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People assume that when he’s about to take a shot in the game, there’s only him and the ball. That’s not true. Every single time his skin is buzzing with awareness. There are twenty-two players on the pitch, there are thousands of fans packed in the bleachers. Coaches follow his every move like hawks. When his foot is coming into contact with the ball, Ferran can feel every pair of eyes fixed on him, heavy anticipation, restless attention. And then, there’s only a net, either pristine and white or grey and ragged.
He thinks of it, briefly, when his eyes follow the droplet running across golden skin. There’s a sense of strange deja vu to this. All eyes on him, but he focuses on a single goal.
There’s a tear of sweat running down Pedri’s neck. Ferran really wants to lick it.
Somebody’s elbow between his ribs, just a brush really, but it’s enough for Ferran to take a step back. Not really a stumble but a close thing. Another step and the back of his shins bumps into something. The world in front of him swims with the mass of people, blur of black sky, red fabrics and golden crowns. The gravity tugs at his sleeves and Ferran allows it to pull him down as he flops onto the stairs. He blinks his eyes and sees Dani grinning at him like a madman. Perhaps it wasn’t the gravity after all, perhaps it was Dani’s hand around his wrist.
Ferran tips his head down in greeting, in acknowledgement, in who the fuck knows what. Dani’s wrapped in a Spanish flag, the fabric sticking to his sweaty body. He looks like a neat present, pull the ribbon and see him unravel in his happiness. Ferran feels as if he was cloaked with a bubble wrap instead, his senses distant and muffled with a thick invisible sponge. Not something fragile but rather a bomb – press too hard and he will explode in a flurry of flames.
Dani smiles and takes a swing from the bottle he’s holding. Swats away Ferran’s hand when he makes a grabby gesture.
“That’s enough for you for today.” Dani wags his finger, smacking his lips.
“You’re not my keeper,” Ferran grumbles out, words slurred against the roof of his mouth.
Dani laughs in response, the sound drowning in the cacophony of music and chanting.
“Me?” he echoes, sounding deeply amused. “No, certainly not.” Dani leans in, hiding his mouth behind his hand. “But you do have a keeper now, don’t you? And he told me that you’ve had enough for today,” he says smugly and moves away to take another swing from his bottle.
The rickety path of Ferran’s thoughts loses its track. His brain absorbs words slowly, building the meaning out of the bare components. A keeper. Now. He told me.
A brush of fingers, a warning in round, brown eyes, a glass of champagne pried out of Ferran’s hands. A droplet of sweat running down the neck. Ferran sucks in a quick breath.
There’s a whole stadium of people, and he has to spot the chance at victory before anyone else.
His back straightens and his senses come to clarity as he looks to the left and to the right. The scene around him is a mosaic of pictures; elements and fragments of reality merging with each other in a spectacle that boils with color and heat. It must be late into the night, but the celebration is in full swing. The fans are dancing and laughing and screaming; the crowd at the plaza moving like an unruly sea. Yamal and Cubarsi are doubled up in laughter, their wheezing breaths amplified by the microphones they are gripping. Eric is pulling Mikel close, pointing at something in the far distance. The night sky above them is dark in color and red with firework mist.
His vision rocks around the edges as he tries to catch a glance at Pedri’s face across the stage. His hands grip the edge of the stairs tighter as he leans forward, hating the distance between them, hating himself straying away, hating Gavi for being the one who currently makes Pedri’s face scrunch in laughter.
Ferran’s eyes don’t leave the scene, polishing the lines of Pedri’s face from the distance. The alcohol makes Ferran just unfocused enough that he has to resort to his own memory, adding the final touch to the picture unfolding too far away from him. His lips nip at his bottom lip to help the focus, but instead he’s punched in the stomach with a sharp vision. Pedri’s lips moving against his own. Pedri’s breath replacing the oxygen in his lungs. Pedri’s teeth teasing the seam of his mouth, a faux innocence.
“Careful Ferran,” Dani’s mouth is just by Ferran’s ear. Still, with the crowd roaring around them and cotton in his ears, Ferran can barely hear a thing. “Try not to spill anything today.”
Ferran’s eyebrows knit together, meeting in the middle of his forehead. His attention, reluctantly, moves back to Dani. He lifts his hands, opens his palms, all defensive – I’m innocent, referee. The glass he was holding and the champagne within it were confiscated from him a while ago. Ferran remembers it clearly because Pedri’s fingers touched his own when Pedri was wrangling the glass out of his hands. The back of Ferran’s throat burns.
“I’m not talking about drinks, moron.” Dani’s grin sharpens, ever so preceptive; his bleached hair almost as white as his teeth.
He stands up suddenly and reaches out for Ferran to grab his hand. Before Ferran knows what’s going on, he’s being hauled up. His teeth clatter at the impact of the motion, and his knees buckle a little – cotton in his ears, cotton instead of bones, cotton in his mouth.
“Wha–”
Dani’s hand clutches the front of his shirt and he pulls Ferran close, lips hovering right by his ear; the shape of his mouth carefully hidden from hundreds of cameras surrounding them. Dani’s an asshole, sometimes, but he knows how to keep a secret.
“Just don’t eye fuck on vision, will you?” He whispers pointedly, no anger, no judgement.
The temperature in Ferran’s veins skyrockets with implications. He opens his mouth ready to argue, but Dani only pulls an arm around his shoulders and pats him good-naturedly.
“Keep your excuses, loverboy,” he winks at Ferran easily. “Now go, find your midfielder, just don’t be too obvious.”
“Yeah, as if he wasn’t obvious before,” Eric jumps in without a warning as he rests his palm between Ferran’s shoulder blades and shoves him forward.
Ferran stumbles, his limbs slightly uncoordinated, heavy with lingering adrenaline. The air is warm, it slows him down by a breath, sticking to the skin, gathering around the temples and along the eyelashes. His skin is slick with condensation, his thoughts sluggish with alcohol-induced molasses, his eyelids weighed by the snapshots of last night’s moments.
His midfielder.
Even through the fuzz of his intoxication, he can clearly remember the kiss shared in the privacy of the hotel’s swimming pool. It was sweet, and slow, and warm in a way that puts a calming hand over his rattling heart. His breath hitches at the memory even now, his brain – a restless thing – whispers of many kisses he is yet to experience, yet to learn by memory. He remembers another kiss then, the one shared under the pressure of the tournament. Pedri’s lips hot and insistent against his, wanting in a demanding and insolent way – so surprising that Ferran is certain his winning World Cup goal was half fueled by the heat poured into his mouth with Pedri’s breath.
At this point, Ferran’s eyes are liquid fire; the pictures of the past not nearly enough to sate his hunger. His hand flexes, eager to wrap around something, someone, the absence of his person by his side like a missing limb. Perhaps this is why his mind feels so far removed from his body. Perhaps he is a fragmentary creature now, not whole until he’s so close to Pedri that they are one.
Ferran stumbles forward, pushes past the teammates and members of the Spanish crew, his breathing quickening. The distance he has to cover cannot be larger than a couple of meters but he feels exhausted by the time he reaches the spot, almost collapsing when he takes the final step and sags against Pedri.
He was breathless before now he inhales deeply, tucking his nose into the crook of Pedri’s neck.
“Pepi,” Ferran mumbles, the tip of his nose dragging over the heated skin. He can smell the sweat pooling in the dips of his body, bites his tongue to stop himself from tasting it here and now.
Pedri, in all his wonderful patience, only hums, his fingers wrapping around Ferran’s wrist briefly, squeezing it to ground him. Ferran’s pulse ricochets under the touch; his throat is perched, making it difficult to push anything other than Pedri’s name, so he hopes that what he cannot say Pedri will read from the rhythm of his blood.
“Tired?” Pedri guesses, raising his other hand, waving at someone in the crowd.
A chuckle swells in Ferran’s throat.
“No,” he turns his head, resting his cheek on Pedri’s shoulder. Like that he can watch the lights play out across Pedri’s face. Like that he can fit the entire universe into his vision. Two days ago, he was at the top of the world, a golden trophy in his hands. Now, he wants to hold the world in his hands. God, how he craves. “I could go for hours still.” His tongue curls around the suggestion, adding a layer of heat, yielding into the temptation that has been sitting in his bones for hours.
They only kissed so far, heated and desperate or slow and sensual, it’s only been a day since they put a name to this, but even now Ferran is already itching for more. A greedy thing.
Giddiness tickles his senses when he sees a flush deepen across Pedri’s cheeks.
“Would you now?” Pedri doesn’t look at him, and Ferran can tell it’s on purpose.
It’s a game they have been playing for a really long time. One in which Ferran teases all of the buttons until pressing one of them results in a desirable reaction. The anticipation always keeps him on his toes.
Ferran’s fingers tug at the hem of Pedri’s shirt. A week ago, he would leave the gesture without a follow-up; tonight his nails drum lightly against the outline of a hipbone. He doesn’t fight the smirk that makes it onto his face when he feels Pedri jump with surprise.
“Could go for hours, huh?” Pedri echoes, his voice faltering slightly as a shiver runs through his bones. This, too, Ferran can feel with every fiber of his consciousness.
A self-assured smile pushes at the corners of his lips, his eyes darkening with encouragement.
“Mhm,” Ferran hums, nails dragging across the fabric.
Pedri’s throat bobs as he swallows the saliva; sweat glisters across his skin like glitter. Ferran really wants to test his limits. How hard would he have to bite for the skin to give way? How sweet is whatever runs beneath? Does the heat match Ferran’s own? His teeth ache with anticipation; it wouldn’t even take much for Ferran to fit his mouth against Pedri’s pulse and–
A burst of stinging pain explodes just above the thin skin of his wrist and he nearly yelps in pain, instinctively jumping away. He lifts his hand just fast enough to see the red lines of a pinch bruise rapidly into a purple mark. The ripples of discomfort still run up Ferran’s forearm, but it soon transforms into bewilderment.
It was a pretty impressive pinch.
His eyes snap up just in time to see Pedri’s cheeks round up with a self-satisfied smile. When their eyes meet Pedri snorts. Ferran’s stomach twists a little, his heart leaping in his chest.
“What was that for?” he asks reproachingly, but there’s no real annoyance in his voice; only bafflement.
“Being a menace,” Pedri takes a step forward and flicks his forehead playfully, even though his eyes are dark.
“Nothing new then!” Gavi points out happily as he passes by, and Ferran has a sudden and unexplainable urge to throw him against the floor. Little fucker would probably enjoy that too.
However, because he is a civil person off pitch, thank you very fucking much, instead he only scoffs, and places himself on Pedri’s right side.
Pedri, on the other hand, seemingly completely unbothered by Gavi’s intrusion, cackles gleefully. His body ever so slightly leans against Ferran’s side.
“Oh really? Look who’s speaking,” he grins at Gavi and Gavi grins back, always eager to take a bait, walk into a fight – real or pretend, it matters not.
Ferran laughs and puts his arm around Pedri, pulling him closer, angling his mouth towards his ear even if he speaks loudly enough for Gavi to hear him too.
“Have you seen how quick he was to get in a fight with Paredes?” Ferran comments. “Definitely a menace.”
Gavi snorts.
“Like you’re the one to talk,” he points out and gestures lazily at both of them. “The moment someone breathes at Pedri in the wrong way, you have them pinned to the ground.”
“That’s different,” Ferran replies immediately, his hold around Pedri’s tightening.
“Yeah, I don’t doubt that,” Gavi sniggers, eyes all too fucking bright with knowledge. “Just tell me… are you going to be even more insufferable now? How does it work?”
A newly discovered tension pulls at Ferran’s eyebrow, a knit of confusion and annoyance alike already straining his muscles. The easy smile he was sporting straightens into an uncomfortable grimace. He’s about to say something – bark at Gavi, something rude in its nature and by the pattern of speech – when suddenly Pedri wiggles away from under his arm. He’s quick, on and off the pitch, and before Ferran can really react, the World Cup is thrust into his hands.
“Go, say something nice for the fans,” Pedri looks at him pointedly, pushing the trophy even closer to Ferran’s chest. “And you,” he glances over his shoulder at Gavi, smile polite but eyes glacial, “try not to be too antagonistic towards your own teammates.”
Everything’s too loud, too intense for Pedri’s liking. He can already feel the jetlag strumming his muscles, a nervous spasm of tiredness and adrenaline alike. Ever since the final whistle at the MetLife Stadium cut through the air, his life has been a windmill of emotions. Saturday night he was tossing in his bed, half-delirious with sleeplessness, only to kiss his best friend good luck way too passionately and pray he would come for more. Sunday night he was a world champion and the same best friend kissed him so deeply that Pedri was still trying to catch his breath, hours after it happened. Now, it’s Monday night and he watches his idiot of a boyfriend parade around the stage with a World Cup and a giant smile across his face, and Pedri tries to figure out which of these two catches his eyes more.
He really wishes he could go home already. Maybe with the World Cup in his bag; Definitely with Ferran by his side.
There’s an itch beneath his skin, a need for something long denied and suddenly offered for free. The highs of the victory are still making him light-headed and he wants to use this time to the best of his abilities. Instead, he is sitting on the stairs of the stage set in the middle of Cibeles Square, and there are thousands of people watching him breathe his adrenaline away.
Iglesias nudges him slightly as he sways to the rhythm of the music. Pedri tears his eyes away from Ferran making an absolute fool in front of millions of people.
“Hm?” he asks, distractedly.
“So… you and Ferran…” Iglesias trails off, eyes travelling between Pedri and Ferran.
The first instinct is to brush it off. Quick and swift, Pedri has done it hundreds of times – cut the gossip, avoid the heartbreak. It’s second nature for him. No, him and Ferran and just friends. No, Ferran is just clingy like that. No, Pedri never thought about taking things further. Of course, he has been methodically breaking these claims one by one for the past couple of months. Maybe years. Depending on how honest he is with himself.
Still, before the denial makes it past his lips, Pedri chokes on it. And god, it must speak volumes that now that they crossed the line, Pedri can’t even bring himself to lie. So instead he ducks his head down, the smile on his lips too private, too enamoured to be seen plastered all over the media the next morning.
“I guess so…” he mumbles in response, quietly.
Iglesias places his hand over Pedri’s shoulder and pats him with encouragement.
“It was about time,” he smiles.
Pedri lifts his head, self-consciousness nipping at his cheeks.
“It was that obvious, huh?” He has already suspected that much.
“Very,” Iglesias nods, never one to beat around the bush. “But it’s good,” he adds without missing a beat, before Pedri as much as starts to doubt his entire life. “It’s all good. That’s how it should be.”
The corner of Pedri’s lips quirks upwards. There are hundreds of questions swirling around his head. He wants to ask – what gave them away? He wants to ask – how long has Iglesias known? He wants to ask – does Ferran ever look at him the way Pedri sometimes looks at him? Only, of course, he already knows the answer to the last question. He only chose to be blind for way too long.
Nonetheless, he turns to Iglesias, eager to get at least one answer. The same moment, a heavy body flops onto his lap. Warm and sun-kissed, and smelling of sweat and vindication. Pedri knows this body intimately, knows it enough that if he found himself transported into Ferran’s blood system, he suspects he would instinctively find the way to his heart.
Ferran lets out a loud sigh, sound emphasized by the teeth holding his smile in place. His head dips to the back, until his skull is pillowed against Pedri’s shoulder. His movements are heavy and clumsy, the way they never are on the pitch, and Pedri rolls his eyes. He’ll haunt whoever poured Ferran another glass of wine and discuss the ethics of their future relations. But that can wait.
“Hey, big baby,” Pedri comments jokingly, poking Ferran’s between the ribs. The angle is awkward but the giggle he gets in return is worth it.
“That’s my line,” Ferran complains, the smile on his face sirupy and drowsy.
“Is it?” Pedri teases.
“It should be,” Ferran announces and turns his head to plant a wet kiss on Pedri’s neck.
Every single hair on Pedri’s body stands up under the attention. He knows, on the screen it’s going to look like any other peck Ferran has ever laid on him. He also knows this – the kiss lingers a second too long, the graze of teeth is new, the shadow of a bite is downright sinful. Instantly, Pedri’s hands rest above Ferran’s hipbones and squeeze the muscle there. For a moment, Pedri delights himself in feeling the full-body shudder that shakes Ferran’s form, he catches the slightest echo of a moan too. It turns his ears red.
Before things spiral out of control, he motions for Iglesias to take some space and pushes Ferran off his lap.
“Behave,” he mumbles, shooting an apologetic look at Iglesias.
Iglesias, bless his soul, only smiles at him with amusement and hands him a can of Sprite behind Ferran’s back.
The entire exchange costs Pedri a precious second. Turns out that’s enough for Ferran to slide down and place himself between Pedri’s legs.
“Ferran,” Pedri hisses out through his teeth.
“Relax,” Ferran shrugs, resting his cheek against Pedri’s thigh. “That way you can keep an eye on me,” he adds and snickers loudly as if he has just told the funniest joke.
Pedri’s nose scrunches. He kind of wants to lean down and kiss the smile off Ferran’s face. The way Ferran’s eyes blink at him doesn’t make it any better. Pedri has been looked at like this hundreds of times; the only difference is that now he knows what it means. It means that if Pedri really leaned down, Ferran would meet him half-way, breathing want and intoxication into his veins.
He makes a point of turning his gaze away, pretending to listen to whatever Unai is saying about his role and involvement during the match against Argentina. Pedri has already heard this story but boredom is safer than focusing on the fact that Ferran Torres is currently sitting between his legs, his hot breath teasing Pedri’s skin, his eyes growing darker and darker with each passing minute. The blood is pounding in Pedri’s veins and he’s certain that Ferran can feel it against his cheek.
God, Unai really sucks at being a distraction.
Trying to disperse his focus, Pedri takes a sip from the can. Immediately, he makes a face at the tickle of bubbles down his throat.
“You don’t really like that,” Ferran points out, and Pedri can feel those big eyes staring at his face.
Without looking he hands Ferran the Sprite. Ferran should probably be drinking water right now, but Pedri’s not strong enough to get up. He also has a very uncomfortable suspicion that if he got up, his budding excitement would be showing more than he’d want to.
“It’s non-alcoholic,” Pedri says completely unnecessarily.
“Obviously,” Ferran snorts and lifts the can to his lips.
The motion is slow, and only for a moment Pedri mistakes its sluggishness for weariness. By the time he catches on what Ferran is doing, it’s too late to look away.
Ferran’s mouth easily finds the spot which Pedri’s lips rested upon before. His tongue darts out, pink and wet as it teases the rim of the can – sliding over the edge of sharp aluminium. He tips his head slightly to the back, and takes a sip of the drink. It’s a show, it’s an erotic mirage. No one drinks fucking Sprite that slowly, is what Pedri thinks. He should slap the can away, but he cannot. Instead, he sits there frozen, gazing at Ferran’s from above and watching as Ferran’s throat bobs sensually when he swallows.
His eyes are bearing into Pedri’s face, first to notice the red flush blooming across his face.
Ferran hiccups quietly before smacking his lips with contentment and putting the can down.
And yes, Ferran is an idiot, which was proved many times, but sometimes Pedri is here to match this energy. With his heart threatening to burst out of his chest and leans down.
“You’re being a menace again,” he points out.
When Ferran’s hand lands on his knee, he doesn’t flinch, though. Refuses to acknowledge this blatant attempt at distraction.
“You like it though,” Ferran tilts his head a little and presses a quick kiss against Pedri’s thigh.
He sighs when Pedri’s fingers tangle into his hair, pulling at the roots ever so slightly. Instead, his eyelids flutter close and his body sags even further, his fingers drawing invisible squiggles over Pedri’s knee.
“Yeah…” Pedri admits after a couple of minutes. “I guess I do…”
The end.