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Eric’s laugh breaks through the murmur in Pedri’s bedroom. Ferran looks to his left, where Eric is holding the phone to his own face. Pedri adjusts his body, feet nuzzled under Ferran’s thighs for warmth — how he manages to still have freezing feet while wearing socks and with 34ºC weather outside is a mystery to Ferran.
The TV is showing some kind of animal (a frog? maybe a toad) talking, with a car on the background. Ferran is pretty sure his level of English should be enough for him to understand what’s happening, but American ads are baffling to him, even after two weeks of constant contact with them.
“Ferran, you sly dog,” Eric interrupts Ferran’s puzzlement. He is grinning, leaning over Dani to give Ferran’s arm a light punch.
“Huh?” Ferran asks, brought out of his fascination with the… lizard? He feels like a toddler mesmerised by the bright colours on the screen.
“You know, eye-fucking a journalist on live TV?” Eric teases as he extends his arm so his phone is in front of Ferran, lit up with a video he hasn’t seen yet, but a moment he recalls nonetheless.
[Ferran is in frame with a guy, slightly shorter than him, wearing a semi-formal outfit]
Interviewer (in Catalan): Hey, Ferran, how are you? Congratulations on the win.
Ferran (with a surprised expression): Thank you so much! We’re speaking Catalan or…?
Interviewer (smiling): If you want.
Ferran remembers being genuinely surprised, since the national team duties were usual filled with Spanish, sometimes English.
[The interviewer speaks towards the camera in Portuguese]
Interviewer (turning back to Ferran, in Catalan): This obviously was a very important game for you and the te-
Ferran (interrupting, touching the interviewer’s shoulder): We can speak Spanish, if you’d prefer.
Interviewer (smiling, blushing slightly): No. I actually have been trying to do more interviews in Catalan, I’ve lived in Barcelona for a few years now-
The interview continues in the background as Dani joins in on Eric’s laughter as he retracts his phone from their faces. Pedri is unusually quiet and, when Ferran looks to his left, his brows are furrowed, eyes focused on his own phone. Joan gives him a look from where he is leaning over Pedri, lips shut tight, eyes lit with an amusement that makes Ferran roll his eyes.
“Please tell me you asked for the guy’s number,” Eric teases, reaching around Dani to slap the back of Ferran’s head, video paused on his screen.
“When would I have done that?” Ferran mumbles, eyes focused on the TV.
“Oh my god, you can’t do anything without me,” Eric sighs, reclining back into his chair, tapping his screen. Almost simultaneously, Ferran’s phone buzzes inside his pocket — he ignores it, rolling his eyes at Eric.
“He isn’t even Ferri’s type,” Pedri mumbles, voice so low that Ferran isn’t sure anyone else could hear it over the loud logo of the World Cup spinning around the TV screen.
Eric seemingly forgets all about his interest in Ferran’s love life when the referee whistles the start of the second half in the stadium. They’re all varying levels of engaged, Pedri still with most of his attention focused on the game he’s playing on his phone. He has moved his feet to the top of Ferran’s thighs, toes poking them randomly, distracting him from the game.
By the time the final whistle sounds, Ferran’s hands have absentmindedly travelled up Pedri’s legs to his calves, which he has been massaging. As Eric gets up, he focuses his attention on the two of them, rolling his eyes and sighing loudly.
“What?” Pedri asks, cheeks red.
“I didn’t say anything,” Eric smirks, eyes still darting between Pedri and Ferran. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Yeah, I should get going as well,” Dani groans as he gets up, quickly followed by Joan.
Ferran starts to stand up to join them, but as soon as he leans forward, Pedri’s hand is on his elbow, squeezing and pulling him back.
“We’ll see you guys later,” Pedri smiles, waving their friends off. When the door lock clicks, he turns to Ferran, with a now small, intimate grin, “Let’s go lay down for a bit.”
They make their way to the other side of the room, making themselves comfortable on Pedri’s bed, a sight not unusual during their time away from home. Dani calls them codependent and Eric calls them ‘the cutest couple in the world’. Ferran pointedly ignores both of them and the butterflies that fill his stomach at their words.
Pedri’s brows are furrowed with focus, almost inaudible taps against his phone screen — still playing one of his games, Ferran knows. Ferran almost takes the phone away from him, genuinely worried about the amount of time he has spent just staring at it in the past hour.
Instead, Ferran fishes out his own phone. He has just finished answering his sister’s texts when he notices Eric has sent him something through Instagram DMs. He frowns, since he doesn’t remember the last time he has done that, if ever, and opens it to find the video they were watching earlier. He mutes it quickly as the interview starts playing through the speakers. Pedri lifts his eyes towards him for an instant, before turning his attention back to his own device.
Ferran clicks on the highlighted name of the journalist — Caio, he finds, — and starts scrolling down his profile. He’s very attractive, even if not exactly Ferran’s type, given that his type is laying on the other side of the bed, with an adorable habitual frown pulling at his lips, overgrown hair curling on his forehead from the American humidity, smooth legs and a casual ankle resting against Ferran’s knee. It’s a very domestic scene, one he has gotten used to over the years, but, selfishly, one he wishes he could have regularly, hopefully every night. It’s greedy, he knows, to want more than what Pedri can give. Still, he wishes he could kiss him whenever and hold his hand while Pedri drives them to training and cuddle him on the plane when they’re travelling to away games. But he can’t have that, and sometimes Ferran wonders if he’ll ever get over the heartbreak.
The helplessness leads Ferran’s finger to click the follow back button before he can talk himself out of it. He doesn’t have to wait long for a message to pop up. The conversation flows easily between him and Caio, and Ferran finds himself smiling at the screen when Pedri kicks his shin and moves them along for dinner.
Eric keeps giving him a mischievous look as they eat, a knowing smirk on his lips. Ferran tries to ask about it discreetly, but he’s waved off until…
“So…” Eric sits down knee knocking violently against Ferran’s thigh and making him hiss. “I saw you and the journalist started following each other on Instagram.”
There’s a quick movement to his left, and he feels Pedri’s eyes burn the side of his face from where he’s sitting, just as his own cheeks flush.
“Joder, Eric. Have you ever tried not looking at your phone for 5 minutes?” Ferran jokes, and feels a shiver down his spine as Pedri’s hand land on his thigh, his thumb making his way under the seam of Ferran’s shorts and pressing down, almost bruising.
Eric rolls his eyes, still smirking, then leans into Ferran’s space and, with a quick glance to Pedri, whispers way too loudly, “I assume you’re not going to be joining us tomorrow then?”
The following day is their break — they have about ten hours of free time to do whatever they please and, usually, they all gather their families and have a late lunch to relax and forget about football for a while. Ferran hadn’t really given it much thought — his conversation with Caio had been slightly flirtatious, but nothing had been said overtly.
“It’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Ferran reaches for his phone, opening up his Instagram, but before he can even think about clicking the messaging icon, he hears a scoff to his left. Pedri’s usual soft features are tightened in a frown, eyes burning with an intensity that Ferran usually only sees inside a football pitch or in one of their beds.
“Doesn’t this guy have a job?” Pedri grumbles, bringing one foot up to the couch and resting his chin against his knee.
Eric chuckles at him, gives Ferran a pointed look, “I’m sure he can take a day off to hang out with our boy here.” He pats Ferran’s thigh, and Pedri’s hand flexes into a fist that hits the back of Ferran’s neck subtly. “C’mon, let Ferri have some fun!”
Pedri is obviously unconvinced, thumb now brushing against the golden clasp of Ferran’s chain. “Whatever,” he rolls his eyes, then elbows Ferran, urging him to look at his phone. Eric sighs, patting Pedri in the head condescendingly, before looking at Ferran with raised eyebrows once more, then walking away.
Pedri keeps scrolling through his ridiculous monkey videos, commenting on how adorable or stupid they are. Ferran doesn’t have the heart to argue, especially when so many of them remind him of his best friend, stumbling through life without a care in the world.
“It’s getting late,” Pedri comments casually after one too many TikToks. He looks up at Ferran with a smirk, in a way he knows means trouble, “Isn’t your ring telling you to go to bed?”
Ferran looks down, noticing for the first time that his ring is missing. He is trying to recall when he would’ve taken it off, then remembers Pedri himself taking it jokingly, putting it on his own hand, finger by finger, talking about how much bigger Ferran was than him. Ferran had nearly dropped everything at the sight of Pedri’s smirk and decided they didn’t need to have the boys over to watch the game, actually.
Pedri reaches over, pointer finger touching the slightly lighter line of skin where is ring is supposed to be, “You must have left it in my bedroom.”
Ferran feels a shiver run down his spine — it’s ridiculous, really, because Pedri isn’t even trying to be seductive. He shakes himself out of his very lewd thoughts, clearing his throat, “Yeah, probably. Just bring it to the ice bath tomorrow.”
Pedri is shaking his head, eyes so intense Ferran feels himself flush, “Don’t be silly, Ferri. Just come to my bedroom and pick it up.” He pauses, then, with a mischievous grin, “Wouldn’t want you to distort your sleep results, old man.”
Ferran follows him easily, like he always does.
Then, as soon as they step into the threshold of the bedroom, Pedri is pressing him against the door, crashing their lips together, hands frantically reaching for Ferran’s hair, shoulders and hips, first over his shirt, then travelling to touch skin. There’s a nervous energy in the way he’s moving, an urgency mostly absent during their encounters. Usually, Pedri likes to make Ferran work for it, and Ferran likes the chase. Even at the start, Ferran was always the one to initiate, to search, to beg, and Pedri was the one teasing him to no end, before melting easily. Ferran has always been more than happy to oblige, the thrill of having some of Pedri, any part he could get, more than enough for his lovesick ways, even during that first kiss in 2024.
Ferran feels himself start to get carried away by the feeling of Pedri’s tongue on his, the heat of his palm pressed against the center of Ferran’s chest, his strong thighs holding Ferran in place. Still, he can’t shake the strangeness in Pedri’s movements out of his mind. It takes everything in him to pull Pedri’s face away from his, thumbs soothing over his cheeks, as Pedri tries to lean in again, whimpering when Ferran stops him decisively, fingers brushing against his lips momentarily.
“Ferri,” Pedri whines, blinking his eyes open slowly, the pout that Ferran loves to kiss away making its way to his lips. He tries to pull Ferran closer once more, but Ferran roots his feet against the hardwood floors, hands travelling to the slant of his hips. Pedri looks at him with an expression that would break even the strongest men, lips wet and red, chest heaving as he asks, “What, Ferri? You don’t want me anymore?”
Ferran feels his whole body shiver, goosebumps forming from his neck to his stomach. He closes his eyes to recenter himself, internally chuckling at the concept of a version of himself who doesn’t want Pedri. Truthfully, Ferran has never wanted anything more than he wants him — not trophies, not money, not houses, not anyone else. Unable to resist the need to reassure his best friend, Ferran leans down to kiss Pedri once, quick and chaste, holding him in place with both hands on his shoulders.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Ferran whispers against Pedri’s lips, leaning back to look him in the eye.
“You tell me,” Pedri responds, hands travelling down Ferran’s torso slowly. “You’re the one who stopped me.”
“Because you’re being weird,” Ferran quips, trying to lighten the mood. “Not even going to make me beg for it?”
Pedri gets quiet, expression morphing quickly as he bites his lip and gaze dropping to their feet, knocking them together in the way he always does to self-soothe.
“Alright, let’s sit for a second,” Ferran grabs Pedri’s hand, pulling him towards the bed. He sits down on his side of the bed, patting the mattress next to him, beckoning Pedri to join him. Instead, Pedri crawls into the bed, nudges Ferran’s knees open, sitting between them, back resting on his chest, bringing their arms together to wrap around his waist.
Then Ferran waits. Gives Pedri all the time in the world, one hand pushing through the strands of Pedri’s hair, nails catching against his scalp. He knows how difficult Pedri finds talking about anything serious, but he has time. He can’t imagine many better places to be than in Pedri’s bed, holding him in his arms.
“Are you going to hook up with that journalist guy?” Pedri says a couple minutes of comfortable silence after, hands pushing and pulling at Ferran’s fingers resting against his stomach, taking Ferran completely by surprise — he hadn’t expected that to be the issue.
“I- I don’t know. Maybe?” that must be the wrong answer, because he feels Pedri tense up in his arms. He moves away, turning to face Ferran, eyes unreadable, bitting his his lip. “I’ll be careful, okay?”
Pedri’s expression closes further and he pulls himself away from Ferran’s lap, turning to face him as he brings his own knees to his chest. Ferran reaches out almost instinctively, then stops himself.
Pedri is looking out of his window, the city lights dancing across his face. He doesn’t look at Ferran when he asks, “Why would you hook up with some random guy?”
“He’s hot and interested?” Ferran answers, voice raspy, trying to meet Pedri’s eyes, searching for something, anything, that will give away what this conversation is actually about.
Pedri turns his head slowly, eyes burning with an intensity that leaves Ferran breathless, “Am I not hot?”
Ferran’s words get stuck in his throat, then he coughs out a humourless laugh, “This is ridiculous, Pedri. God forbid I want to get laid!”
“I was trying to get you laid, but you decided to very rudely interrupt it,” Pedri mumbles through a pout, rolling his eyes.
“Because you’re being weird!” Ferran feels like he’s going crazy. “I don’t get why you’re upset at me for wanting to have sex with other people. You’ve made it very clear you want to be with other people, so…”
“I want to be with other people?” Pedri asks, exasperated, eyes on Ferran’s once more. “You’re the one who’s been hooking up with randoms this whole time!”
“You said you didn’t want to be exclusive,” Ferran exhales, aggravated, throwing his arms in the air.
“Because you didn’t want to be exclusive!” Pedri stands up, starts walking back and forth at the foot of the bed.
Ferran is disarmed by the expression on his best friend’s face, pain visible in the slope of his downturned lips, eyes wet with unshed tears. He crawls to the foot of the bed to be closer, but, instead of reaching out, simply whispers, “I never said that.”
“Well, you didn’t need to. This whole thing…” Pedri starts, pointing between them clumsily, eyes frantic. “Is so complicated already why would I make it worse with all these… feelings I have.”
Ferran’s mouth falls agape at the confession, unsure if he’s misinterpreting Pedri’s words. Then, Pedri presses his fingers against his eyes, face squeezing in embarrassment, before taking a deep breath and sighing a quiet, “Hostia.”
“Feelings?” Ferran chokes out, thoughts still spiralling, trying to find any other way to make sense of Pedri’s words, but his brain is drawing a blank.
“Just… ignore that, alright?” Pedri restarts his pacing, shoulders tense. “I should just…” he suddenly stops, looking around the room like he’s searching for an excuse to get out of the situation. He seems to find it in the form of his white sneakers laying against the floorboards, “Go to the gym! Yup, that’s a great idea!”
That deflates the tension out of the room and Ferran bursts out laughing, focusing on the way Pedri bites his lower to stop it from trembling in laughter.
“Hmm,” Ferran starts, legs hanging from the side of the mattress. “You’re going to the gym? By yourself and voluntarily? At eleven at night?”
Pedri scoffs, looking away, blush spreading under his training kit shirt. “I love the gym.”
“Hmm,” Ferran smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way. He gets up, shuffling towards Pedri, who is starring at the rug. “Talk to me, guapo.”
Pedri shuffles forwards, arms circling Ferran’s waist, shaking his head 'no' against the hollow of Ferran’s throat, hair tickling the skin of neck.
“You’re going to make me guess?” Ferran breathes out, air ruffling the hair on top of Pedri’s head.
“Yeah,” Pedri croaks out, leaving a light kiss on Ferran’s pulse point.
Ferran considers himself a pretty reasonable person — as much as he’s explosive in certain circumstances, he isn’t one to jump into something until he’s pretty sure he will land on his feet. Still, suddenly and unexpectedly, there’s an irrational hope that fills him.
Pedri is clearly scared. Ferran can be brave for both of them.
He grabs Pedri’s head, carefully cradling his nape and pulling it so their eyes meet. Pedri looks calmer, like he’s weathered the storm, which Ferran currently feels brewing inside himself.
“Pedri,” Ferran’s voice trembles and he takes a deep breath to stabilise himself. “I don’t want to hook up with him, alright? I haven’t really wanted anyone else since we started doing this.”
Ferran swallows, watching as Pedri’s eyes widen in surprise and he whispers. “Really?”
“Yeah, really,” Ferran affirms, sure. “Because I-,” he swallows, closing his eyes, aware he will never be able to take back his next words. “I’m in love with you.”
Ferran watches as Pedri’s breath catches in a gasp, eyes darting back and forth between his own, searching for something. He seems to find it, because he whispers, “Ferri.” Pedri stands on his tiptoes and brings Ferran down for a kiss. “I don’t want anyone else either.”
“Good,” Ferran bumps their noses once, then kisses the top of his cheek. “Because I’m yours.”
Pedri is smiling very big, hands roaming down Ferran’s arms and pulling his hands to his hips. Ferran understands immediately, leaning down to kiss him, grabbing the back of his thighs and picking him up, their lips never leaving each other. Ferran moves them back to the bed, placing Pedri on top of him, lips eventually travelling down to his neck, focusing his attention on the hollow of his throat, careful not to leave a mark. The moment breaks when Pedri trembles in his hands and yawns loudly.
Ferran snorts, leaving one more kiss below his ear, then grinning, “I thought I was the old, sleepy man?”
“Ugh, shut up,” Pedri mumbles, face buried between Ferran’s shoulder and neck, nipping at the skin. “The heat has been killing me.”
“Aww, poor baby,” Ferran mocks, lighthearted, pressing a kiss against Pedri’s temple. “Can’t be too hot, can’t be too cold. Like a little flower.”
“You’re so annoying,” Pedri mutters, shifting out of Ferran’s hold. He doesn’t get very far, because Ferran wraps an arm around his waist and turns him so his back is pressing against Ferran’s chest.
Pedri’s cheeks are flushed a beautiful shade of red and Ferran never really had a chance of not falling in love with this boy, constantly bathed in his favourite colour. Or, maybe, it was the other way around, and he fell in love with Pedri’s blushed face before he ever loved the colour scarlet.
“I hope you know,” Ferran murmurs between the soft kisses he’s leaving against the slope of Pedri’s shoulder. “The boys are not going to let us hear the end of this.”
Pedri turns slightly to press his lips to the corner of Ferran’s, brushing them together as he mumbles, “I’m pretty sure they have some kind of bet going on.”
“Who do you think won?”
“Hmm,” Pedri pauses, nose bumping against Ferran’s jaw. “Probably Jules, the others are too annoyed by us to be rational about it,” he smiles, Ferran’s giggles tickling his temple. “You should ask.”
“Come here,” Ferran rearranges them, bringing their bodies even closer together and angling his phone to take a picture. It’s very tame, but romantic, the kind of photo you see in a cute couple’s Instagram dump for their anniversary — the thought brings back the butterflies to Ferran’s stomach and a stab of pain from the knowledge he will never be able to post it.
Ferran opens up their chat, shaking off the feeling, writing up a joking message and almost presses send, until it hits him — he had assumed a lot of things with Pedri for a long time... he couldn’t make the same mistake now.
“This okay?” Ferran can hear the tremble in his own voice. He tilts the screen towards the boy in his lap, whose eyes keep fluttering close with sleepiness. His message reads ‘my boyfriend and I would like to know which one of you won the bet’ and Ferran waits with baited breath for Pedri to react to it.
“Okay,” Pedri’s eyes are sparkling, and he leans in to leave a chaste kiss against Ferran’s chin. “Novío.”
Ferran can’t press the send button fast enough, his phone hitting the dark wood of the nightstand just as Pedri’s head hits the pillow, both of them giggling into the kiss, lost enough in the moment that they don’t see the screen light up over and over again.
Eric
holy shit dude
i’m actually the goat
Dani
oh lord
not fucking eric
Eric
hahahahaha
i’m genuinely the best wingman in the world
Jules
congratulations boys 👨❤️💋👨
Joan
oh man, does this mean you two are going to be worse?
kidding, this is great news! congrats, boys 👨❤️👨
Dani
they are definitely going to get worse
i’m very happy for you, boys ❤️
Eric
yes yes, this is all great
you’re very adorable, blah blah
but i want my money
i’m going to buy a boat 😎