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Turns out that sleep doesn’t come easy when you’re playing in the World Cup’s finale the next day. Knowing that you’re about to face one of the best football teams in the world surely adds to that problem. And also the fact that you’re set to play against your idol and role model doesn’t help either.
Staring at the ceiling, Pedri thinks that it’s still a bit unfair.
He sits on his bed and stifles a groan as he runs a hand over his face. There’s not an ounce of caffeine in his body, the sound of ‘rainstorm sounds for falling asleep’ permanently shaped his auditory canals, and his nervous system is pleasantly drowning in melatonin. Evidently, none of that is enough for him to fall asleep.
After another hour of tossing around, ultimately he decides that enough is enough. Maybe he needs some fresh air. One of the reddit threads suggested that it could help, and at this point Pedri is willing to try everything to snatch an extra hour of sleep. He pulls on his sweatshirt and slips on his flip-flops. One glance at the bed in the corner tells him that thankfully Gavi is still deep asleep. Good. At least one of them needs to be in their top form.
As quietly as he can, Pedri slips out of the room. The lamps in the hallways are dimmed but after hours in complete darkness even that much of light is enough to make him blink rapidly. With a soft click he closes the door behind him as his eyes adjust to the artificial glow. Blink, blink, blink. Pedri presses the back of his hand against his eyelids and when he pulls it away the hallway blooms with dark splotches.
“Can’t sleep?” comes a voice from the left and Pedri nearly jumps out of his skin.
He whips his head around and is greeted with Fermin’s tired smile paired with a lazy wave. Pedri’s heart squeezes a little in his chest. These past couple of weeks, he missed Fermin on the pitch, missed his energy and his presence – even in the bleachers. When he first heard that Fermin would come to support them during the finale from the audience, his eyes stung just a little bit in the corners.
“Yeah,” Pedri agrees easily, fingers rubbing the space between his eyebrows. He takes in Fermin’s disheveled appearance, the bloodshot eyes, the can of coffee in his hands. “Jetlag?” He guesses. “Sorry about that, man.”
Fermin shrugs and takes a sip from his can.
“Worth it,” he replies without missing a beat, nothing but honest. He glances between his can and Pedri, as if considering, before he lifts the coffee in a silent offer.
Pedri shakes his head. “No, I’m just–”
“Looking for Ferran?” Fermin shoots with a slight lift of his eyebrows, a suggestion of a smile in the corner of his lips. It brings more life to his sleep-deprivated face.
“What? No,” Pedri scoffs even though the foretell of a flush is already crawling up his neck. When Fermin’s eyebrows raise even higher, he shakes his head for good measure. “No, for real. I was just…” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the outdoor terrace at the end of the hallway. “About to catch some fresh air, you know? Heard it’s good for sleep or something.”
He doesn’t expect the snort that Fermin replies with.
“Right, of course,” Is what he says and when Pedri frowns at him, Fermin only snorts again. “Sure, man, whatever. Fresh air will help you for sure. Anyway, I’m going to go now,” he shakes his half-empty can. “Alex let me crash out on his couch, don’t want to push my luck here,” he adds as he steps past Pedri, his eyes inexplicably amused.
For a moment, Pedri watches him rush down the hallway until he reaches Baena’s door. They wave at each other from a distance. Maybe it’s a trick of the light but Pedri could swear that Fermin’s full-on grinning now as he disappears in the room.
Pedri blinks his eyes, trying to make out the reason behind Fermin’s behaviour but gives up quickly. Fermin has always been a little strange even if he is also one of the sweetest guys Pedri has ever met. He shakes his head and reassumes his walk outdoors. Through the glass at the end of the hallway, he can just barely see the nightly sky spreading over the city. It’s the type of darkness he craves now – the open space above his head with a collection of glimmering stars if he’s lucky. The soothing comfort of freedom stretching around him, instead of the stifling coffin-like shape of his hotel room.
The glass door opens quietly under his touch, and almost instantly he is enveloped with the cool tickle of the night. This high – at the top of their hotel complex – the sounds of the city are distanced, muffled, creating a strange open bubble. The gentle breeze beckons him to step forward, inviting his lungs to expand and accommodate as much of this moment as possible. Pedri’s eyes flutter shut as he takes a deep breath, and only when he opens them again he realizes that he’s not alone.
His breath hitches and suddenly Fermin’s amusement makes much more sense. The echo of his snort like a taunt rattling Pedri’s nerves.
Ferran is back-facing him, his arms resting on the balustrade as he leans slightly forward, probably to admire the view. His legs are on full display, as they usually are, long and lean and muscled, tanned skin catching just enough of lamplight to give a suggestion of warmth. Ferran always runs warm – Pedri’s painfully aware of that. He could recognize Ferran by the heat of his body alone, by the easy way his own blood raises in temperature under the simple touch. It says something damning about him that it’s not even sexual, not always, just… intimate, casual. It’s like someone handing you a cup of warm tea; it makes your heart swell, makes you feel at home.
Pedri exhales, a soft sound, and takes a step closer, aware that he stretched this moment for too long. Ferran already knows that Pedri is here, that he stole a second before coming near. It’s in the relaxed line of his shoulders, in the quiet hum tangled in the midnight air.
Pedri’s not looking for Ferran. But he always is, isn’t he? Consciously, subconsciously. A part of him is always pulled towards that bright magnitude that glows between Ferran’s ribs. It’s only a little comforting that whenever he turns to look at Ferran, Ferran is already looking at him.
Sometimes, it gives Pedri the wrong idea. Sometimes, he worries just how correct his wrong idea might be. Give up all the pretense, cross the lines.
He mirrors Ferran’s pose, leaning against the balustrade and taking a moment to watch the city around them. New York is so much different than Barcelona – louder, full of clashing colour and glass and concrete; a city that never sleeps, and Pedri wonders just how much of this energy he has subconsciously absorbed.
“It’s so different from home, isn’t it?” Ferran asks suddenly, no useless hey’s and hello’s. Their conversation never ends, only pauses, straying from topic to topic, getting cut into chunks by the sound of a kicked ball.
The corner of Pedri’s lips twitches at the echo of his own thoughts.
“Yeah…” he nods, sighing. Even now, he can already feel some of the tension that was binding him evaporate from his body. “You miss it?” He asks just to fill the silence, just to hear Ferran speak more.
With the corner of his eyes he sees Ferran purse his lips in thought. There’s a tiny wrinkle running across his forehead, momentarily pensiveness weighing against his eyelids. Suddenly, the city proves itself completely disinteresting, boring; the mosaic mesh of streets and people easily overlooked when challenged with whatever dilemma Ferran is facing. It’s natural, always so fucking natural, for Pedri to leave the world to its own device when he turns his attention to Ferran.
To catch the shape of a sentence against Ferran’s mouth before he says it. To recognize the feeling in his eyes before it plays out across his handsome features. Sometimes to hear his laugh before it shakes his throat – over the years Pedri’s got real good at all of that. Friends, he supposes, read each other easily; and Pedri may not be a scholar but he’s fluent in the scripture that frames Ferran’s face.
A gust of wind ruffles the longer strands sitting across Ferran’s forehead. His frown lingers though, casting a darker shadow over his mood with each passing second. Pedri doesn’t like it one bit. That’s not what he had in mind when he was asking the question.
“More than the city, I miss everything I love in it,” Ferran says at last.
“Cheesy,” Pedri comments, and, without thinking, jabs his elbow in the space between Ferran’s ribs. Not painful but playful – the way they usually are. It’s measured to – meant to divert attention, shake whatever worry Ferran nurses in its foundation.
It earns him an exaggerated groan, and suddenly Ferran’s folding in half, clutching his side as if he was morally wounded; high-pitched noises of complaint following smoothly, faltering quickly under the pressure of a grin. It smoothens the wrinkle that wiggled its way onto Ferran’s forehead. It chases away the lingering concern.
Pedri smiles at him, looking from above, a rare occurrence for them, and then yelps loudly when Ferran wraps his arms around his middle, lifting him in the air, spinning them around. Like this, with his mouth half-open with both disbelief and laughter, Pedri can almost taste the midnight air – the fumes hanging above the city, the clarity of the invisible stars, the faint scent of shampoo that Ferran used.
The world spins once more, buildings tilt sideways, lines of the rooftops grow blurry as if they were breaking under the pressure of an invisible horizon. Ferran’s arms around Pedri’s middle are strong, his skin is warm even through layers of clothes separating them. It’s a blissful moment of normalcy. No World Cup. No undefeatable game ahead of them.
It’s over too soon.
Pedri’s feet touch the ground and his head is still spinning a little but Ferran’s grin is a point of clarity in the night.
“Idiot,” Pedri mumbles, lightly shoving Ferran’s arm with his own as they settle back against the railing.
Ferran’s smile rounds up, losing its sharp edge, transforming into something softer, and Pedri knows it’s his cue to look away before either of them does something stupid. They try really hard not to be stupid. When there’s so much uncertainty around, they have to be solid – they discussed it before. It’s the right thing to do.
Decisively, Pedri turns around, leans his back against the balustrade, tips his head to gaze at the night sky. It’s muddy with grey-shaded pollution here and there, but the darkness pierces through easily; just enough to ensure privacy. Trying to guess where exactly the stars would be, Pedri listens as Ferran’s breathing slowly evens out. The familiarity of this melody is enough to settle him back into reality. Just when he thinks it’s safe, just when he thinks he has it under control, Ferran speaks again.
“There are things in New York that Barcelona doesn’t have right now though…”
Pedri’s throat works over the thick suspicion rising in him. He says nothing only closes his eyes, deepening the darkness around them.
Ferran’s thumb is gentle, oh so gentle, as it grazes over Pedri’s sleeve. Or maybe it’s not gentle at all – maybe Ferran makes a point of dragging it hard enough to make sure Pedri feels it, acknowledges its presence. It’s either this or Pedri is really much more attuned to Ferran’s touch that he thought it was, and that concept is a whole tripwire on its own.
“Oh?” Pedri prompts without opening his eyes. It comes out a little crooked but he can blame it on the awkward angle of his neck if anyone asked. No one will ask though. “And what Barcelona doesn’t have now?”
“The best players in the world, for example.”
Pedri can already feel the smile pushing at the corners of his lips.
“True,” he muses. “Both Messi and Lamine are here now.”
He doesn’t open his eyes when Ferran starts laughing; a deep and rich sound. Like that, with his eyes closed, Pedri can hear it in his bones. Like that, he can focus on the barely-there pressure of Ferran’s thumb in the crook of his elbow. Like that, he can feel the weight of Ferran’s eyes on him. Like that, he… fuck–
When Pedri opens his eyes, the night is still dark but Ferran’s eyes on him are darker – almost black with no sun to stir the colour. Sometimes, during the daytime, they turn golden with speckles of hazel, but not now. Now without that clarity, just like night itself, they promise secrecy. A dangerous, dangerous promise.
The pressure against the crook of Pedri’s elbow grows and with the periphery of his consciousness he notes that Ferran is leaning closer, eating the gap between them bit by bit. His breath is hot on Pedri’s cheeks when he opens his mouth again.
“I meant us, Pepi,” he says with a twinkle of his eyes that suggests mischief. “The team. Especially you.”
Something in Pedri’s chest thumps, his bones shaking in the wave of this sound. Awareness sinks claws in this sentence, his gaze sharpens, attention prodding at the picture Ferran paints, cautious of any signs of self-depreciation.
“Definitely both of us,” he corrects, his smile still intact, as he lifts his chin a little in a pose of arrogance – one that Ferran can fake so effortlessly even if time after time it crumbles under the pressure of a moment.
When Ferran’s smile doesn’t wobble, it feels like a victory. A trophy on its own. It is then that Pedri realizes just how close they are. His face is angled slightly upwards, tilted towards Ferran to meet his gaze, to allow his breath to tickle his lips just a little. The strands of Ferran’s hair are once again falling over his forehead, tips brushing the arch of his eyelashes. His smile is still bright but it dims slowly, melting under the heat smoldering his eyes.
“Ferran,” Pedri says, a quiet warning between them.
It loses some of its gravity because Pedri’s eyes keep slipping down to the flake of dry skin trapped in the corner of Ferran’s mouth.
“Mhm,” Ferran hums, unperturbed, his thumb resting soundly between the folds of Pedri’s sweatshirt as his palm slides to tighten around his arm.
Pedri’s breath stutters, and he feels all sorts of stupid – like a teenager, fumbling with a flimsy excuse that will stink of a lie before he even utters it. Ferran refuses to meet his gaze now, eyes on the prize. The sliver of skin on Pedri’s neck tingles under the attention, eager for the familiar contact. Ferran leans closer still, head drooping, his nose almost tracing Pedri’s earlobe in the way that makes all of his hair stand on.
“I’m lucky, you know?” Ferran murmurs but with how close he is, he might have as well screamed these words.
“Ferran,” Pedri repeats, tongues the name until its taste sticks to his gums and coats the back of his throat. It no longer sounds like a warning but rather a promise.
When the tip of Ferran’s nose nudges the line of his jaw, Pedri doesn’t protest. It was a lost battle when he stepped onto the terrace anyway. His breath quickens when the shadow of Ferran lips fits against his neck.
“I’m lucky that you’re here with me.” Each word casts a spell into Pedri’s skin. He does not shiver – he got rid of that particular habit months ago – but beneath his skin his blood rushes in his veins with new ferocity, new passion.
What is he even supposed to say to this? There’s no safe response. All are equally as damning.
“You think too much,” Ferran comments quietly and then his lips finally land on Pedri’s neck, right where the skin is tender and where the pulse runs hot.
It’s a simple kiss; not the first one, and – against their better judgement – definitely not the last one. A quiet sigh escapes Pedri’s lips as he tilts his head back, allowing for better access. The tension coiling in his muscles lets go easily, his body turning putty under the attention of Ferran’s mouth. Teeth nip at his skin, not hard, just enough to set Pedri’s senses ablaze though. His hand flies to tangle into the long strands of Ferran’s hair – still a little damp after the shower and curling deliciously around Perdi’s fingers. Another nip on Pedri’s neck has him tightening the grip, eliciting a muffled groan out of Ferran.
“Careful,” Pedri mumbles. “Can’t exactly show up to the game with a marred neck.”
He can feel Ferran’s smile painting itself against his neck.
“Why not?” Ferran lifts his head, his eyes big and round and so dark and looking at Pedri as if he hung the moon. “I think you could steal the show. And that would give me enough time to steal the Cup.”
Pedri snorts and tugs at the roots of Ferran’s hair, pulling him away.
“You’re so stupid,” he laughs. “I think we need a bit more than distraction to win,” he adds, rolling his eyes, allowing his hand to slide lower, thumbing at the fuzz running down Ferran’s neck, running his nails over the line of his shirt before he pulls away. Takes a step back. Puts a distance.
A wordless reminder of the boundaries they settled on, even if they always felt so very crossable.
“Maybe,” Ferran shrugs. “What else do we need then, you reckon?”
It takes a moment for Pedri to fully absorb the question. His attention is currently fixed on Ferran’s hand – his fingers wrapped around the balustrade where Pedri left the burning absence of his own body. It’s not a violent grip; on the contrary really, which makes it even harder not to slide back into this space. Allow himself to be held and kept under that warm touch.
“I– What?” Pedri blinks. “Oh, we probably also need… skill but we already got that. And luck too? We need plenty of that for sure!” He laughs breathlessly, his nerves flatting the sound because he can already tell that he played himself into a corner.
No, not played himself. That would imply ignorance and, after all, Pedri knows exactly the game they play with Ferran. Too many months of practice, too many emotions involved, too many lingering touches, and neck kisses, and nails catching at tender skin. Sick satisfaction pools in Pedri’s stomach when he meets Ferran’s gaze this time. A flicker of shock brushing over Ferran’s features before they sharpen with pinpoint precision.
A minute passes, then another. They take each other apart carefully; Pedri’s heart hammering in his chest, his courage burning high in the pyre set between them. And then, just when everything in him starts to hesitate, Ferran closes his eyes and exhales loudly.
“Perhaps you should kiss me good luck then.” Not a question, not a demand, a suggestion.
Pedri licks his lips.
“We don’t do that. Usually.” He points out, dumbly, knowing that Ferran is plenty aware that they don’t kiss, not on the lips; never on the lips.
“We also don’t play in the World Cup’s finale. Usually.” Ferran parrots back.
They don’t. But on the contrary to playing in the World Cup, the kissing is potentially repeatable. Can be easily incorporated into a routine. May ruin some lives – and okay, maybe this part actually has something in common with the World Cup match.
Months ago, when the jokingly laid pecks on the neck turned into something more gentle and serious, Pedri in a moment of bravery asked Ferran a simple question – “why”. He still remembers the pretty blush, a spill of red stretching from the tips of ears to the curve of jaw, that decorated Ferran’s face when he mumbled “it’s like football, you step onto the pitch and you just know”, like it was that simple.
Now when Pedri reaches out to grab the front of Ferran’s shirt, fingers briefly skimming over the hammering heart hidden beneath the fabric, he thinks – huh, maybe it is that simple.
One kiss for good luck.
Pedri hopes that Ferran will need plenty of ‘good lucks’ in the future.
Their lips crash against each other, and it doesn’t feel like a novelty. It feels like a rehearsed motion, one they have been preparing for for months. Lonely nights drowning in what ifs, and long days teased with carefully framed suggestions. When Pedri sighs into Ferran’s mouth, he realizes that both of them rehearsed this moment; either under the charm of drunken stupor when they caught each other staring, or in the silence of nights just like this one.
Ferran’s lips are warm, applying just enough pressure to encourage more, always more. He kisses like he touches, skimming the surface between mischief and passion with little to no effort; making it easy to develop an addiction. This is how Pedri fell, right at the beginning – by the faux sense of a way out, by the naive idea that it doesn’t have to mean anything. Now, his arm wraps around Ferran’s neck, pulling him closer, while his other hand is trapped between them, resting right above Ferran’s heart. It pounds under his touch, the sound loud and clear, spelling all the feelings breathed into Pedri’s open mouth.
It could never be nothing; if it was they wouldn’t have waited with a kiss for so long.
The kiss is short, frantic, and when they part for the distance of a breath, foreheads resting against each other, Pedri’s head is already spinning.
“That enough luck?” he breaths out heavily.
“For a World Cup?” Ferran chokes out, half-laughing. “Definitely not.”
And, well, Pedri thinks that they shouldn’t take any chances. It is the World Cup after all.