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Ferran’s mind knows no such thing as peace.
There’s always another match, another challenge, another thing to lose his fucking mind over. It’s easy to ignore, usually. That nagging feeling that he’s chasing after something he has no chance of winning. You cannot feel the absence of something you never had – that’s what he’s been telling himself over and over again.
Scoring the winning goal in the World Cup final changes things, as it turns out.
Pride grows in him like a disease; spreading in a sickly sweet flood which sticks to the roof of his mouth, clogs his arteries, drowns his lungs. He can see it in the corners of his eyes when he catches the glint of golden medals piled on the nightstand. He can smell it in his breath along with the foretell of morning. He can taste it on his tongue mixed with the fruity bite of red wine.
Pride fills Ferran to the brim, making the tiny hollow in his chest even more pronounced. It takes the shape of a name, it takes the shape of a face. Not a single person in the room fits the outline.
There’s always another match, another challenge, another thing to lose his fucking mind over. Another way to push his luck because maybe this time it will stick.
Ferran tells himself to keep it cool when he stands up and stretches his arms out, making a show of his supposed weariness. It’s a cheap excuse, the party has been going for hours but the adrenaline inside his body could have pushed him for days more without a break. Several people shoot him a curious glance, and he waves at them dismissively.
Instead, he leans down to Joan and pats his shoulder.
“I need a moment out.” Is what he says, casually.
“Not your babysitter,” Joan shrugs, fingers absently tracing the heavy golden medal still hanging around his neck. He is probably a little bit more drunk than he’d be willing to admit, but well – it is an occasion.
Ferran nods, straightening up. He’s confident, he’s in control, he has just scored the winning goal in the fucking World Cup. He takes a step forward to the door, when across the room, his eyes meet Gavi’s. There’s a twinkle in them, a sense of knowing, when Gavi glances between Ferran and the exit. He probably saw Pedri leave before Ferran did – they were sitting together, laughing over something when Ferran was trying to process the events of the last 24 hours. Was trying to work out the courage for the next couple of hours too.
Gavi tips his head, a smirk visibly pulling on his lips even when he tries to hide it behind his cup. Ferran smiles back at him, easy and suave like he has nothing to hide, like he has nothing to lose. Like he has already won everything even though he didn’t. Gavi snorts and Ferran can’t hear it through the noise but he can see the dimension of the sound – half-amusement, half-encouragement. When he turns around and quickly makes his way to the door, he feels conspicuous and so obvious that it strains his muscles to the point of discomfort.
There’s no point in looking around to see whose eyes are glued to his back; no point in tracing the contours of suspicion across his teammates’ faces. It’s enough that he is vaguely aware that some of them – those from Barca, mostly – already know, can already tell, because Ferran has never been one to stop people from talking even if half the time he wishes the gossip wouldn’t reach his ears.
The hallway is empty when he steps out of the room but through the walls he can hear the cheering and music punctuating their victory. The confident smile on his lips slips a little into something more hesitant, more sincere. The entire evening was a string of noises – congratulations, laughter, tears, singing, chanting and more congratulations. He’s used to the noise, the stadiums are rarely quiet after all, but… right now, he needs more space to sort out another game.
He trails down the hallway, allowing the muscle memory to decide the direction for him. His body is always curving towards whatever it desires; Ferran stopped fighting this battle in particular a long time ago.
He doesn’t realize where he’s going until the scent of chlorine hits him in the nostrils, the artificial moisture grazing over his exposed forearms. He cannot hear the splashing of water but a ribbon of blue light cuts through the hallway, as if someone forgot to close the door when they walked into the pool area. Ferran can only hope that rather than forgetfulness, it was intent that left breadcrumbs for him to follow.
The hollow space inside his chest already sloshes with the sense of comfort. You cannot feel the absence of something you never had, and yet he feels the absence of Pedri like a tumor, pressing against all the soft, sweet spaces between his ribs. Just a little more pressure, and Ferran will burst open. A cherry trapped between teeth – red and shining and dripping down your chin; suck off the juice and get to the naked bone, see what he’s made of.
Ferran flexes his hands, wipes the sweat into his shorts. His skin itches with want, his tongue already swirls around the name sitting on its tip. Still, he hesitates, restless energy holding him in a place instead of pushing forward. One goal that changed everything but so many others that led to nowhere, left everyone involved disappointed and quiet in the wake of his failure. Ferran’s mind is ruthless, and this time he doesn’t fight its violence. He thinks of another victory, another one-time wonder. He thinks of lips feverishly pressed against his own, of hot breath sitting across his tongue, of quick, nervous fingers just barely keeping his heart contained beneath his shirt.
He wonders if kissing Pedri was a one-time marvel, too. If he will fuck up the aftermath.
His bare feet barely make a sound when he slips into the room. Everything around him is glowing in the shades of blue – the swimming pool lightened up by the underwater lights. The walls turn liquid in front of Ferran’s eyes, the floor is soft with droplets of water. A stark contrast to the golden trophies he left behind with his teammates. Here, he can barely remember the engravings on his medal even though he has touched it dozens of times by now. Here, it almost feels like he’s floating, far far removed from reality.
The lone figure sitting at the edge of the pool anchors him back in, and Ferran realises just how deeply he misjudged the situation. How stupid he was. There’s no challenge to win here; no victory to bring home. Here is only Pedri and with him nothing ever feels like losing. Not even the things that Ferran can’t have.
He pads quietly to join his side, wants to kiss the crown of Pedri’s head and wills himself to do better this time. When Ferran sits down he makes sure to keep an inch of a distance between them, just for the sake of craving the touch even more. Sometimes when he lays down at night in the darkness of the room, he thinks of all the moments he seeks out Pedri’s skin against him. How it’s less a conscious choice and more of a habit. When night gets darker though, he sometimes asks himself how many times Pedri would reach out first – if he ever would.
Pedri’s shoulder bumps into Ferran’s, moves away, stays closer still; narrowing the gap Ferran left. The uncomfortable pressure at the back of Ferran’s throat eases up.
“Left your own party, huh,” Pedri half-asks, half-states with a quiet hum.
“Not really my party,” Ferran laughs, voice equally quiet, careful not to disturb the water when he dips his ankles beneath the surface.
“It kind of is, though,” Pedri nudges him with his shoulder again; his feet happily churning the water in the pool. “You’re a national hero, do you even realize that?” he asks with a grin.
Ever the traitor, Ferran’s lips twitch and stretch, mirroring Pedri’s grin. He glances at the midfielder, holds his gaze for a breath, before ducking his head down to smile at the pool – the outlines of their features distorted, barely distinguishable in the blue hue. Like this they look closer than they are; like this they look merged together.
“That’s what they say,” Ferran replies, shaking his head a little. “But really it was the team’s effort.”
Pedri tsks.
“Cameras are off,” he teases, his left foot hooking over Ferran’s ankle. Skin on skin, under the water where no one can see. “You can brag a little, I won’t tell anyone.”
Ferran lifts his head.
“Liar,” he laughs.
When Pedri blinks at him – eyes all big and round, and so full of shit hastily covered up by that innocent act of his – Ferran feels like he’s fighting a losing game. He leans in, because it’s only natural, and doesn’t even have to calculate the distance between them. Standing on the pitch, he knows where the ball is, knows where to be; the problem is never the distance – it’s the execution; not always though, only sometimes. And recently he happens to have an exceptionally good aim.
Ferran’s hand rests against the back of Pedri’s neck – not grabbing, just holding – and then he plants a kiss just over his jugular. The beat of Pedri’s pulse beneath his skin is as familiar as the salty taste of his skin; no novelty in this gesture, only grounding closeness. Ferran’s fingers squeeze Pedri’s nape just a little bit, enough to push his neck further into the kiss because Ferran is a greedy, greedy man.
For a split second, he thinks he can feel the pulse jump under his mouth. Or maybe it’s a nugget of gold that has wiggled its way into Pedri’s blood system somewhere along the way. He’s always been all pretty gold in Ferran’s eyes anyway. A treasure, something to be cherished.
“You were outstanding too, you know?” Ferran mumbles into Pedri’s skin before moving away, his hand still treacherously resting over Pedri’s nape.
Pedri laughs, breathless, shameless, high on emotions still.
“I did my best,” he replies, cheeks visibly rosy even under the baby blue hues of the swimming pool. His eyelashes dip then, shadows playing over his skin, as his eyes dart to the water. “Had some good luck, too…” he trails off, voice lower now.
The sound of quietly sloshing water stills, the surface of the pool calms down enough to settle into a smooth mirror. The silence stretches in the hesitance that follows; not uncomfortable, not tense, but heavy enough.
Ferran’s tongue darts out to lick the bottom of his lips as if still looking for the aftertaste of the kiss exchanged under the polluted New York’s sky last night. His nose tickles with the phantom reminder of Pedri’s hair when he pressed a kiss to his temple seconds before walking onto the pitch.
“For good luck,” Ferran whispered back then, into the safety of Pedri’s ear when hundreds of cameras were set dead on the two of them. An echo of the kiss they shared the night earlier. A memory of crossing the line they promised that wouldn’t cross.
Unabashed in their craving for victory, they allowed some other passions to get tangled in.
Ferran licks his lips again and now he can feel Pedri’s eyes following the arch of his tongue.
“We’re both lucky boys, then,” Ferran points out, much softer than he intended too. His fingers spasm against the heat of Pedri’s nape, his heart threatening to leap out of his chest.
He is close enough to watch as the color of Pedri’s cheeks deepens, as the crimson spills over his skin, bringing out the shimmer in his eyes, highlighting the flash of teeth under the poorly concealed smile. God. Ferran wants to lean in now; catch the sigh before it builds into a gasp, startle Pedri enough to keep his eyes open in surprise before they flutter shut. Yesterday was different – frantic and passionate and everything Ferran denied himself for months, maybe years if he wants to be honest with himself.
Today is another day, and both Ferran and Pedri have already won everything. Nothing to lose, only more to gain. What has to be given cannot be won – a truth as simple as that. No skills required here, just a little bit of–
Ferran runs his finger over Pedri’s vertebrae. Coated with warm skin, the bone seems smooth, delicate and easy to break. Ferran’s hand moves lower, a barely-there pressure over the exposed fragility of this gilded body. He looks into Pedri’s eyes and wants to cover them too; all that trusting vulnerability and shy uncertainty.
Shy, shy, always so shy as if Ferran didn’t bend himself backwards to steal just a feather of touch.
Now, it is not enough. Ferran clears his throat, knows his voice will come out hoarse anyway.
“I might need a bit more luck though,” he whispers.
Pedri’s eyes widen and really he should know better than to tempt Ferran like that. He blinks once, twice, as if he was surprised by Ferran’s suggestion. A kiss for good luck. Pedri's surprise is ridiculous. As if it wasn’t blatantly obvious that Ferran would kiss him silly in front of the cameras if he got as much as a whisper of encouragement.
“Already?” Is what Pedri says, disbelief and something hopeful clinging to his voice. “Ran out of it already?”
Ferran huffs a breath of amusement.
“Are you suggesting that I shouldn’t have used all of that to win a World Cup?” he asks, and presses his forehead against Pedri’s. “The window for complaints has already been closed when it comes to that, sorry.”
Pedri kicks Ferran’s foot under water.
“Asshole,” he mumbles, eyes darting from Ferran’s eyes to his lips and back to his eyes again. “Well, then, what do you need more luck for?” he adds and as he does, his little finger grazes over the top of Ferran’s hand. It feels like Ferran’s head was abruptly pushed under the water. An overwhelming feeling, a sudden cut of oxygen, a sense of weightlessness that makes all the boundaries spin into a hectic blur of colors.
“I–” Ferran starts and this time his fingers dig ever so slightly into the smooth expanse of Pedri’s neck. “I want to ask someone out. A date.” The words rush out of his mouth in a single exhale.
Pedri’s finger stills, freezes over Ferran’s skin. His eyes are a bottomless pit, a perfect mirror to the wavering water. He breathes like a drowning man, trying to conserve the last reservoir of air. Then, after what feels like an eternity, Pedri’s finger lands on Ferran’s knuckle, wiggles its way under to rest under his palm. It’s shaking, shaking so hard that Ferran’s half afraid that Pedri’s bones are falling apart.
“Ask someone out.” Pedri echoes. “And you need luck for that?” His breath sits heavy on Ferran’s lips. “You sure it’s necessary?”
“I don’t know,” Ferran admits. He wants to say ‘I hope not’, but swallows it up. Leaves the gap between them, allows Pedri to breach it, prays that he will. “You think I’m charming enough it won’t be necessary?”
Pedri’s mouth curls deliciously in the narrow space between their lips.
“You’re a hero of the nation, I’m pretty sure it’s enough to win that person over.” His speech is quiet; not bashful, just private. Just between them. Because Ferran kisses Pedri’s neck on live television and Pedri seeks him out during the sleepless nights, and both of those are just as intimate. “And if they know you half as well as I do, then I know they would say yes even before all of that.”
It’s the yes that pushes Ferran in, makes him close the gap between them. The yes and the twinkle in Pedri’s eyes – not the sparkle of water but all the golden affection he’s always brimming with when he’s looking at Ferran. Their lips fit together seamlessly, just like their silhouettes did in the mirror of the water. Pedri’s lips are chapped and warm and he tastes faintly of champagne that spilled past his lips a few hours earlier. Ferran could swear that whatever fizz was swirling the drink found home in Pedri’s mouth anyway because he had never felt this lightheaded from a simple kiss.
His fingers sprawl over Pedri’s nape, nails grazing the heated skin, while his other hand travels to guide Pedri’s hand to his waist just above the hipbone. They have touched before, sometimes briefly, sometimes with more intent, but when Pedri slips his thumb under his tank top, Ferran can feel his whole body shudder. He tilts his head, catches Pedri’s bottom lip between his teeth – a cherry to pop, a bone to protect – and lightly sucks at it, pulling a soft sigh out of Pedri’s throat.
Ferran feels almost delirious with emotion. He pinpoints the feeling instantly – bizarrely similar to what he felt when the ball landed in the goal, added time, Ferran 106'. Pride, happiness, love. It’s either of them and all of them. It grows in his chest and this time there’s no hollow space in the corner of his heart.
He pulls away for a second.
“Will you–” because he should ask just to make sure.
As it usually is with them, Pedri meets him halfway when Ferran least expects it.
“Yes,” Pedri replies quickly, his hand surprisingly heavy on Ferran’s waist. “Now and before and later… yes.” He whispers urgently and closes the gap between them.