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The festive melody from the base camp hotel’s dining hall was still faint, yet annoying and persistent in his ears — its vibrations still lingering on his body and skin like sweat, along with the consuming tiredness from the match.
Spain had just secured a decisive win against Saudi Arabia of 4-0 that same afternoon, jumping on the bus from Atlanta back to Chattanooga right after. At dinner, the team and their families swam in a sea of laughter, encouraging and proud speeches, and the clinking music of celebratory toasts.
A first-place finish in the next round of the World Cup was practically theirs. It was a triumph, brilliant and loud.
Everyone was floating.
Except Ferran.
He had left earlier to his room, alone, right after the coach’s speech — the last one — not bothered to say goodnight to anyone, or to see if anyone even noticed him getting up. And he now sat anchored to the edge of his bed, the only break from the room's darkness being the amber-yellow night lamp bleeding across the walls, paired with the harsh, blue glow of his phone screen reflecting against his face.
Though he had showered before dinner, Ferran had pulled on another of his heavy national team jackets, as did his teammates, indifferent to the sweltering American summer night outside. Although here, in the quiet of his room, with the air conditioning still switched off, the only thing he could feel was the cold.
His hands gripped tighter around his phone, the knuckles of his fingers becoming whiter at each hateful criticism he read through his spam accounts. Each tweet slamming him, each Instagram comment that talked shit about his performance at the game and about the goal he scored that was still, in the end, offside. The clip of him begging silently on the pitch flooded his pages.
Ferran threw some rogue strands of his dark-brown hair behind his ears with his fingers, his jaw so clenched it hurt.
He was tired to his bones. Sick of the noise, exhausted from the long day. But mostly because it felt as though he could bleed on the pitch, it still wouldn't cover for his mistakes; like it didn’t matter what he did, it would never be enough in the eyes of the fans. He would never conquer their respect, no matter how hard he tried. Not in Barça, not in the national team.
And, damn him, he knew he was entering an infinite self-deprecating spiral with no way out, reading all of what the Internet’s nobodies had to say about him. That it wouldn’t do him any good.
Because maybe he’d start believing them.
Shit. Ferran knew he should be celebrating with his colleagues and friends downstairs. Because in the end, they had still won by a lot. He knew that he was just probably selfish and very self-centered.
Still, he couldn’t help himself.
Tomorrow, they would be back at training for the next game against Uruguay. And he would have to show up in front of the cameras with a smile on his face and the will to play. If there was a moment to have his feelings, it was right then and there.
The subtle click of the door handle barely registered in his brain before it groaned open. And Ferran didn't unglue his eyes from the screen, his thumb continuing its rhythmic, self-destructive scroll. He didn't need to turn around to know who had crossed the bedroom door; his body recognized the shift in the air before his mind did.
“Hey, you vanished before the good music even started. Gavi’s looking for you to do some stupid TikTok.” Pedri’s voice drifted through the dark, glistening with the uncomplicated happiness of a boy who felt like he could win the world – not bothering to turn on the big lights while he slipped off his own jacket – and completely oblivious to the heavy, suffocating air around the other.
He had that excited smile in his voice and a unique glow in his dark caramel eyes that only showed up when they won a match – but Ferran didn’t need to turn around and face him to know it, he had already seen the scene a trillion times.
Still, his chest tightened, his heart skipping a cruel, erratic beat just at the sound of that sweet voice. Even circled in anger, the sound of Pedri always brought Ferran a dangerous warmth.
But he answered dryly, a brittle shield. “Tell him I’m dead, Pepi. You go back down.” He still didn’t care about actually turning around and facing Pedri or anything that wasn’t his phone screen, too stuck in his own world – desperate to mask his cracking edges. He also didn’t care at that moment if his impatience leaked through – even with the cute nickname he knew Pedri secretly loved – although from the beat of silence that followed, he was sure Pedri had caught it.
Because they had this secret language between just the two of them, intimate and sacred. It wasn’t uncommon for both of them to understand the other just by a mere phrase, or not even that. Ferran knew Pedri understood him like no other.
He heard the younger man stomp across the room – his footsteps almost too heavy on the dark crimson carpet – dodging his own bed and forgotten clothes on the floor. He then stopped right in front of Ferran, a shadow blocking out the rest of the dark room, his eyes fixed on the blue shimmer painting Ferran’s face. For a fraction of a second, the older man felt the piercing weight of that gaze of comprehension before Pedri spoke:
“Give me the phone.”
Ferran could almost scoff bitterly. He read another tweet. He scrolled.
“No.” Like a stubborn child.
Pedri sighed, changing his weight on his legs. Ferran saw by the corner of his eyes the shorter’s hand extended, asking for it, open and waiting.
“Ferri, give it to me. You’re torturing yourself.”
And usually, Ferran would just smirk, wrap his arms around Pedri’s small waist and pull him into the bed with no warning, hug him and tickle him for how stubbornly cute he was. Let his laughter wash away the world behind that bedroom door.
But at that moment, he was tired. He was angry – at himself, at all the Internet’s bullshit that asked him to stop playing, at how unfair it all was.
“I said no!” He spat, the words leaving his chest like shrapnel. Because, fuck him, he was a terrible and explosive person, and Pedri didn’t deserve him. Ferran finally looked up, expressionless, away from his phone; but into Pedri’s dark and sweet doe-like eyes that stared back at him in the quiet dark of their room – his expression a fragile mix of confusion and worry. “They want me dropped, Pedri. They’re begging De la Fuente to bench me for the rest of the Cup.”
“They’re idiots behind keyboards. It’s not like he’ll hear them.” Pedri crossed his arms in his chest, his long, dark eyelashes kissed his tanned, blushy cheeks when he blinked and his voice grew annoyed. He didn’t get it. Ferran smacked his phone against the mattress next to him.
“But they’re right.” He ran his hand across his hair once again, an anxious habit. “I was terrible, I missed my only chance and was offside. I let the pressure get into my fucking head and ruined the play.”
Pedri didn't flinch at the anger dripping from his lips. Instead, he stepped closer, his body softening with an ache that mirrored Ferran's own. And he slid onto the edge of the mattress, erasing the distance between them until his thigh pressed against Ferran's. And, with an agonizing tenderness, leaned his head against the other’s shoulder – who shuddered at the contact, a silent tremor passing through his frame – and caught Ferran’s hands on his own, playing with the knuckles of his fingers.
Pedri’s touch was like an intoxicating narcotic; it made Ferran want to weep and rage all at once. He smelled like cologne and shampoo and sweet cinnamon; if Ferran turned his head just an inch, he could press his lips to shorter’s soft, deep-brown hair, could taste the honey-sweet comfort the younger boy carried with him. Because Pedri had this effect on him nobody else ever had or would have; the one to leave his chest light and stomach tangled and lips itchy to kiss him by just being next to him.
Then Pedri whispered, soft and comforting in the dark, silk-like: “It wasn’t your fault. And even so, why do you care what some stupid teenagers say on Twitter?” He lifted his head from Ferran’s shoulder, forcing him to look into brown eyes that caught the amber light of the lamp, warm and impossibly steady, inviting and warm. Ferran could give in right there, if he wasn’t so irritated. “You know who you are. The team knows who you are. I know who you are.”
And the certainty in Pedri's voice was too much to bear. It felt like a lie. Like pity.
“You don’t know anything. Get off me.” So Ferran pushed him off, rough and impatient. Not so hard it would hurt the younger, just enough to shatter the quiet air, just so he would get the message and maybe leave him alone. He was a terrible person. He hated himself for it. But he just felt so angry. Ferran curled in on himself, his shoulders hunching as he looked anywhere but at the sweet eyes of Pedri. “Go celebrate your perfect game, and leave me be.”
But Pedri froze – he didn’t move an inch, didn't retreat to his side of the room or leave. He just stood there for a second, floating around Ferran’s space — stubborn to the absolute last second, because he knew deep down Ferran didn’t mean any of that, that the anger wasn't aimed at him.
“No.” His voice dropped an octave, heavy.
“I said back off, I’m not in the mood for your therapy sessions. Seriously, get out of my room.”
“It’s my room too, Ferran. And I’m not going anywhere when you look like you’re about to explode.”
Something fragile finally fractured inside Ferran’s chest. The dam broke, and the ugly, weeping truth of his insecurity spilled into the dark.
He felt his jaw tighten, tears of pure frustration burning the back of his dark eyes. “Because I’m just so sick of it! I’m sick of trying twice as hard just to get half the fucking respect!” And he violently turned his head away, running from the devastating eyes of the man next to him, his breathing ragged in his tight throat.
The air between them grew impossibly thick, charged with all the unsaid words that lingered and floated around the two, everything they never dared to voice. Ferran’s exhausted bones ached, serving as a reminder that he wasn’t good enough. Not in the game, not inside that shared room, not to Pedri.
Pedri, who, no matter how much bitterness Ferran spat onto him, was still there to hold him with open arms. Who didn’t care and didn’t think any less of his friend when he saw the first tears stream down Ferran’s tanned cheeks. Pedri instead didn’t argue this time. But reached out, his fingers softly brushing against the tender skin of Ferran’s neck, right where the tension was, holding at each side of Ferran’s face. His thumbs wiped away the hot tears on the older man’s cheeks, grazing against his short beard, bringing Ferran’s face closer so he could stare him down with those comforting brown eyes of his, forcing him to drown in the warmth.
And Ferran stared, helpless and heavy, at the contour of Pedri’s lips – reddish and inviting as always. The memory of them was a permanent stain.
Because Ferran still remembered how it felt to kiss them so vividly; he remembered the exact, intoxicating weight of kissing that crooked, perfect smile, and feeling those lips and tongue everywhere – he remembered how he was sure he would never be able to kiss anyone the same ever again. How it felt to have Pedri’s soft hands tracing his face for the first time, and knowing no other touch would be quite as soft, as tender and warm. How the way those dark-brown irises looked into Ferran’s wasn’t something ever replicable.
It made Ferran dream of a perfect world; of lazy mornings and balmy nights. Of a shared bed and warm skin under blankets. Of sweet sounds and dogs running around and the bitter aftertaste of sharing a coffee mug. Of waking up with a smile every day because he would be there next to him.
And it was exactly why Ferran had to claw his way back to reality and hold himself. He had to choke down any dreams that would never be more than just dreams, hold off the impulse of doing something reckless and break so many of the unspoken rules that kept their friendship from collapsing into the mess it would be if they mixed things up.
Because they had crossed lines. They had bled into each other in the dark. They were intimate; they kissed, they touched each other with soft hands and unbreakable promises before. Whether it was a rough fuck after a match, driven by adrenaline, sweat, and their desperate needs. Or just stupid, playful banter during training sessions.
But this wasn’t one of those moments. This was something infinitely more fragile, a cracked space where a single wrong move would destroy everything. It was confusing. And to take what Ferran wanted right now, when he was this broken, felt like a sin. It would be wrong to infringe on that invisible line.
So he whispered, a warning: “Pedri, stop.”
“Make me.” Pedri warned back, hands still holding Ferran’s face as if he could break. It didn’t matter how much taller Ferran was than the younger man; in that moment, he felt infinitely small. “Let them talk shit. I don’t give a fuck, and neither should you. Because they don’t see you training, they don’t see how hard you push yourself. I see it, Ferri. I see you. To me, you’re the best thing in any pitch. Always.”
Ferran didn’t move. He only licked his lower lip, eyes wandering along the soft features of Pedri’s face: his strong, dark eyes, how they moved against the light; his sharp cheekbones that held that natural blush of his; his soft-looking red lips and tanned skin; his thick eyebrows and tender, deep-brown, spiked hair.
And the older man’s shoulders trembled as the anger began to morph into pure exhaustion and surrender, wrapped around Pedri’s hold. He felt drawn to it, his lips itching to close the agonizing distance – like the ocean reaches for the Moon, like magnets pull.
Pedri’s hand moved slowly, from Ferran’s face to his disheveled grown hair, scratching his scalp softly, playing with the strands of his nape.
There was a confusing weight in the silence between them now, Ferran could feel it, almost touch it.
They grew closer together on the bed as if an invisible gravitational force pulled them.
Pedri looked at him in the dim light, at the tears. And Ferran sighed.
If he were brave, or just a little bit more stupid, he would say it. He would open his mouth and tell Pedri everything, just so Pedri would know, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything because the damage would be done.
“Pedri, I–”
“I know.”
Did he? Did he really know what was stuck in Ferran’s throat? Did he know because he felt it, too? – This shift between them. From being something pretended to real.
And Ferran would not know, at least for now. Because Pedri hugged him, wrapped his arms around the older man’s neck and held him. And the latter just melted in his embrace, letting go – he enveloped Pedri’s slim waist around his arms and pulled him to his lap, resting his own wet face in the crook of Pedri’s warm neck.
Pedri rocked him slightly, back and forth, letting a trace of small, lingering kisses on Ferran’s fluffy hair. And they sank into each other, spending a few moments in that quiet embrace, just feeling the other’s heartbeat and breath and tender touches.
The weight of the world was nothing compared to the gentleness of Pedri’s touch.
Ferran wished he could capture this moment for eternity; lock it into a jar and watch it forever.
But when Pedri pulled his head away – just slightly, their chests still connected – forcing Ferran to do the same and look at him, hot electricity ran down Ferran’s spine. Because Pedri had that look in his eyes he knew too well. He knew what he wanted; from the small pout on his glossy lips, from the shimmer in his suggestive eyes.
He was asking Ferran if he could do it. If he could break all of the unwritten rules of their friendship.
Ferran knew it, because his eyes mirrored the same unspoken feelings, needy and love-sick.
“Ferri…”
And Ferran also knew Pedri would never voice it. Not completely. So he did.
“Pepi, can I kiss you?”
The shorter man smiled the softest of smiles before closing the distance himself, pulling Ferran in by the collar of his Spain jacket and connecting their thirsty lips once and for all.
The kiss was slow, tentative at first. Because they had all the time in the world inside that room but also because it felt different this time and neither of them wanted to ruin it. Pedri breathed a little sound when Ferran bit his bottom lip before deepening the kiss with his tongue, sliding it inside Pedri’s mouth with no rush – the man on his lap tasted like dessert and smelled like home. Ferran would never get sick of how intoxicating Pedri was.
He slid his hands across the sides of Pedri’s torso and waist, feeling his warmth seep into his black shirt until it wasn’t enough, and Ferran wanted to feel Pedri’s skin on the tip of his fingers. Pedri understood it as soon as Ferran’s hands were at the hem of his black shirt and, as if it was rehearsed, he pulled his arms up at the same time Ferran took it off, exposing his pale and fit body that drove Ferran insane.
Pedri didn’t waste another second to kiss him again – more fiercely this time. He slid his greedy fingers into Ferran’s hair, pulling softly. They melted in each other’s arms, tenderness filling all the four corners of the room, along with the wet sounds of their tongues tangling, the friction of clothes and small breaths.
And Ferran had decided: It was Pedri. It would never be anyone else. He couldn’t describe it, but he just knew that the man who laughed and whined little perfect breaths just for him to hear in between kisses was all he wanted, was the only one to have his heart.
Pedri felt like his future. He felt like home; because maybe home was just someone who wraps their arms around you when you’re at your worst.
Ferran felt in his hands; the way Pedri’s collar bones curved perfectly under muscles and the way his body trembled at the mere touch. And Ferran licked Pedri’s lips, listened to the rhythm of his pulse, shared a breath.
And when a broken, suppressed moan left Pedri’s lips in between a kiss, and Ferran felt the needy man on top of him slide their crotches together, he smirked, noticing that, for once, Pedri was being the horny one.
He broke the kiss, just to stare from the bulge in Pedri’s dark pants to Pedri’s begging eyes, glossy and almost closed. He swallowed.
“Want me to take care of you?” He whispered softly, holding Pedri’s face in his hands so the latter couldn’t hide himself in embarrassment.
Still, Pedri could look away, a pink blush growing in his cheeks. “Please.” Pedri was breathtakingly pretty like this. Ferran’s heart could explode anytime now.
He kissed the younger man’s cheek slowly, enjoying the sweet moment.
And the obvious conversation they needed to have still lingered in the light air of the room. About the shift in their friendship that couldn’t be taken back, about what it meant now. They both knew they should talk about it, and would sooner than later. But Ferran had completely forgotten why he was sad and angry in the first place; and fucking his best friend passionately was a great way to end the night.