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Ferran’s feet dangle in the cool water, swishing back and forth, creating little waves that ripple away from him. He’s sort of entranced, lazily staring at how he’s disrupting the rhythm of the sea.
He finally breaks away from his stupor and takes another gulp of the expensive Ibiza wine in his glass cup. He closes his eyes as the sharp smell of green apple invades his nose. He feels the drink burn his throat and then settle in his stomach. Ferran sighs deeply and waits for it to cloud his mind.
Waits patiently for it to spread in his blood stream, to ache his liver. To dull his longing heart.
But Ferran is impatient, he always was. He forgoes the cup and grabs the wine bottle by the neck. For a moment, he doesn’t think about the sneaky cameras and the paparazzi or his friend’s curious glances, and instead drinks like he is drowning and the wine is air.
Llorente doesn’t say anything as he watches Ferran tweak out, he only narrows his eyes and keeps his head bopping along to the booming music that’s carrying over from the beach. He still doesn’t say anything when Ferran finally slams the heavy glass on the wooden pier and falls backward, breathing so hard he’s wheezing. Ferran feels the hard wood chafe his back, but he doesn’t mind the sting.
Llorente only pulls out more wine from the cooler and sets them too close to Ferran.
A few girls walk by and ogle Ferran, giggling. He barely makes out their chattering, both the music and the alcohol roaring in his ears. He imagines them saying he must be relieved that he was the one who scored. That he must be drunk and celebrating like this because now he can finally say he contributed something to his team. He hears his own voice speaking it in his mind.
When Ferran hears the sweet pshh of a new bottle popping open, he groans and sits up.
Llorente grabs Ferran’s hand and presses the sweating glass in it. He urges him to drink with a devious grin.
Ferran mumbles about his head pounding as he brings the bottle to his lips. The wine coats his tongue and it takes him more than a second to finally taste the cherry flavor. Then it hits Ferran all at once and suddenly all he can see is Pedri—Pedri everywhere around him, wherever he turns.
Ferran stills as the dreaded thoughts rush and storm his mind. Pedri’s face—his big doe eyes, crinkling when he smiles; his rosy blush blooming on his cheeks; his soft, pink lips pulled back as he laughs and the sound of it quiets everything else and reverberates in his ears. His hands—smaller than Ferran’s and so much more delicate. Ferran can feel them, impossibly, on his warmed skin, cooling him.
The wine—no Pedri—does something strange to him, then.
Somehow, his senses are heightened despite all that he’s drunk. He quickly becomes too aware of that vacant, dripping hole in his chest and suddenly it hurts. It hurts so bad, Ferran’s eyes water, his breath tearing out of his lungs.
He drops the bottle and it thuds harshly against the pier, rolling into the water with a splash. He clutches a shaky hand to his chest and squeezes his eyes. “Ahhgh—” Ferran gasps, folding into himself.
Llorente bursts out laughing as Ferran’s vision swims. “Chill hermano,” he says, between breaths. “You’re fine, you just need to drink some more.” Llorente scoots closer, holding his own bottle and brings it up to Ferran’s mouth. “You told me to do this if it happens again. Relax.”
Ferran’s tears itch his face, drying on his skin. His head is pushed back as Llorente spills wine behind his lips. The constant buzz comes surging back as if it never left. Ferran’s eyes finally drop half-lidded.
“Just wanted to see what would happen if you drank the cherry wine,” Llorente murmurs, petting Ferran’s hair.
“Cherry wine…?” Ferran slurs, barely alert.
“Yeah. You won’t even let yourself look at it,” the Atleti blonde says, prying. He’s curious and really wants to glean what’s going with Ferran, who won’t speak about any of it when he’s sober.
“Cherry… Pedri…” Ferran smiles stupidly. He isn’t even sure he’s not blacked out and dreaming. The alcohol drums in every part of him. It feels so good. He’s forgotten all about the pain in his chest.
“Pedri?” Llorente repeats. Of course, everything’s always about fucking Pedri, he scowls, looking away. He pours more wine down Ferran’s throat and lays him back down on the pier. Llorente stands and walks back to the beach, leaving a helpless Ferran all alone.
Ferran glows beneath the sun rays and he can’t stop tasting the hint of cherry left in his mouth.
Yes… that’s right… that wine is Pedri’s favorite. Ferran’s half-awake mind just won’t seem to let go, no matter how much he tries to intoxicate himself. He’s even left his phone behind somewhere in hopes someone would steal it, any excuse to not be able to open Instagram and see the happiness on Pedri’s face as he enjoys an entire country celebrating him, all with a pretty girl smiling beside him, holding his hand. He doesn’t want to see how when they gaze at each other, they share a look of easy love. Ferran’s familiar with it, he’d looked at Pedri exactly like that before too.
Ferran’s head lolls to the side, against the wet wood. He weakly furrows his brows, unable to even open his eyes. If he doesn’t drink some more now he knows he will continue to spiral downward, reminding himself of more. Everything he’s been wanting to avoid. His hand taps around aimlessly, searching. He wills his eyes to open, for himself to sit up but nothing happens.
He’s imprisoned inside his mind, inside a body that’s too far gone to obey him.
The flavor of the red fruit suddenly overtakes him, dragging him against his will, further into his memories—a secluded beach, a large moon. Two boys and a secret, stolen kiss. Cherry wine on their lips. Pedri tucked beneath Ferran, sand in their hair. Eyes wide and nervous, uneven breaths.
Ferran doesn’t want to remember any of it, feels the tears return to his eyes and spill down his cheeks. He feels like a child, crying like this when he’s supposed to be celebrating, having a great time, drinking responsibly and partying with beautiful women, and yet. All that escapes him is a choked sob.
Pedri has severed him entirely from his soul. Ferran’s become barely more than a corpse.
Resentment spreads through him like a wildfire. He doesn’t want to think of the glint he sees in Pedri’s eyes when he looks at his girlfriend. How he never acknowledged their kiss after that single night, even though Ferran desperately, desperately wished he would. How Pedri must’ve regretted it all.
Ferran’s heart can bear no more. When he finally feels his body begin to shut down he welcomes the darkness—the letting go. He doesn’t care what it might mean. It gathers him together and whisks him away. Ferran shivers, trembling even as the sweat beads and clings to his brow. His breathing steadily slows, the air becoming shallow in his lungs. Ferran finds himself feeling tired, thinks maybe sleeping on the pier... wouldn’t be so bad. No… it wouldn’t be bad at all…
The very last thought that ever crosses Ferran’s mind is of cherry flavored wine he’d once shared with a sweet boy on a quiet beach, so many years ago.