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Ferran stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, watching as his fan whirled around above him. It created this soft, hypnotic hum that drew in his attention and wouldn't let it go. A single light had been left on in his room—the lamp that sat on his bedside table. The light it gave off was soft and warm and just dim enough to not be distracting or, incidentally, to have kept him awake. The fan, the light, and the soft clothes he was wearing all worked together to create a comfortable and cozy atmosphere. It was anyone's guess why he had woken back up. He had spent a lot of time—and money—to get his room to a state where he wouldn't have to work hard to feel comfortable in it. The walls had been painted a neutral color—one that would look good during the day under the sunlight and at night under the light bulbs he picked out specifically because of their warmer tone. Everything in his room, every last detail, had been meticulously combed over to the same extent by an interior designer—and given the final seal of approval by himself—to minimize the time it would take to feel calm after entering.
Playing football professionally wasn't all fun and games, after all. It was stressful work. Taxing on both his mind and his body. As he lie awake in his bed, he felt pleased that all of the hard work he had put into this room had paid off. He had just woken up a few moments ago and, though waking up in the middle of the night was often a situation fraught with restlessness, he felt calm. Content, even. But there was still something nagging at him: why had he just woken up? He had training the previous day. He couldn't see his alarm clock, but he would bet that it was the early hours of Sunday morning. He always slept quite soundly after a long day of training. But there he was, awake. He wondered if it had anything to do with the weight he felt in his chest. Wait. In his chest? No, that wasn't right. It wasn't some internal sensation—there was something on his chest. And there was something heavy beside him. He could feel a divot in his bed—a depression next to him that usually wasn't there, but, at the moment, was pulling him in like a black hole.
Since his last breakup, the other side of Ferran's bed had remained empty. If he had wanted, he could've easily gone out every night and found a new girl to bring home—someone to fill the empty space—but he knew that's all she would be: a body. No matter who he brought home, she wouldn't mean anything to him—not until he found someone worth sharing the space with, and he didn't think that he was ready for that quite yet, even though the breakup happened multiple months ago. It was for this reason he hadn't gone out to bring anyone back into bed with him since his last girlfriend. That was what he told himself, at least. The fact that there very clearly was someone in his bed, of course, begged the question: who was it? He couldn't remember going out anywhere, and, if it had been a Saturday night, he would've been hanging out with—
Ferran wasn't sure if he could believe it. He took a deep breath, but the only thing it brought was the smell of cologne. He smelled that cologne at the locker next to him after every practice and every game. He smelled that cologne every time he wrapped his arms around him in celebration and every time he planted a kiss on his neck. He would recognize it anywhere. Taking another deep breath, this time through his mouth, Ferran wondered how he got into this situation. This had never happened before. Sure, they had been close—very close, actually—but this was, he knew, another level of intimacy. Public displays of affection were meant for everyone else to see as much as they were for the two of them to experience. Private displays of affection were an entirely different beast. They weren't performative—weren't done to elicit a reaction from anyone but the other. They were done with great intention.
What—he wondered—had been his intent with this?
Bits and pieces of his night returned to him as he reflected, but there were still questions that he had no answer to—not yet, at least. He tried to put everything he did know into a mental list to distract from the things he didn't, hoping the exercise would bring back those memories that were gone. He knew that he was on his bed—not under his sheets. He never quite made it that far. The weight of his comforter was heavy and familiar, but he didn't feel it now. He also knew that, despite the fact that he was in—or, well, on—his bed, he never managed to take off his clothes. He was still in the sweatpants and sweatshirt he changed into after getting back from practice that evening.
Ferran turned his head.
And so was Pedri.
The other man lay next to him—directly next to him. Almost, Ferran thought, on top of him. Pedri was curled up on his side. His head was at Ferran's shoulder, pressing gently into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. His left arm lay lazily across Ferran's stomach, outstretched in a way that conveyed the other man had wanted to hold on—to pull himself closer, as close as he could get—but didn't quite have the strength to grab hold fully. Ferran could hear the other man breathing now—soft, deep breaths matching the rise and fall of his body. Ferran had seen Pedri while he slept more times than he could count—on the bus to a game within the country, on the train to one a bit further away, on a flight to one even further, and, of course, on his couch. They always sat together while they traveled and sometimes it felt like Pedri spent more time at his house than at his own. It was this fact that told him Pedri wasn't quite asleep yet but that he was well on his way. Ferran wanted to turn his head back to face his fan, but he couldn't get himself to. Whether this was because he was afraid of bothering the other man or because he didn't want Pedri to leave his sight was something he didn't want to think about.
Ferran had hoped that looking over to Pedri would bring some sort of revelation—that the sight of him would make all of this make sense. He had been in situations where that had been the exact remedy he needed, but this wasn't one of them. He remembered when just a quick glance over to Pedri had made him realize where he needed to place the penalty kick that would win them the game. That memory brought with it what happened after he scored the winning goal. While the rest of the team clamored around him, showering him in praise and affection, he had his sights on just one man. He waded through the crowd, ignoring the attention he got from everyone else until he made it to Pedri. He wrapped the other man in a tight hug, planting kisses on his neck, their affection hidden from view by their other teammates. He remembered how happy that moment had made him—how it had felt as though, despite the stadium being filled with thousands of screaming fans, that he had been alone with Pedri. He felt now what he had felt then: total adoration. There was nowhere he would've rather been than right there in that moment.
This didn't answer the question of why Pedi was in bed with him at this moment, but it helped. He felt more in control of the situation, at least. Ferran moved his right hand from his side up to Pedri's left hand, the one resting on his stomach, and gently stroked his thumb with his own. Clearly, he thought, the reason he hadn't turned his head back wasn't because he was afraid to wake the other man up. He could admit that to himself now. Pedri stirred a bit but, ultimately, remained where he lay. He let out a small sigh, a breath just stronger than his others, that Ferran interpreted as one of contentedness.
Ferran needed answers. It wasn't that getting those answers would change anything—nothing he learned would make him want to change this moment in any way—but he wanted to silently thank whatever had changed in their usual routine to lead them to this. Closing his eyes, more pieces of the puzzle fell into place, but there was still something missing. He needed to walk through more slowly, taking into account how he felt at every turn. If things had gone how they had always gone, this wouldn't have happened. There must have been something that made this inevitable.
Pedri was over at his house because it was Saturday night. Pedri didn’t spent every Saturday night at his place, but, recently, it happened more often than it didn’t—especially now that they weren't travelling for games. They didn’t have practice on Sundays and, to make up for it, they went a bit longer on Saturday. Their drills were more intense, they ran further with fewer breaks, and they carried on long after training would’ve stopped on any other day. Pedri’s home was further away from their training facility than Ferran’s was and, after a long day, it just made sense to crash there instead of going their separate ways. They could cook something for dinner and talk about the week, put on a show and watch while they ate, then Pedri would fall asleep on the couch and Ferran would go back to his room for the night.
The arrangement made sense.
Perfect sense.
That’s why they had been doing it for so long and that’s why Pedri kept a few changes of clothes at Ferran’s apartment as well as a toothbrush and other toiletries. It made sense for him to have his own towel and for Ferran’s fridge and pantry to be stocked with some of the food he liked. How else were they to make dinner together? And it just wouldn’t make sense for Pedri to bring all of those things every week. He would have to stop by the store on his way to Ferran's place and that would cut into the limited amount of time they got to spend together.
Ferran's girlfriend had gotten a little upset that Pedri got a drawer in his dresser and a few hangers in his closet and she didn’t. Pedri didn’t know it—and would never know it, not if Ferran had any say in the matter—but he had been the reason the two had split. She had been jealous over Pedri’s place in Ferran’s life. The day it ended, she gave Ferran a choice: her or Pedri. Ferran scoffed. In what world would he not choose Pedri? Any girl he was with would have to make room for his best friend, and any woman that would make him choose clearly wasn’t up to snuff. They hadn't been dating for that long anyway, so, really, there was no harm done.
Ferran thought about how Pedri would respond if he learned this. He had liked his last girlfriend. They had been good for each other, he thought. Pedri had commented that, when they were together, Ferran seemed happier than he had in a long time. Ferran thought this was bullshit. He had been happy, but he was also happy—maybe even more happy—when he was with Pedri. Maybe they had been around one another for so long that he didn’t show it as visibly as he did with others. He assumed this situation was akin to a fish not knowing it’s in water. But Pedri knew how he made Ferran feel, right? How happy he made him? After Pedri had mentioned this to him, Ferran made an effort to step up his game—to show the other man how much he meant to him. He couldn't have his best friend thinking he didn't care about him.
His neck starting to tense, Ferran slowly turned his head to face the ceiling once again. He tracked the pull chains of his fan as they bobbed back and forth from the fan's oscillations, trying desperately to keep himself grounded. He tried to push the thought of Pedi learning about his ex and everything that would entail out of his mind, focusing, once again. On his night. Their night. This time, he would slow things down a bit. Go through every action. Somewhere, there was a reason things had gone so differently.
The night started as it always did with Pedri pulling up next to Ferran in his driveway. Ferran had bought an extra fob for Pedri to use so that he had the autonomy to come and go from the gated community he lived in as he pleased. This was also why Pedri had his own set of spare keys to his house. This made sense. There was a laundry list of reasons why Pedi might need to go over to his house when he wasn't there, and providing him the means to enter on his own was just easier. It was safer, too. He couldn't imagine leaving a key under the rug of his house or in some plant somewhere. It was better for Pedri to have his own. Sure, Ferran could easily drive Pedri over on Saturday nights, but that would mean the other man would need to leave his car at the training facility. Sure, it would be protected there, but then they'd need to spend time on Sunday morning going over and fetching it when they could be spending that time relaxing at Ferran's house.
After parking, the two men unloaded their belongings into Ferran's house. Pedri could have just as easily left his stuff in his car, but Ferran always offered to do laundry for him and never took no for an answer. Ferran took his belongings to his room so he could deal with everything the following day and Pedi put his somewhere out of the way where neither he nor Ferran would trip on it as they moved across the space over the course of the night. He had thought about allocating one of the rooms in his house to another bedroom, but Pedri had insisted the pull out couch was more than enough for the once a week he stayed over.
Changing into clothes that were a bit more comfortable—each man choosing a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt—they got to work on making dinner. Saturday night was also the only night every week both men got to step away from their diet and make their own food. Neither had the time during the week to cook their own—let alone go shopping for it, especially since if they did go out to the same store every week someone would eventually catch on—so they had each hired a small team to schedule and prepare their meals for them. There was the dietician who tracked how many calories they needed to eat every day and what foods would best support them based on the day's activities and the macro nutrients they needed met and the dietician had someone to help them turn that data into food that would actually taste good. Then, of course, there was someone who would go out and actually purchase the food that was needed for the week and would stock the fridge with whatever else they needed (or whatever else they requested outside of their meal plan). Finally, there was a chef who would prepare the meals and package them away neatly for the week. After the years they had all worked together, the whole ordeal turned into a well-oiled machine. It took a lot of time and money to maintain the physique needed to play as much football as they did, especially with the contractual time constraints they each faced.
Both men appreciated each member of their team deeply. A healthy diet supported their lifestyle and made everything they worked so hard for possible. Sometimes, though, they missed cooking. There was something each man got out of it that they just couldn't get from pre-packaged meals.
Pedri enjoyed the experience. He enjoyed putting on some music and dancing around the kitchen while the stove or the oven did most of the work. It wasn't as much about the end results as it was about the people. Secretly, when he cooked with Ferran, he sometimes wished they would skip the cooking, order takeout, dim the lights, and dance around the kitchen to something slow while they ate and drank. That would be enough for him—just to be there with Ferran in that moment.
Ferran enjoyed these things too, but his passion for cooking came from the process itself, not just the experience. He wanted to be the one to butterfly the chicken and to sauté the vegetables and to add the spices, only knowing when he had added enough by tasting it himself. Secretly, when he was with Pedri, he enjoyed having the other man try his creation just so he could hear his compliments. Even before he spoke, Pedri's face always betrayed how Ferran's cooking tasted, and Ferran loved reading his expression—watching it turn to delight because of something he made. The feeling of making someone happy was euphoric.
The other aspect of cooking themselves they each enjoyed, something that wasn't a secret between them and something that they discussed at length, was that it made them feel normal—even if it was just for one night every week. For that one night they could hang up their cleats, leave football behind, and just be Ferran and Pedri—not numbers 7 and 8. If the grocery shopping hadn't been done earlier in the week, they would put on nondescript clothing as well as a baseball cap and sunglasses and head to the store together. It was a little game they liked to play. How long could they go without being recognized? When they really tried to disguise themselves it hardly ever happened. The other little game that Pedri liked to play was finding recipes for them to cook together. Sometimes it was based on what he had been craving that week, sometimes it was based on something Ferran had mentioned during the week, and, sometimes, it was based on the fact that it was hands-off, allowing the two to spend more active time together. Regardless of his intentions, the whole scheme was a way to step away from the celebrity for a minute—and, really, to step away from the chicken and broccoli.
"Did you get the video I sent you?" Pedri had asked him. The other man had been getting an influx of cooking videos on his For You page. He had liked and saved one a few weeks prior and, since then, the algorithm had decided it was the only type of video he was going to see. It wasn't all bad—far from it, actually. He and Ferran had started getting lazy on Saturday nights. If they couldn't come up with anything to cook they would order takeout or scrounge around in the pantry for snacks. Pedri had called their meal a few weeks ago, which had consisted of crackers, sliced cheese, bits of rotisserie chicken leftover from one of his prepared meals, and chocolate chips "girl dinner." Ferran was too offline to know what he had been talking about and Pedri laughed at him—or with him, he claimed. Regardless, people on the internet were far more creative and were capable of coming up with more enticing combinations than they could left to their own devices. The previous week, Pedri had instructed them on how to make a dish called "Marry Me Chicken."
He had kept the name of the dish they would be cooking to himself as his own little secret.
The first time he got the chance to taste the dish—from a wooden spoon, taken from the pan on the stove, handled directly by Ferran—he could see why it had been given that name. He, too, would want to marry anyone that made the dish for him. He tried to push that implication out of his mind, but it was stubborn. When he looked at Ferran's left hand as it stirred the sauce, his mind placed a wedding band on his finger. Trying to shake the visual, he looked down. On his own hand he saw a matching one. Pedri's heart fluttered for a moment, but he let it subside instead of chasing it. The last few weeks had been different for him. The hugs and kissed and words of affection he received from Ferran on a daily basis had started to mean... more. In fact, he had started seeking these moments out rather than just waiting for them to come as they inevitably would. He held the other man's embrace for longer and pressed kisses to his neck and to his cheek more often. Pedri wasn't sure what this more really was. He hadn't been in a relationship in a while and it was entirely possible that he was just lonely.
It didn't feel like he was just lonely, though.
There had been a change, though—of that he was sure. Even if he couldn't place a name to it, something was different. It had been slow rather than all of a sudden, though the first time he realized that something had changed he felt as though he had been hit by a bus. Now, though, he was used to that feeling—whatever it was. He let it build up in him and then waited patiently for it to subside naturally. Forcing himself to not feel his emotions wouldn't be productive. Ferran had told him that—something he'd learned from his therapist. For a moment, seeing that ring—feeling his kisses under this new light—felt good. Ferran always made him feel good. But there came a time when he needed to move on. Not bury that good feeling, but understand that it couldn't lead to anything more. Is that what he wanted? Something more? He was already Ferran's best friend. How much more could anything mean?
Pedri knew the answer, and, seeing the ring on Ferran's hand, he knew what he wanted. It had been what he had always wanted but had been too blind to see. A sadness replaced whatever good feeling he had that night and, though he tried not to show it, Ferran picked up on it. He had asked him what was wrong but Pedri brushed the question off. Nothing was wrong, he insisted. He was trying to convince himself more than he was Ferran—and he was doing a horrible job at both. Ferran responded to this by being closer—by being more physical. After dinner was over and the dishes cleaned, Ferran lay his head on Pedri's shoulder as they found something to watch before going to bed. He had no way of knowing how much this hurt the other man—how sad it made him about the life they could never have.
This week, the dish they would be preparing didn't have as suggestive of a name, so he had sent it to Ferran directly. Ferran didn't have a TikTok, so Pedri saved the video and messaged it to him along with a typed out list of the ingredients, just to be helpful.
Sometimes Ferran forgot that Pedri was younger than him, but it was moments like these—moments where Pedri assumed he was totally incompetent with technology—that he was reminded of the difference. He wasn't, for the record, totally incompetent. They were part of the same generation, after all, even if Pedri was on the younger end and he on the older. He laughed to himself before thanking the other man, wondering why the previous week he hadn't done the same.
Pedri wasn't always making him feel old, though—it worked the other way, too. He made him feel younger than he actually was. Sometimes—most times, actually—Ferran felt like he had been an adult his entire life. He'd been playing football almost as long as he could walk and had been playing professionally since just before he became an adult. Getting paid to do something you love—while rewarding—makes you feel like an adult, he thought. He helped with bills and with groceries and bought his own first car so his parents wouldn't need to drive him to and from games. The whole ordeal made him feel very old.
It also didn't help that football players got old so young.
Sometimes people online would talk about him like he needed to move into an assisted living facility and, sometimes, when Pedri wasn't around to tell him to snap out of it, he would believe them. To an extent, what they said was true. Playing football for so many years had taken a toll on his body. His feet, his thighs, his knees, his calves... they all felt the extent of a long football career. Most players were considered to be in their prime when they were younger than he was and retired at just a few years older—not because their love of the game faltered, but because their bodies just couldn't keep up with the younger generation that came without injury. When he was with Pedri, though, he felt younger. He had more stamina. He felt like he could play football until he was sixty—that's how good the other man made him feel. Seeing him on the pitch playing alongside him breathed new life into him, no matter how many games they played.
Even now, standing in his kitchen and cooking dinner with Perdi, he felt years younger. Somehow, when the other man stood beside him, he felt the effects ten ice baths couldn't give him. He could feel his heat beating faster as the adrenaline pumped through his body. Every hair seemed to stand on end. Dopamine flooded his brain and made him want to stand even closer, or maybe just to reach out, grab Pedri's hand, and squeeze it. Knowing he was standing there next to him led to such a visceral reaction in his body that, sometimes, he wasn't sure what to do about it. Usually, it manifested in a hug or a kiss but, recently, those weren't satisfying the itch he felt. He wanted Pedri closer to him for longer than just a few seconds at a time, and he didn't just want to be tasting his neck with his kisses.
Ferran pushed the thought aside. There was no use thinking it. He would have to find another way to deal with his emotions—take them out on something else. He knew getting some other body in his bed would do nothing but dull the physical urges he felt. It wouldn't solve the problem. The last few months he had been waiting to find someone who meant something to him, and, standing there, he realized he wanted that person to be Pedri. All along, he had been waiting for Pedri.
Ferran closed his eyes and shook his head. Silly, he thought. It was all so silly. How had he managed to fall for his best friend?
"Is something wrong?" Pedri asked. Of course he had noticed. Pedri noticed everything about him. He was always the first to comment when he got a haircut, even if it was just a trim, and he always could tell when his mood was off because he would knit his brows more often than normal and turn his knees away from everyone when sitting and he noticed when he got new shoes and even when he got new clothes, even though usually saw the other man in his various different kits. Ferran wished he had the same attention to detail as Pedri—maybe he could use it to tell if the other man felt the same about him, even if he knew he didn't. It was a blessing, then, he decided. There would be no fooling himself into thinking Pedri loved him in the way he wanted him to.
"Just got something in my eye," Ferran lied, "A bit of onion, I think."
For effect, Ferran wiped his eyes with his shirt. It didn't fool Pedri, though. He wasn't new to Ferran's half-assed lies and could tell when one of them was coming out of his mouth. He'd been working on being able to tell before the lie came out, too, but that took far more effort. Despite the fact that he knew Ferran had been lying, and despite the fact that his knit brows conveyed he was thinking unhappy thoughts, Pedri decided not to press the issue. This was another thing he had learned about Ferran: if he wanted to talk about it, he would. Therefore, if he was lying about whatever was very clearly on his mind, he figured the other man didn't want to talk about it and no amount of pressing would get it out of him—it would just make him feel worse.
"I'm sorry," Pedri replied. He looped one arm through the arm of the other, pulling himself closer. If talking about it wouldn't fix anything, maybe intruding on Ferran's personal space would. It didn't take a detective to know that Ferran was a very physical man and that he showed his affection through physical touch. Pedri used this fact to cheer the other man up more often than he cared to admit, but, until Ferran caught on—and until it stopped working—he wasn't planning on stopping. That was, unless, being close to him became too much to bear. Even now, he could feel that it was. He could feel that he wanted for this moment to mean more to Ferran than he knew it did. Still, in an effort to make Ferran feel better, he kept himself close, not knowing how much it was hurting him, too.
After dinner had been made, they ate it from the pan standing up. This wasn't their usual routine—they usually went over to the couch and watched something, or at least sat at the dining room table—but, tonight, the recipe had taken longer than the video had suggested and half of the dish had ended up in their mouths over the course of the preparations anyway, so they decided to finish the job standing there. Besides, there would be fewer dishes for them to wash this way.
With the dishes out of the way, Pedri washing and Ferran drying, both men singing and dancing along to a song that wasn't playing, the two men settled on the couch. Ferran sat down after Pedri, sitting so close that Pedri's body had no choice but to succumb to the depression that had been created. The two sunk into one another, their thighs brushing. Silently, they each wished that they had put on something other than sweatpants so they could feel the warmth of the other man's skin against his own. Better yet, they wished they could rip their clothes off and be as close to one another as two people could be. Ferran mindlessly scrolled on his phone, trying to distract himself from that thought, while Pedri picked out something for them to watch, trying to do the same. Ferran didn't care to have any input as he knew he'd be interested in whatever Pedri picked out. That, and they would both be asleep before they finished whatever it was he picked out anyway. Saturday practice plus cooking and dishes did that to them. As he listened to the ticking sound of options being skipped over for one reason or another, Ferran's eyes, and the phone in his hand, became heavy. Without any sense of what Pedri finally decided on, Ferran's eyes shut and his phone fell out of his hand.
The next thing Ferran could remember was waking up on the couch. That was good, he thought. There was still time to explain what had happened for Pedri to end up in his bed. He was hoping there was some bigger reason behind it—something that would tell him the nature of the interaction. Playing the moment over in his head, he was almost sure he found it. When he woke back up, something was playing on the TV—something he didn't recognize. Not from the voices alone, at least. He would look up to see if he recognized the actors, but his eyes wouldn't move from what he found upon waking up: Pedri's head in his lap. Typically, if either of them fell asleep on the couch, their head would end up on the other's shoulder. This was normal for them. If they both fell asleep, something that happened more often than either man cared to admit—they were in the twenties! Shouldn't they be out partying and not asleep on the couch before ten?—their heads would find and support one another. The arrangement was comfortable for both of them and prevented any serious neck strain. That was what they told themselves, at least.
Now? Ferran was in uncharted territory. Pedri was on his side, his legs curled up so he fit on the couch, and his head was in Ferran's lap. Ferran was surprised about the weight and even more surprised by how much he liked it. By how natural it all felt. Why hadn't they been doing this the whole time? He thought. With Pedri to his right, Ferran took his left hand and placed it on the other man's head, weaving his fingers through his hair slowly and gently. Pedri didn't have the same hair routine when he showered after practice as he did before, so his loose, natural curls were far more apparent. Ferran liked the other man's hair both ways—straight, parted to the side and curly—but, secretly, he wished he kept it curly more often. Kept it messy. A little disheveled. It looked good on him. He would need to tell him that. Maybe, after tonight, he'd listen.
Ferran held his right hand apprehensively above Pedri's waist before succumbing to his desires. His hand adapted to the curve of the other man's body and, it, too, felt natural. Right. Everything they did together felt right. They complimented each other in more ways than one—both on and off the pitch. This was yet another way they fit. Clearly, Ferran thought, they had been made for one another. This was, of course, a dangerous thought. He shook his head again, withdrawing his hands. He needed to wake Pedri up. This had clearly been an accident and there he was taking advantage of it—taking advantage of Pedri—for his own, selfish desires.
Ferran took a deep breath. He couldn't stay like this. It wouldn't be right.
He put his right hand back on Pedri. This time, instead of placing it on his waist, he placed it on his shoulder. He gave Pedri a shake. If he woke him up now, they could pretend like this never happened. He had never put his hand on Pedri's waist and ran his hand through his hair. Maybe Pedri would forget he accidentally fell asleep like this—because that's what this had been: an accident. Accidents happened. They just needed to move on.
Pedri groaned as he woke up. He lifted his head off of Ferran's lap, sitting up beside him.
"Sorry," he said. "Must've fallen over when I fell asleep."
Exactly, Ferran thought, it had been an accident. He had been right to wake him up.
"," Ferran replied. "I fell asleep, too. We should probably call it a night."
He watched Pedri blink. There was something he wasn't saying. Something on his tongue that he was holding back. Ferran let it go. It was probably something inconsequential, anyway. If he wanted to say something, he would. That's how their relationship worked. Maybe he didn't follow that rule all the time, especially when it came to saying how he really felt about the other man, but there was no reason to believe that Pedri would hide anything from him. What could he possibly have to hide, anyway?
"Sí, claro," Pedri replied, yawning.
Ferran got up from where he sat and Pedri followed suit. They each had their own things to do before going to bed, but neither of them really felt like going through the motions. Each just wanted to get away from the other for long enough to forget about what had happened that night—what each of them had done.
They each, however, knew that the other was expecting an embrace before going their separate ways. It's how they always ended their night. In order to not raise any suspicion, they each partook in the exchange. It was awkward and clunky and not at all like it usually was, but it was the best that each of them could muster under the circumstances.
"Good night," Ferran said.
"Night," Pedri said.
This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Things weren't supposed to be awkward between them. They weren't supposed to have secrets. That wasn't how things worked.
But they couldn't avoid it. Neither could build up the courage to ruin what they had between them—to act on their own selfish feelings and admit how they really felt.
Ferran walked to his own room, defeated. Without taking his clothes off, he lay on top of his bed, watching his fan spin around and around and around. He placed a name to how he had been feeling toward Pedri—the reason he had wanted him so close. Saying it, even just in his head, scared him. He knew what it meant, and it didn't mean anything good. His feelings wouldn't be reciprocated—he had to disillusion himself from that idea. Even if they were, a life together would mean sneaking around and hiding. It wouldn't be the life either of them could have if they were with a woman.
But it was the life he wanted. He wanted to be with Pedri. Wanted to pull him close and tell him how much he loved him. Love. That's what he felt. He wondered why it conjured such vitriol in him. Of course he loved Pedri. Wasn't that obvious? They were best friends. They loved one another. It was implied in everything they did. Every kiss on the neck he gave to Pedri duing games, every embrace. Every time they scanned the crowd after a game to find one another so they could celebrate a win together or comfort each other after a loss. Their lives—every single one of their interactions—was overflowing with love.
So why was this any different?
Ferran knew the answer, but he could barely allow himself to think it. He had, somewhere along the way, managed to fall in love with Pedri. The distinction between the two feelings was hard to articulate, especially in the groggy, half-awake state he found himself in, but he knew what he felt.
Ferran fell asleep, not knowing that Pedri was trying, and failing, to fall asleep on the couch in his living room because he was coming to the same realization. His feelings for Ferran were far stronger than he had thought they were. He couldn't take it anymore. He had to do something about it. He didn't care what Ferran said—didn't care how he took the news. He had to say something. His feelings would slowly eat away at him until there was nothing left of him if he didn't.
Pedri got up from the stupid couch. He didn't want to be on it, anyway. He wanted to be with Ferran, and he had to believe, to put one foot in front of the other, that Ferran wanted to be with him.
Pedri knocked on the door.
He was met with silence.
Pedri bowed his head, raising his hand to knock again. He could hardly do it. Getting himself here had taken most of his energy. A failed attempt would have to do. He could try again some other day.
He paused just a moment longer.
"Adelante," he could hear Ferran say on the other side of the door. His voice was low—raspy. But he was there. He was awake. And Pedri had been invited in. It was now or never.
Pedri walked through the door. The other man was lying on top of his sheets, still in the clothes he had been wearing when they went their separate ways. He had himself propped up on his elbows.
"I can't get the pull out bed to work," Pedri said. Another lie. He hated lying to Ferran, but he figured this was the only way to get what he wanted. Either Ferran would offer to get the bed to work for him and he would know that he didn't feel the same, or, if things went how he hoped, Ferran would offer up his own bed. This, to him, in his half-awake state, would mean that he felt the same. There were flaws in his plan, of this he was sure, but he needed to hold onto something.
"You can sleep here with me," Ferran replied.
Pedri smiled.
"Eres un sol," he said, closing the door behind him.
Pedri walked over to Ferran's bed. He'd been on his bed before. This wasn't exactly a new situation. But it felt new. Something felt different—like something had changed between them. That's what he told himself, at least.
Pedri curled up beside his best friend, pressing his face into his shoulder, and tried to fall asleep.
Ferran was first to fall asleep. Having the other man there by his side put his mind at ease. That was always the effect that Pedri had on him. This time, though, it was more than that. Falling asleep on his lap could've been an accident, but this clearly wasn't. Pedri had pulled out that bed a countless number of times. There was no way he couldn't get it now. No amount of tiredness could overwrite muscle memory. This had been on purpose, and that, of course, meant that falling asleep on his lap had likely been on purpose, too. The logic was flimsy, sure, but he held on to the small sliver of hope that he had. They would talk about it in the morning, of that he was sure. For now, he just wanted to enjoy having Pedri by his side.
Ferran had the whole picture now. As he watched his fan spin around and around and as he listened to Pedri breathe in and out slowly, he stopped stroking the other man's thumb with his own. Instead, he placed his hand on top of Pedri's.
Ferran thought he heard something coming from Pedri, but the words were lost to him.
"Hm?" he said, hoping the other man would repeat himself.
"Tengo frío," he mumbled. It was only half true. He was cold, yes, but that wasn't why he had said it.
Ferran's mind spun. There were a million ways to fix this, and the pang he felt in his chest when Pedri mumbled into his shoulder drove him to find a fix as quickly as possible. He could get up to turn the fan off or he could go and find a blanket or he could get them both under the covers, but those options required more effort than he wanted to put in. Plus, to fix the issue, he didn't want to drive them apart—not even for a second. This whole ordeal still seemed so fragile to him—too delicate to interrupt at the risk of it not coming back together in the same way. Maybe Pedri would change his mind—would realize that he didn't want to be there with him after all and would go back out to the couch.
He couldn't let that happen.
"Date la vuelta, anda," Ferran said, "Onto your other side."
Pedri mumbled some protest but, ultimately, did what Ferran asked of him. He could see where this was going and he wanted more than anything for it to happen, but he had to put on some sort of a show, didn't he? Not seem so desperate.
On his other side, disconnected from Ferran and, now, actually too cold, Pedri felt the mattress shift under him with the weight of the other man moving closer and closer until his warmth spread and became his own. Ferran planted his chest firmly against Pedri's back. His right arm wrapped around the other man's waist, pulling him in even closer. Their legs found a way to naturally intertwine until they were no longer separated by any discernable means. He placed a slow, lazy kiss on the back of Pedri's neck.
"¿Mejor así, cari?" He mumbled into it, hoping the other man could hear him.
"Mejor," Pedri replied, just above a whisper. It was far better than anything he had been expecting. Ferran mumbling the endearment "cari" into his neck had sent shivers down his spine.
Ferran buried his face into Pedri's neck, the smell of his cologne intoxicating. He wanted to keep Pedri as close as possible, never wanting to let go.
"Ferri?" Pedri said. His voice was low. Now was his chance. They were both feeling the same thing, weren't they?
"Yeah, Pepi?"
Ferran knew that he hated that nickname. Well, he knew he hated it when he came from anyone else. Ferran was the only one that could call him it. He couldn't explain the why behind it, but it made everyone else on the team mad. Still, Ferran used it sparingly, only when he wanted to get the other man's attention. When he had something important to say, or when the moment was charged.
Pedri felt as though this moment couldn't get any more charged. He tried to not choke on his words.
"Te quiero," he said.
"Yo más," Ferran replied. There was no need for hesitation. He knew how he felt. And, now, he knew how Pedri felt, too.
Ferran fell asleep with Pedri in his arms, and Pedi followed suit soon after. They would have a great deal to discuss in the morning, but, for now—and through it all—they had each other, and neither man wanted for anything more.