Archive of Our Own

He sighed for the tenth time in five minutes. With the constant humming of the engine of the plane, and the loud chaos of his teammates who had zero awareness regarding volume control, Pedri was stressed. Someone, probably Lamine, had already started a terrible off-key rendition of that Top 50 Spain Spotify playlist from his speaker, while others argued over who got the last decent snack pack. Pedri leaned back in his usual aisle seat near the middle of the plane, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbows while he tracked every movement in the cabin. 

He didn’t have to look far for Ferran. He never did. 

Ferran was three rows ahead, laughing at something Marc was saying, one earphone hanging and head tilted back in that way that made the line of his throat catch lights. His hair was still damp from the quick shower after the last training session before departure, curling at his nape, making him look effortlessly hot. The white jacket fit him unfairly well, those broad shoulders and long legs stretched out like he owned the place. Pedri’s gaze lingered on the way Ferran’s hand rested casually on the back of the seat in front of him, fingers drumming an absent rhythm. He knew those hands too well maybe, but not in a way he would like. He knew how they looked wrapped around a controller during their endless FIFA nights, or how they’d brush his arms during celebration hugs that lasted half a second longer than they should. 

Stop it, Pedri told himself, with the same internal warning he’d been repeating for years now. He’s your best friend. Don’t be the idiot who ruins this. 

But then Ferran turned and glanced back, caught his eye, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that private half-smirk that always felt like a secret between them. It was the kind of look that said I see you watching without either of them ever acknowledging it out loud. Pedri felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He raised an eyebrow in return, slow and deliberate, and Ferran’s smirk widened. 

God, Pedri was so screwed. 

It had always been like this between them, subtle, electric, safe enough to deny if anyone ever asked. It was late-night texts that turned into voice notes because typing wasn’t enough, shared hotel rooms where they’d fall asleep on the same bed after reviewing match footage, shoulders touching, breathing synced, inside jokes that made other teammates roll their eyes. The way Ferran would call him “Pepi” sometimes and make it sound like something softer, something that twisted low in Pedri’s stomach every single time. 

Ferran excused himself from Marc and started making his way down the aisle toward him. Pedri’s pulse did that annoying little skip it always did. 

“Saved you the window,” Pedri said when Ferran reached his row, kicking the seat lightly with his foot. “As always. You owe me snacks for the whole flight, by the way. I fought off Gavi for this spot.” 

Ferran laughed, soft and warm, and leaned down so they were eye-level, close enough that Pedri could smell his citrusy  shampoo. “You’re a saint, Pepi, my true hero.” His gaze flicked down to Pedri’s mouth for half a second before snapping back up. “Move over, then. I need the space.”

Pedri shifted away, his heart hammering like they were about to do something way more dangerous than just sitting together during the flight. Ferran dropped into the seat beside him with a contented sigh, immediately spreading out until their thighs pressed together. For a few minutes it was easy, comfortable. Pedri stole Ferran’s free earphone without asking, scrolling through his playlist with the casual entitlement of someone who had done this a hundred times. 

“Style again?”

“You mean pop bible,” Ferran clarified. Their arms stayed pressed together. “It cheers me up, man.” 

Pedri turned his head, grinning. Their faces were inches apart. “I just find it funny that you’re such a pop boy.” 

He could feel the warmth of Ferran’s breath against his cheek. “I have good taste.” 

“Yeah?” Pedri’s voice had dropped an octave. “Only with music?” 

The air between them thickened instantly with that familiar tension coiling tight. Ferran’s eyes darkened, pupils blowing wide for just a moment before he blinked it away with a crooked smile. 

“With other things as well.” 

They held eye contact a beat too long. Pedri’s hand itched to reach over and fix the stray curl falling over Ferran’s forehead. Ferran’s fingers twitched on the armrest like he was thinking the same thing about touching Pedri somewhere, anywhere. The plane’s engine rumble filled the silence between them, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the pounding in Pedri’s ears. 

This was their game. Push just enough to feel the spark, then pull back before it catches fire, because crossing that line meant risking everything: the friendship that had kept Pedri sane through injuries, the easy rhythm of their lives at Barça, the trust that let them be vulnerable in a world that demanded the unbreakable. 

Ferran cleared his throat and looked away first, breaking the moment. “Are you nervous about the group stage?” 

“Always,” Pedri admitted, grateful for the subject change. “But I think we’ve got this.” 

“You especially, starboy. That run you pulled in yesterday’s training? Insane.” 

Pedri’s cheeks went faintly pink, the reaction Ferran lived for. 

“Shut up. You’re the one who keeps saying I’m too slow sometimes.” 

They fell into their usual rhythm after that, quiet banter, shared snacks from the flight attendant, Ferran’s head eventually dropping onto Pedri’s shoulder as the cabin lights dimmed for the long haul. Pedri stared out the window at the dark sky and tried not to catalog every point of contact between their bodies. He let himself imagine, just for a second, turning his head and pressing a kiss to Ferran’s temple. What would it feel like if Ferran woke up and didn’t pull away? 

The fantasy shattered when laughter erupted a few rows up. 

“Ferri! Come here, man,” Marc called, waving him over with that bright, easy energy he always had. “We’re ranking the worst goalkeepers in the league. You have opinions, I know it.” 

Pedri’s eye twitched at the nickname.

Ferran stirred, lifting his head. Pedri felt the loss of warmth immediately, like someone had yanked away a blanket. He forced a casual smile. “Go ahead if you want. I’ll sleep for a bit.” 

But Ferran hesitated, looking between Pedri and Marc. For one hopeful second, Pedri thought he’d stay. Then Marc called again, louder, and Ferran gave Pedri an apologetic little shrug.

“Two minutes,” Ferran promised, squeezing Pedri’s thigh as he stood. The touch burned. “Don’t let anyone steal my seat.” 

Pedri nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. Sure.” 

He watched Ferran slide into the empty seat next to Marc and Marcos. They were laughing within seconds, heads bent close over someone’s phone as they scrolled through clips. Marc said something that made Ferran throw his head back again, that bright, uninhibited laugh echoing through the cabin. Pedri’s stomach twisted, sharp, ugly, unfamiliar. 

Jealousy wasn’t new to him on the pitch. He knew how to channel it into focus, into better passes and sharper movements, but this? This was different. This was fucking Marc Pubill’s hand clapping Ferran’s shoulder and lingering there. This was Ferran leaning in to watch better, their knees knocking together without either of them shifting away. This was the World Cup bubble throwing new people into their orbit, and Pedri suddenly realizing how much he’d taken their private routine in Barcelona for granted. 

He’s allowed to have other friends, Pedri reminded himself, staring at the back of Ferran’s head.  You’re not his... whatever. But the reminder didn’t stop the burn in his chest. He pulled out his phone and opened their text thread instead, the one with hundreds of messages that meant everything and nothing. 

Pedri: if you don’t come back i’m stealing the window seat 

He didn’t mind the pettiness, not really. 

Ferran’s phone lit up and he typed something quickly, then looked over his shoulder and mouthed one sec with an exaggerated eye-roll toward Marc’s group. 

The reply came through a moment later. 

Ferran: don’t be mean. they’re not letting me go. 

Pedri huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. The knot in his chest loosened, but only a little, because Ferran was still sitting up there, still engaged in whatever conversation had him gesturing animatedly with those long hands. 

The plane hit a patch of mild turbulence and the cabin lights flickered. Pedri closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Two weeks of World Cup ahead among training, matches, hotel rooms, endless proximity. And now Marc Pubill is smiling at Ferran like he was the most interesting person on the planet. 

Well, he is. But he should be Pedri’s most interesting person, and not anyone else’s.

Pedri exhaled slowly. This was going to be a long tournament. 

Ferran returned fifteen minutes later, sliding back into the seat with a sheepish grin and an armful of extra snack packs he’d clearly sweet-talked out of the flight crew. “Peace offering,” he announced, dumping them onto Pedri’s lap. “Marc was on one tonight. Kept going on about some new tactic he wants to try. The guy’s got energy, I’ll give him that.” 

Pedri accepted the chocolate cookies and tried to keep his tone light. “Yeah? You two seemed cozy.” 

The words came out more pointed than he intended. Ferran paused, studying him with those sharp hazel eyes that saw too much. 

“You jealous I got extra cookies and you couldn’t?” Ferran teased, but there was a careful edge to it, like he was testing the waters. 

Pedri shrugged, tearing open a packet. “Just saying. You left me here.” 

Ferran’s expression softened. He reached over and stole a cookie right from Pedri’s hand, their fingers brushing. Neither pulled away immediately. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving you for long, Pedri. You know that.” 

His name said in that low, affectionate rumble, sent warmth spreading through Pedri’s chest. He met Ferran’s gaze and held it, letting the tension simmer again. The air felt charged, heavy with all the things they never said. 

“Yeah,” Pedri murmured finally. “I know.” 

Ferran settled back in, thigh pressing against his once more. This time, when his head found Pedri’s shoulder again, it stayed there longer. Pedri let himself relax into it, the jealousy fading to a dull ache underneath the familiar comfort. He closed his eyes and wondered how much longer they could keep pretending the pull wasn’t there. 

Seven hours later, once in their hotel, Pedri and Ferran chose the same room again, just like every international break (or any away game if they were honest).

“Home sweet home for the next few days,” Ferran said, tossing his duffel onto the bed by the window while Pedri claimed the one closer to the bathroom. Their eyes met across the room for a beat too long, the air thick with the knowledge that they’d be sharing this space every night, brushing past each other in towels after showers. 

Pedri laughed it off then, shoving Ferran’s shoulder a little harder than necessary. “Don’t snore this time, Ferri. I need my beauty sleep.” 

Ferran smirked, slow and dangerous. “Of course, princess.” 

The tension crackled for a moment once again, unresolved as always, before they both busied themselves unpacking. 

Now, two hours later, Pedri headed down to the team dinner alone. Ferran was still in the room, finishing a call with his family. “I’ll be right behind you,” he’d promised, ruffling Pedri’s hair on his way out the door. 

The dining hall was already buzzing when Pedri arrived. He spotted Eric, Dani and Joan already settled in their usual corner spot. Perfect. 

“Saved you a seat, bro,” Eric called, kicking out the chair beside him. 

Pedri dropped into it with a grin, bumping fists with each of them. He loaded his plate with chicken, rice, and way too many vegetables because the nutritionist was watching them from across the room like a hawk. 

“Is Ferran coming?” Joan asked quietly, poking at his own food.

“Yeah, he’s finishing a call. Should be down soon,” Pedri replied, keeping his tone casual. He didn’t miss the way Dani’s eyebrows twitched up. 

They talked about the upcoming group stage matches, the heat, how the pitches here felt different. Pedri laughed at Eric’s dramatic retelling of a failed drill from training, but part of him stayed tuned to the entrance, waiting. 

Ferran finally appeared ten minutes later, hair still slightly messy. He scanned the room, and when his eyes landed on Pedri, that familiar smile appeared. Pedri felt his shoulders relax. He lifted his chin in a subtle over here gesture. 

But before Ferran could take a step, voices rang out from the table two rows over. 

“Ferran! Come on, man!” Marcos and Marc waved enthusiastically, already scooting over.

Ferran hesitated, glancing back at Pedri. Their eyes locked again. For a second, Pedri thought he’d come over anyway. Then Ferran offered an apologetic little wave in his direction and headed toward the others instead. 

Pedri’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. The rice suddenly tasted like ash. 

“Wow,” Dani muttered beside him, not even trying to hide his amusement. “That was quick. Pubill’s got him on a string already?” 

“Shut up,” Pedri said under his breath, stabbing a piece of chicken harder than necessary. His jaw tightened. Furious didn’t even begin to cover this feeling, this hot, irrational burn spreading through his chest. Ferran had promised he’d be right behind him. They always sat together at dinner, always. 

Eric leaned forward, elbows on the table, studying him with a knowing look. Joan stayed quiet instead, chewing thoughtfully, but his eyes flicked between Pedri and the other table every few seconds. 

“Jealousy looks ugly on you, Pedri,” Dani teased, voice low enough not to alert anyone but their group, but loud enough to sting. He grinned. “Your face right now? Priceless. You gonna go drag him back by the hoodie or just stare daggers until he feels it?” 

“I’m not jealous,” Pedri lied instantly, forcing his gaze back to his plate. “He can sit wherever he wants. It’s not like we’re glued together.” 

Dani snorted. “Sure. That’s why you’ve checked their table six times in the last minute, and why your knuckles are white around that fork. Bro, you look like you’d kill someone... someone like a certain tall defender.” 

Eric chuckled, but there was a softer edge to it. “Come on, Dani. Ease up.” He turned to Pedri, voice dropping. “But… he’s got a point. You two have been doing this dance forever. The whole team sees it. The staff probably sees it. When are you gonna tell him?” 

Pedri’s head snapped up. “Tell him what?” 

Eric gave him a flat look. “That you’re stupidly in love with him. That every time he laughs at someone else’s jokes you look like your dog died. That you’ve been eye-fucking each other for years now.” 

Joan nodded, almost sympathetically. “It’s obvious, tío.” 

Pedri’s face burned. He glanced over at Ferran’s table again. Ferran was laughing at something Marcos said with that easy charisma on full display. Marc leaned in close to say something in his ear, and Ferran nodded, their shoulders brushing. The jealousy flared hotter, sharper. Pedri wanted to walk over there and insert himself between them, wanted to remind Ferran whose bed he’d be sleeping five feet away from tonight, wanted— 

He shut the thoughts down hard. 

“I’m not telling him anything,” Pedri said firmly, keeping his voice low. “We’re best friends and, most importantly, teammates. If I say something and it goes wrong… that’s it. Everything changes, the chemistry on the pitch, the trust, all of it. I’m not risking that, not for whatever this is.” 

Dani rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “Right. Because ignoring it is working so well. You two create more sexual tension in one conversation than most couples do in a year. One day you’re gonna snap and just shove him against a wall in the locker room. I’ve got bets running.” 

“Jesus Christ, Dani,” Pedri hissed, but he couldn’t stop the flash of heat that came with the image: Ferran’s back against tiles, hands in his waist (or even lower), mouths finally crashing together after years of tension. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. 

Eric sighed. “Look, I’m not saying barge in there right now, but you’re miserable watching him over there. And he keeps looking back at you, man, every couple minutes. Like he’d rather be sitting here getting roasted by us than hearing whatever tactical bullshit they’re talking about.” 

Pedri risked another glance. Sure enough, Ferran’s eyes met his across the room. The smirk was gone, replaced by something searching, questioning. Pedri looked away first, heart hammering. 

Joan spoke up quietly, the voice of reason as always. “Just… don’t wait too long. Tournaments like this? They change things. People get closer, or they drift.” 

Pedri swallowed hard. The fury had cooled into something heavier, an ache that settled behind his ribs. He forced a laugh that sounded fake even to his own ears. “You guys are worse than my mother. Eat your food and stop analyzing my non-existent love life.” 

The conversation shifted after that, thankfully. They talked about video games and which players on other teams looked beatable. But Pedri’s attention kept drifting. Ferran eventually stood up, clapped Marc and Marcos on the back, and started making his way over. Relief flooded Pedri so strongly it embarrassed him. 

“Sorry,” Ferran said as he dropped into the seat Eric had cleared for him before, right next to Pedri. His knee immediately pressed against Pedri’s under the table. “They wouldn’t let me leave. Something about needing ‘fresh eyes’ on penalties.” 

“No worries,” Pedri replied, aiming for casual. It came out tighter than he wanted, though. He passed Ferran the extra plate he’d grabbed for him earlier, grilled chicken, exactly how he liked it, with the spicy sauce on the side. “Figured you’d be hungry.” 

Ferran’s expression softened. “You’re the best, you know that?” He bumped their shoulders together, lingering. The touch was warm and solid, and Pedri felt it everywhere. Under the table, Ferran’s hand brushed his thigh once, accidental, maybe, before settling on his own leg. The almost-contact left Pedri’s skin buzzing. 

Dani watched the whole exchange with barely concealed glee. “You two are disgusting. Get a room.” 

“We have one,” Ferran shot back easily. “And you’re not invited.” 

Pedri choked on his water. Ferran’s eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was heat there too, unmistakable, the same heat that had been building for years. 

Later, when they were back in their shared room, the tension followed them upstairs. Ferran stripped down to sweatpants with zero shame, stretching lazily while Pedri tried not to stare at the cut of his hips, the way the waistband sat low. They brushed teeth side by side in the bathroom mirror, shoulders bumping in the small space. Every accidental touch felt deliberate. 

As they climbed into their separate beds, the silence stretched. Pedri stared at the ceiling, replaying the dinner, the jealousy, Eric’s words. 

“Night, Pedri,” Ferran murmured from across the room, voice already sleepy. 

“Night, Ferri.” 

Pedri closed his eyes and wondered how many more nights like this he could survive before something gave in. 

When the morning light filtered through the hotel curtains, Pedri woke first, as usual, to the sound of Ferran’s quiet breathing from the other bed. For a few minutes he just lay there, watching the rise and fall of Ferran’s chest, the way the sheet had slipped down to his waist during the night. The urge to cross the small gap between their beds was so strong it made his fingers twitch. Instead, he dragged himself up and headed for the shower, letting the cold water do its job. 

Training was scheduled early to beat the worst of the heat. The squad hummed with post coffee energy as they walked toward the pitch complex. Normal, everything was normal. 

Until it wasn’t. 

On the ground, the technical staff split them into pairs and small groups for possession and finishing drills. Pedri ended up with Gavi and a couple of the midfielders, but his eyes kept drifting across the grass. Ferran and Marc had been paired together.

It’s normal, Pedri told himself as he trapped a ball and sent it back with a crisp pass. They’re both tall. It makes sense for the comfort of the exercise. 

But then the drill shifted to one-touch combinations inside the box, and Marc stripped off his sweaty training jersey, tossing it to the side. The sun hit his shoulders as he laughed at something Ferran said. Marc moved in close for the next sequence, chest to chest, almost. His hand landed low on Ferran’s waist to guide him through the movement, fingers splayed for a second longer than strictly necessary. Ferran didn’t pull away. He just grinned, said something back, and they repeated the motion. Another touch, another shared laugh. 

Pedri missed an easy trap. The ball rolled harmlessly past him. 

“Focus, Pedri!” one of the coaches called. 

He forced a nod and tried, really tried, but every time he looked over, there was another casual brush of hands that made his eye twitch. Marc was good, talented, good-looking, and clearly enjoying Ferran’s company. The jealousy that had started as something unserious at dinner yesterday now boiled over into something sharper, pettier. 

By the time they finished the session and headed back to the hotel, Pedri was in a mood. Childish, he knew it. He barely spoke, responding to Ferran’s attempts at conversation with short hums and half-smiles. When they reached their room, he dropped his bag by the bed with more force than necessary. 

Ferran closed the door behind them, stretching his arms overhead with a satisfied groan. His shirt rode up, exposing a strip of tanned skin. Normally, Pedri would have stared. Today, he turned away sharply, rummaging through his suitcase for a clean shirt like it was the most important task in the world. 

“You okay?” Ferran asked, voice casual but with that undercurrent of concern he always had when Pedri got quiet. “You were a bit off at the end of training. Leg bothering you again?” 

Pedri shrugged, keeping his back turned. “Leg’s fine.” 

He could feel Ferran watching him. The room felt smaller than usual, the air thicker. Pedri changed shirts quickly, then flopped onto his bed, grabbing his phone and pretending to scroll. Ferran sat on the edge of his own bed, only a meter away, elbows on his knees. 

“Alright, what is it?” Ferran pressed gently. “You’ve been weird since we got back. If I did something, just say it. I don’t like the silent treatment thing from you.” 

Pedri’s jaw tightened. He wanted to say it, all of it. Stop letting him touch you like that. Stop laughing with him like you laugh with me. Come back to me, only to me. But he couldn’t, not without blowing everything up. 

Instead, he went for subtle, safe. 

“Nothing major,” Pedri muttered, still staring at his phone. “Just… you and Pubill seemed pretty comfortable out there, teaming up for every drill, laughing all the time. Didn’t know you two were suddenly best buddies.” 

Okay, that wasn’t the most subtle thing to say probably.

Ferran blinked, then let out a short laugh, clearly caught off guard. “Marc? We were just doing the exercises, Pedri. Coach paired us. He’s a good player, quick thinker. Are you… jealous?” 

The teasing tone only made it worse. Pedri sat up, crossing his arms. His voice stayed low, controlled, but the childish edge crept in anyway. “I’m not jealous. Just saying. You ditched the usual group at dinner last night, now you’re glued to him on the pitch. Feels like you’re suddenly too busy for the people you’ve known longer.” 

Ferran’s eyebrows rose. He leaned back on his hands, studying Pedri with a mix of amusement and mild confusion. The way his arms flexed drew Pedri’s gaze despite himself. Not helping at all. 

“Pedri.” Ferran’s tone was patient, almost fond. “You’re imagining things. It’s only training. We’re all trying to build chemistry with everyone on the squad. That’s the point of these camps. Marc’s just energetic. He talks a lot, but it doesn’t mean anything. He won’t replace you, ever.” 

Pedri scoffed, looking away toward the window. He decided to ignore the last part. “Yeah, well, he seemed plenty energetic with his hands all over your waist guiding those runs. Real professional stuff, I assume.” 

The words slipped out more pointed than he planned. Silence stretched for a beat. Ferran tilted his head, something unreadable flickering across his face, surprise, maybe a hint of awareness that made Pedri’s stomach flip. Then Ferran shook his head with a soft chuckle, like Pedri was being ridiculous. 

“You’re really reading into this, huh?” Ferran said, voice light. He stood up and crossed the small space between their beds, stopping right in front of Pedri, close enough that Pedri had to tilt his head up to meet his eyes. “It was a drill. Hands on waist, shoulders, whatever, it happens all the time. You’ve done the same thing to me a hundred times.” 

Not like that, Pedri thought. 

He shrugged again, stubborn. “Whatever. Forget I said anything.” 

Ferran didn’t move away. Instead, he reached down and flicked Pedri’s forehead lightly, the same gesture they’d used since forever. “You’re being dramatic, Pepi. I sit with you on planes. I room with you. I steal your snacks and you wear my clothes. I'm pretty sure you still rank number one in my very important ‘people I like’ list.” 

Despite everything, Pedri felt the corner of his mouth twitch. The tension eased, but only slightly. Ferran’s proximity, standing there in a fresh t-shirt that clung to his chest, smelling like that stupid expensive cologne, made it hard to stay properly annoyed. 

He then dropped onto the bed beside him, close enough that their thighs pressed together. He bumped Pedri’s shoulder. “Come on. Talk to me properly. Is this about the World Cup pressure? Or are you just angry?” 

Pedri exhaled, letting some of the pettiness drain out. He couldn’t push too hard without risking the real conversation they both avoided. “Both, maybe. Just… stick with the usual group sometimes, yeah? With me. It feels weird when you don’t.” 

Ferran nodded slowly, eyes softening. “Yeah. Okay. I can do that.” He paused, then added with a mischievous glint, “But you owe me for this therapy session. Dinner tonight, and you’re buying the extra dessert.” 

“Deal,” Pedri murmured. Their eyes held. The air shifted again, that familiar pull, heavy and unspoken. Ferran’s gaze dropped to Pedri’s mouth for a fraction of a second before he looked away, clearing his throat. 

They didn’t fight. They never really did, not about the important things. Ferran brushed it off as Pedri being moody, and Pedri let him, because the alternative was terrifying. 

But as Ferran flopped back on the bed, arms stretched above his head, shirt riding up again, Pedri felt the jealousy settle into something deeper. There was a quiet fear that one day Marc, or someone else, might touch Ferran in a way that could make him stay away longer. One day the careful distance they kept between friendship and more might collapse under the weight of someone else occupying the space Pedri had quietly claimed as his own. 

Ferran turned his head on the pillow, catching him staring. “You sure you’re good?” 

Pedri forced a smile. “Yeah. I’m good.” 

He wasn’t, not even close, but for now, Ferran was still here, in their room, on the bed next to his. That would have to be enough. 

The next couple of days settled into something almost normal. Training sessions ran long and intense, but Ferran stuck closer again, sitting with Pedri and the usual crew at meals, bumping shoulders during recovery stretches, stealing the remote in their room every night to watch sitcoms until they both dozed off. Pedri started to breathe easier. Maybe he really had been imagining things. Maybe the jealousy was just tournament nerves and the weird pressure of the World Cup bubble amplifying everything. 

He’s still mine, Pedri thought one evening as Ferran laughed at something he said, head thrown back against the headboard, at least in all the ways that matter. 

He clung to that fragile peace until the fifth night, when hunger struck around 11 p.m. The official dinner had been hours earlier, and room service felt too lazy. 

“Dani, come with me?” Pedri said, poking his head into the hallway. “For snacks. I need something sweet or I’m stealing Ferri’s emergency cookies.” 

Dani appeared a minute later, already in slides and a hoodie. “Lead the way, bro. But if the nutritionist sees us, I’m throwing you under the bus.” 

They took the elevator down to the games lounge on the lower floor, the one the federation had reserved for the squad: low lights, a couple of foosball tables and the soft click of pool balls drew them toward the back corner. 

Marc was bent over the table lining up a shot, sleeves rolled up. Marcos leaned against the wall watching, while Lamine perched on a high stool, phone in hand, clearly filming for future banter. 

“Nice shot, lover boy,” Lamine drawled as Marc sank a ball. “You thinking about a certain someone while you’re stroking that cue?” 

Marc straightened up, cheeks faintly pink, and flipped Lamine off with a grin. “Shut up, kid.” 

Pedri slowed, a cold feeling creeping up his spine. Dani shot him a sideways glance but stayed quiet as they approached the snack bar a few meters away, pretending to browse the options. 

Lamine wasn’t done, though. He swung his legs like a child who knew he had the upper hand. “Come on, it’s cute. You get all focused and serious when he’s around. You gonna make a move or just keep ‘accidentally’ touching his waist in every drill?” 

Marc laughed, the sound a little embarrassed but not denying it. He chalked his cue, eyes on the table. “It’s not like that. Mostly.” 

“Mostly,” Marcos echoed with a smirk, stepping up for his turn. He glanced at Lamine and added, voice lower but still plenty audible, “I mean, I can’t blame him. Ferran knows what he’s doing, walking around and looking like that.” 

That landed like a punch. 

Dani froze beside the snack shelves, a packet of gummies halfway in his hand. Pedri’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. He gripped the edge of the counter, forcing his expression to stay neutral even as heat rushed to his face and his pulse roared in his ears. 

Lamine cackled. “See? Even Marcos knows. Ferran’s honestly hot and others have noticed. You’re not the only one, Marc. Make a move already.” 

Marc rubbed the back of his neck, leaning on his cue. “I only wish, man, seriously. He’s… yeah, super hot, funny, too, easy to talk to. Every time we pair up I think maybe, but I don’t know if he’s even into guys, or into me. Probably just being friendly.” 

“You should try, subtle at first.”

Pedri couldn’t stay silent anymore. He walked over slowly, hands in his hoodie pocket so no one would see them shaking. Dani followed a step behind.

“You talking about Ferran, huh?” Pedri said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere around strained. “You and him have been… hanging out a lot outside drills?” 

The three of them turned. Marc looked surprised but not guilty. Lamine’s eyes widened with delight at the incoming drama. 

“Not really,” Marc answered honestly, shrugging. “Just training stuff. His room’s pretty far from mine, well, you know that. But I wouldn’t say no if he wanted to. Ferran’s… fuck, he’s proper fit. You’ve seen him better than us. I’m just a man after all.” 

Pedri’s mouth went dry. He pushed anyway, desperate for something solid. “So nothing’s happened? Like, you haven’t… you know.” 

Marc raised an eyebrow, amused. “Nah. Wish I could say yes, though. He’s unreal.” He paused, studying Pedri for a second. “Why all these questions, though? You warning me off or something?” 

Pedri forced a laugh that sounded fake even to him. “Just looking out for my friend. We’ve got a system. Don’t need him distracted before big matches.” 

Lamine grinned like a shark. “Sure, Pedri. A system.” 

Dani cleared his throat loudly. “We’re just grabbing snacks. Carry on with your game, guys.” 

They left the lounge a minute later with random packets of chips and chocolate. Pedri barely registered what he’d grabbed. The elevator ride back up was silent until the doors closed. 

Then Dani exhaled sharply. “Pedri—” 

“Don’t.” Pedri’s voice cracked. He pressed the button for their floor harder than necessary. “Don’t say it.” 

“He said nothing happened,” Dani tried, calm and reasonable like always. “Marc’s just crushing. Half the team has eyes, you know that. Ferran’s gorgeous and people notice, but it’s just that.” 

Pedri leaned back against the elevator wall, eyes closed. The jealousy that had simmered and been soothed was back in full force, hotter and more vicious. “He said Ferran’s super hot. Said that he wishes something would happen between them. That he wouldn’t say no. And Ferran’s been letting him touch him on the pitch like it’s nothing.” 

Dani put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s imagining things, man. You know how Marc is, confident, a bit forward. Ferran’s friendly with everyone. It doesn’t mean he’s interested back.” 

“But he could be.” The words tasted bitter. Pedri opened his eyes as the elevator dinged. “Marc’s good-looking, and talented, and tall. If he keeps pushing… what if Ferran starts thinking about it? What if one night he goes to Marc’s room instead of coming back here?” 

The hallway felt too long. Every step closer to their shared room made Pedri’s chest tighter. 

Dani walked beside him, voice low and urgent. “You need to breathe. You’re spiraling. Ferran chooses to room with you every single time. He chooses to sit with you. He looks at you like you hung the moon when he thinks no one’s watching. Marc can wish all he wants. That doesn’t mean he can steal him.” 

Pedri stopped outside their door, key card in hand. He could hear the TV on inside, some match highlights, probably, Ferran waiting for him. 

“What if he can?” Pedri whispered. The admission hurt. “What if I keep pretending and waiting and someone else just… takes him? All because I was too scared to ruin our friendship.” 

Dani’s expression softened with sympathy. “Then you’ll regret it more than if you’d tried. But right now? Go inside. Eat your snacks. Don’t blow it up over this meaningless thing.” 

Pedri nodded stiffly. He swiped the key card and pushed the door open. 

Ferran was sprawled on his bed in shorts and a loose t-shirt, hair still damp from his shower. He looked up with that bright, easy smile that always hit Pedri straight to the heart. 

“There you are. Thought you got lost. What’d you get me?” 

Pedri held up the random chocolate bar, forcing his own smile. “Your favorite, obviously.” 

Ferran sat up, patting the space beside him. “Come here, Pepi. That goal from yesterday looks even better on replay.” 

Pedri went. He settled next to Ferran, close enough that their arms brushed, and tried to ignore the echo of Marc’s words in his head. 

Ferran’s super hot. 

I wouldn’t say no.

He laughed at something Ferran said and leaned into him a little more than necessary. Ferran let him, warm and smelling like home. Sometimes he would even caress Pedri’s arm and keep their hands touching longer than necessary when they found themselves in the same bag of chips. Their hearts seemed so intertwined sometimes. But inside, Pedri was exploding, slowly, painfully, one jealous heartbeat at a time. And he still didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending everything was fine. 

Dinner the following day had been loud and filled with the usual chaos, their teammates shouting across tables, arguing about who deserved Man of the Match in the last game. Ferran had sat with him and the usual group the whole time, shoulder pressed warmly against Pedri’s, stealing bites from his plate like always. Everything felt steady again, or sort of. 

“I’ll be with Marc downstairs,” Ferran said casually as they left the dining hall, ruffling Pedri’s hair. “It’s only for a sec, though. Keep the bed warm for me, yeah?” 

Pedri had nodded with a forced smile, heart heavy. “Don’t take forever. I’m picking the movie tonight.”

That was two hours ago. 

Now the hotel room felt too big, too quiet. The TV droned on low volume with some random match analysis neither of them cared about. Pedri had changed into his softest shorts and one of Ferran’s Barça hoodies that still smelled like him. He checked his phone for the twentieth time, no messages. He paced between the two beds, then forced himself to sit, then paced again. 

He probably got distracted, getting extra snacks, calling home.

With Marc? 

The longer the minutes stretched, the louder the other thoughts became. Marc’s words from the pool table echoed relentlessly: Ferran’s super hot. I wouldn’t say no. The image of them together somewhere, laughing in a quiet corner, Marc’s hand on Ferran’s waist again, this time without the excuse of training, twisted like a knife in Pedri’s gut. 

He lasted another twenty minutes before the spiraling won. 

“What if he’s actually with him?” Pedri muttered to the empty room, running his hands through his hair until it stuck up wildly. “What if they’re…” He couldn’t even finish that question. “What if Ferran finally realized it’s easier with someone who doesn’t overthink every single thing?” 

His chest felt tight. Breathing was hard. He grabbed a room key and slipped out into the hallway before he could talk himself out of it. 

The games lounge where he supposed they’d be was empty, only Lamine playing with his phone.

“Hey, Pedri,” he said distractedly. 

“Hey, have you seen Ferri?”

Lamine looked at him, now paying attention. “I think he and Marc left like an hour ago.”

Pedri moved without uttering another word. The walk to Marc’s room felt endless. Every elevator ding made his stomach drop, but he needed to be sure. When he reached the door (he’d overheard Marc mention the number once) he stood there for a long moment, fist raised. 

Just knock. Ask if Ferran’s there. Play it cool. Say you’re looking for him because of tactics or whatever. 

His hand trembled. The fear was so sharp it tasted metallic. If Ferran was inside, with Marc, everything would shatter, their friendship, the careful tension they danced around, the stupid hope Pedri had been carrying for years. He’d lose his best friend and the person he was quietly, desperately in love with in one horrible moment. 

Pedri swallowed hard and stepped away for a moment.

He couldn’t do it. 

He pressed his ear to the door like a complete idiot, heart hammering so loud he could barely hear anything else. Was it muffled voices? Or just the blood rushing in his ears? 

Footsteps echoed down the hallway behind him. 

“Pedri?” 

He spun around so fast he nearly lost balance. 

Ferran stood there at the end of the corridor, holding a bucket of mint chocolate chip ice cream, Pedri’s favorite. His hair was slightly messy from the wind outside, cheeks a little flushed, and he looked so genuinely confused and concerned that the dam inside Pedri cracked wide open. 

“Ferran,” Pedri breathed, voice breaking on the name. 

Ferran walked closer, brow furrowed. “Hey, what are you doing here? My sister called and then I went to get this—” He lifted the ice cream. “They had your favorite and I thought… wait, are you okay?” 

Pedri tried to speak. Nothing came out at first. The relief hit like a tidal wave. Ferran wasn’t with Marc. He’d been getting ice cream, his favorite flavor, for him. But right behind that thought came the pain, the crushing weight of how badly he’d spiraled, how close he’d come to knocking on that door and maybe ruining everything anyway, how much he wanted Ferran in ways he could never admit without risking their entire world. 

His eyes burned. He tried to hold it back, but a single tear slipped free, then another. 

“Pedri?” Ferran’s voice went soft with worry. He closed the distance in three quick strides, setting the ice cream on a nearby side table without a second glance. “What happened? Did someone say something? Are you hurt?” 

Pedri shook his head, but the tears wouldn’t stop. It was half relief, half the deep ache of loving someone this much while having to stay silent. He felt stupid and exposed and so full of feelings he didn’t know where to put them. 

Ferran didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Pedri right there in the hallway, pulling him into a tight hug, one hand rubbed slow circles on his back, the other cradling the back of his head. Pedri buried his face in Ferran’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” Ferran murmured against his hair, holding him closer. “I’ve got you. Whatever it is, I’ve got you.” 

Pedri clung to him, fingers twisting in the back of Ferran’s shirt. He wanted to say it all. I was terrified you were with him. I’m so scared of losing you. I’m in love with you and it’s killing me. But the words stayed locked behind the tears. 

Ferran pulled back just enough to look at his face, thumbs gently wiping away the tears on Pedri’s cheeks. His eyes were wide with worry, searching. “Come on. Let’s go back to our room, yeah? You’re shaking.” 

Pedri let himself be guided down the hallway, Ferran’s arm staying firmly around his shoulders the whole way. The ice cream was retrieved and carried carefully. When they reached their door, Ferran swiped the key card and ushered him inside like he was something fragile. 

The room lights were still low. The TV still played quietly. Everything looked the same, but nothing felt that way. 

Ferran closed the door behind them, set the ice cream on the bed, and turned to Pedri again, hands gentle on his arms. 

“You’re scaring me, Pepi. Talk to me,” he said softly, forehead creased with concern. “Please.” 

“Ferri. I…”

He knew that was it. The dam broke completely. 

Pedri started talking before he could stop himself, the words tumbling out in a breathless, anxious rush. 

“I’ve been in love with you since forever,” he blurted. “Since the first time we ever trained together, when you passed me that ball like it was nothing and smiled at me like I was the only person on the pitch. I’ve been in love with you for years, Ferran. Every late night, every shared room, every time I steal your clothes or you fall asleep on my shoulder during flights, I— I’ve been so fucking gone for you. But I was terrified. I still am. I thought if I said anything I’d ruin everything, our friendship, the team, you. So I stayed quiet and I watched you with him and it was killing me.” 

Ferran’s mouth opened, but Pedri didn’t let him speak. He couldn’t. Not yet. 

“When Marc showed up, laughing with you, touching your waist during drills, saying how hot you are and how he wishes something would happen, I didn’t know what to do anymore. I saw it. I heard him. And tonight you weren’t here after dinner and I waited and waited and I spiraled so bad I went to his door, Ferran. I was about to knock because I was convinced you were in there with him, because he’s available and he’s willing and he’s not scared like I am. He could actually try something and I—” 

His voice cracked. More tears spilled over. 

“I can’t lose you, but I can’t keep pretending either. It hurts too much. I love you. I’m so in love with you it’s stupid and I’ve been dying inside watching you with someone else.” 

Pedri finally ran out of air, breathing hard, eyes wide and terrified as he waited for the world to end. 

Ferran stared at him for one second. 

Then he crossed the short distance, cupped Pedri’s face with both hands, and kissed him. 

It wasn’t gentle. It was years of longing and fear and want crashing together. Ferran’s mouth claimed his with a hunger that made Pedri’s knees weak, hot, deep, and desperate. Pedri made a broken sound against his lips and kissed him back desperately, hands fisting in Ferran’s shirt, pulling him closer, tongue sliding against his with a low, guttural sound that sent heat flooding straight down their spines.

Pedri moaned brokenly into his mouth, the sound raw and needy. His hands moved from Ferran’s arms to his neck, feeling that strong body he’d wanted for so long, yanking him impossibly closer until their bodies were flush chest to chest, hips pressing together. He could feel the heat radiating off Ferran, the hard line of muscle, the way Ferran’s heart hammered against his own. One of Ferran’s hands slid into Pedri’s hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt his head and deepen the kiss even further. The other hand dropped to Pedri’s waist, fingers digging in possessively, pulling him in like he was afraid Pedri might disappear.

They stumbled back until Pedri’s back hit the wall with a soft thud. Neither of them cared. Ferran’s thigh pressed between Pedri’s legs, and the friction drew another helpless sound from Pedri’s throat. Their mouths moved together messily, tongues sliding, teeth grazing, breaths shared in hot, ragged pants between kisses. Ferran sucked on his bottom lip, then soothed it with his tongue, and Pedri felt like he was burning up from the inside.

The tension that had simmered between them for so long finally ignited, hot, overwhelming, and perfect. 

When they broke apart, both breathing raggedly, Ferran rested their foreheads together. “Okay, my turn now,” he whispered, voice rough. “You don’t get to say all that and not let me speak.” Pedri nodded shakily, gripping his shirt. 

Ferran’s thumbs stroked over Pedri’s wet cheeks, gentle now. 

“I feel it too, Pedri,” he said simply. “I’ve been in love with you since the first time we met. Since you looked at me across the dressing room. Every time I chose to sit next to you, every time I picked a room with you, every stupid joke and late-night talk… it was all because I’m crazy as fuck about you. I didn’t say anything because I was just as scared, scared that you didn’t feel it back, that I could destroy the best thing in my life.” 

He let out a shaky breath, eyes shining. 

“And I could never look at anyone else, not Marc, not anyone. You’re it for me. You’ve always been it. I don’t know what you heard and I’m sorry it made you spiral tonight. I’m so sorry I made you feel insecure for even one second. I should’ve said something sooner, but I’m saying it now.” Ferran pulled back just enough to look him dead in the eyes, serious and tender all at once. “I love you. I’m in love with you. And I’m going to make sure you never feel like anyone could steal me away, because they can’t. They won’t. I’m yours and I’ve been yours for years. That’s it.” 

Pedri’s eyes filled again, but this time the tears felt different, lighter. He laughed wetly and surged forward, kissing Ferran again, slower this time, savoring it. Ferran smiled against his mouth and wrapped both arms around his waist, holding him tight like he never planned to let go. 

When they finally parted, Ferran pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, then his temple, then the corner of his eye where a tear still clung. 

“No more secrets then?” he murmured. “If you’re scared, tell me. If you’re jealous, tell me. I want us to do this together now.” 

Pedri nodded, burying his face in Ferran’s neck. “Together.” 

Ferran hugged him tighter, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back again. The ice cream was probably melting. The TV was still playing to no one. None of it mattered. 

For the first time in years, the space between them felt exactly right. 

The morning after felt like stepping into a different universe. 

Pedri woke up with Ferran’s arm slung heavily across his waist, their legs tangled under the sheets. At some point during the night they had quietly got into the same bed, neither of them even questioning it. Ferran had simply pulled him closer, pressed a sleepy kiss to his shoulder, and mumbled mine against his skin before drifting off. 

Now, in the bright light of morning, Pedri turned his head and found Ferran already watching him, soft-eyed and smiling like he couldn’t believe this was real. 

“Morning, handsome,” Ferran murmured, voice still rough with sleep. He leaned in and kissed Pedri slow and sweet, hand sliding up to cup his jaw. 

“Morning,” Pedri answered against his lips, his heart doing ridiculous flips. He couldn’t stop touching him, his fingers tracing Ferran’s collarbone, thumb brushing his cheek. They stayed like that for long minutes, trading lazy kisses until hunger and the knowledge that they had training eventually forced them out of bed. 

Breakfast was where it became obvious to their friends. 

They walked into the dining hall together, shoulders brushing. Ferran’s hand found the small of Pedri’s back as they grabbed their plates, lingering there even after they stopped walking. When Pedri reached for the juice, Ferran was already passing it to him. When Ferran’s fork hovered over the last piece of fruit, Pedri speared it and held it to his mouth with a small grin. Ferran ate it without hesitation, lips brushing Pedri’s fingers and eyes piercing his face with suggestion. 

It was disgustingly domestic and they couldn’t stop. 

Dani, Joan, and Eric couldn’t believe their eyes. The moment Pedri and Ferran sat down, chairs pulled so close their thighs pressed together under the table, Dani choked on his coffee. 

“What the fuck was that?” he asked, pointing at where Pedri and Ferran had been exchanging looks seconds ago.  

“No way,” Eric said, eyes wide. “No fucking way.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking far too smug.  Joan’s eyebrows shot up, a full smile breaking across his face. 

Ferran rested his arm along the back of Pedri’s chair, fingers absently playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. Pedri leaned into the touch like a cat, cheeks warm but unashamed. 

“What?” Pedri asked innocently, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away completely. 

Eric pointed between them with his fork. “This, all of this. You two finally stopped being idiots?” 

“About time,” Dani sighed, loud and bright. “I was ready to lock you in a room myself so you could fuck. The tension was painful. Actual physical pain, Pedri.” 

Joan nodded quietly, still smiling. “You look happy, both of you. It’s good.” 

Ferran’s fingers continued their gentle scratching against Pedri’s neck, sending little shivers down his spine. “Yeah,” he said simply, glancing at Pedri with open affection. “We’re good.” 

Pedri turned his head just enough to press a quick kiss to Ferran’s jaw. Their friends erupted. 

“Oh my God, they’re touchy now,” Dani groaned, covering his eyes dramatically. “I’m happy for you, really, but I’m also begging you to tone it down before I throw up my breakfast.” 

“Too late, bro,” Eric teased. “They’ve been eye-fucking each other for years. This is just the upgrade.” 

“I think I prefer the old closeted version then.”

Pedri laughed, face half-hidden in Ferran’s shoulder. Ferran’s arm tightened around him protectively, and he pressed a kiss to the top of Pedri’s head right there in front of everyone. The relief on their friends’ faces was genuine. The constant undercurrent of tension that had followed them for so long had finally snapped. The air at the table felt lighter. 

“Seriously though,” Dani said, more softly this time. “We’re relieved. You two are better together. Everyone could see it except you, idiots.” 

They spent the rest of breakfast in a bubble of teasing and easy conversation. Ferran fed Pedri a piece of toast. Pedri wiped a crumb from the corner of Ferran’s mouth with his thumb. It was all new and terrifying and perfect. 

Later in the locker room, the energy was high. Ferran sat on the bench in front of his locker, methodically arranging things in his bag.

Pedri spotted Marc a few lockers down, talking with one of the staff members but close enough to see everything. 

A quiet, possessive little thrill ran through him. 

He walked up behind Ferran without hesitation, sliding his arms around those broad shoulders from behind. He hugged him tight, chest pressed to Ferran’s back, and leaned down to press a slow, deliberate kiss to the side of his neck, right below his ear. Ferran hummed happily, tilting his head to give him better access, one hand coming up to cover Pedri’s where they rested on his chest. 

“Missed you,” Pedri murmured against his skin, even though they’d only been apart for ten minutes. 

Ferran turned his head, catching Pedri’s lips in a soft kiss. “You’re ridiculous. I love it.” Pedri smiled into the kiss, then straightened up. His gaze drifted casually over to Marc. 

Marc was staring, eyebrows raised in clear surprise. The conversation with the staff member had died mid-sentence. 

Pedri didn’t say a word. He simply offered Marc the sweetest, most innocent smile he could manage, eyes wide, dimples showing, the picture of pure friendliness. 

Then he leaned down again and kissed Ferran’s neck one more time, just because he could. Ferran chuckled, low and warm. “Behave.” 

“Never,” Pedri whispered against his ear. 

Marc looked away first, clearing his throat and returning to his own bag with slightly pink ears. 

Pedri felt zero guilt. Only a deep, glowing satisfaction and the warm press of Ferran’s hand squeezing his. 

For the first time, the jealousy that had haunted him felt far away, replaced by something steadier, surer, and infinitely better. Ferran was his. And Pedri was never letting anyone forget it again.

That’s it, I win.