Chapter Text
Mid-August, 2026
The passenger seat is unbearably empty.
Pedri keeps his eyes fixed dead ahead and tracks every crack in the asphalt of the road, trying to find the biggest one, trying anything to keep his eyes from wandering to the empty space next to him.
The glare of the morning sun makes it difficult. It glints off all the mirrors, harsh and invasive, and Pedri squints against the brightness. He had not slept well last night; one of those endless, restless nights where you're never fully asleep, but instead stuck teetering on the edge of consciousness.
The next pothole he sees, he drives over, to feel the brief disruption of it, the rock of the car, and he thinks to himself with something akin to satisfaction: that one's the winner.
But he gives up on his game when a song comes on that was one of Ferran's favourites, and he has to look away for a second in order to skip it. Funny, how just the opening seconds of the song were enough to transport him back to the time they'd listened to it most — last summer, playing it needlessly loudly in the car and singing without a care in the world, like they were teenagers.
Pedri decides to just turn the music off.
The car slips into an uneasy quiet, left with only the rumble of the road underneath and the constant turning of his thoughts, around and around. It's no use. Nothing can distract him from Ferran's absence — it's a physical thing, and the longer he ignores it, the bigger it becomes, until it looms large enough to consume him entirely. He clenches his jaw at the unfairness of it all. It's hard enough that Ferran left, without having to deal with the ghost he'd left behind, too.
"I'm going to accept the transfer," Ferran had said to him over the phone, a week before the deal was finalised. Pedri wanted to believe he was joking, but he knew Ferran too well: enough to know from the sound of his voice that there was no smile in it, none of the lightness of his usual teasing — he was serious.
Pedri had gone cold with dread, frozen on the beach where he stood despite the Tenerife sun on his skin. He had gone for an evening walk when Ferran called, and picked up immediately. Now he wished he'd ignored it, so that he might have kept himself safe from this moment for just a little while longer.
"Oh," he'd managed to get out. "Really?"
"Yeah," Ferran said on an exhale. "I think it's for the best. The more I talked with the club the more I realised it's the right decision for me. And well, I've been… needing a change. You know already. I mean, we've talked about it."
Pedri swallowed, remembering the conversations Ferran had had with him and the others at Barça before the World Cup: his ideas of moving away to a different club, a different country.
But it had seemed so far from reality back then, implausible even. Pedri didn't think he'd meant any of it. He didn't think he'd really leave. At the time, he had smiled and shrugged and said with sincerity, "Do what makes you happy" — because he'd wholeheartedly believed that Ferran was happy here.
He realised he had not said anything for a while. "Pedri," came Ferran's voice, too soft for him to bear. "I'm sorry. It's not that I want to leave the team… but— I can't stay. I have to do what's best for me."
"Yeah. What's best for you," Pedri replied numbly. He was staring off into the distant horizon. The sunset sky looked dull and flat to him now, and the stench of seaweed in the air began to repulse him. He remembered, a lifetime ago, another beach, another sunset — a winter in Valencia, when they'd met for the first time.
Things were much simpler then. Buzzing with the promise of his early career, countless opportunities stretching out before him. And Ferran, with his easy smile and genuine interest in him, how he'd appeared almost bashful when talking about himself. Pedri hadn't been able to keep his eyes off him. He hadn't known why at the time, but he thinks he knows now, standing there with his phone pressed against his ear, heart breaking at the prospect of Ferran leaving.
"Are you angry with me?" Ferran asked quietly.
Pedri's hand curled into a fist where it dangled hopelessly at his side. "No." He kicked at the sand beneath his feet. "Not angry. I just didn't think you'd really leave. It feels so sudden."
There was a moment of intolerable silence. "I was thinking about it for a long time. A year, maybe."
"Oh." Pedri felt he couldn't stay upright; he wanted to sit down, but knew if he did he wouldn't find the strength to stand back up again. A whole year. He'd been thinking about leaving for a whole year. Not just a few months. "Why did you wait so long to tell me?"
Over the phone, Ferran sighed. Pedri could picture the furrow of his eyebrows, the way he would absentmindedly run one hand through his hair and look off to the side. "You would have talked me out of it," he replied, his voice laced with something like laughter, although nothing was funny. "Any one of you at Barça would have swayed me. But I had to think about it on my own, because the decision is my own, you know? I have to put myself first."
"I guess so… Well, I'm happy for you," Pedri lied. His voice was hollow. "It'll be a big change. You'd better start learning French."
"Yeah," Ferran laughed out, and there was relief in the sound. "Thank you. Hey — now I've got to let everyone else know. I dunno if Gavi will take the news as well as you have."
Pedri was biting the inside of his cheek almost hard enough to draw blood. Ferran continued, oblivious. "I'm trying to organise some time to say goodbye in person, but things are so busy right now…"
That sent a chill through him. It was really happening. He was really going to say his goodbyes.
"But, you know, nothing has to change between us. Paris isn't far — I'll always be here to bother you." Then, "We'll always be brothers."
Pedri bristled, outrage and humiliation rushing in hot to replace the numbness he'd been feeling. How could Ferran be so clueless, so blind to his obvious hurt, to the reason behind it? Brothers? Somehow, inexplicably, that felt like a punch to the face — he flinched from it, and said, as if drawing back his own fist to retaliate, "I don't know about that. I think if you're gonna leave us, you should just leave."
The stunned silence that came afterwards gave him a cold rush of power. Fight back, Pedri was thinking, the hurt turning into poison inside him, coiling into something like hatred. Get angry. Show me something real.
"…What do you mean?"
"You said you're busy — well, so is everyone else. Maybe we should all just… move on."
"Move on?" Ferran repeated, incredulous. "What- why are you being difficult all of a sudden?"
Pedri shrugged, although he knew Ferran couldn't see him. "I'm just saying it'll be easier without all the pretending. No point dragging it out." And although he knew he would come to regret his words later, he couldn't stop himself — he wanted to hurt Ferran; wanted to feel he had some semblance of control over the situation. He wondered how far he could push him, how much he could pick at an old wound until it bled anew. There was no going back now.
"You're being ridiculous," Ferran laughed mirthlessly. "Because I'm leaving, we can't be friends?"
If only you knew, Pedri wanted to laugh back. I'd rather you hate me than become a stranger you pretend to care about six months from now.
"It'll be easier to do your own thing. Focus on yourself. That's what you want, isn't it?"
"No- where is this coming from? Just a second ago you were fine, you said you weren't angry."
Blind, he is utterly blind. Pedri swallowed down the urge to shout. "It's better to move on," he said, more to himself than to Ferran.
"You don't believe that. What is this- what did you think, that I'd ignore every opportunity that comes my way unless it suits you?"
"Opportunity," Pedri scoffed. "Is that what it's all about? You think you can win more titles over there?"
A pause. Pedri listened to the slow rhythmic waves of the sea, a contrast to his breathing — quick and erratic with anger.
"I'm not listening to this," Ferran said eventually, and he sounded distant. "You don't really want to 'move on'. You're just lashing out because you're upset."
"You know I'm right."
"You're not. I'll prove you wrong."
Pedri closed his eyes against the setting sun. The fight in him left as quickly as it came, and the heat of his anger was beginning to blister. He didn't want to hear Ferran's voice any more. He wanted to move on.
"Good luck in France," he said flatly, before hanging up.
Pedri blinks back from the memory, knuckles gone white around the steering wheel. It's been two weeks since that phone call, and Ferran must have gotten the memo and just moved on after all, because he never came back to Barcelona, and Pedri hadn't heard from him. And it was all for the best, Pedri assures himself — it's easier like this, to sever the ties; there's no point hanging on. Better to get things over with rather than let it die slowly. He could focus on moving forward much better like this.
He pulls in to the training grounds, already exhausted.
He's arrived early, and the changing room is peacefully empty when he walks in, except for Eric, who is standing in front of his cubby looking at something on his phone. He glances up when Pedri comes in, and greets him with a smile; they embrace with an exaggerated clap on the back.
"How have you been?" Eric asks him when they part, and Pedri tries not to grimace, answering as convincingly as he can manage that he's been well.
Eric fixes him with a knowing look. The rough night he'd had and the weight of Ferran's absence must be written clear on his face.
Eric opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then decides to speak anyway. "About Ferran…" he starts, and Pedri quickly looks away. "I didn't think he'd leave, either."
Pedri shrugs like it makes no difference to him, depositing his bag into the cubby next to Eric's. "It is what it is."
He can feel Eric's searching gaze in the corner of his eye. "Are you really not talking to him?"
Guilt twinges through him. Of course Ferran would tell Eric; he's known Ferran for far longer than Pedri has. He wonders how much of their last conversation Ferran relayed — did he tell him all the details, the words Pedri hurled at him to push him away? Did he exaggerate it, or play it down? But from the earnest concern in Eric's face, Pedri doesn't have it in him to be irritated by his knowledge of their argument. He busies himself by getting changed and turns away more than he needs to, hiding the pain visible in his eyes.
"I have nothing to say to him," he says lightly.
Eric's voice is rational, inoffensive, when he replies. "You know it isn't personal. Transfers are always going to happen, whether we want them to or not."
"I know," Pedri mumbles, remembering all the teammates who have come and gone in the past — it was just a part of football. But it had never felt like a betrayal to him; it had never hurt as much as this. No, with Ferran, it's about more than just football. Well, apparently not to him. "I'm sure he'll be happy there."
He sits down to pull his boots on, and there is a sense of finality to it, like putting them on switches him off from all other matters — he isn't here to think or talk about Ferran. He's here to train.
Eric must sense this change, because he accepts the way Pedri moves on from the topic like it never happened. Pedri stands up and slaps Eric on the back. "How's training been going, anyway?" he asks. "I heard you got back ages ago. Preparing for war or something?"
Eric chuckles as they make their way out towards the pitch. "You can never be too prepared, my friend."
Pedri's first day back at training doesn't go as badly as he had expected. The drills work him hard enough to push everything else out of his mind; the sweat and strain a familiar feeling that sets him at ease. And being back with the team warms the tension out of him most of all. The group is lively with chatter, moving through the routines with a renewed energy, eager for the start of the new season — all of them part of the same working machine, operating as one.
They're down on the mats when it's time to pair up with the resistance bands. Pedri automatically turns to his side where Ferran should have been, before he remembers. The others are beginning to move into partners, and he thinks maybe they glance at him with pity or maybe he's just projecting.
A shadow falls over him — someone is standing in front of his mat, blocking out the sun. Pedri looks up, and it's Gordon, one hand extended to help him up. "Would you like to be partners?"
Pedri can't help but grin at the politeness of his accent. "Yes, thank you," he answers with genuine gratitude, and accepts his hand; Gordon pulls him up without effort.
They'd met before, very briefly and formally, but only now does Pedri realise how tall he is — up close, he has to look up a little to meet his eyes. Gordon smiles, almost sheepish, and the breeze stirs the golden strands of his hair across his forehead, and he's a little singed from the sun, Pedri notes with amusement.
They proceed with the exercises, with snippets of small talk in between. Around him, he catches glimpses of the others messing around. Somewhere in the group, Gavi's screech of laughter erupts, and Pedri smiles absentmindedly.
He's settling in well at Barcelona, Gordon tells him when Pedri asks, even if the heat is a little difficult to get used to. And the team are so friendly and welcoming, which has helped a lot: he's never found it so easy to make friends. Pedri nods at this. "We're like a family here," he says, and there's a seriousness to his words.
Gordon hums in agreement. "I'm excited for the season to start, so I can prove myself to you all." The coach signals for them to put the resistance bands away, and they move off without disrupting the conversation.
"The expectations are high," Pedri admits, thinking about how well-received his signing was, everyone saying what an excellent addition he'd make to the team. When Pedri watched some of the World Cup games whenever there was time, he'd seen it for himself in England's matches — he remembers vividly, Gordon's opening goal against Argentina in the semi-finals.
"You don't feel pressured?" he adds, knowing the answer but curious as to how Gordon would word it.
Gordon makes a dismissive gesture. "We all work best under pressure."
Pedri smirks at this, approving. "Very true." He likes this guy, he decides. "You'll fit right in."
When training is over, and Pedri is back in the changing room, he realises how much better he feels: lighter on his feet, pleasantly tired from the exercises, and he's feeling hopeful about the new season with the team, with his family. He's feeling more alive than he has in weeks.
He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, fishing blindly in his bag for his phone to check the time. Absently, he's thinking about his plans for later: a long shower, maybe a nap to catch up on missed sleep, and perhaps some video games before dinner.
He doesn't register the time, however, because there are notifications on the screen that give him pause, the contact name making his blood run cold: Ferran.
And then, as if reading his mind — how the hell would you know? — Ferran follows up his text with an image: a picture posted earlier by the club's social media team, Pedri sat on his mat and grinning up at Gordon, their hands clasped together. Ferran, for a reason Pedri cannot possibly fathom, captions this image with a winky face.
Flushing hot with sheer outrage, Pedri shoves his phone back into his bag, all the way to the bottom, and the morning's tension returns to him in the set of his jaw and the stiffness of his shoulders. His visible frustration makes Eric glance at him questioningly, but Pedri avoids his eyes, and swings his bag over his shoulder, muttering, "I'll see you tomorrow."
He tries not to leave in a way that could be considered storming out, but it proves a challenge: his footsteps fall heavily, scuffing against the ground, and he moves in a rush as if he'd be any safer from Ferran's messages the further away he gets, barrelling unstoppably forwards.
He's made it to his car in record time, getting in and chucking his bag into the passenger seat. The slam of the door closes him in to the silence and privacy where he can fume freely, rage etched in every line of him.
His thoughts unleash like a torrent. What the hell is this asshole playing at? Who does he think he is, following social media updates about him and messaging him like that's normal? Like he hadn't left the club, left him, like Pedri hadn't made it clear he didn't want to hear from him? And that picture was posted not even thirty minutes ago — doesn't he have better things to do? Pedri forces down the impulse to shout out.
From deep within his bag, his phone buzzes. He startles, and he can't help it — he scrambles to find his phone. But the message is from Eric, not Ferran: asking in a roundabout way if he's alright, and if he wants to go out later with him and Gordon. We need to show him the best places in Barcelona! the message says.
Pedri takes a deep breath, letting his heartbeat settle back to a normal pace, and considers Eric's offer. He's only asking out of concern, really. Pedri would only be tagging along with them, and he'd get confused when they inevitably start speaking in English. Besides, he was looking forward to napping and playing video games all evening.
But, if there's a chance of getting on Ferran's nerves somehow… he wouldn't pass up on that, not after the way Ferran's just derailed him with his ridiculous messages. The petty and vindictive part of him alights at the idea — why not give him something to think about? He must be getting bored already in Paris, after all.
Pedri messages Eric back. I know a place, he says.
He's just arrived at training the next morning when his phone lights up with a message from Ferran. A smirk crosses his face before he can help it — like a fish to bait, he thinks, spiteful.
He's met with a picture of Eric's Instagram story last night, him and Gordon tagged in the photo, the three of them smiling in a restaurant with an interior that would only be recognisable if you dined there regularly.
They'd discovered it together last spring. A small family-owned place on a tree-lined street at the outskirts of the city center, where you could see the Sagrada Família in the distance. American-inspired dishes, the sign outside prompted. Ferran had taken that as an invitation. It was raining when they first stepped in, and Pedri remembers Ferran's hand, gentle at the small of his back, ushering him inside where it was dry and warm.
"We should keep this place a secret," Ferran said to him conspiratorially after he paid their bill and they re-entered the street, which was damp but no longer raining. "Or someone will snitch that I've been coming here to eat burgers during the season." And Pedri had laughed, and said, unable to deny him anything, that they'll come back often and he can eat all the burgers he wants.
Well. The restaurant wasn't really a secret anymore. But Pedri hadn't mentioned anything about Ferran or his burgers to the others, at least.
Ferran's picture is followed by two more messages:
Pedri scoffs, affronted and unsure if that's the reaction he was looking for. He switches his phone off, and heads up the stairs to join his teammates on the training pitch.
***
End of August, 2026
The stadium thrums with energy, and Pedri feels it in his body — adrenaline surges through him like electricity. Beneath the night sky, the brightness of the floodlights form a barrier over the stadium, sealing it off so that the pitch is its own world; separate from everything else. Nothing on the outside matters.
They're 1-1 against Elche, and deep into the second half. But Pedri doesn't feel worried, feels only the momentum of the game, reading the opposing team's movements from the middle of the pitch and waiting for the optimum chance to set up an attack, to work his magic.
Elche's midfielders are getting clumsy, Pedri determines. They can't keep up — Dani steals the ball from one of their players, too slow to turn it away, sending it towards Pedri, and he takes it seamlessly.
He drives it closer to the goal. Spins around a defender without disrupting the rhythm of his feet, which skim over the ground, light and quick.
Then, Yes. There, Pedri is thinking — Gordon is in position. Pedri feels it more than sees it; could find him in that moment even if his eyes were closed. He passes to him, and there is no doubt in his mind.
Gordon launches the ball, and it sails past the keeper's head, and into the top corner of the goal.
The crowd bursts into an uproar. Pedri breathes out, a small satisfied smile finding its way onto his face. He jogs to catch up to where Gordon is celebrating and their hands clap together before they embrace, and then the others find them: Raphinha slapping Gordon on the back, Dani high-fiving him with a nod of approval.
When the final whistle blows ten minutes later, and they're heading into the tunnel, Pedri listens to the chatter of his teammates around him, and feels a sense of contentedness he'd almost forgotten about. This is where he belongs, playing football and winning alongside his team, his club. Nowhere else.
His phone, when he gets back to it, is devoid of any enraging messages. Sat on the bench in the changing room of Elche's stadium, brushing away blades of grass that have stuck to his legs, Pedri scrolls through his notifications, but there is nothing particularly interesting. Thank God. He stares at the top of the screen, however, in case something new pops up. Still nothing.
Since Ferran's last message two weeks ago, Pedri had been on edge about whether there would be a new one, eyeing his phone after every training session. He shouldn't have tried to provoke him with the restaurant. Baiting him only made him anxious of whether Ferran would keep tracking him and come back for more. And with this game, Pedri's first of the season, he thought maybe Ferran would be watching. Thankfully, it appears not.
He switches his phone off and buries it in his bag as if stowing away what might have been disappointment.
A topless Gavi slaps him with his rolled up shirt and jolts him back to reality; Pedri glares at him scathingly. "I need to borrow your Switch charger on the way back," he says, not asking.
"But you always lose things," Pedri protests.
"Lies. I never lose," retorts Gavi, and then he corrects himself loudly for the whole room, "We never lose!", which earns him a few cheers from the others scattered around the changing room, in various states of undress.
Pedri rolls his eyes, leaning down to unlace his boots. "You lost two pairs of AirPods in a week when we were in America."
Gavi pointedly ignores this. "I need to beat Lamine in Mario Kart or he'll post the picture he took of me on the plane — blackmail is very serious, Pedri," he whines. "My Switch is dead and I only have my phone charger."
Pedri looks up at him with a frown. "Just use that, then."
"Huh?"
"Your phone charger works for the Switch."
Gavi only stares blankly.
"You're such an idiot. They use the same type of charger."
"…Oh. I never noticed."
"'Course you didn't. I'm gonna get Lamine to send me that picture." He stands up to toe his boots off, and taps Gavi's head with his knuckles. "It's empty in there, huh?"
Muttering agitatedly, Gavi smacks his hand away and retreats to his cubby, no doubt to search for his phone charger and see for himself. Pedri chuckles, forgetting, briefly, what he was thinking about before.
On the way back to Barcelona, Pedri finds himself restless with boredom. It's relatively quiet on the plane, other than Gavi's shouts of dismay from somewhere at the back as he loses in Mario Kart for what appears to be the second time in a row. Next to him, Eric has an eye mask on, arms crossed over his chest, headphones on, sound asleep.
It's only an hour's flight, but something in Pedri itches for a way to kill the time. Yet for once, he doesn't feel like playing a game, or listening to music, or going to sleep. He knows deep down what he really wants to do — his thumb hovers above the Instagram icon on his phone's homescreen. Maybe just a glimpse wouldn't hurt… but he had managed to refrain for so long, almost a month, until now. He can't help himself. He has to see.
Glancing at Eric beside him and ensuring that yes, his eye mask is definitely still on, Pedri swallows nervously and taps on the app, then quickly navigates to Ferran's profile. It feels dirty. His heart rate quickens.
Instantly, he regrets his lack of self-restraint, and his lack of self-preservation, too. His eyes land not on the first post, but one that seems to be from Ferran's first day training at PSG, wearing their kit, surrounded by his new teammates — and the sight is so gut-wrenching, so jarringly unfamiliar, that Pedri can't bear to look at it any closer, and almost swipes off the app. Instead, he focuses on the first and most recent post.
This post was from yesterday and appears to be from a photoshoot, perhaps for some French magazine. Pedri scrolls through every photo, stopping to look at each one for much longer than necessary.
Ferran is, egregiously, shirtless in all of them. In one of them he is wearing only boxers. Pedri suppresses a fit of high-pitched laughter, scrolling through in disbelief. Ferran's hair is longer than it was the last time they saw each other, falling in gentle swoops of dark brown. In the last photo, the camera draws the eye to Ferran's crucifix, which sits enticingly in the middle of his bare chest.
All the supposed fashion in Paris, and Ferran is half naked. Ridiculous.
Seeing as he'd already lost the ability to control his impulses and thrown his dignity away, Pedri finds himself sending the post to Ferran. He starts typing, he can't stop himself — he needs to do something spiteful, however small.
As soon as the messages are delivered, however, Pedri comes back to his senses, aghast with dread and embarrassment. Why did I just do that? he demands of himself in alarm. He recounts the day's events, wondering if perhaps he'd consumed some mood-altering substances, but there's nothing — he must have been high only on the sheer vindictiveness and lack of control Ferran brings out in him. He had only wanted some sense of revenge: if Ferran could stalk him so shamelessly, why not do it back? But in doing so, Pedri has failed at his own game, and shown Ferran that he cared, that he hadn't moved on after all.
As if to make everything worse, as Ferran tends to do these days, when Pedri looks back down at his phone, the message has been read and Ferran is already typing. The reply comes before he can do anything to stop it.
Pedri stares at it blankly for perhaps a full minute. Then, with a strange calmness, he puts his phone on airplane mode, powers it off, tucks it into the bag at his feet, and stares unseeingly out the window for the rest of the journey.
The next evening, Pedri is slumped on his sofa half-heartedly playing a game on his PlayStation. He's distracted — didn't even get annoyed when he lost the last game.
The league phase draws for the Champions League were announced earlier: Barcelona would be playing away against PSG in two months.
He's been nervous ever since, confronted with the reality that he would have to play against Ferran for the first time. What an awkward reunion that will be. And the worst part is that they'd be playing away, in Paris — Pedri has decided he hates Paris, hates the entirety of France: a stupid, nonsensical country.
At least the prospect of playing against Ferran in a knockout round, or even the finals, is too distant to affect him: if that happens, it wouldn't be until the new year. He can't remember the last time he'd won a big trophy without Ferran by his side. If he wins the UCL this season, would the victory taste more bitter, or more sweet without him?
But there was still the national team, Pedri reminds himself, becoming more and more agitated. They would still have to play together on the national team, starting with December, when they'd be facing England. They'd have to train together, travel together. Oh God, Pedri despairs. I'll never get away from him.
When his phone buzzes next to him, his heart jumps. He already knows who it's from, and what it's about — in fact, he might have been idling this whole time, waiting for this message.
That makes him pause.
Pedri freezes, rereading that message over and over again. There are too many ways it could be interpreted, and it unsettles him. He doesn't want to dwell on it right now.
Pedri goes back to his game, picking up the controller — but his thumbs are suspended over the joysticks, and his eyes are not tracking the game. Ferran's message is practically burned into his retinas. Of course I was. Of course Ferran watched him play. In what world would he not?
When they were younger, before Ferran joined Barça, they used to always watch each other's matches if there was time. The memory stings him now: recalling the messages of praise he'd receive after a win, and how much he'd relished in them at the time. Pedri slumps further into the sofa, deflating.
After a few minutes, another text comes through, as if luring him back in.
A ridiculous suggestion, and Ferran surely knows it. Nothing distracts him from football. To insinuate otherwise is outrageous; insulting. And that's what he wants, Pedri realises — Ferran is just trying to piss him off to get a reaction out of him, always pestering, always prodding at him until something gives way.
Pedri huffs, tossing his phone away across the sofa. He should just block his number and be done with it. But to block him would be a reaction in and of itself, wouldn't it? It was a lose-lose situation anyway. At least like this, it felt like he had some sort of control — he could keep an eye on what Ferran was saying. Even if he was just spouting bullshit for the fun of it.
Two days later, and Pedri should not be wasting his night watching a Ligue 1 match, but he is. He's tucked up in bed with his laptop resting on his stomach, playing a livestream of the match. The game has just ended, with 3-2 to PSG against Lille Paris, and the camera is following the players as they disappear into the tunnel — from this distance, they look like a brightly-coloured army of ants, filing slowly out of view.
Ferran had, unfortunately, scored in the fortieth minute. Pedri's breath had hitched when he saw the ball come to him in the penalty box, and he whipped it into the net with an effortlessness that Pedri had to grudgingly respect. But afterwards, Pedri seethed to see him celebrate with his teammates, and to hear the commentator declare, "And the shark strikes for Paris for the first time!". Pedri had wished Ferran would have missed.
The livestream ends, and Pedri is falling asleep, laptop still open on top of him, when his phone vibrates and he snaps awake. Surely not.
He fumbles for it, and squints at the screen. It's him.
It's not even been ten minutes. Pedri is aghast at Ferran's shamelessness — he couldn't even wait until he got out of the stadium to start gloating? Pathetic. And although he knows he shouldn't respond, should just go to sleep and ignore Ferran's obvious baiting, he replies.
He's been caught. Pedri hastily clicks off the livestream on his laptop, as if it makes a difference, and scowls down at his phone. He should block Ferran's number just for that, but he can't — he can't let Ferran think he's won.
Blushing furiously, Pedri decides to busy himself by getting up to put his laptop away, and then he goes to the bathroom to get ready to sleep — although now he feels too restless, too agitated. Trust Ferran to ruin his night like this. He's pacing around the bathroom whilst brushing his teeth: what could Ferran possibly want in a bet? It can't be anything good. He should never have replied to his message and given himself away like this.
For you to leave me alone, Pedri thinks, but doesn't say. His mind flits back to Ferran's ridiculous photoshoot: his stupid hair, long enough now to curl over his ears, down the nape of his neck.
He leaves it at that, putting his phone away and flipping over in bed with a huff. What could there possibly be in Paris that Barcelona doesn't have? Certainly not any quaint little burger restaurants discovered by chance on a rainy spring day. And certainly not the better football club. Pedri shifts to get more comfortable.
It's a good thing there's no chance of losing to PSG in October.
***
Beginning of September, 2026
"You aren't focusing," scolds Kugel, lifting the barbell off him.
It's matchday four of La Liga, and the rest of the team have gone to play in Valencia, excluding a select few who weren't required to join. Instead, Pedri and Gavi are with the fitness coach doing strength training at the gym, although this is Pedri's least favourite type of training. He breathes out in relief at the weight being removed.
"I am, Coach," he insists — but Kugel only puts his hands on his hips and glares down at him, unconvinced. Pedri sits up on the bench. "It's just, it's time for a break, isn't it?" With this he shoots a meaningful look at Gavi, who is watching on curiously from his own bench.
It takes a second for Gavi to catch on. "Oh, yeah," he deadpans. "I'm so tired, Coach. I need a rest."
Kugel rolls his eyes. "Fine. Ten minute break," he says gruffly, and promptly exits the room, closing the door behind him.
Pedri sighs exaggeratedly as soon as Kugel leaves, rubbing at his bicep. "I hate weights," he complains.
"We can tell," Gavi counters. Pedri tuts in annoyance at this, and would have reached over to smack him, if he weren't just out of reach and if his arms didn't feel like jelly.
Instead, he drags himself up to retrieve his phone from the side of the room: he'd heard it vibrate a while ago, and it might have been distracting him a little bit ever since.
Gavi perks up. "Bring me mine."
"Say please."
"…I'll just get it myself."
When they cross paths, Pedri makes sure to elbow Gavi in the side. He dodges the retaliation, making his way back to the bench, and scans the notifications on the screen.
A sly smile crosses his face. He should not be smiling, he should be worried about how routine this has become — Ferran messaging him like this, so in tune to what he's up to despite the distance between them. Over five hundred miles: Pedri might have looked it up at some point.
Pedri feels his face heat up, but before he can think too hard on it, the sound of Gavi's voice beside him makes him jump. "Holy shit." When he turns, Gavi's mouth is hanging open, and he points an accusatory finger at Pedri. "Are you texting Ferran?"
"No," Pedri says, too loudly. "I mean. Yes. But only— it's not…" He grunts in frustration, and this time he makes the effort to lean over and smack Gavi hard on the shoulder. "It's not your damn business! Why were you looking at my phone?"
"I thought you weren't talking to each other."
"We aren't, really..."
"Eric mentioned you guys argued. Well, he said," and here Gavi deepens his voice in a poor imitation of Eric, "you 'weren't on great terms right now', but I can read between the lines. And I was like, that's awkward, so I tried not to mention him around you. I wasn't really happy with him either, but it's life I guess."
Pedri only stares ahead numbly, unspeaking.
"What were you talking about?"
"Nothing," Pedri begins, but being secretive would only make it sound worse, and intrigue Gavi all the more. He doesn't want to give him any ideas. "Just… about the match. In October. He keeps goading me."
Gavi hums thoughtfully, then wrinkles his nose, and offers his insight: "He thinks he's got the advantage, playing at home, and against players he knows well. Did you hear about the match last week? When he scored? But anyway, he doesn't know all our secrets — we'll thrash them, easily."
"Yeah…" Pedri replies distractedly, thinking of the layered meaning of 'at home'. I guess Paris is his home now, he sulks. But even after all these weeks, he had never fully accepted it, didn't fully comprehend what it meant: yes, he lives there now, but is that his home? Does he really love Paris enough to call it home?
You'll let me show you around Paris, Ferran had messaged him last week. Like he already knew the city like the back of his hand, like he was proud of it, enough to want to show Pedri.
He chews on the inside of his cheek, something dark and heavy festering inside his chest. He feels the betrayal of Ferran leaving all over again. Seeing him in Paris is indeed the worst thing he could think of — is that why Ferran made the bet in the first place, so he could rub it in his face how much happier he is there, how great things are for him? How much he's moved on from Barcelona?
Pedri sets his jaw. Losing against Ferran in October, and subsequently losing the bet, is not an option. "Yes," he says to Gavi, his voice firm now. "We are going to thrash them."