” His hand touched the back of mine for only a second before we entered an area where the other players could see us. “But I can focus on you.”
I turned toward him.
He was already walking normally again, greeting staff members, smiling at the players passing by, looking exactly like the Ferran I had known all this time.
Only now, I knew.
Among all the people he greeted, he would still look for the seat beside mine.
Among every voice in the locker room, he would still turn when he heard mine.
Among all the homes he could go to after training, there was a very good chance he would end up at my apartment, emptying my refrigerator and leaving his shirts on the chair in my bedroom.
And for the first time, knowing that did not frighten me.
Training began beneath bright sunlight. Ferran was not yet allowed to complete the entire session, so for several parts of it, he stayed at the side of the pitch, following a separate programme with the recovery staff.
I should have focused on the ball.
I did focus.
It was simply that several times, my gaze moved on its own toward the touchline, finding Ferran who happened to be looking at me too.
The first time, he only smiled.
The second time, he lifted his thumb when my pass created a goal.
The third time, I rolled my eyes before he had the chance to do anything, and it made him laugh from a distance.
“Oh my God,” Gavi muttered beside me. “The two of you are going to make me sick.”
I received the ball and sent it back with one touch. “Be quiet.”
“You’re even smiling while telling me to be quiet.”
I did not answer because there was no point denying something so obvious.
I was smiling.
Perhaps I had liked quiet for so long that I had forgotten life did not always need to be lived softly. Perhaps there were days made better precisely because someone entered them with footsteps too quick, laughter too loud, and attention I had never asked for but always needed.
Ferran did not change who I was.
He only made me see that there was a part of myself that had been waiting all this time to be found: the part that wanted to be waited for, wanted to be missed, wanted to be loved without needing to pretend everything was already enough.
When training ended, the sky had begun to turn golden.
I walked toward the bench to retrieve my water bottle. Ferran was already there, waiting for me as always.
Only this time, when he held out my bottle, his hand did not immediately let go of mine.
No one stood close enough to notice.
“What?” I asked, even though I knew he was only looking for an excuse to touch me.
“Nothing.”
I shook my head. “You can’t use that answer anymore.”
“Fine.” He looked at me with a smile softer than the evening light around us. “I’m just happy.”
My chest warmed.
“Because?”
“Because you’re still here.”
I studied his face, his hair slightly damp with sweat, his eyes no longer something I needed to translate in silence.
I took the bottle with one hand. With the other, hidden behind the training bag I was carrying, I touched his fingers briefly.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.
Ferran went quiet for a moment.
Then his smile appeared, slowly and fully, like sunlight finally breaking through after days of cloud.
And in that moment, I understood that love did not always arrive loudly.
Sometimes, it arrived as a habit.
As coffee already waiting for you on the table.
As an empty seat on the bus that someone always chose simply because it was beside you.
As a message late at night with no purpose other than to say, I thought of you.
As a hand touching yours quietly at the edge of the pitch, and suddenly the entire world feeling much softer than it ever had before.
That night, Ferran came back to my apartment with me.
We did not do anything special. There was no expensive dinner. No celebration. He only ordered food, complained because I chose a film that was too quiet, then ended up watching it anyway with his head on my shoulder.
Outside the window, Barcelona was still bright with city lights. There was the sound of vehicles on the road below, faint and distant, enough to remind me that the world continued moving as it always had.
But inside the room, everything felt new.
Ferran’s hand rested on my thigh. Every now and then, his thumb moved without thought, drawing small lines across the fabric of my trousers. I no longer had to pretend the touch did not make me happy. I no longer had to wonder whether I was allowed to come closer.
When the film was almost over, Ferran turned toward me.
“You’re spacing out again,” he said.
I looked at him. “Maybe.”
“What are you thinking about?”
Before, I would have avoided the question. Said nothing. Laughed it away. Shifted the conversation toward the film or training or something far safer.
Now, even though my heart was still beating slightly too quickly, I allowed myself to answer honestly.
“I’m thinking about how my days have felt different since I met you.”
Ferran did not give me a teasing smile this time. His gaze became very still.
“Different in a bad way or a good way?”
I touched the hair falling over his forehead, smoothing it back. “Different in a good way.”
He closed his eyes for a moment when my fingers touched his skin, as though that small gesture meant as much as everything he had done for me.
“Good,” he whispered. “Because my life has been like that since you came into it too.”
I kissed his forehead before I could overthink it.
Ferran opened his eyes and looked at me, a little surprised, a little too happy.
“Don’t make that face,” I said.
“What face?”
“Like I just gave you something enormous.”
“Maybe you did.”
I did not have an answer for that.
Ferran lifted himself slightly, then pressed his forehead against mine. His breath touched my lips, warm and slow.
“You know,” he said, “I’m still making you coffee tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“And I’m still stealing your water.”
“That can be negotiated.”
“And I’m still sitting beside you on the bus.”
“That is already your seat.”
The words came out so naturally that I only realised what they meant after Ferran became very quiet.
His eyes softened.
“Yeah?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, not looking away this time.
“Yeah.”
Then he kissed me again, and I allowed everything I had spent so long thinking too much about to become something simple: his lips, his hands, the city lights, and the certainty that tomorrow morning he would still be here.
As the film ended, the closing music drifted gently from the television we were no longer paying attention to.
I did not know exactly when a habit became love.
Perhaps there was no single second I could point to. Perhaps love really did grow that way—from insignificant things repeated so often that one day, when you looked back at everything that had happened, you realised someone had already become the clearest colour in every memory you owned.
I looked at Ferran, beginning to grow sleepy against my shoulder, his eyes half closed but his hand still holding mine tightly.
Inside my head, a gentle line passed through me like a song I had finally learned how to understand:
あおい おんどの しょうたいが こいだとしたら。
If the blue warmth I had never known how to name all this time really was love, then perhaps love did not always have to burn.
Perhaps it could feel like morning slowly arriving after a long night: not blinding, not demanding, only bright enough to show me that I was no longer walking alone.
Ferran shifted slightly, opening his eyes only to make sure I was still there.
“You’re not asleep yet?” he asked quietly.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
I looked at him, at the face that had become so familiar and somehow was still capable of filling my chest with something new.
“Nothing,” I said, then smiled when he was about to protest my answer. “I’m just looking at you.”
Ferran went still.
For once, he did not tease me. Did not say something that made my face grow warm. He only lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my fingers gently.
“I like it when you look at me,” he said.
I lowered my head and kissed his forehead once more.
“I know.”
He smiled in satisfaction, then settled against me again.
Outside, the Barcelona night grew later. Inside my apartment, two empty cups remained on the table, Ferran’s jacket hung over the back of a chair, and the television displayed a list of credits that continued rolling without either of us reading them.
I liked quiet.
I still liked it.
Only now, quiet no longer meant an empty room or days I went through alone.
Now, quiet had the sound of Ferran breathing against my shoulder. It had the weight of his body leaning against mine without hesitation. It had a hand that continued holding mine even as he began to fall asleep.
And when I switched off the television, letting the room fall into the dim light from the window, I finally dared to say the word inside my own mind without feeling the need to hide from it.
Love.
Soft, warm, and slightly embarrassing because it turned out Gavi had been right from the beginning.
But love nevertheless.
A love that had not come to disrupt my life, but to make everything already inside it feel slightly more beautiful.
A love that came wearing my shirts, making a mess of my kitchen, drinking from my bottle without permission, and falling asleep beside me as though he had always been meant to be there.
I looked at Ferran one more time before closing my eyes.
Tomorrow morning, I knew he would wake first and make coffee. He would say something annoying. I would complain. He would laugh. Then we would go to training as usual, in a world that perhaps had not changed at all for anyone except us.
But that was enough.
Because for me, even the most ordinary days now had Ferran in them.
And as long as he remained by my side, I did not need the world to be any brighter than that
.