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The air in the hotel room was cool, a sharp contrast to the humid Washington night outside. On the nightstand, two half-empty bottles of water sat next to their accreditation badges. Spain had secured their spot in the World Cup semifinals just hours before, but inside Room 314, the echoes of the stadium felt miles away.
Pedri sat on the edge of the mattress, his legs pulled against his chest, chin resting on his knees. He was still wearing his grey training shorts, his eyes staring blankly at the glowing screen of his phone. The notification banners from Instagram and Mundo Deportivo were relentless.
Ferran stepped out of the bathroom, a towel draped over his shoulders, his hair still damp. Seeing Pedri’s tense shoulders, he sighed softly. He walked over, gently taking the phone out of Pedri’s hand and placing it face down on the desk.
"Hey," Ferran murmured, sliding onto the bed beside him. He reached out, his large, warm hand wrapping securely around Pedri’s ankle, rubbing a slow thumb against the bone. "Stop scrolling. It’s midnight."
Pedri didn't look up immediately. He let his forehead drop onto his knees, his voice muffled. "They’re saying it’s 80% done, Fer. They’re saying Deco wants the money for Alvarez. What if they just... stop the talks?"
The uncertainty was the heaviest part. For someone like Pedri, who hated chaos and cherished his quiet life in Catalonia, the thought of the Barcelona dressing room without Ferran’s constant, reassuring presence felt like a physical weight on his chest.
Ferran leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the side of Pedri's neck, right where the tension was gathered. "Look at me, Pepi," he whispered, his voice steady, carrying that stubborn resilience that had earned him his nickname.
Pedri finally turned his head, his dark eyes slightly glassy, reflecting the soft amber light of the bedside lamp.
"My agents know exactly what they are doing," Ferran said, his eyes locked onto Pedri's with absolute certainty. He reached up, gently cupping Pedri's cheek, his thumb catching a stray bit of moisture near his eyelash. "The PSG thing? It’s a chess move. Leaderbrock told me to trust them. We had to create pressure because Deco was dragging his feet with the numbers. I’ve scored 21 goals this season, Pepi. I deserve a slightly higher salary that reflects my value to this team, but Deco tried to use the financial fair-play excuse to lower my worth. So, we did what Cristiano did with United, what Ramos did with Madrid. We used a giant's name to wake them up. It's just a game they play."
"But what if Laporta calls your bluff?" Pedri’s voice cracked slightly, a rare crack in his usual calm demeanor. "A new country... you don't even speak the language, Fer. You've worked so hard with the psychologist to find your peace at Barça. To be happy. To be with me every day. If you go there, you'll be on the bench, and you'll be miserable. I don't want you to be miserable."
A wave of quiet sadness hit the room. Ferran’s chest tightened, not because of the transfer, but because of how deeply Pedri cared, how much his boyfriend's anxiety was tied to his own safety. Ferran pulled Pedri close, wrapping both arms around his waist and pulling him into his chest until they were lying down together on the pillows.
"Listen to me," Ferran whispered, his voice dropping into a deeper, softer tone that completely filled the quiet space between them. He pulled Pedri so close that their foreheads touched, forcing Pedri to feel the calm, rhythmic beat of his chest. "I built my whole 'Shark' mentality to survive the critics, but you... you are the reason I actually enjoy the peace after the storm. Do you really think I’d throw away everything we’ve built on and off the pitch for a few extra zeros from Paris? Do you think I'd choose a bench in France over waking up next to you in Barcelona every day?"
Ferran’s fingers slid into Pedri's hair, gently holding him in place as he leaned down to press a soft, deeply emotional kiss against his lips—a silent promise that carried more weight than any contract.
"I have the final say, Pepi, not Deco. I am completely in control of my future, and my future is right here, holding you. I’m not risking my mental peace, and I am definitely not risking us."
Pedri buried his face into the crook of Ferran’s neck, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of his shower gel. He wrapped his arms tightly around Ferran’s shoulders, slowly letting the heavy waves of anxiety drain from his muscles, anchored by the absolute safety of Ferran’s embrace.
"We talk to Hansi right after the final," Ferran murmured, stroking Pedri’s back in slow, soothing circles. "Flick wants me. He told me before the tournament started. We just have to survive one more week of media nonsense."
Pedri closed his eyes, nodding silently against Ferran's skin. The worry didn't completely disappear—anxiety never worked that way—but lying there in the quiet room, completely protected, the noise of the internet finally faded into nothing.
"Promise?" Pedri whispered into the dark.
"I promise, mi guapo," Ferran replied, tightening his grip, his lips resting softly against Pedri's forehead. "Now close your eyes. We have a World Cup to win