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Pedri remembered.
He remembered the starry nights by Ferran's side, parked on some lonely road, lying on the hood of his Porsche and talking about dreams in his arms. He remembered how his voice was soft in his ear when he said his dream was Pedri; when Ferran pressed his lips to his, light as a feather, as if to convince him.
He remembered the chill of the cold autumn days, the sudden breeze picking up and weaving through his hair, snaking into his bones - but what he remembered most was Ferran's jacket around his shoulders, his hair the colour of the leaves, the warmth of the oversized jacket and his smell that lingered around him.
He remembered the lazy mornings, Ferran's scrunched up nose as his sleepy gaze met Pedri's; his raspy voice calling out his name and his hands tenderly tracing his arm, sending shivers down his spine. He remembered how Ferran's legs tangled with his and the sheets between them; a mess of warmth and limbs and love that he never wanted to escape.
He remembered every touch that sent sparks in his system, every kiss that made him feel so alive, every laugh that brought tears to his eyes, every little detail of his body, of Ferran.
He remembered Ferran because Ferran was all he had ever known for so long.
Ferran was his favourite book, the song stuck in his head, the words written in his hand.
He was a part of Pedri, integrated into his system. Ferran made sure of that with their very first kiss, when he made Pedri his.
Ferran was all Pedri had — the one steady anchor amidst the craziness of his life; he was his anchor that held Pedri safe, and he did the same for Ferran. Pedri's world was crazy, caught in the relentless whirlwind of flashing cameras, demanding training sessions, and the crushing pressure of being seen as the world's best midfielder. Ferran's world was just as loud, suffocated by the heavy expectations of everyone and the constant roar of thousands of voices inside Camp Nou.
Maybe Ferran was a little crazy himself but — so was he — and together, the both of them were so crazy in love; yet somehow finding this equilibrium of peace and comfort in the insane relationship the two of them shared behind closed locker room doors.
And every moment of Ferran that Pedri had, every memory they made, he cherished.
That is, except for the last.
I hate that I made you love me
Sorry if I made me your type
Pedri wished he didn't remember the goodbye. He wished he didn't remember how Ferran's eyes were full of sadness, or how his words fell out of his lips; how they crashed Pedri's system and how he left without looking back.
He wished he didn't remember that last, lingering touch before he turned away; before he walked out of the club, out of Pedri's life.
And Pedri tried — dios mio, did he try — to forget Ferran.
Pedri sent back all his clothes, deleted all the pictures, threw away all the mixtapes, books, and birthday presents — and he did it all with tears in his eyes, the crack in his heart growing bigger and bigger with every memory he destroyed.
He drank himself numb and cried himself to sleep until he forgot his name or until he forgot he even existed in the first place, but he could never forget Ferran.
And how could he?
Pedri knew him better than he knew himself. He loved him, in many cases, more than he loved himself.
Ferran was so easy to love and so difficult to forget.
Maybe Pedri was being melodramatic. Maybe he was just too needy or too broken or too alone, but he couldn't forget the taste of Ferran's lips at three in the morning and he couldn't forget how his last words were goodbye instead of I love you.
Ferran was engraved in his mind and he had taken a piece of Pedri's heart, and try as he may, he wouldn't ever be able to fully put himself back together again — not when Ferran was a piece of him.
Pedri could only hope that Ferran's alone in his bed, tossing and turning with circles under his eyes, thinking the same about him.
Eventually, the tears died and the hurt started to numb. Pedri got out bed and stopped crying over torn pictures and posts that never mentioned his name.
He remembered how to play without Ferran by his side, how to speak without mentioning his name on his lips, how to live without him in his life.
He remembered how to be himself; he remembered him before he was Ferran's boy, and he remembered how this Pedri wanted to be in this club, how he liked his hair that way, how his mom didn't want him to have a beard, how he liked to change his playlist every week to match his mood.
Pedri remembered.
But just because he did didn't mean he forgot Ferran.
Do they know you're not who they say you are?
'Cause I might give them a call
He moved to Paris and played matches in front of thousands of fans who chanted his name, new football enthusiasts who were just discovering his prowess as a lethal striker and who tracked every single stat of every game he played. People who made his face trend on social media every other day, who knew every detail there was to find on Ferran Torres García, and fans who would spend days pining after him from behind a screen.
But none of them knew the details that Pedri did; how his torso curved on a bed, how his tattoos would glisten in the sun after training, how the planes of his cheekbones looked like in the shadows of the night, how the baby hairs of Ferran's arms tickled his arms or how his calloused touch felt against his.
They wouldn't know Ferran the way Pedri did.
And none of them would pine after him like Pedri did; yearning for the magic of his lips, the taste of his mouth and the comfort of his touch, his whisper on the back of his neck in the mornings and his fingers dancing along his spine.
They wouldn't pine for Ferran the way Pedri did, because they didn't have him like he did.
And maybe he wanted to keep it that way because while he was past the point of heartbreak, while he was past being Ferran's boy, he still didn't want another to know him the way Pedri did.
Pedri didn't want someone else to make him laugh until he cried. He didn't want someone else in his arms in the early hours of the morning; he didn't want someone else touching the skin that he had already marked, someone loving the man that he loved.
Love.
Pedri came to the conclusion that he never did stop loving Ferran, even though he knew he didn't feel the same for him anymore.
Maybe it was stupid to continue to love a boy that didn't love him back, but Pedri thought maybe a part of him will always love Ferran; that maybe he'll always have a piece of his heart and a corner in his mind.
Pedri would've given Ferran everything if he just didn't walk away.
Ferran went to Paris and Pedri stayed in Barcelona, and while Ferran dominated the pitches in Ligue 1, Pedri ran the midfield at Camp Nou.
Pedri buried himself in training sessions and tactical analysis and endless matches, and he reckoned Ferran's doing the same with his new squad and his new lifestyle, and he hoped that wherever he was, he's happy and smiling that smile that Pedri loved so much.
He only wished that Ferran could be happy next to him, that he could see that smile in person.
Pedri cut ties from Ferran and it's been a year since. He didn't think there was any more use in holding onto a player who's so clearly to meant to soar on his own.
He didn't check for match updates, didn't stare at his phone number, he didn't watch any highlights when PSG played, not even clicking on the trending or looking at the post-match interviews on his feed.
Pedri distanced himself from him, just as Ferran did the same to him.
And while the heartbreak's gone and the pining has faded, the memories of him and Ferran still linger in the crevices of his mind; like a ghost following him with a half-smirk saying "don't forget about me."
If only he knew.
Ferran changed his style and Pedri altered his, and Pedri had changed and so had he.
Pedri wasn't the same teammate who laughed at the jokes they used to share on the bench; he wasn't the boy who didn't let the media pressure get to him or who loved those quiet bus rides to and fro their HQ or who loved to lighten to mood when his teammates were down because he didn't want to see them frowning.
And maybe Ferran wasn't the same boy who stayed quieter than the rest during tactical meetings, who held his tongue when asked tough questions by journalists, who mumbled when he tried to explain his plays and fumbled with the zipper of his training jacket looking for a bit of comfort.
Pedri wasn't the same person who had his heart broken by a boy who claimed his dream was Pedri.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Pedri held his breath and hoped that Ferran wasn't the same boy who broke his heart the same way he broke his promises.
Different dimensions
Stuck in the twilight zone
Ferran came home for the international break, or maybe a summer return to Spain, and Pedri was heading back from a long day at the training ground, and they were both on their way back when Ferran bumped into him at a quiet petrol station on the outskirts of Catalunya.
He was there in a sleek, dark designer jacket and Pedri almost didn't recognize him with his sharper haircut and the subtle, expensive change in his style that hadn't been there before, but Pedri knew that no matter how much he'd changed, he'd still remember the smirk on his lips and the lilt in his voice when he talked.
Pedri never really did forget.
Pedri considered walking away and he considered talking to him, but Ferran made up his mind for him when he turned around and saw Pedri standing there in line, waiting to pay at the counter.
It took a moment for him to recognize the midfielder before him, but even though Pedri had grown his beard and carried himself with a guarded, serious quietness — even though he started wearing a starker demeanor that he hadn't before and walked with a hardened maturity he didn't have a year ago, Ferran still remembered him.
He'd discovered all that there was to Pedri. How could he forget?
How could he forget someone that he once loved so much?
But the boy before him was a different boy from the one who used to bury his head in Ferran's chest on the hood of his Porsche under the starry nights — he wasn't the same goofy teammate who used to crack constant jokes just to hear Ferran laugh, the boy who used to cling so effortlessly to him after a crucial victory, eyes crinkling at the corners with a bright, giddy warmth that he now kept completely locked away.
It was strange how Pedri looked like someone he once knew every inch of and a stranger at the same time.
Ferran smiled faintly and offed a shy little wave, making his way towards Pedri.
"Hey."
Pedri smiled back at him, and he find it odd how he felt like Ferran was a stranger when he once was his home.
"Hey. So... the season's done, huh?"
"Yeah, just a few days ago, actually... it's good to be back."
There was a pause in their conversation — Pedri wasn't sure where he wanted to go with this.
A year ago, this silence would've never existed — this uncomfortable, awkward silence — he would’ve smiled brightly and Ferran would’ve beamed back, and he would’ve laced his fingers with Ferran's and Ferran would’ve pulled him close.
But they weren't the same people anymore, and Pedri's memory of Ferran was a different boy from the one standing in front of him.
"Did you... did you watch any of our matches?"
"No, I didn’t—I, um... I was really busy with training and all."
"Oh."
Pedri didn't tell him that he didn't want to see his face on a screen, that he didn't want to see the lethal striker playing for thousands of chanting fans every night.
He didn't tell him that he was selfish and wanted only the moments that were meant for him and him alone, and that he wouldn't settle for any less when it came to Ferran.
Pedri looked at Ferran quietly and he couldn't help but find those dark eyes so familiar, though the way Ferran was looking at him was foreign and he couldn't decode what was going on in his head the same way he used to.
"Listen, this is really weird—"
"Just a bit."
Pedri grinned, unable to bite back the words, quirking an eyebrow at him — the first sign of warmth outside of the polite coldness he’d given him so far.
Ferran smiled at the comment before continuing, shoving his hands in his jacket — that hadn’t changed, and Pedri found himself comforted by the small gesture of familiarity that he remembered.
"What I mean to say is that I—I don't like this. This... weirdness."
"And what do you propose to fix that?"
"How does lunch sound?"
Pedri smiled at the request — Ferran looked so nervous and Pedri couldn't help but remember the first time he'd asked him out, how he wore the same expression on his face underneath a slightly different, shorter haircut back then.
Pedri couldn't help but wonder if Ferran meant the same thing the second time.
"At... at the usual place?"
Pedri wondered if he was thinking of the same place; the quiet little restaurant off the beaten path in Barcelona that the two of them always went to back when they were dating, back when they exchanged hidden touches under the table and shared a quiet meal late into the night after a grueling match.
"You mean our place?"
Ferran was grinning now, and Pedri forgot how much he loved it.
No, that was a lie — he never forgot that. He didn’t forget anything when it came to Ferran.
"Well, it’s not really... our place anymore."
Pedri couldn't help but be a skeptic, to be weary. He hadn't been to that lonely road or parked on the hood of his car in over a year — he had no reason to without Ferran.
That routine might’ve been ‘ours’ to him and Ferran the same way Ferran’s arms were once home to him, but look at how that’s changed in the past year.
"It can be ours again—I mean, if you want it to be."
Ferran's last words came out rushed, tumbling out of his lips in messy clusters, and Pedri almost didn't catch it.
But Pedri had experience with Ferran tripping over his words — from the very beginning of their time together, actually — and that’s one thing about Ferran that he could still decode.
Pedri smiled at him — a real smile — and he couldn't help but to feel a flutter of hope bloom in his heart through the cracks of his last heartbreak.
"I like the sound of that."
"Me too."