Chapter Text
Ferran ran down the pitch. They were up 3 - 2 against Madrid and the clock was rapidly approaching full time. Even so, they were primed to score another goal. He was waiting for the signal, for the pass, for the chance to strike. He could see the play clearly—a play no one else would see coming. An opening no one else could take advantage of. He knew Madrid's weaknesses. They had been studying—the whole team. Practicing for this game. They couldn't lose–not at the first El Clásico of La Liga. 3 - 2 wasn't enough of a deficit. Madrid wasn't exactly playing like they wanted to win, but they couldn't take any chances.
Plus, it was impossible for them to beat them by too high of a score. More bragging rights.
Ferran stopped dead in his tracks when he heard it. The crowd, his home crowd, had just made a noise no football player ever wanted to hear. Gasps erupted around the stadium. Booing. The sharp sound of a whistle cut through the noise. The stadium was loud—chaotic—but he could hear his heart beating. He turned around, following the sound of the whistle, looking where everyone else was looking. He scanned the pitch. Clearly something bad had happened–bad enough to get the entire crowd seriously involved. It was likely a red card. These rivalry matches were always heated. Hell, he'd gotten his own fair share of red cards over his career. It happened. Emotions were high, especially this late in the game. He wondered who'd be ejected from the game this time. How severe the punishment would be.
For a split second, panic filled Ferran's mind. What if Pedri had gotten hurt? He saw a group of players from his team all huddled together. He could see the ref produce a red card, and, as he did, the stadium erupted into cheers. He had figured that the penalty would be on the other team, given the crowd's reaction, but this meant that someone on his team was down. A red card offense didn't always mean severe injury, he hadn't maimed his opponent to get his last red card, but the way the team was huddled and the way the crowd had gasped gave the impression that someone was definitely hurt. Whatever had happened, it wasn't just a flop for attention or to buy the team some time to breathe. No, something was seriously wrong.
Ferran shook his head as he rushed over to where the rest of his team had congregated. He didn't see Pedri standing there, but he could have easily been obfuscated by the commotion. The screens in the stadium wouldn't be showing any replays, not of a moment like this, so he knew the only way to find out what had happened would be to go over and see for himself. He tried to calm his nerves, to slow his heartbeat. He couldn't let himself be worried. He took deep breaths, remembering what his therapist had told him to do in moments like these. Guilt crept over him as he silently wished that any of the other players–any of his other teammates–had been the one to get hurt. Anyone but Pedri. They would understand where he was coming from, but it still made him feel like a bit of a dick.
Before he could get a closer look at what was going on, Ferran was stopped. It was sudden and abrupt and he hadn't seen who had stopped him. It was Pedri, probably. Telling him that he was okay. Telling him who had gotten hurt. Telling him that he was okay. Arms wrapped around him, restricting his movement, preventing him from going any further to see what had happened.
Pedri didn't have four arms, and he definitely felt four strong arms stopping him.
Ferran looked to see who had stopped him. Eric was on his left, and Gavi was on his right.
"Don't do it, hermano," Eric said. What was he talking about? Do what? Check on what happened? He had a right to know who had gotten hurt. "It's not worth it. Let the refs deal with it."
A sinking feeling took hold in Ferran's stomach. It was Pedri. He knew it was Pedri. It had to be. They wouldn't have stopped him otherwise. Pedri was there, behind the crowd, behind the refs. In pain. Alone. Surrounded by his other teammates and soon by medical staff, he was sure, but alone. Without him. The thought of it turned his stomach into knots. He needed to see him. Needed to be there with him. Even if he couldn't help—couldn't make him feel any better, couldn't take away the pain—he needed to be there.
"I just want to see him," Ferran begged, turning to Eric. He had known Eric for longer and Eric, in turn, had known about him and Pedri for longer than Gavi, who had learned—on accident—just recently. If either of the two of them were going to let him go, it was going to be Eric. Really, he was surprised he had been stopped at all. He figured the two men thought he would get into a fight with whoever had gotten the infraction–or anyone on Madrid, for that matter–but a fight was the last thing on his mind. Though the rivalry was alive and well, and any excuse for either team to act on it was dangerous and could result in multiple red cards, he just wanted to see Pedri. He needed to see Pedri.
"Eric," Gavi warned.
Ferran was charming. Gavi knew this. He would say anything to get what he wanted, and he was really good at saying the right thing. He also knew that Eric had a weak spot for his old friend—his old friends—who were now dating. Had been for a while. Not that it had changed anything, really. They had been annoying and inseparable before and they were just as annoying and just as inseparable now. But Eric was a softie–a sucker for a good love story. He knew this. He knew Ferran would say anything to get into his mind—anything to go and maim whoever had just hurt his boyfriend.
No warning was enough. He could see Eric's eyes soften. Gavi held on tight, but Eric loosened his grip just enough to let Ferran go. Eric gave him a sympathetic glance, a silent "I'm sorry, it was out of my control." The two men followed behind Ferran to make sure he didn't get into any trouble. To his credit, Ferran ignored the Madrid players who had gathered entirely. No one was fighting. Everyone was being civil. Too civil. That meant that something more serious was taking their attention. Something quite bad had happened, and, as much as the players hated each other, no one liked seeing other players get hurt. They all loved football, and injuries prevented players from doing what they loved. At the end of the day, it was a game. No one should have to pay a physical toll–not like this.
Ferran found Pedri lying on his back. His eyes were closed. His arms were crossed over his stomach. Even with his eyes closed, he looked like he was in pain. Where was the medic? Why was he still on the field?
"Pepi," he said, just loud enough for the other man to hear him over all the commotion.
"Ferri?" Pedri replied. He could feel Ferran place one of his hands onto his own. He didn't need to open his eyes to know who was there beside him. Not only would he be able to pick Ferran's voice out from a lineup of a thousand other Valencians, but no one else called him that stupid nickname.
Pedri opened his eyes. The pain was unimaginable. He was surrounded by his teammates and Ferran was blocking the worst of it, but the lights somehow shined brighter. They hurt his eyes. All of his senses were on high alert. And his ankle. His fucking ankle. It had all happened so fast he wasn't even sure how he got here, but he knew that, whatever had happened, his ankle had been broken. He had his fair share of twists and bruises and strains and pulls and fractures and knew what all of those felt like. This was more severe. Conventional wisdom said that, if you've never broken a bone, you'll know it when you feel it.
He felt it.
Tears fell from his eyes. They were hot against his face. He was glad no one could see him like this—no one but Ferran. He knew Ferran wouldn't judge him. The trolls online would judge him—call him weak, even in his greatest moment of weakness. Ferran would never. He saw the other man use his free hand to wipe away his tears. Pedri sniffled. His hands weren't exactly smooth, but they felt so good on his skin. They felt like home. Pedri forced a smile. He knew it wasn't convincing. The tears told the other man that.
Ferran could read the pain on Pedri's face. He forced his own smile. He was sure that his own face—his own smile—showed pain, too. He pressed a gentle kiss to the other man's forehead, wiping away his hair.
"I think it's broken," Pedri managed. Each word was harder to get out than the last. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to remain conscious in this state, but he didn't want to leave Ferran. Didn't want to make him worry more than he knew he already was.
Ferran stroked Pedri's thumb with his own, pressing another kiss, this time to his lips. Just a small peck. It was careless and reckless of him to do it, but he didn't care. Every single camera in the stadium was on him—on them—he could feel it. It wasn't every match that someone broke a bone. It was rare. It wasn't supposed to happen. These things didn't happen–not to them. But it had. And he knew the whole world would be invested. Everyone would be trying to get their own viral video–their own account of the rivalry match that ended in stitches. Despite it all, Ferran was sure—or, mostly sure—that his small displays of affection were hidden from the world. A teammate or two glanced down to watch over them. He saw Eric and Gavi and maybe one other whose face told him he hadn't been expecting to see what he had, followed by a punch on the arm from Eric and a whisper in his ear.
Ferran didn't care who saw what.
"I'm so sorry, mi amor," he said, cupping the other man's face, brushing his cheek with his thumb.
The medics would arrive soon. They would take Pedri away on a stretcher to the in—stadium medical facility while they waited for the ambulance to arrive to take them to the nearest hospital. All the while, Ferran would have to go back out onto the pitch and play the rest of this stupid match. Madrid would be down a player, but it didn't matter. They had lost Pedri. The victory that was once in their hands wasn't a guarantee anymore. Everyone would be shaken—not playing their best. Ferran tried not to think about the rest of the game. About the rest of the night. How alone Pedri would be. His family would be called but they were back on Tenerife. His brother, Fer, was nearby. He would be there. That calmed him down. But he knew he'd spend the rest of the game worried sick about where Pedri was and how he was doing. There had always been this risk. Dating your coworker always comes with risks. But it had been worth it. One game–win or lose—didn't matter, not in the grand scheme of things.
To Ferran, all that mattered was that Pedri was okay. That he would be okay.
The medics came and Ferran had to loosen his grip on Pedri's hand. They lifted him up onto the stretcher. Pedri gave a wave to the crowd as they carted him out and the crowd responded with deafening cheers. Ferran watched as the love poured out from the fans. It was going to be a long night, but, at the end of it, they would be together.