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Pedri’s mood has not been ideal since he found out he wouldn’t be part of the squad playing Iraq. He is fully aware it’s a friendly and that none of the players that will likely be playing the most minutes during the World Cup were called up to play and, obviously, he would never complain about it. Still, he hasn’t played a match in two weeks, and the anticipation keeps crawling under his skin like an itch he can’t quite scratch.
The buzz of the stadium, usually the perfect balm to make him forget even his worse ailments, isn’t enough to calm him down. However, another one of his cures seems to be effective. Pedri never has any appropriate thoughts when he has to watch Ferran play from the sidelines, mostly because he looks hot, but also because he looks like the person Pedri would like to spend the rest of his life with — the captain’s armband is just the cherry on top.
As if to make Pedri’s life significantly worse, someone paired Ferran with a little kid for the walk out. The kid, who can’t be older than two, if his very limited knowledge about children serves him correctly, is obviously disoriented — understandable, still happens to him sometimes and he’s been professionally playing football for over half a decade — and Ferran is talking them down with a joke and a smile.
Ridiculously, in that exact moment, something breaks inside Pedri. An ugly, overwhelming feeling washes over him and his breath catches — he realizes he lost this forever because he couldn’t be brave. Ferran is going to be a husband to someone else and a father to their kids and not Pedri’s.
Realistically, it’s something he has known for a long time, ever since he had told Ferran, who was barely out of his surgery induced fog, that they couldn’t be in an actual relationship, the words ‘we shouldn’t do this anymore’ leaving his lips before he could actually weigh their gravity. He doesn’t think he will ever forget the flicker of heartbreak in Ferran’s eye, before he scolded his features and whispered a weak ‘okay’.
What Pedri remembers the most from that time is the silence. Ferran had completely ghosted him for three weeks. Pedri had tried to send memes and generally checked in, but all the updates he received of his best friend’s post surgery recovery were second hand from his own mom talking to Ferran’s. Then, on the day of the Nations League final, Pedri had woken up to a long, thoughtful but playful message from his best friend, wishing him the best and apologising for disappearing. Their communication had resumed, but Pedri still had more questions than answers, which he didn’t really get, except in the form of Ferran’s text reading a playful ‘what time are we leaving tomorrow, neighbor?’ the first day they were back to training in Barcelona.
They had built a new routine, one of closeness, still, just of a different kind. Pedri was so grateful Ferran hadn’t dropped him completely that he decided to swallow his feelings — Ferran had moved on, Pedri could too. Some days were easier than others, and international breaks were particularly tough given the onslaught of togetherness they created but, truthfully, Pedri wouldn’t change it for the world.
Pedri is brought out of his deep sea of thoughts and back to the stadium by the referee whistling to start the game. The first half flies by, the team is playing dynamically and fast, with Ferran adapting well to his role on the wing. The goal that ties the game deflates both the team and the fans and Pedri could see Ferran’s frustration as he exited the pitch at the end of the first half, fully aware he would be subbed off.
When Pedri walked into the dressing room, Ferran was already half naked, torso glistening, hair dripping, head thrown back. Pedri swallows as he walks up and Ferran blinks up at him, shoulders relaxing as he exhales, his jaw still shut tight.
“That little girl was giving you trouble, huh?” Pedri quips as he looms over Ferran, hands pressed tightly into his side, lest he do something stupid like run them through Ferran’s hair.
Ferran’s lips instinctively twitch up, eyes lighting up. “Poor kid,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine how confusing it must be to be told to grab some random guy’s hand and then hear people screaming.” His face breaks into a private smile, “I almost picked her up, but maybe that would’ve been even scarier.”
Pedri smiles at that, the image of Ferran with a toddler flooding his mind and then there are words leave Pedri’s mouth before he can swallow them, “You’re going to be a great dad someday.”
Ferran’s expression falters at that, smile dropping, eyes suddenly blank and Pedri regrets bringing up the topic at all. They had talked about it, in their own way, between laughs, heads resting against pillows, limbs tangled underneath sheets. Ferran had told him about having a big house and a big yard, filled with kids laughing and dogs running around.
Before that, before Ferran, Pedri hadn’t really believed he could have all of it. He’d convinced himself that he didn’t actually want it, but then, whenever he pictured a future with Ferran, their kids, their dogs, their house, his heart would skip a beat and he would find himself smiling silly at the thoughts.
Pedri has never been more grateful for the halftime pep-talk than at that exact moment. He rushes to stand with the part of the squad who was sitting with him on the sidelines, tries to focus on what the staff is telling the team, but his eyes keep wandering towards Ferran’s profile.
The lull of the second half isn’t exactly helpful in stopping the thoughts racing through his brain. He can’t quite see Ferran from where he is sitting on the stands, but his mind still offers him up with all those memories of planned futures. Then, cruelly, his brain conjures up someone else in Pedri’s place — an amorphous person holding Ferran’s hand, slow-dancing in a room filled with loved ones, standing still as Ferran runs around a garden chasing their kids, sitting on rough sand as Ferran gets jumped by dogs.
His fragile mood sours at the overwhelming thoughts. Ferran notices Pedri is acting strange almost immediately — he has been giving him questioning looks from the moment he found Pedri after the game. Pedri forces a smile or two, but tries to keep to himself as much as he can, hoping the draw will be enough of an excuse for his lack of enthusiasm.
The following day, Ferran sits close to him on the plane and next to him on the bus which is very normal — they gravitate towards each other constantly, like two magnets. It’s unconscious, most of the time — it requires Pedri actual effort and presence of mind not to find himself near Ferran. He’s found, with time, that the kind of bond they have is rare, precious, and not something he wants to lose, ever, in whichever way he gets to have it. Pedri isn’t strong enough to deny himself the closeness, even if it would make things easier. The feeling of loss keeps running rampant through him and Pedri is grateful he can use jet lag as an excuse for his grumpiness and the obvious bags under his eyes.
He feels like a ghost navigating through the second very long day of his spiral and so he does the stupidest thing he can do in the best of times, let alone the worst — he opens his fake Instagram, the logo light bathing his face in light.
Obviously, because the world loves torturing him, the post sitting on top of his page is Ferran’s. Pedri smiles at the picture of his best friend dedicating the goal to his sister and decides, foolishly, in hindsight, to see what the comments are saying. The first few are alright, the typical emoji dumps and shark gifs. Then, as he scrolls further, there are multiple people mentioning other accounts, followed by English words Pedri can’t quite understand. Pedri’s finger hover over one of the comments, the “See Translation” button tempting, but the rational side of his brain hesitates — what good could come of it, really, when the two most likely options are that either people being mean assholes to his best friend or being overly nice about him which would inevitably spike Pedri’s jealousy.
He presses the button anyway and is met, unsurprisingly, with the latter. Hundreds of comments of people thirsting over Ferran, calling him hot, saying he’s their husband. Unfortunately, Pedri isn’t in the right mindset to be normal about this. Instead, his blood starts to boil and he nearly starts responding to them, but decides against it. Because he is the one who actually has access to Ferran at anytime and anywhere. He smiles to himself as he types his best friend a text.
Pedri
are you awake?
The adrenaline vanishes from his body as soon as his message bubble pops up as sent. Maybe that is the stupidest thing Pedri has ever done, especially considering how much this text mirrors the ones he used to send to Ferran at the beginning of their… thing. Butterflies fill his stomach and he almost throws his phone across the room so he doesn’t have to face the consequences of his actions or, perhaps worse, the lack thereof. Luckily, Pedri doesn’t have the time to spiral, his phone buzzing twice in quick succession and interrupting his meandering thoughts.
Ferri 🦈
yeah
jet lag kicking your ass too? 🤪
Pedri feels himself grin despite himself. You’re ridiculous, he thinks to himself, but doesn’t allow himself the time to hesitate, sending his own texts as fast as his fingers allow.
Pedri
yeah
can i come over?
Ferri 🦈
of course
Pedri doesn’t let himself question the decision of walking out the door. He regrets not bringing a hoodie when the chill of the hotel’s endless hallway hits him, making him shiver. The cold subsides quickly when Ferran opens the door of his hotel room — he is wearing very little, only a pair of shorts hanging very low around his hips, hair messy and eyes drooping with fatigue. Pedri’s eyes instinctively travel down his torso, stopping at the appendectomy scar and he feels his throat close up. That scar is such physical reminder of everything that Pedri had lost, how much he had fucked up that he can barely hear what Ferran is saying — Pedri feels like he’s being held underwater, thoughts jumbled and muffled.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” Ferran stretches, back turned towards him as he walks to his bed, bringing Pedri out of his daze.
“Don’t get married,” Pedri mumbles out despite himself, the words barely audible in the space between them, but honest nonetheless.
“What?” Ferran turns back to him, looking extremely confused, which is understandable — it is a very random topic to suddenly drop into conversation.
“Don’t marry someone else. And don’t have kids with someone else either,” Pedri begs, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Pedri,” Ferran’s expression hardens, seemingly catching up to Pedri’s line of thought, and he suddenly looks like he has slept uninterrupted for the past 24 hours. “You can’t ask me that.”
“No, I know, but listen-” Pedri doesn’t have it in him to be coy, isn’t above begging if that’s what it takes for Ferran to at least give him a chance to speak.
“Pedri, you broke up with me,” Ferran interrupts, voice breaking mid-sentence. Pedri feels like he’s losing his mind hearing Ferran describe it as a break up because, surely, that means they were boyfriends, right? That means Ferran felt it too?
“I didn’t mean to, I-,” Pedri takes a deep breath to re-center himself — he finds that, when his eyes lock with Ferran’s, his heartbeat slows down, peace washing over him all at once. It’s just Ferran… just Ferri, he tells himself, you can tell him. “I was scared, alright? Because people would ruin it, ruin us. They would destroy our careers, Ferri. You could have something easier and happier, you- you deserve something easier and happier.”
“I didn’t want easier, I wanted you,” Ferran’s voice is thick with his own pent up emotions.
The use of the past tense stops Pedri in his tracks. Because of course it made sense that Ferran had found someone else — he’s wonderful and kind and funny and attractive. Pedri hadn’t really taken that reality into account — that Ferran’s future with someone else was not an ‘if’, but an ‘how soon’.
“Of course,” Pedri turns to the left slightly, avoiding Ferran’s eyes and clearing his throat. “We should just… forget about this and, uh, yeah.”
Pedri spins around, inhaling once and taking a small step towards the door. There’s immediately a hand wrapping around his elbow and pulling him backwards.
“Pedri,” Ferran turns him around, confusion in his eyes. “Where are you going?”
To cry myself to sleep, is what Pedri thinks to himself, then wonders if maybe he didn’t make himself clear. He probably should feel more humiliated than he does as the next words leave his mouth, “I just found out that the guy I’m in love with is in a relationship with someone else after I basically asked him to marry me and have kids with me… I think it’s okay to need a second.”
“You want to have kids with me?” Ferran’s eyes look devastating when their gazes meet once more, adoration so evident it almost breaks Pedri in half right there at his feet.
“Yes, but you knew that,” Pedri mumbles, trying to hide away from the intensity of Ferran’s stare.
“And how do you plan on hiding a child?” Ferran’s tone is still lighthearted, but Pedri can hear the hint of sincerity beneath it.
Pedri pouts, because clearly Ferran isn’t understanding him, “I wouldn’t want to hide, I- I’ll tell people! We can tell everyone right now.” He fishes out his phone, extending it towards Ferran, “We can post something on Instagram right now.”
Ferran looks at him in awe, clearly taken by surprise by Pedri’s haste. Pedri isn’t backing down though — he meant it and Ferran can do whatever he wants with that. Except…
“Well, I couldn’t post it immediately because I’d have to tell my mom first and she’s sleeping right now,” Pedri grumbles, more to himself than to Ferran.
Ferran grins at that, eyes lit up with amusement as he covers the distance between them in two small steps. He’s giggling when he places his hands carefully on Pedri’s cheeks, brushing their noses together sweetly, “Alright, we can tell your mom in the morning.”
“What are we going to tell her?” Pedri rasps out. He thinks he knows, but he still needs to hear Ferran say the words, make sure there aren’t any more misunderstandings between them.
“You can tell her a very handsome man is going to marry you and have kids with you,” Ferran pulls Pedri’s hair away from his forehead, then leans down to leave a kiss against it. Pedri traps him, hands on the back of Ferran's neck, pulling him down, lips meeting in a chaste kiss.
“Yeah?” Pedri whispers in the air between them, dizzy with the feeling of Ferran’s body against his.
Ferran nods, hands travelling down towards Pedri’s waist, “And you won’t even have to post anything on Instagram.”
Pedri trails his fingers against the chain resting against Ferran’s neck, “I meant it, though. We can tell whoever you want.”
Ferran hums and moves them towards his bed, walking backwards until his knees hit the mattress and pulling Pedri down to his lap. Ferran’s hands settle on top of Pedri’s thighs and Pedri’s join them, fidgeting with the ring on his index finger.
“I never meant that I wanted to tell everyone about us,” Ferran leans in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I just wanted the two of us to know.”
Pedri scrunches up his nose at that, the hundreds of comments he’d read not even an hour earlier flashing before his eyes. Before he can scold his expression, Ferran catches his eye, eyebrows raising softly in question, intertwining his fingers around Pedri’s, effectively stopping his twitching. “What?”
Pedri takes his hands away from Ferran’s hold, crossing his arms against his chest, looking away from Ferran’s open expression, “People are being very… forward in your Instagram comments.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ferran chuckles, relaxing his body against the headboard, hands now resting against Pedri’s hips. “I’ve received a few… interesting DMs.”
“Is that why you…” Pedri pauses, shifting uncomfortably, eyes stuck on where Ferran’s phone is laying on the bedside table, until he feels the reassuring squeeze of Ferran’s hands. “Don’t want people to know?”
His voice is thick with insecurity and a less tired, more aware Pedri would never allow himself the vulnerability.
Ferran sighs, grabbing Pedri’s chin with one hand, the other wrapping around his waist, pulling them impossibly closer, “I don’t want to tell people because you don’t want to tell people.”
Pedri opens his mouth to protest, but Ferran kisses him instead. It’s a deep, loving kiss, like Ferran is trying to channel all his certainties into Pedri’s body. He separates them eventually, leaving one last kiss on Pedri’s cheek, “Listen. I wanted to tell people, yes, but not the world. I want to be able to hold your hand when your mom invites me over for dinner, and hug you when we’re hanging out with the boys, and gush to my sister about you.”
“I’m sure you do plenty of that already,” Pedri jokes, but when Ferran just stares at him with loving, hazel eyes and Pedri’s words get stuck on his throat, “Ferri.”
“I want to be in a relationship with you,” Ferran states with unwavering honesty. “I want the wedding, the kids, the dogs, the house.”
“We can’t get more dogs, Ferri,” Pedri mumbles, breaking the solemn moment, and making both of them break into giggles.
“Okay,” Ferran lets out, eventually, lips brushing against Pedri’s hairline. “Three dogs, two kids?”
“Yeah,” Pedri rasps out, kissing Ferran’s jaw once, the feeling of his beard grounding against his lips. He inhales, lets himself enjoy the fresh scent of Ferran’s body wash for the first time in a year, before tightening his arms around his waist, the thoughts of someone else fading away rapidly. “I’d like that.”