Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The air across the globe didn’t just carry the warm breeze of June—it vibrated with a single, collective pulse.

The 2026 World Cup had arrived, and with it came an electric, almost suffocating wave of excitement. Millions of voices, hundreds of flags, and a endless sea of fans had converged on America with one shared obsession. Nobody was here just to participate. For every player, every coach, and every cheering fan in the stands, there was only one goal that mattered: lifting the golden trophy.

Among the top favorites, Spain arrived in Atlanta, USA, under a blaze of heat and high expectations.

The training camp felt like a pressure cooker. Everything was fast—the sticky Southern heat, the relentless schedule, the constant roar of media cameras and passionate fans crowding outside the gates day and night. Between heavy tactical meetings and grueling sessions on the grass, there was very little breathing room.

Every drop of sweat on the pitch carried the weight of a nation’s dream. In the quiet moments between drills, when the players caught their breath, the atmosphere was thick with a shared, silent understanding: win, or go home empty-handed.

They had entered the match with a quiet, unspoken confidence. Cape Verde was a small country, and on paper, Spain was supposed to sweep them aside without breaking a sweat.

But football doesn't exist on paper.

As the minutes ticked away, confidence twisted into cold, mounting dread. Under the harsh afternoon lights of the stadium, Spain played with the relentless, suffocating grace of a tide that refused to recede. Seventy-four percent possession. Twenty-three shots on goal. The ball moved between them like a living thing—a beautiful, frantic dance of one-touch passes and overlapping runs that seemed destined to break the deadlock.

Yet Vozhinia stood in the center of the storm.

The Cape Verdean keeper was a monolith. Every time Pedri carved a gap through the defense, every time Ferran found a sliver of space to unleash a shot, Vozhinia was already there—a shadow moving before the ball could even leave the foot.

Eight saves. Eight agonizing moments where the air left the stadium in a collective gasp, only for the ball to be parried away into the nothingness of the corner flags.

Frustration began to curdle into panic. The tick of the clock grew louder in the players' heads, each passing minute heavier than the last. Spain was suffocating under the weight of their own expectations, staring down a small nation that simply refused to break.

When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard stood in cold, unyielding silence: 0–0.

A heavy, suffocating frustration settled over the Spanish squad. For all their possession, all their tactical mastery, and all their pedigree, they walked off the pitch with heads bowed, unable to break the deadlock against a nation a fraction of their size.

By nightfall, the global media machine had seized the story. Headine after headline pulled no punches, calling into question Spain’s dominance and demanding to know if the tournament favorites had already hit their limit. How could a powerhouse stocked with world-class talent fail to score a single goal against Cape Verde?

Yet amidst the harsh critique of Spain's performance, the sports world united in awe of one man: Vozinha.

The Cape Verdean goalkeeper had pulled off a masterclass in resilience, transforming into an immovable wall when his country needed him most. Clashing highlights of his eight miraculous saves flooded social media, turning the veteran keeper into an overnight viral sensation—the undisputed hero who stood tall against a giant.

The locker room was suffocatingly quiet—a heavy, bruised silence that pressed far harder than any shouting match ever could.

In the corners, a few players exchanged hushed, fragile whispers, but the air remained thick and jagged, heavy with the weight of expectations left unfulfilled.

Ferran sat motionless on the bench, head bowed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. His knuckles were pale from the pressure. A missed chance—on the very first match. It burned behind his eyes, a phantom replay looping in his head with cruel precision.

A few feet away, Pedri sat lost in his own mind. He had poured everything onto that grass, exhausted his lungs and carved open every gap he could find, yet the draw felt like a devastating loss he couldn't bring himself to accept.

Through the low murmur of team chatter and the quiet rustle of gear, Pedri’s focus shifted. His eyes drifted away from the tiled floor and settled on Ferran.

Ferran’s gaze was fixed blindly on the ground, his shoulders drawn impossibly tight beneath his damp jersey. He wasn't loud about his frustration—he never was. It lived in the subtle things: the rigid tension in his spine, the way his hands gripped his knees, the absolute refusal to meet anyone's eyes.

Pedri knew that look.

He knew the quiet storm brewing behind Ferran's ribs. He knew how deeply Ferran would bury himself in the blame, dissecting every missed touch, every fraction of a second, and every ball that had sailed just inches wide of the post. In a room full of collective heartbreak, Pedri could feel Ferran's isolated pain burning clearer than anything else.

Pedri recognized that smile instantly. It was a fragile, hollow thing—a practiced mask Ferran slipped on for the benefit of the room, a tight curve of his lips that never even came close to reaching the shadowed depth of his eyes.

Seeing it made a physical ache bloom in Pedri's chest.

He wanted nothing more than to cross the cold tiles, pull Ferran into a crushing, breathless hug right in front of everyone, and force the weight off his shoulders. The encouraging words were already spinning wildly behind his teeth, frantic and desperate to escape: It's one game. It's not your fault. Don't carry this alone.

Unable to watch him crumble behind that quiet mask a second longer, Pedri pushed himself off the bench.

He took a single step forward, the heavy, suffocating silence of the locker room fading into white noise. His hand was already half-raised, fingers curling slightly as if he could already feel the damp fabric of Ferran's jersey. He was ready to reach out, ready to be the one to steady him.

But the space between them was suddenly gone.

Marc Pubill was already there.

Pedri’s breath caught, his body freezing mid-motion as Marc dropped onto the bench. The distance was effortlessly erased as the defender leaned in, draping an arm heavily and comfortably over Ferran's shoulders. It was a gesture of easy, casual warmth—a grounding presence that belonged exactly where Pedri had wanted to be.

Pedri’s raised hand fell slowly back to his side. The unspoken words turned to ash in his throat, leaving him standing there in the quiet ache of the room, forced to watch someone else anchor the only person he wanted to hold.

It was a gesture of easy solidarity, the kind of touch that meant I've got you. And Ferran, instead of pulling away or stiffening, simply leaned into it. His head tilted slightly toward Marc's shoulder, his body relaxing just a fraction under the weight of that contact

It wasn't that Ferran was being cruel. It was worse than that—he was being comforted by someone else. The physical closeness of them, even in the middle of a frustrating draw, felt like a barrier that Pedri couldn't break through.

Pedri had been watching it unfold for weeks—this quiet, effortless warmth taking root between Marc and Ferran.

It was everywhere, subtle at first, then impossible to ignore. Ferran laughed differently with him—brighter, looser, as if Marc possessed some secret key to unlock the tension held in his jaw. At dinner, their trays were always set side by side. They moved through the suffocating routine of the camp with the easy, fluid rhythm of two people who had known each other for a lifetime, rather than just a handful of weeks.

And Ferran was thriving in it.

He wasn't someone meant to sit alone in the dark with his thoughts; he needed connection the way a drowning man needed air. He was always moving, always talking, weaving seamlessly into conversations, finding new hands to hold onto in the storm. For Ferran, it was simple survival in a pressure-cooker world—a instinctual way to soften the sharp edges of an international tournament.

He was just making friends. He was just trying to breathe.

Pedri knew that.

Let him do Whatever pedri.

He understood it completely. But as he watched Marc’s arm rest casually across Ferran's shoulders, absorbing the comfort that should have been his to give, understanding didn't make the hollow ache in his chest any lighter.

The training pitch was humid, the kind of heavy air that clung to the skin after an hour of drills. Pedri stood near the sideline, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt, his eyes drifting toward the center circle.

There they were. Ferran and Marc Pubil.

They were walking back from a sprint drill, shoulders bumping, Marc saying something that had Ferran doubling over with a laugh. It wasn't just a passing joke; it was that easy, comfortable that usually took months to build. And Ferran was building it in days.

Pedri tightened his grip on his water bottle. He hadn't felt this way before—this sharp, nagging tightness in his chest every time he saw Ferran's attention drift toward someone else.

He know, he's crazy but he only wants ferran's attention towards him.Atleast he is honest about it. But doesn’t have the courage to talk about it.

He keeps things to himself.

When the coach blew the whistle for the next set of partner drills, Pedri moved quickly. He stepped toward Ferran, he turned around

""Hey, you got a minute to help me with this drill? Just one-on-one, some passing work," Pedri said, his voice steady despite the slight edge of anticipation beneath it.

Ferran turned, wiping sweat from his chin with the back of his hand. His face was flushed, a genuine smile still lingering from whatever Marc had just said. "Oh, hey Pedri. Yeah, for sure, I can—"

He stopped mid-sentence. Marc Pubil was already standing right next to him, clapping a hand on Ferran's shoulder, looking between the two of them with a grin.

"Actually, pepi, Marc and I already paired up for this set," Ferran said, his tone apologetic but not particularly distressed. He didn't sound like he was choosing one over the other; he sounded like he was simply stating a fact. "We were gonna work on some defensive positioning drills together. 

Before Pedri could fully process the words, Ferran turned away.

Just like that, he fell smoothly into step with Marc, their rhythm instant and effortless as they started the drill. A quiet, persistent smile rested on Ferran's lips—a look of easy comfort that seemed to cost him nothing at all.

Pedri stood frozen, the humid Atlanta air turning thick in his lungs.

The casual rejection hit him like a sharp blow to the chest.

"Did Ferran just refuse to train with him?"

"Did he really choose Marc instead?"

"The guy he known for just some days?"

In Pedri's mind, there had never been a question, never a second thought. Whenever the coaches called for a two-person drill, they were the default. They were the permanent duo, an unspoken rule forged through countless sessions and shared glances. There was supposed to be no doubt in that.

Yet as he watched them move down the pitch together, the distance between him and Ferran felt wider than it ever had before.

Pedri knew he was being dramatic. He knew it with a sharp, bitter clarity, but that logic did absolutely nothing to loosen the hot, ugly coil of jealousy tightening in his stomach.

He had always been like this. Quietly, fiercely possessive over the things that belonged to him. It was a stubborn trait hardwired into his bones since childhood. When he was little, he would cross his arms and adamantly refuse to share his favorite toys with his older brother, Fernando. If something was Pedri’s, it was his. No exceptions. No sharing.

And Ferran... Ferran was his best friend. His anchor in the pressure cooker of the World Cup. His permanent duo.

Standing there on the grass, watching them move through the drill together—watching Ferran throw his head back and laugh at something Marc just said—made a cold, irrational ache rise in Pedri's throat.

Seeing another guy step so easily into his space, seeing someone else making his best friend so effortlessly, radiantly happy... it wasn't just frustrating. It felt like watching someone slowly steal the air right out of his lungs.

The stadium buzzed with excitement as Spain prepared to face Belgium in one of the biggest matches of the World Cup.

When the starting lineup appeared on the giant screen, a wave of shock swept through the crowd.

Pedri wasn't in the starting eleven.

Instead, the coach had chosen Fabián Ruiz to control the midfield.

The debates started all over again.

"Bellingham is scoring goals every match..."

"Meanwhile, Pedri has been playing terribly."

"Maybe Ruiz is the better choice."

The criticism had become impossible to escape. No one knew what was weighing on Pedri's mind or what had been distracting him these past few weeks. They only saw his performances—not the battles he fought in silence.

Sitting on the bench, Pedri kept his eyes on the pitch. His wide, doe-like eyes followed every pass, every tackle, every chance. Despite everything, the excitement of a World Cup match still made his heart race. The roar of the crowd, the adrenaline in the air—it was impossible not to feel it.

For a brief moment, he glanced over his shoulder.

A few seats behind him, Ferran Torres sat beside Marcos. Ferran had one hand covering his mouth as he whispered something, and a second later, both of them burst into quiet laughter.

Pedri's jaw tightened.

He looked away without a word, forcing his attention back to the match as the referee's whistle echoed through the stadium.

The match reached the thirtieth minute when Spain finally broke the deadlock.

Fabián Ruiz.

The ball crashed into the back of the net, and the stadium erupted. The Spanish players rushed towards him, pulling him into a tight embrace as the crowd roared with deafening cheers.

Above them, the drone camera hovered for a moment before slowly drifting away from the celebrating huddle.

Then it turned toward the bench.

Toward Pedri.

He noticed it instantly.

For a split second, his expression froze.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he looked away from the lens. A small smile found its way onto his face—not because he truly felt it, but because he knew millions of people were watching. He brought his hands together, applauding his teammate's goal with steady, measured claps.

A perfect smile.

One that never quite reached his eyes.

...

The clock ticked into the seventieth minute.

The fourth official raised the electronic board.

Two substitutions.

Ferran Torres.

Pedri.

The pair rose from the bench at the same time, quickly pulling off their training bibs as the crowd welcomed the change with another wave of applause.

Before stepping onto the pitch, Ferran reached over and gave Pedri a gentle pat on the head.

"Go on," he said with a grin. "Good luck."

Pedri let out a quiet breath and gave him a small nod.

"Thanks."

Then he crossed the white touchline.

The noise of the stadium swallowed him whole as he stepped onto the World Cup stage, carrying the weight of every expectation on his shoulders.

The match had grown more physical with every passing minute.

A Belgium defender lunged into a reckless challenge, sending one of Spain's players crashing onto the grass. The referee's whistle cut through the stadium, sharp and immediate.

Yellow card.

Both teams surrounded the referee, voices rising as tempers flared. Players pointed, argued, and tried to make their case, but after a few tense moments, the official managed to calm everyone down. The game was ready to continue.

Or so it seemed.

As Pedri moved into position, one of the Belgium players gave him a hard shove.

Without any reason, like man why?

He stumbled, losing his balance before hitting the ground.

The player barely spared him a glance. He simply turned and started walking away as if nothing had happened.

Pedri pushed himself up, ready to say something—

But someone got there first.

"¡Oye! ¿Qué haces?" Ferran's voice rang out across the pitch.

He was already there, stepping between Pedri and the Belgium player. His eyes were hard, his jaw set as he fired back in rapid Spanish, refusing to let the shove go unanswered. The Belgian player responded with a shrug, but Ferran didn't back down until the referee rushed over once again, separating the two before the situation could escalate.

Only then did Ferran turn around.

His anger disappeared the moment his eyes landed on Pedri.

"Pepi... are you okay?"

The concern in his voice was so genuine that it caught Pedri off guard.

For a second, the noise of the stadium seemed to fade.

Of course any of his teammates would have stepped in. They were a team—that was what teammates did.

But this...

This felt different.

Ferran hadn't hesitated. The moment Pedri hit the ground, he was already running towards him, standing in front of him before Pedri even had the chance to defend himself.

Everything was always different when it came to Ferran.

Pedri looked at him for a moment before giving a small nod.

"...I'm okay."

And somehow, hearing Ferran ask was enough to make him believe it.

____________

Los Angeles shimmered beneath the quiet night sky. City lights stretched endlessly beyond the hotel windows, glowing like scattered stars while the distant hum of traffic never truly faded. The excitement of the World Cup had settled into a peaceful silence, wrapping the city in a calm after the storm.

Pedri lay comfortably on his hotel bed, one arm resting behind his head as he stared at the ceiling, hoping sleep would come soon.

Spain had won.

A 2–1 victory over Belgium.

Relief washed over him whenever he thought about it. The team had played well, and Mikel Merino's introduction had changed the game completely. It had been the perfect substitution, and Spain deserved every bit of the win.

But happiness wasn't the only thing lingering in his heart.

There was still a quiet ache.

He had started the night on the bench. He hadn't been able to give everything he knew he was capable of. No matter how much he tried to push those thoughts aside, they kept finding their way back.

With a soft sigh, he closed his eyes.

Then another memory slipped into his mind.

The shove.

The rough push that had sent him stumbling onto the grass.

And before he had even managed to stand...

Ferran had been there.

Running straight toward him without a second's hesitation, standing between him and the Belgian player, defending him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The memory replayed in his head, clear as day.

A small smile curved onto Pedri's lips.

He couldn't explain why that moment stayed with him more than anything else from the match.

Maybe it was because, for those few seconds, he hadn't felt alone.

A gentle warmth spread through his chest, chasing away the heaviness that had followed him all evening.

For the first time that night, he let himself relax, the smile still resting on his face as sleep slowly began to pull him in.

With a quiet sigh, Pedri reached for his phone on the bedside table.

Sleep could wait a little longer.

He unlocked the screen and tapped on Instagram. Before he could even scroll through his feed, a familiar profile picture caught his eye.

Ferran had posted a story.

Almost without thinking, Pedri opened it.

The camera panned across the room.

Marcos was laughing, a glass of wine resting loosely in his hand. Beside him stood Marc Pubill, listening to whatever joke had just been told.

Then the camera settled on Ferran.

He was sitting back on the sofa, smiling.

Not just smiling.

It was that smile—the one Pedri knew so well. The easy, genuine smile that only appeared when Ferran was truly happy, completely at ease.

Pedri recognized the room immediately.

It was Ferran's hotel room.

The smile on Pedri's own face slowly faded.

So...

Ferran was with them again.

His thumb lingered on the screen a little longer than it should have.

He couldn't understand it.

What did Ferran see in Marcos and Marc Pubill?

It had only been a few weeks, yet they already seemed inseparable. Every time Pedri looked up, they were together—laughing, talking, finding excuses to spend time with each other.

Before today's match trainning, he'd caught a glimpse of Ferran and Marcos lying out in the sun, shoulders relaxed as they chatted effortlessly, looking as though they'd known each other for years.

The memory left an uncomfortable knot in his chest.

It wasn't that Pedri disliked them.

He didn't.

But every new laugh they shared, every story they posted together, every moment Ferran spent with them felt like another reminder that things were changing.

And Pedri hated how much it bothered him.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, staring at the glowing screen until it dimmed.

It was ridiculous.

Ferran could be friends with whoever he wanted.

Pedri knew that.

He really did.

So why did it feel like someone had quietly taken his place without him even noticing?

Pedri knew what he and Ferran had.

Years of friendship couldn't simply disappear. It wasn't something that could be replaced overnight.

...Right?

His thoughts drifted somewhere they shouldn't.

What if Ferran—

He stopped himself before the thought could even take shape.

"No," he whispered under his breath.

He didn't want to think about it anymore.

With a frustrated sigh, he tossed his phone somewhere onto the bed and lay flat on his back. He folded one arm beneath his head and closed his eyes, hoping the silence would quiet the thoughts racing through his mind.

It didn't.

The dull ache in his chest refused to leave.

It wasn't unfamiliar.

He had felt it before.

Back in Barcelona.

Whenever Ferran and Eric García spent time together, the same uncomfortable feeling would settle inside him. Pedri knew they had been friends long before he and Ferran had become close. He had never blamed either of them for it.

But knowing that never made the feeling disappear.

He simply...

Didn't like sharing.

Not Ferran.

Not with anyone.

It wasn't anger.

It wasn't resentment.

It was something quieter, something harder to explain. A selfish little part of him wanted to keep the people he loved close, untouched by anyone else. Once someone found a place in his heart, he wanted them to stay there—to belong beside him, just as he belonged beside them.

It didn't matter whether it was a favourite hoodie, a lucky charm, or a person he cared about.

If Pedri called something his, then somewhere deep inside, he wished it could remain only his.

He knew it wasn't fair.

He knew Ferran wasn't something to be owned.

But feelings rarely listened to reason.

With his eyes still closed, Pedri let out a slow breath, pressing the heel of his hand against his chest, as if it could somehow ease the ache that had quietly settled there.

He had grown used to seeing Ferran with Eric.

They had always been close. Their friendship existed long before Pedri came along, and over time, he had learned to accept it. Some days it still stung a little, but never enough to linger.

This felt different.

Marcos was different.

Every laugh they shared, every conversation, every moment they spent together tugged at something deep inside Pedri. It wasn't just jealousy anymore. There was another feeling hiding beneath it—quieter, heavier, impossible to ignore.

He didn't want to give it a name.

He wasn't ready to.

Maybe if he left it unnamed, it would simply disappear.

But it didn't.

It only settled deeper into his heart.

Pedri turned onto his side, pulling the blanket up to his chest. The room was silent, yet his thoughts refused to be.

He missed Ferran.

Not because they hadn't seen each other today.

Not because they hadn't spoken.

He just...

Wanted Ferran beside him.

The thought was so simple, yet it carried a weight he couldn't explain.

Beside him on the bus.

Beside him during training.

Beside him after matches.

Just... beside him.

Close

That was enough.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a few seconds before he finally typed.

Pedri: "Looks like you're having a great time... without me."

He stared at the message after sending it.

Seen.

Nothing.

The little "typing..." bubble never appeared.

Pedri locked his phone.

Unlocked it again a few seconds later.

Still nothing.

He hated himself for waiting.

Hated how his eyes kept drifting back to the screen, hoping to see those three little dots appear.

Minutes passed.

Then—

Buzz.

His phone vibrated against the mattress.

His heart jumped before he could stop it.

Ferran: 😂 "Jealous, Pepi?"

Pedri frowned at the screen.

Of course Ferran would tease him.

He quickly typed back.

Pedri: "Maybe🥲"

"You've forgotten me already."

This time, the reply came much faster.

Ferran: "Impossible😶‍🌫️"

Another message popped up before Pedri could answer.

Ferran: "Don't be dramatic." 😭

"You know you're still my favourite.😍"

A reluctant smile tugged at Pedri's lips.

He could almost hear Ferran laughing as he wrote those words.

Pedri: "Yeah?"

Ferran: "Yeah."

"You're impossible when you get possessive."

"No one can replace you pepi 😆"

A laughing emoji followed.

To Ferran, it was just harmless teasing.

Just another one of their usual conversations.

But Pedri stared at the message for a long moment.

His fingers rested above the keyboard.

You don't understand...

He wanted to type it.

He wanted to tell Ferran that it wasn't really a joke.

He was possessive of ferran. 

Every actions of ferran had impact on pedri.

That every time he saw him with someone else, something inside his chest tightened in a way he couldn't explain.

Instead, he erased the words before they were ever sent.

Pedri: "Good.

Don't replace me."

Another buzz came almost instantly.

Ferran: "Never, Pepi🤗".

Now go to sleep. We've got training tomorrow.

Pedri smiled softly.

It was enough to calm the ache in his chest—

At least for tonight.

______________________________

Spain's journey to the World Cup had been anything but easy.

They had fought through every round, survived moments of doubt, and carried the hopes of an entire nation on their shoulders. Every victory had brought them one step closer to the dream they had chased for years.

Then, deep into stoppage time...

Ferran Torres scored.

The ball found the back of the net, and the stadium exploded.

After months of criticism, after hearing people question his place in the squad, he had answered in the biggest moment of all.

Spain were World Cup champions.

The final whistle echoed through the stadium.

Pedri dropped to his knees.

His hands covered his face as tears slipped through his fingers. Every sacrifice, every setback, every exhausting training session had led to this moment.

They had done it.

A pair of familiar arms wrapped around him.

Ferran.

The two of them laughed, cried, and hugged tightly before being swallowed by the celebrations around them.

The rest of the team rushed onto the pitch, jumping, shouting, embracing one another as confetti rained from the sky.

Later, they lifted the World Cup together.

Pedri, ferran both kissed the golden trophy with a grin he couldn't hide, while cameras captured every unforgettable moment. One photo after another, they posed with medals around their necks, the trophy passing from one pair of hands to another.

Pedri had never felt happiness quite like this.

For one perfect night, nothing else mattered.

Spain stood at the top of the world.

Madrid had become a sea of red and gold.

The streets were overflowing with supporters, waving Spanish flags high above their heads. Chants echoed between the buildings, confetti drifted through the warm afternoon air, and the sound of horns, drums, and cheers followed the parade wherever it went. Every balcony, every window, every corner of the city seemed alive with celebration.

The players stood atop the open-top buses, medals hanging proudly around their necks as they waved to the thousands of fans lining the streets.

Pedri smiled and waved back, laughing whenever someone shouted his name.

Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a quiet disappointment.

He hadn't made it onto Ferran's bus.

His eyes wandered across the parade until they found it.

There.

A few buses ahead.

Ferran stood near the front, grinning as he laughed at something Marcos had said. Marcos nudged him with his shoulder, and Ferran laughed even harder, throwing his head back without a care in the world.

Pedri narrowed his eyes.

Again.

They were together.

He looked away before the thought could settle any deeper.

The crowd below erupted into another chorus of cheers, pulling his attention back to the celebration. Someone beside him wrapped an arm around his shoulders for a photo, and Pedri forced a brighter smile, raising his hands to wave at the fans once more.

Today belonged to Spain.

He refused to let anything—especially the ache in his chest—take that away.

With the World Cup celebrations finally over, the Spain squad scattered across the world for their well-earned holidays.

Lamine spent his vacation with his girlfriend and cousins, filling his social media with sunlit beaches and endless laughter. Gavi returned to Barcelona, already busy with photoshoots and club commitments before the new session.

Pedri, meanwhile, found himself thousands of kilometres away.

China welcomed him with warm summer days and skies that shifted from brilliant blue to soft shades of orange each evening. Bustling streets were filled with the scent of street food, glowing lanterns, and crowds that never seemed to slow down. Ancient temples stood quietly between towering skyscrapers, as if the past and present had learned to exist side by side.

Standing atop the Great Wall, Pedri let out a slow breath.

The stone path stretched endlessly over the green mountains, disappearing into the horizon like it had no end. A cool breeze brushed against his face, carrying with it a silence that felt strangely peaceful despite the tourists all around him.

It was breathtaking.

The kind of place that made you stop walking just to take it all in.

His family chatted happily nearby, pointing at the endless hills while taking photo after photo. They were enjoying every moment, and Pedri smiled whenever they called him over.

But a small part of him kept wandering somewhere else.

After every major tournament, he and Ferran usually found themselves travelling together somehow. Whether it was a short getaway or simply spending time in the same place, it had almost become a tradition.

This time was different.

Ferran couldn't come.

Their families had already decided on China weeks before the World Cup had ended.

Pedri had thought about asking him anyway.

More than once.

The words had sat on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be spoken.

"Come with us."

Simple.

Just four words.

Yet somehow...

He never said them.

Maybe he thought Ferran would already have plans.

Maybe he worried it would sound strange.

Or maybe he was simply afraid of hearing no.

Pedri rested his hands on the ancient stone wall and looked out across the endless mountains.

A quiet smile crossed his face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Things don't always happen the way you want them to," he murmured to himself.

The wind carried his words away, leaving only the vast silence of the mountains behind.

Pedri smiled whenever Alejandra looked his way.

He laughed when she laughed. He stood beside her for family photos. When she slipped her hand into his, he gently held it back.

From the outside, everything looked perfectly normal.

But every smile felt a little more forced than the last.

It hadn't happened overnight.

The feeling had crept in so quietly that he hadn't noticed it at first.

A conversation here.

A shared meal there.

Long walks through busy streets.

Somewhere along the way, her presence had begun to feel... heavy.

Not because she had done anything wrong.

She was kind. Patient. She cared about him.

Yet, whenever they were alone together, Pedri found himself searching for an excuse to look away, to fall into silence, or to simply be somewhere else.

It was a slow, unfamiliar kind of suffocation.

The closer she stood, the more trapped he felt.

And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't understand why.

He was falling out of love.

________________________________

Ibiza basked beneath a cloudless summer sky, the Mediterranean shimmering in endless shades of turquoise and blue. Gentle waves rolled onto the pale sand while luxury yachts drifted lazily across the horizon. Music from nearby beach clubs mixed with the sound of the sea, giving the island its carefree rhythm.

It was the perfect place to celebrate.

And the internet couldn't stop talking about it.

"WORLD CUP WINNER FERRAN TORRES ENJOYS HOLIDAY IN IBIZgather

After weeks of intense football, the duo chose to spend part of their offseason on the Mediterranean island before returning for preseason with their clubs.

But things took an unexpected turn when photos from the trip went viral online. The images showed the pair relaxing on a luxury yacht, swimming, laughing together and enjoying the sunshine. Among all those pics, one photo caught the most attention. Torres wrapped his arms around Llorente and gave him a playful kiss on the cheek.

That single snap got mixed reactions from many fans: One fan said, "I thought they were a couple.”. 

Another fan joked, "They're literally on a romantic summer vacation."

The third fan added, “Heated rivalry football edition.”

Paparazzi had captured exclusive photos of the Spanish forward during his vacation.

The photos spread across social media within minutes.

In one picture, Ferran stood shirtless under the afternoon sun, showing the tattoos that covered his back. A pair of brown swim trunks hung low on his waist, his damp hair pushed back as seawater glistened on his skin.

Then came the photo everyone was sharing.

Ferran leaned in with a playful grin and pressed a quick kiss to Marcos's cheek while pulling him into a side hug. Marcos burst into laughter, turning his face away as the camera caught the moment perfectly.

One frame.

One harmless joke between friends.

Yet the internet had already decided it meant something more.

"Are they dating?"

"Didn't expect this from Ferran!"

"That's definitely not just friendship."

"New football bromance unlocked."

Within hours, the picture had gone viral, spreading across every platform as thousands of fans argued over what the photo really meant.

Neither Ferran nor Marcos said a word.

They simply continued enjoying the sunshine, completely unaware that a single playful moment had become the internet's favourite topic recently.

_______________________

Night had settled gently over Beijing.

The city's skyline glowed beneath thousands of lights, while distant traffic flowed like streams of gold through the streets below. Beyond the hotel window, the evening air carried a welcome coolness after the warmth of the day, wrapping the city in a calm silence.

Pedri had only just returned to the hotel.

It had been a long day.

From walking through the Forbidden City to interviews, photoshoots, and meeting countless fans, the hours had slipped by without him noticing. Every smile, every handshake, every camera flash had slowly drained his energy.

After a hot shower, he finally felt some of the exhaustion melt away.

Dressed in a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, he sank onto the soft hotel bed, letting out a long breath.

His body ached pleasantly after spending the entire day on his feet, roaming through the city's endless streets.

For the first time since morning...

He felt light.

The room was unusually quiet.

Alejandra wasn't there.

Maybe she had gone shopping with the family.

Maybe she was wandering around the hotel.

Pedri didn't know.

And, to his own surprise...

He didn't really care.

For now, all he wanted was to enjoy the rare silence, letting the peaceful night wash over him as the lights of Beijing twinkled outside his window.

Almost absentmindedly, Pedri unlocked his phone and opened Instagram.

The moment his feed refreshed, Ferran was everywhere.

One post.

Then another.

Then another.

He frowned slightly, scrolling past fan edits and celebration videos until a familiar headline caught his eye.

The viral photo.

His thumb stopped moving.

Pedri tapped on it.

For a long moment, he simply stared.

It's probably edited.

That was the first thought that crossed his mind.

These days, AI could create almost anything.

His heartbeat quickened as he zoomed in on the picture, studying every detail—the shadows, the lighting, the expressions.

It has to be fake...

His mind refused to accept it.

Ferran wouldn't do that.

Not with Marcos.

They weren't even that close...

...Were they?

Or It's just a cheek kiss

Nothing serious.

He backed out of the photo and kept scrolling.

Another account had posted it.

Then another.

A sports page.

A news page.

Fan accounts.

Different angles.

Different photos from the same afternoon in Ibiza.

The smile slowly disappeared from Pedri's face.

It wasn't AI.

It wasn't edited.

It was real.

Ferran had really leaned over and kissed Marcos on the cheek.

His fingers suddenly lost their strength.

The phone slipped from his hand, landing softly on the bed beside him.

Pedri didn't move.

He just sat there.

Frozen.

His thoughts scattered in every direction, none of them making sense.

An uncomfortable pressure settled in his chest, tightening little by little until it became difficult to ignore.

He drew in a breath.

It wasn't enough.

Another.

Still not enough.

The room suddenly felt smaller than it had a moment ago.

He pressed a hand against his chest, as if that could somehow ease the ache growing beneath it.

Why...?

The question echoed through his mind.

Why did this hurt so much?

It was only a photo.

Just a playful kiss on the cheek.

Friends did things like that all the time.

So why did it feel as though something inside him had quietly cracked?

Why Ferran's every action had impact on him like that?

He couldn't understand it.

All he knew was that the ache wouldn't go away. It spread through him in slow, heavy waves, leaving behind a strange emptiness he had no words to explain.

For once, Pedri stopped pretending.

He didn't force a smile.

He didn't push the feelings away.

He simply let them exist.

The room was silent, yet his thoughts were unbearably loud.

More than anything, he wanted Ferran to be here.

He wanted a text.

A call.

Anything.

Instead, Ferran was spending what looked like the best days of his summer in Ibiza.

Without him.

With shaky fingers, Pedri picked up his phone again.

The comments kept pouring in.

«"This guy is definitely gay."»

«"What a bromance."»

«"Something's fishy."»

«"Let's hope Pedri doesn't see this."»

His stomach twisted.

He locked the screen and tossed the phone onto the bed.

A slow, shaky breath escaped his lips.

"Stop thinking..." he whispered to himself.

But he couldn't.

The comments had planted doubts he never wanted to have.

Was Ferran... like that?

Was there really something between him and Marcos?

He hated himself for even wondering.

He curled up on the bed, drawing his knees close to his chest.

The ache only grew stronger.

It settled beneath his ribs, heavy enough to make every breath feel deeper than the last.

His eyes burned.

Tears gathered in his eyes, not falling.

Pedri lay curled beneath the blanket, staring at the faint glow of the city beyond the curtains. His breathing had finally steadied, but the ache in his chest refused to leave.

He closed his eyes.

Why was he reacting like this?

It was just Ferran.

His best friend.

Nothing more.

So why did a simple photograph feel like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart?

He thought back over the past few months.

The jealousy whenever Ferran spent time with Marcos.

The way he secretly wished Ferran would choose the seat beside him.

The disappointment whenever their plans didn't work out.

The warmth that spread through him whenever Ferran smiled at him.

The way one "Good morning, Pepi" could brighten an entire day.

One memory after another slipped into place like pieces of a puzzle he had been refusing to solve.

Pedri slowly sat up.

"No..."

The word escaped before he even realised he'd spoken.

His heartbeat quickened again.

"No..."

This time it was quieter.

Almost pleading.

His mind searched desperately for another explanation.

Maybe he was just too attached.

Maybe he was simply afraid of losing his best friend.

Maybe he was afraid of being replaced.

Or maybe he-

That had to be it.

It had to.

Because the other possibility...

He couldn't even bring himself to think it.

The thought lingered anyway, hanging silently at the edge of his mind.

It terrified him.

Not because of what it meant.

But because, deep down...

It explained everything.

Pedri pressed both hands against his face and let out a shaky breath.

"I don't want this," he whispered into the empty room.

Whether he was trying to convince himself...

Or his own heart...

He no longer knew.

Pedri spent the rest of the night trying to convince himself.

It was just a picture.

The internet had a habit of turning ordinary moments into something they weren't. People loved to assume, to gossip, to create stories where there were none.

Ferran was probably laughing at all of it.

Or provably didn’t care.

So why couldn't he?

Pedri took a slow breath and forced the thoughts away.

He was really jealous.

He admits quietly.

───_____

The holiday came and went.

When the Spain squad gathered again for the new season, everything looked exactly the same.

Ferran still greeted him with an easy smile.

Still called him "Pepi."

Still bumped his shoulder whenever they passed each other.

Nothing had changed.

Except...

Something had.

A thin, invisible wall had quietly settled between them.

Pedri found himself hesitating before walking over to Ferran.

Sometimes he caught himself pulling away from conversations a little too soon.

Other times, he chose to sit somewhere else, pretending it was nothing.

Ferran noticed the distance but assumed Pedri was simply tired after the busy summer.

Pedri never corrected him.

Some feelings were easier to hide than explain.

So he smiled.

Acted normal.

And carried the weight of those unspoken emotions alone.

The training ground at Joan Gamper was buzzing with the usual pre-season energy. The sun was already beating down, and the smell of freshly cut grass filled the air. Lamine Yamal was already darting around, showing off some footwork to Pau Cubarsí, who was laughing at him. Dani Olmo moved nearby, stretching out his hamstrings with a focused expression.

Ferran walked onto the pitch, adjusting his training bib. His skin was still tanned from Ibiza, and he looked in good spirits. The days slipped into a familiar routine.

Morning training.

Gym sessions.

Team meetings.

Recovery.

Then it all started again.

Everyone was focused on the new season ahead. The pressure had returned, leaving little room for distractions.

As soon as he saw Pedri, a grin spread across his face.

"Hey, man," Ferran called out, walking over. He reached out and gave Pedri a quick, firm hug—the kind of hug that looked perfectly normal to anyone watching, but carried that familiar weight between them. "How was China? You look like you actually rested for once."

Pedri returned the hug, though only for a brief moment before stepping back.

"It was great, Ferri," he said with a small smile. "My family was there... so it was nice. We haven't travelled together like that in a long time."

His voice was steady.

Calm.

He didn't mention standing on the Great Wall wishing Ferran could have seen it.

He didn't mention all the times he'd reached for his phone, wanting to send Ferran a picture before deciding against it.

The moments where he waited for ferran to text back.

He didn't mention Ibiza.

Or the beaches.

Or the cycling trips.

Or Marcos.

Those thoughts stayed exactly where they belonged.

Hidden.

"What about you?" Pedri asked instead, keeping his tone light. "Looks like you had a good holiday."

A flicker of curiosity crossed his eyes before he quickly looked away, pretending to adjust the tape around his wrist.

He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

But a part of him couldn't stop hoping Ferran would tell him anyway.

Ferran smiled, pedri's heart melt. He stare at ferran, he missed this. Missed his bestfriend presence so much that it hurts.

Ferran nodded, leaning in closer as if sharing a secret, though they were standing in the middle of a field surrounded by teammates.

"Ibiza was insane, man. Seriously. The weather was perfect every single day," Ferran said, his eyes lighting up with the memory. "Me, Marcos, Eric—we basically lived on the beach. We'd wake up late, grab some food, and just ride bikes around the island. It's beautiful there, honestly."

He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, his expression softening slightly. "Marcos is a good guy, really fun to hang out with. He kept the energy up even when we were just doing nothing."

Lamine jogged past them, glancing back with a smirk. "That pic was great"

Pedri listened quietly, a faint smile resting on his face as he nodded along.

"I'm glad you had a good time," he said sincerely. "Sounds like you really enjoyed it."

He lowered his gaze for a moment before adding, "China was... amazing."

A small smile returned, this one more genuine.

"The culture, the food, the places... everything felt so different. I really loved it."

His fingers absentmindedly fidgeted with the tape around his wrist.

Then, almost too quietly to hear, the words slipped out before he could stop them.

"...Wish you were there."

The sentence hung between them.

Pedri's eyes widened for the briefest second.

He hadn't meant to say it aloud.

Ferran's ears caught the murmur. He didn't turn around immediately, instead focusing on tightening the laces of his cleats, but his hands slowed for a second.

"You wish I was there?" Ferran repeated, his tone casual, almost testing. He stood up and stepped into line next to Pedri for the drill, bumping his shoulder against Pedri's. "I missed you too,pepi, obviously. Next time I'm visiting china With you, i promise"

The coach blew the whistle, signaling the start of the possession drill. Ferran moved with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the field, but every now and then his gaze drifted back to Pedri.

While stretching, pedri causally told about playing fifa at his home

Ferran's mouth opened, the "yes" already forming on his tongue, but he hesitated. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away for a moment

"I'd love to, man, really," Ferran said, his voice dropping a notch. "But Olmo and i have a shooting tonight. And also meeting with the board"

He looked back at Pedri, his expression a mix of genuine regret and something else—something he couldn't quite name. "Maybe tomorrow? Or later this week? I'll make it up to you, 

For a moment, the disappointment flashed across Pedri's face before he quickly hid it behind a small smile.

"Ah... it's okay," he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Work comes first."

He forced a light laugh, hoping it sounded convincing enough.

"Don't worry about it."

When Ferran mentioned tomorrow and later this week, Pedri simply nodded.

"Yeah... whenever you're free."

The words came out softer than he intended.

He knew Ferran wasn't making excuses.

A photoshoot.

A meeting with the board.

They were real commitments.

Still...

He couldn't help wishing, just for once, Ferran would clear his schedule for him.

The thought made him feel selfish.

So he swallowed it before it could reach his lips.

Instead, he smiled again.

"I'll probably beat you anyway," he teased gently. "So... I'll let you enjoy your extra day of confidence."

It sounded like the kind of joke he would normally make.

The week slipped by in a blur of training sessions, recovery days, and scheduled media appearances. Ferran's schedule was packed—a brand shoot on Tuesday, an extra fitness session on Thursday, and late-night dinners with the squad that stretched long into the early hours.

Every time he caught sight of Pedri in the locker room, he'd open his mouth to say something about their FIFA plans, but someone would interrupt. A coach would call him over, a teammate would clap him on the shoulder, or his phone would buzz with a message from Marcos about a weekend trip they were planning.

By Friday, the promise had become a distant thought.

Pedri and Ferran still trained side by side whenever the drills paired them together. They exchanged passes, called for the ball, and understood each other's movements without needing a word.

On the pitch, nothing had changed.

Off the pitch...

Everything felt quieter.

The teasing that once came so naturally had faded.

The random shoulder bumps.

The playful arguments.

The conversations that lasted long after training.

They happened less and less.

Not because Ferran had pulled away—

But because Pedri had.

Whenever his eyes searched the training ground for Ferran, they almost always found him.

Laughing with olmo.

Talking to Eric.

Joking with Lamine or Gavi.

Ferran was exactly the same as always.

Only Pedri wasn't.

He watched from a distance for a second too long before forcing himself to look away, pretending he had somewhere else to be.

No one noticed the change.

Pedri was good at faking his smile especially.

No one knew what's going on under the mask. 

Pedri talked, laughed when needed and were quiet, immerged into his own imagination world when no was looking for him.sometimes he were silent

Or if they did noticed it...

They mistook it for exhaustion.

Pedri let them believe that.

It was easier than explaining the distance he had quietly placed between himself and the person he wanted to be closest to.

He have seen how ferran was busy. That's why he Didn't remind him about the playing fifa playing or spending time together.

..

Pedri was working out in the small gym room of his house. The air smelled faintly of rubber mats and metal weights, while the quiet hum of the treadmill filled the room. Sweat clung to his skin after nearly an hour of training, his black tank top sticking slightly to his toned frame.

Just as he reached for his water bottle, the doorbell rang.

Frowning, he grabbed a towel, wiped the sweat from his face, and walked towards the front door.

When he pulled it open, he froze for a second.

Ferran stood on the doorstep, still wearing a black hoodie and jeans. His hair was slightly messy, as if he'd just come from somewhere in a hurry. In one hand, he held a bag of takeaway; in the other, his phone.

"You...?" Pedri blinked in surprise. "At this hour? What are you doing here?"

He couldn't remember the last time Ferran had come over to his house just to spend time together.

Ferran grinned the moment he saw Pedri standing there—flushed from the workout, a little breathless, and still glistening with sweat. Leaning casually against the doorframe, he lifted the takeaway bag with a smile.

"What am I doing here?" he laughed. "I'm making up for being a terrible friend."

He gave the bag a small shake.

"I got those tacos you like from that place near the stadium. And I actually remembered the FIFA promise, man. I've been meaning to come over for ages, but my schedule has been a complete nightmare."

"Don't give me that look pepi"

He nudged Pedri's shoulder with his elbow, stepping closer. 

"Don't tell me you've been mad at me for two weeks straight. You look like you haven't slept properly."

Pedri Didn't say anything, he just pull ferran into his embrace. 

Ferran froze for a split second, caught off guard by the suddenness of it. He could feel the tension in Pedri's arms, the way he held on a little too tight, like he was actually holding onto something that might slip away.

Ferran's expression softened. He set the bag of tacos down on the small side table by the door and wrapped his arms around Pedri, pulling him in close. He rested his chin on top of Pedri's head, letting out a slow breath.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice dropping low, stripped of its usual playful edge. "You okay? Talk to me, man."

He didn't pull away. He just stood there in the quiet hallway, holding him, waiting.

"I missed you.." Pedri murmurs.

Ferran's grip tightened just a fraction. The words hit him harder than he expected, cutting through the casual atmosphere they usually maintained. He felt a strange, sharp ache in his chest—a sudden realization of how much space Pedri actually occupied in his life.

"I know," Ferran said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know."

He pulled back just enough to look Pedri in the eye, his hands still resting on Pedri's shoulders. His thumb brushed against Pedri's bare arm,gently caressing his skin

"I missed you too. More than I probably should have admitted,"

A little while later, the two of them were sprawled across the living room sofa, takeaway boxes abandoned on the coffee table while the FIFA loading screen glowed on the television.

Pedri handed one of the controllers to Ferran.

"Don't complain when you lose," he said, settling back into the couch.

Ferran scoffed, already scrolling through the teams.

"Me? Lose?" He shot Pedri a smug grin. "You're about to witness football at its finest."

"Oh, please."

"I'll try not to embarrass you too badly, Pepi."

Pedri rolled his eyes, though a quiet laugh escaped him.

For a little while, everything felt familiar again.

The teasing.

The playful complaints whenever someone scored.

Ferran celebrating every goal as if he'd just won the Champions League.

It almost felt like nothing had changed.

Almost.

The final whistle blew.

3–1.

Ferran won.

"First one doesn't count," Pedri muttered.

"That's what every loser says."

They started another match.

This one ended 2–0.

Pedri had lost again.

He stared at the screen in disbelief before tossing the controller onto his lap with a frustrated sigh.

"What happened to the guy who used to destroy me?" Ferran teased, nudging his shoulder. "You've gone soft."

Pedri forced a chuckle, but his attention had barely been on the game.

More than once, he'd caught himself glancing sideways.

Watching Ferran.

The way he leaned forward whenever he attacked.

The grin that spread across his face after scoring.

The way he laughed under his breath, completely unaware he was being watched.

Pedri looked away before Ferran could notice.

Too late.

Ferran paused the game and turned towards him.

His teasing smile faded into something gentler.

"You got something on your mind, Pepi?" he asked quietly.

Pedri's lips parted before his mind could stop him.

"...Why did you kiss him?"

The words slipped out so quietly they almost didn't sound real.

The moment they left his mouth, he wished he could take them back.

His ears burned.

What did that even sound like?

He quickly looked away, suddenly finding the carpet far more interesting than Ferran's face.

A long silence followed.

Ferran's mouth opened... then closed again.

He stared at Pedri, completely caught off guard, trying to make sense of what he'd just heard. The light-hearted mood that had filled the room only seconds ago disappeared, replaced by a heavy, awkward silence.

"...The photo?" Ferran asked eventually, his voice a little higher than usual.

He rubbed the back of his neck, a habit that always appeared whenever he felt uncomfortable.

"Pepi... it was nothing."

He gave a small, nervous laugh.

"We were celebrating. Marcos gave me compliments , I pulled him into a hug and kissed his cheek. That's literally all it was."

He shrugged helplessly.

"It's just how we are."

Pedri remained silent.

His grip around the controller tightened.

Ferran frowned slightly.

"You've been thinking about that photo this whole time?"

No answer.

Ferran let out a slow breath.

"Come on..." he said more gently. "You know me."

"I wasn't trying to send some message. People online blew it out of proportion, like they always do."

He shook his head.

"They made it sound like it was something huge when it wasn't."

Another silence settled between them.

Ferran searched Pedri's face, trying to read an expression that refused to give anything away.

Then his eyebrows drew together.

"...Why are you asking me this now?"

His voice wasn't angry.

Just... confused.

"Are you seriously jealous over a cheek kiss?"

He let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

"We've known each other forever, Pedri."

"You know what I'm like."

"And if it had been Eric instead of Marcos..." Ferran added carefully, "...would you have asked me the same question?"

Pedri's throat felt dry.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

"No..."

Ferran tried to lighten the mood.

He nudged Pedri's knee with his own before leaning back against the sofa.

"You're acting strange lately," he said, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "Did you bring some kind of spirit back from China with you? I heard they've got stories about haunted places."

He let out a quiet laugh, expecting Pedri to roll his eyes or throw a pillow at him.

Nothing.

Pedri's gaze remained fixed on the television.

The match was still running, players darting across the screen, commentators filling the room with noise.

He wasn't watching any of it.

The controller rested loosely in his hands.

His thumbs hadn't moved in several seconds.

Ferran's smile slowly faded.

"...Pepi?"

Still no response.

Ferran shifted closer, tilting his head to catch Pedri's eyes.

"Hey."

His voice was softer this time.

"You're not even looking at me."

Pedri swallowed but kept his eyes on the television.

Ferran searched his face for a long moment before letting out a quiet sigh.

"C'mon..."

A faint, uncertain smile crossed his face.

"You're looking at me like I've done something terrible."

He paused, the joking tone disappearing from his voice.

"Like I've betrayed you."

The words lingered in the silence.

Pedri's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

His fingers curled around the controller until his knuckles turned pale.

He still couldn't bring himself to look at Ferran.