Archive of Our Own

"Barcelona has confirmed the departure of Ferran Torres to Paris Saint-Germain. Both clubs reached full agreement after prior verbal negotiations with the World Cup winner these past weeks. Medicals are set to take place in a few days."

Fer muted the television. He stayed there a moment longer, staring at the image of the Camp Nou exterior, then stood and walked down the hallway. 

Pedri's door was half open. The light inside was soft, late-afternoon gold filtering through the curtains. Pedri was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the same black training shorts and oversized grey hoodie he'd worn to the gym that morning. His phone lay face-down on the pillow. He wasn't looking at anything in particular, just the wall opposite the bed, where a framed photograph of the two of them hung. 

Fer leaned against the doorframe. 

"You saw it?" 

Pedri didn't turn. "Yeah." 

"They made it official now." 

He gave a small nod, nothing else. 

Fer stepped inside and sat on the chair by the desk. He studied his brother's profile, the set of the jaw, the way Pedri's hands were curled loosely in his lap, thumbs pressed together like he was holding something. 

"I still can't believe he's actually leaving," Fer said, trying once again. The words came out quieter than he'd intended. "I mean, we knew it was happening, but hearing it like that, seeing the statement..." 

Pedri's shoulders rose and fell once, a breath, that was all. 

Fer waited. When the silence stretched, he kept pushing. "You talked to him today?" 

"He texted this morning." 

"And?" 

"He said he'd call later." 

Pedri's voice was flat, carefully emptied of anything that might give him away. Fer had known that tone since they were kids, used it himself more times than he could count when something hurt too much to name. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. 

"You're too quiet for my liking." 

"I'm fine." 

"No, you're not. You've been like this for weeks now." 

Pedri finally looked at him. The eyes that met Fer's were dark, guarded, the same eyes that had once lit up every time a certain someone walked into a room. Now they were shuttered. 

"I said I'm fine." 

Fer wouldn't push further then, not yet. He knew better. Instead he let the quiet settle again, broken only by the distant sound of the moving trucks and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Ferran had lived next door for almost a year now, close enough that they could hear each other if the windows were open and someone was laughing too loudly. Close enough that knocks on the door had become routine.

Their bond had somehow always felt temporary in the way good things do when you're young and the world keeps moving. They were footballers. Contracts ended. Careers shifted. But the idea of Ferran packing boxes and disappearing out of Pedri's life had never quite solidified until now. 

Fer watched his brother for another long minute. Pedri had gone back to staring at the wall. His right knee bounced once, then stilled. 

"I get it, bro. He's been by your side for years," Fer said softly. "You two are inseparable, but that doesn't have to change." 

Pedri's throat worked. He didn't answer. 

"I was remembering the day you brought him home for dinner the first time. Mom kept feeding him until he nearly exploded." He let out a laugh. 

A muscle jumped in Pedri's jaw. 

"Stop." 

The word was quiet but sharp. 

Fer closed his mouth. He waited. 

Pedri's hands had tightened into fists now. He stared at them as if they belonged to someone else. 

"He's leaving," Pedri said finally. The sentence sounded scraped raw. "That's it. He's going. There's nothing else to say." 

"There's a lot else to say. You're allowed to be angry or sad, or both." 

"I'm none of those." 

"You're hurt." 

Pedri's head snapped up. For a second the careful mask slipped and something raw flashed underneath: pain, sharp and bright. 

"Don't." 

"Pedri—" 

"Don't analyse it. Don't try to fix it. Just… leave it." 

Fer raised both hands in surrender, but he didn't leave the chair. The afternoon light had shifted, painting a long rectangle across the floorboards. Outside there was a lot of noise. A familiar voice, Ferran's sister's, was indicating something about boxes.

Pedri exhaled slowly through his nose. 

"He's packing," he said, almost to himself. "He said the movers would come today." 

"You could go." 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

Pedri's laugh was short and humourless. "Because if I go there right now I'm going to say something I'll regret. Or I'm going to not say anything at all and that might be worse." 

Fer nodded once. He understood that particular brand of paralysis. 

The quiet stretched. Pedri stood abruptly and walked to the window. He pushed the curtain aside with two fingers and looked down at the street. 

"I've been so stupid. I kept thinking he'd change his mind," Pedri said, voice low. "Even after the negotiations started. Even after the medical was scheduled, I kept thinking… he wouldn't actually go through with it. Not after…" he stopped right there.

"After what?" 

Pedri didn't turn around. "Us. The way we've always been. I thought that mattered more than a new contract and a higher salary." 

His reflection in the glass was faint, almost transparent. 

"I know it's football. I know clubs move players around like pieces on a board. I know careers don't wait for feelings. But I still…" He stopped and swallowed. "I still thought he'd fight harder to stay, or that at least he'd tell me before the whole world found out." 

"But he told you weeks ago." 

"Yeah. He told me the deal was practically done and everyone found out at the same time. There's a difference." 

Fer stayed quiet. Sometimes the only useful thing was to listen. 

Pedri's fingers tightened on the curtain. "And he's been so distant. I noticed. I just didn't want to say it out loud. Every time I brought it up he'd change the subject or make a joke or say everything was fine. And then he'd be off along with those new friends of his." 

He turned away from the window at last. His eyes were brighter than they had been, but no tears fell. Pedri rarely cried where anyone could see. 

"I'm disappointed," he admitted, the words coming out like they'd been dragged over gravel. "There. You were right. I'm offended that he can just… leave. That our friendship is something he can pack into a suitcase and put on a plane. That after all these years I found out about the final decision at the same time everyone else did." 

Fer stood and crossed the small space between them. He didn't try to hug his brother, Pedri wasn't always ready for that. Instead he rested a hand on Pedri's shoulder and left it there. 

"You're allowed to feel that," he said. "You're allowed to be hurt." 

Pedri's mouth twisted. "It doesn't change anything." 

"No. But it doesn't make it less real either." 

They stood like that for a while while the light kept fading.

Pedri's phone buzzed on the bed and both of them looked at it. The screen lit up with a name he didn't need to read. 

Ferran. 

Pedri didn't move toward it. 

"You should answer," Fer said gently. 

"I know." 

"He probably wants to talk." 

"I know." 

Still Pedri didn't pick it up. The buzzing stopped. A few seconds later a short vibration signalled a text. 

Pedri closed his eyes. 

"I can't do it right now," he whispered. "If I hear his voice I'm going to either start shouting or start telling him to stay, and neither of those is going to help." 

Fer squeezed his shoulder once and let go. 

"Then don't. Not yet. Sit with it and be angry, or quiet, whatever you need." 

Pedri nodded, but it was automatic. He walked back to the bed and sat down heavily, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The photograph on the wall caught the last of the light, two boys in blaugrana training kits, arms slung around each other's shoulders, grinning like the future was something they owned together. 

Fer just sat with his brother in the growing dark while the house next to them continued the quiet, irreversible work of becoming empty. Pedri eventually lay back on the bed without speaking. He stared at the ceiling the way he'd stared at the wall earlier, searching for answers that weren't there.

One door over, Ferran packed the last of his things while the city lights of Barcelona flickered on one by one. The boxes were everywhere as some kind of cardboard fortresses stacked against the walls of the living room, some already sealed, others still open and unfinished. Arantxa sat cross-legged on the floor beside an open suitcase, folding a stack of his brother's training tops while he stood by the kitchen counter, holding a half-empty glass of water and looking at nothing in particular. 

She watched him from the corner of her eye. 

"Why are you not helping?" she complained eventually. "You're just standing there looking like a lost puppy." 

Ferran set the glass down with more force than necessary. "Sorry, I was thinking." 

He didn't even look at her. Instead he walked over to the random collection of pictures that had accumulated over the years. He dropped a few into a box without looking at them, especially those in which Pedri appeared. 

Arantxa finished folding the last top and closed the suitcase with a soft click. She stayed on the floor.

"You know you can talk to me," she said. "You've been like this all afternoon." 

Ferran kept his back to her, fingers tracing a portrait he wasn't really seeing. "I'm fine. Just… a lot to do before tomorrow." 

"You're still allowed to feel whatever this is." 

He turned then, leaning against the edge of the bookshelf. The expression on his face was the one he wore when the cameras weren't rolling, guarded, tired around the eyes, the corners of his mouth pulled slightly downward. 

"I am feeling it," he said. "I'm just not performing it for an audience." 

Arantxa's smile was small and knowing. "I'm not an audience. I'm your sister. And I've known you since you used to cry before school." 

That earned the ghost of a smile, but it faded quickly. 

She stood, brushing dust from her jeans, and came to stand beside him. Together they looked at the half-empty shelves. A framed photograph still sat near the end, one of the few things Ferran hadn't packed yet, he and Pedri kissing the World Cup.

Arantxa reached out and touched the edge of the frame with one fingertip. 

"You're sad about leaving him." 

It wasn't a question. 

Ferran's jaw tightened. He picked up the photograph, studied it for a long second, then set it carefully into an open box filled with other framed memories. He didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was lower. 

"Of course I'm sad. He's my best friend. We've lived in each other's pockets for years. It's… strange, knowing that after tomorrow the distance won't just be a few meters anymore." 

Arantxa was quiet for a moment, choosing her next words with care. She had been waiting for the right opening all day. She had watched the way her brother's hands lingered on certain objects: the blue mug Pedri always used when he came, the spare charger he had left behind months ago and never claimed. 

"It's more than that," she said softly. 

Ferran stiffened. 

She continued, voice gentle but steady. "I know, Ferri. I've known for a long time." 

He didn't look at her. His hands found the edge of another box and gripped it. 

"Known what?" 

"That you're in love with him." 

The words landed in the quiet house like a stone dropped into still water. Ferran's breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again and stared at the floor. 

"Arantxa—" 

"Don't," she interrupted, but not unkindly. "Don't tell me I'm imagining things. I've watched the two of you for years. How you look at him when you think no one's paying attention, or how your whole face changes when he walks into a room." 

He stayed silent. 

She moved closer, resting a hand on his arm. "And I know about her, Pedri's girlfriend. That's a big part of why you're doing this, isn't it? Why you're actually going through with Paris." 

Ferran's laugh was quiet and humourless. "Among other reasons like, I don't know, my career? Not everything's about him." 

"Right, but this is mostly him." 

He pulled his arm free and walked over to the large window that overlooked the pool and Pedri's house. Somewhere, Pedri was probably still sitting in that same quiet way Fer had described earlier when they'd spoken outside, withdrawn, offended, refusing to talk about any of it. 

Ferran pressed his forehead lightly against the cool glass. 

"Maybe," he admitted at last. The single word felt heavier than all the boxes combined. "Maybe it's him." 

Arantxa came to stand beside him again. She didn't speak right away. She simply stayed there, solid and present, while her brother let the truth sit between them without trying to take it back. 

"If I leave," Ferran said eventually, voice rough, "it will get easier. The distance… Maybe this way I'll stop noticing every time he smiles at someone else. Maybe I'll stop feeling like my chest is too small every time he talks about her." 

He didn't stop there.

"I actually like her. She's sweet, beautiful. She's good for him. She makes him happy in a way I could never, obviously." 

Arantxa studied his profile. "Does he know? About how you feel?" 

"No." 

"Have you ever come close to telling him?" 

Ferran shook his head once. "A few times, once after we won the Euros because I was too happy to care about the consequences. There were moments where the words were right there, ready. But then I'd remember he doesn't even like men, and he looks at me like a brother, like the safest person he knows, so I couldn't say it." 

He turned away from the window and went back to the boxes, needing something to do with his hands. He picked up a stack of folded jeans and began placing them into another suitcase with more care than the task required. 

"It's too late anyway," he said. "The deal is done. And even if it wasn't too late for the move… it's too late for the other thing." 

Arantxa followed him, refusing to let the conversation end there. "Why? Because he has a girlfriend right now? Relationships end. People change their minds. Feelings don't just disappear because someone else is in the picture." 

"Because he doesn't feel the same." Ferran's voice was flat, final. "I've known him long enough to recognise the difference. He loves me, I know that, but just not the way I love him. If he did, something would have shifted by now. And I… I can't risk turning us into something awkward and broken only because I want more than what he's able to give." 

He closed the suitcase and zipped it shut with a sharp sound. 

Arantxa crossed her arms. "So your solution is to run away to another country without ever saying a word." 

"My solution is to protect what's left of our friendship." He met her eyes. "If I tell him now, right as I'm leaving, what does that achieve? He'll feel guilty, uncomfortable, or both. I'd rather keep the version of us that still works." 

"That version is already cracking," she said quietly. "You heard what his brother told you earlier. Pedri's hurt. He thinks you're just walking away like none of it mattered." 

Ferran's face tightened. He had spoken to Fer earlier that afternoon, a short, careful conversation outside while Arantxa was still getting more boxes. Fer had mentioned Pedri's silence, the way he refused to talk about the transfer, the tension that had settled over his house like a low cloud. Ferran only nodded and said the right empty things, although inside his chest was aching. 

"I know he's hurt," Ferran said. "I hate that he is. But telling him I'm in love with him won't fix that. It'll just give him a different kind of weight to carry." 

Arantxa was silent for a long moment.

"Maybe you're wrong about what he feels. Maybe he's been protecting something too." 

"I can't gamble on maybes," he said. "Not with him. He's the one person I can't afford to lose completely." 

Arantxa watched him work for a while longer. She helped without saying anything else, folding the last of the towels, wrapping the few remaining glasses in newspaper, labelling boxes in her neat handwriting. The sun finished setting. The lights came on, casting warm pools over the cardboard. 

Eventually she spoke again, softer this time. 

"You're allowed to want more than friendship, Ferri. You're allowed to be heartbroken about it. But leaving without saying anything… that's going to sit with you. Every time you see him on the opposite side of a pitch. Every time you see a photo of him with her. Every night when you realise the person you want to call is the one person you can't talk to the way you used to." 

Ferran paused with a roll of tape in his hands. His shoulders had dropped, the careful posture of someone carrying something heavy for a long time. 

"I know," he simply said. 

He looked toward the door again, an automatic glance he had been making all evening. 

"You could still talk to him. You could still tell him the truth before you leave and turn this into something permanent." 

Ferran shook his head slowly. 

"It's already permanent. So please let it go. He doesn't feel the same and I won't put that on him, not now, not ever if I can help it." 

He resumed packing, movements more deliberate now, as if each folded shirt and sealed box was another brick in the wall he was building between himself and the possibility of confession. 

Arantxa didn't push further. She had said what she needed to say. The rest was his to carry. 

They worked in near silence for the next hour. The house grew emptier box by box. The walls showed pale rectangles where pictures had hung. The shelves stood bare. The couch looked too large without the usual clutter of controls and abandoned hoodies. At one point Ferran found the spare key Pedri had given him years ago. He held it in his palm for a long time, the metal warm from his skin. Then he placed it carefully on the kitchen counter instead of packing it. Arantxa noticed but said nothing. 

Later, when most of the work was done and only a few personal items remained for the morning, she made them both coffee in the last two mugs that hadn't been packed. They sat on the floor with their backs against the couch, the way they used to sit as children when the world still felt simple. 

"You're going to be okay," she said eventually. "This will be good for you in some ways. New start. New people. Maybe eventually someone who can look at you the way you deserve." 

Ferran stared into his mug. "Maybe." 

They finished the coffee in quiet. When Arantxa finally stood to leave for the night, she pulled her brother into a long, tight hug. 

"I love you," she murmured against his shoulder. "Even when you're being stubborn and self sacrificing and impossible." 

"I can't help it. And I love you too." 

She pulled back, hands still on his arms. "If you change your mind before morning… call me. Or better yet, walk there and do something." 

Ferran managed a small, tired smile. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I won't change my mind." 

She searched his face one last time, then nodded. "Okay. Try to sleep. Tomorrow's going to be long." 

After she left, the house felt larger and quieter than it had all day. Ferran stood in the middle of the living room surrounded by sealed boxes and the ghost of a routine that would never happen here again. 

He walked to the window and looked toward the other house. The lights were still on. He could picture him sitting on the edge of the bed the way Fer had mentioned, quiet, offended, holding everything in the same way Ferran was holding everything, but with a different weight on his chest. He thought about visiting. He thought about the words that had lived in the back of his throat for years. He thought about Pedri's easy smile and the way it had never once tilted into something more for him. He thought about the woman who got to hold the hand Ferran could never. 

Then he thought about the friendship that still existed, fragile but real, the realest of his life, and how easily a confession could shatter even that. 

He stepped back from the window. 

He turned off the main lights, leaving only the small lamp near the couch. He sat down among the boxes and pulled out his phone. There were no new messages from Pedri. Ferran typed a message, deleted it, typed another, deleted that one too. In the end he sent nothing. 

He set the phone face-down on the floor and closed his eyes. In the quiet of the half-empty house, with only meters separating him from the man he loved, Ferran let himself feel the full weight of the decision he had made. He couldn't tell Pedri. He really couldn't.

Not tonight. 

Not ever. 

But across Ferran's yard, things weren't any better.

The anxiety started the moment Fer left the room. Pedri had been sitting on the edge of his bed for what felt like hours after the confirmation, the silence between him and his brother stretching until Fer finally stood, muttered something about needing food, and closed the bedroom door behind him. The room felt too small after that. The walls pressed in. Every familiar object seemed to accuse him of something he couldn't name. 

So he paced. From the bed to the window. From the window to the bathroom door. Back again. His bare feet made soft, repetitive sounds against the floorboards. The lights outside blurred every time he passed the glass. His mind ran in tighter and tighter circles. 

Ferran is leaving. 

Ferran signed. 

Ferran is packing his life right now. 

Ferran didn't fight harder. 

Ferran is going to Paris and I'm staying here and everything that used to be ours is about to become a memory. 

The door to the hallway opened. Fer appeared with his arms crossed, watching him with the particular expression of running out of patience. 

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor." 

Pedri didn't stop moving. "I'm fine." 

"Stop saying that. You're not fine. You've been doing this for almost two hours. Sit down before you make yourself dizzy." 

"Just shut up, God." 

Fer stepped fully into the room and blocked the path between the bed and the window. Pedri had to stop or walk into him. He stopped, breathing harder than the short distance warranted. 

"Go there," Fer said. 

Pedri stared at him. "What?" 

"Talk to him. Say whatever you need to say before this turns into something you can't take back." 

"I don't have anything to say." 

"Bullshit." Fer's voice was calm but firm. "You've been suffering all day, and you're both going to regret it if the last real conversation you have is some text from this morning where neither of you said a single truth." 

Pedri's throat tightened. "He didn't tell me properly. He made the decision, and let the whole world find out at the same time." 

"And you're punishing him by disappearing on the last night he's here. Brilliant strategy." 

"I'm not punishing him." 

"Then what are you doing right now? Walking like a caged animal and pretending the silence is protecting you?" 

Pedri looked away. The photograph on the wall caught the low lamp light.

Fer softened, just a fraction. "I'm not saying you have to forgive him tonight. I'm saying you need to see him and stop hiding in here. But you need to go, because if you wake up tomorrow and he's already gone without you saying goodbye, you're going to carry that for a long time." 

Pedri's hands curled into fists. He could feel the argument forming, the same defensive walls he'd been building all day, but they were thinner now, worn down by the image of Ferran alone sealing boxes. 

"He might not even want to see me," Pedri muttered. 

"Then he'll tell you that. But you won't know until you knock." 

The silence stretched. 

Pedri exhaled hard through his nose. "Fine." 

Fer stepped aside without another word. 

Pedri pulled on the first hoodie he found. It was Ferran's, actually, one left behind weeks ago and never returned. His heart was already hammering too hard for dignity. 

He left the house, closed the door carefully behind him, and stood for a second in the empty sidewalk. It was only a short walk. He had made that trip hundreds of times without thinking. Tonight every step felt deliberate and dangerous. 

He almost ran. 

The street blurred. His slides slapped against the concrete. By the time he reached Ferran's door his breath was short and his palms were damp. He stood in front of the familiar house, and raised his hand. 

He knocked before he could talk himself out of it and there was only silence for three long seconds. Then footsteps. The lock turned. The door opened. 

Ferran stood there in an old grey T-shirt and dark sweatpants, hair slightly messy. His eyes widened the moment they landed on Pedri. Behind him the house was a landscape of boxes and bare walls, the living room lamp casting warm light over the last open suitcase near the couch. 

For a moment neither of them spoke. 

Ferran's voice came out quieter than usual, rough around the edges. "I thought you wouldn't say goodbye." 

Pedri's chest tightened at the honesty in it. He shoved his hands into the front pocket of the hoodie and shrugged one shoulder, trying for casual and missing by a wide margin. 

"Yeah, well. It's not really a goodbye if we're seeing each other in a month." 

A small breath of laughter escaped Ferran. He stepped back, opening the door wider. "Come in." 

Pedri stepped inside. Everything already felt half-abandoned. Only the couch and a small table still looked lived-in. 

Ferran closed the door and leaned against it for a second, studying Pedri as if he might disappear again if he looked away too soon. 

"I really did think you weren't coming," he said. "After this morning I figured you'd decided it was better this way." 

Pedri's jaw worked. "I was angry." 

"I know." 

"I still am, a little." 

Ferran nodded, accepting it without defence. "Fair." 

They stood there in the middle of the half-empty room, the distance between them both familiar and suddenly fragile. Pedri's eyes drifted to the open suitcase and to the sealed boxes stacked near the wall.

"You want to sit?" Ferran asked. "I was about to… well. I was going to heat up whatever's left in the fridge. There's leftover pasta from yesterday. And some of that garlic bread you like if you haven't eaten." 

Pedri hadn't. He hadn't even thought about food since the news. His stomach twisted at the offer, at how ordinary it sounded, how easy it would be to say no and leave, how much harder it would be to stay and pretend everything was fine for a few more hours. 

"Yeah," he heard himself say. "Okay." 

Ferran's shoulders loosened a fraction. He moved toward the kitchen area, which was mostly cleared except for the microwave, two plates, and a bottle of water. Pedri followed him and leaned against the counter in the way he always had while watching Ferran cook. They didn't talk while the pasta heated. Pedri found the last two forks in the drawer that hadn't been packed yet. Their hands brushed once when they both reached for them, but neither of them acknowledged it. 

They carried everything to the low table in front of the couch, the only surface still clear, and sat on the floor as they used to do when they were still buzzing after winning a match. For the first few minutes they ate in silence. Pedri focused on the food because looking at Ferran for too long made something in his chest burn. 

Then Ferran spoke in a light voice. 

"Remember the time we tried to cook this exact pasta for the whole team after that away match in Sevilla, and you somehow managed to set the kitchen towel on fire?" 

Pedri's mouth twitched despite himself. "That was not my fault. You turned the burner up too high." 

"I turned it up because you said it needed to boil with aggression." 

"It did need to boil with aggression. The sauce was bland." 

"The sauce was fine until you decided to add half a bottle of hot sauce.'" 

Pedri huffed a quiet laugh, the sound surprising them both. "Okay, the hot sauce was a mistake. Gavi still brings it up every time we have dinner." 

The laughter came easier then, small at first, then fuller, something that loosened Pedri's shoulders. Ferran was grinning, eyes bright, the tension of the day briefly set aside. For a few minutes the move didn't exist. They kept that easy conversation full of old stories and jokes, like the time Pedri, Dani and Eric had gone by bike to see Ferran after his surgery even though they had won the league that same night.  It all felt almost normal. 

Almost. 

Every so often the chat would hit a quiet pocket and the reality of the future would press back in. Pedri would glance at the open suitcase or the empty shelves and the laughter would fade for a few seconds before one of them steered them somewhere safer. Ferran's eyes would linger on Pedri's face a beat too long, then look away. Pedri would feel the weight of everything he still hadn't said, the sense of being left behind, and swallow it down so the evening wouldn't crack open. 

They finished the food. Neither of them moved to clear the plates right away. Time felt suspended.

Ferran leaned back against the couch, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. "I'll miss this," he said quietly. "Even with everything… I'll miss just sitting here with you." 

Pedri looked at him. The honesty in Ferran's voice made it hard to keep the walls up. "Yeah," he answered. "Me too." 

They stayed like that for a while longer, talking about nothing important. At some point Pedri realised he was smiling without forcing it. Ferran laughed at something Pedri said about a particularly dramatic dive from him, and the sound settled something restless in Pedri's chest, even if only temporarily. 

For a few hours, it was almost like nothing was ending at all. 

Ferran looked more relaxed than he had all day, one arm draped along the seat of the couch, the other resting loosely on his knee. His eyes were half-lidded, the tension that had lived in his shoulders the whole day briefly eased. 

Pedri watched him from the corner of his eye and felt the familiar ache settle deeper in his chest. This was what he was losing. It was not just the player who would train with him every day, not just the neighbour, but this, the easy silence, the shared history that needed no explanation, the version of Ferran who still looked at home. 

He should have let the quiet continue. He should have stood up, said goodnight, and left while the evening still felt almost normal. But the bitter question that had been circling inside him pushed its way out before he could stop it. 

"Do you really think Paris is going to be better than this?" 

Ferran's eyes opened fully. He turned his head, studying Pedri's profile in the lamp light. Something cautious moved behind his easy expression. 

"Better how?" 

Pedri kept his gaze on the empty plate in front of him. "Better than being here. Better than the club. Better than… all of this." Than us, he would've loved to say. He gestured vaguely at the room. "You really think starting over there is going to be worth walking away from everything you've built?" 

Ferran was quiet for a few seconds. When he answered, his voice was careful, the tone he used when he was trying not to step on something fragile. "It's not about better or worse in the way you're saying it. It's a different challenge. And the contract—" 

"I know about the contract," Pedri cut in. The words came out sharper than he intended. "Everyone knows about the contract and the big numbers. I'm asking if you honestly believe it's going to be better than staying." 

Ferran sat up a little straighter. The relaxed posture shifted. "Staying wasn't really on the table the way you make it sound. Renewing was hard and my role here hasn't been what either of us hoped the last couple of seasons. You know that. You've seen it. They may offer something clearer." 

"Clearer," Pedri repeated. He finally looked at Ferran directly. "That's the word you're going with." 

"What do you want me to say?" 

"I want you to say whether you actually think leaving is the right call, or whether you're just telling yourself that because you won't admit you're walking away from something that still matters." 

The air between them changed. The warmth from the earlier laughter cooled by degrees. Ferran's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. 

"Of course it still matters," he said. "You think this is easy for me? Packing up everything? Leaving the only club that's felt like home? Leaving—" He stopped himself, the unfinished sentence hanging for a second before he redirected. "Leaving the people who've been there through all of it. It's not easy. But this is our job. Careers shift. You've seen this enough times to know that." 

Pedri's hands curled against his thighs. "Don't do that." 

"Do what?" 

"Make it sound like this is just another routine move. Like it's the same as some random player going out on loan. You and I both know it's not." 

Ferran sighed slowly. "I'm not trying to minimize it. I'm trying to be realistic. This is football. Clubs make decisions based on finances and squad planning. Players go where the opportunity is clearest. I didn't invent the system." 

"No," Pedri said, voice rising a fraction. "But you didn't fight it either." 

The words landed hard. Ferran stared at him. 

"Excuse me?" 

"You didn't fight it." Pedri's pulse was loud in his ears now. The careful control he had maintained all evening was slowly slipping. "When they showed interest, when the club started listening, did you push back? Did you tell them you wanted to stay and work through whatever role issues there were? Or did you just… let it happen because of the money?" 

Ferran's expression hardened. The open, almost soft look from dinner was gone. "You don't know what conversations I had with the club." 

"Then tell me." 

"Why? So you can decide whether my reasons are good enough for you?" 

"So I can understand why my best friend is leaving and acting like it's just business."

Ferran laughed once, short and humourless. "Best friend. Right. That's why you've spent the entire day giving me the silent treatment. That's why your brother had to force you to come here tonight. Because we're such solid best friends." 

Pedri felt the heat rise in his face. "I was angry." 

"You still are, clearly. What I don't understand is why you're this mad at me. Transfers happen all the time, Pedri, every single window. Players you've played with for years leave and you wish them well and you keep going. Why is this one so different that you took it personally?" 

The question hung between them, sharp and direct. Pedri's throat worked. For a moment the only sound was the distant hum of the city. 

"Because it is different," he said finally. The words came out low and tight. "Because it's you. Because we've lived together for years. Because I thought that when something like this came up, you'd at least talk to me about it properly instead of letting me find out." 

Ferran's eyes flashed. "I told you when the World Cup started." 

"You told me the deal was practically done. That's not the same as talking about it while there was still a chance to change anything." 

"There wasn't a long window for that kind of conversation. The negotiations moved fast." 

"And you wanted that." 

Ferran didn't deny it. He held Pedri's gaze, the muscle in his jaw working. "Yes. At a certain point I did, because staying and continuing in this role wasn't going to get better just because I wished it would. Because sometimes the right move for your career isn't the most comfortable one. And because—" He stopped again, something complicated moving across his face before he locked it down. "Because staying was starting to cost more than leaving." 

Pedri's brows drew together. "What does that mean?" 

"It means I made the decision that made sense for me. And I'm allowed to do that without it being a personal attack on you." 

"It feels personal." 

"That's on you, then." 

The temperature in the room dropped another degree. Pedri pushed himself up straighter. "Don't put it on me when you're the one walking away and I'm the one who's supposed to just say… what, good luck?" 

Ferran's voice rose to match his. "You think I don't feel that? You think I've been packing all day without thinking about how much I'll miss being here? I'm not made of stone, Pedri. But I also can't stay somewhere just because leaving hurts. That's not how this works." 

"Then explain how it does work," Pedri shot back. "Because from where I'm sitting it looks a lot like you decided our friendship was secondary the moment a better offer appeared." 

"How did you manage to make this about you? You're unbelievable," Ferran scoffed. "That's not fair." 

"Isn't it? Because you didn't even tell me you were seriously considering it until it was basically done. You let the rumours do the talking for weeks while I kept thinking you'd shut them down. And now you're sitting here acting like I'm overreacting for being angry about it." 

Ferran leaned forward, eyes locked on Pedri's. "I want to know why you're so angry if transfers happen all the time. Seriously. Explain it to me. Because other players leave and you don't look at them like they've committed murder. Other friends move clubs and you wish them the best. What is it about this one that has you this wound up? What exactly do you think I'm taking from you by going to Paris?" 

Pedri's breath came faster. The question cut closer to the centre of the hurt than he was ready for. He could feel the real answers pressing up against the back of his teeth. He stood up abruptly. The movement was sharp enough that Ferran flinched slightly. He paced the short distance to the window and back, hands shoved into the front pocket of the hoodie like he needed something to hold onto. 

"You keep talking about career and contracts and opportunities like those are the only things that exist," Pedri said, turning to face him again. "Like the rest of it, the people you leave behind are just background noise. And then you sit there and ask me why I'm angry that you're leaving like the answer should be obvious and small." 

Ferran rose as well, slower, but the tension in his frame matched Pedri's. "You're twisting everything. Just answer the question, Pedri."

Pedri's hands were trembling. He tried to find the defensive answer, the one that would keep the walls up and the conversation in the safer territory of contracts and playing time and club decisions. But the fight had already burned through most of those defences. What remained was rawer and harder to hold. 

He turned his face away first, toward the dark window, because looking at Ferran while the next words left his mouth felt impossible. 

"I don't wanna live without you." 

The sentence came out quieter than the argument had been, almost uneven. He swallowed once, then again. His eyes stung. He blinked hard, but the heat didn't fully go away. A single tear slipped free before he could stop it and he wiped it roughly with the heel of his hand, keeping his gaze fixed on the glass. 

"And I can't look at you right now," he added, voice low. "If I look at you I'm going to make this worse." 

Ferran didn't move. The earlier edge in his posture softened by degrees, the anger giving way to something more careful and startled at seeing the person he loved so much hurting because of him.

Pedri kept talking because stopping felt more dangerous than continuing. "I need you to say something awful so I can stay mad at you. Tell me our friendship never mattered as much to you. Tell me you barely thought about what this would do to me. Give me something solid to be angry at, because being angry is better than this, this weird… grief." 

His breath hitched on the last words. Another tear followed the first. He didn't bother wiping it away this time. The request hung between them, desperate, honest, and more vulnerable than anything he had allowed himself to say in his whole life.

Ferran was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost every trace of the fight. 

"I can't do that." 

Pedri's shoulders tensed. "Why?" 

"I can't." Ferran took one slow step closer, then another, until only a small space remained. "I can't say any of those things because none of them are true. And I can't give you a clean reason to hate me when the real reason I've been careful and ready to leave is the opposite of what you're asking for." 

Pedri looked at him now. His hands were shoved deep into the front pocket of the borrowed hoodie, fists clenched around the fabric. 

Ferran's next words came out steady, even though everything behind them was not. "Because I love you." 

Pedri's breath stopped. Ferran continued before courage could fail him. 

"I'm in love with you. I have been for a long time, longer than I admitted even to myself. That's why this move felt necessary. That's why staying started to cost more than leaving. I can't watch you build a life with someone else so I chose to leave you alone." 

He paused, giving Pedri room to react, but Pedri remained frozen. 

Ferran's voice dropped even lower. "I didn't tell you because I knew it would complicate everything. Because you have her, and you've always looked at me like someone you could never want that way. I thought keeping it quiet was the kinder option, but I can't stand it anymore." 

The silence that followed was absolute. Pedri's pulse thundered in his ears. He could feel the confession settling into every empty space the fight had left behind. Part of him wanted to pretend he hadn't heard it. Another part had already started rearranging every shared glance and conversation from the last several years into a new, unbearable shape. Ferran looked terrified and certain at the same time. There was no performance left in his expression, only the unguarded truth he had finally spoken aloud. 

Something in Pedri's chest fractured. The anger that had protected him all day dissolved into a more complicated ache. He saw the years of careful restraint in Ferran's face, why the transfer had felt so final and why he had stopped fighting to stay. 

Neither of them moved for several heartbeats. 

But then Ferran closed the last of the space between them, slowly enough that Pedri could have stepped back if he wanted to, but he didn't. Ferran's hands rose, hesitated, then settled lightly against the sides of Pedri's neck, thumbs brushing just below his jaw. The touch was so careful, devoted even. 

Pedri's breath shuddered out of him. 

Ferran leaned in. 

The kiss was soft and short. It carried none of the desperate heat of the argument and all of the accumulated weight of everything left unsaid. Ferran's mouth was warm and gentle against his, the contact lasting only a few seconds, but long enough to feel real and rewrite Pedri's entire existence under that long-hidden desire. 

Pedri's hands came up without conscious decision, one settling against Ferran's side, the other pressing against his heart that was beating so fast. For those brief seconds the rest of the world fell away. There was only this. Only the familiar shape of the person he had trusted more than almost anyone, and the shocking gentleness of being kissed by him. 

Then reality returned like cold water. 

Pedri broke the kiss, turning his face away sharply. His hands dropped. He stepped back until the backs of his legs met the edge of the low table. The space between them opened again, sudden and necessary. 

"I'm sorry," he said. The words came out rough. "I can't do that to her." 

Ferran stayed where he was, breathing unevenly. His eyes searched for Pedri's face for any sign that the rejection might not be final. 

Pedri shook his head once, harder. Another tear slipped free, but this one had nothing to do with the earlier sadness about the transfer. "I love you, Ferri. Just not like that. You're… you're one of the most important people in my life, but I don't— I can't feel that way about you." 

The silence that followed was heavier than the fight had been. 

Ferran's expression didn't collapse all at once. It simply closed, the open vulnerability folding back behind a careful, painful composure. He nodded once, small and controlled, as if he had expected exactly this answer and had only needed to hear it spoken to make his leaving complete. 

"It's okay," he said quietly. 

Pedri couldn't look at him any longer. The borrowed hoodie suddenly felt too warm. The house felt too full of the confession and the kiss and the finality of the words he had just spoken. He needed air. He needed the short walk back toward his place. He needed the version of the night that had existed before he knocked on the door. 

"I have to go," he managed to say. 

Ferran didn't try to stop him. 

Pedri moved past him without another word. His hand found the doorknob. He paused for half a second, long enough to feel the weight of everything that had just shifted and everything that would never be the same, then opened the door and stepped outside. 

He couldn't look back. 

The door closed behind him with a soft, definitive click. His slides slapped against the concrete steps as he walked, faster than necessary, the echo loud in the quiet night. By the time he entered his own house his vision had blurred again. Everything was dark except for the single lamp Fer had left on in the living room. Pedri didn't turn on any others. He walked straight to his bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and pressed his fingers against the lips that had just been kissed by someone who was not his girlfriend.

Pedri spent the whole night like that, breathing through the pain in his chest and the unsaid words that would die with that kiss. 

Ferran barely slept as well. After Pedri left, the house felt cavernous in a way that had nothing to do with the sealed boxes. He sat on the floor for a long time in the same spot where they had eaten dinner, where they had argued, where he had finally spoken the truth and received the quiet, devastating refusal in return. The short, soft kiss still lived on his mouth like a brand. Every time he closed his eyes he felt the exact moment Pedri touched his heart, probably knowing that it would only ever belong to him. But his hands had dropped. He had stepped back and said the words that ended any remaining possibility. 

When the first grey light of dawn filtered through the windows, Ferran forced himself to move. He showered, dressed in the clothes he had left out the night before and did a final walk-through of the rooms that no longer belonged to him. The movers had already taken most of the boxes in the early hours. What remained was a single suitcase and the spare key Pedri had once given him, still sitting on the kitchen counter where he had left it. He looked at the key for a long moment, then left it where it was. Taking it felt wrong, but leaving it felt like the only honest choice left. 

Arantxa had offered to drive him to the airport, but he had declined. He needed the short drive alone. By the time the private car arrived, the sun was fully up. He loaded the suitcase himself, closed the door of the house for the last time without looking back, and rode in silence through the familiar streets. 

The airport was already busy. Ferran moved through security and check-in on autopilot. His flight to Paris was not commercial in the usual sense, but he still had to pass through the same terminals. 

Dani, Eric, and Joan were waiting near the designated lounge area as promised. They had insisted on seeing him off even though the hour was early. Eric was the first to step forward when Ferran appeared, pulling him into a long, firm hug. 

"You look like shit," Eric said when they separated, but the words carried no real bite. Only concern. 

Ferran managed a tired half-smile. "Didn't sleep much." 

"Figured." Eric studied his face more carefully than the others. The dark circles, the careful way Ferran held himself, the absence of the usual easy energy that used to fill every room he entered. Something was wrong beyond the ordinary sadness of a transfer. Eric had known Ferran long enough to recognise the difference. 

They stood in a loose cluster near the large windows that overlooked the tarmac. Dani spoke first about practical things, the new apartment, the last of the paperwork, a reminder that the group chat would still exist and that Paris was only a short flight if Ferran ever needed to come back for a weekend. The conversation stayed on the surface because none of them quite knew how to name the heavier current running underneath. 

Ferran answered when required, nodded in the right places, even forced a short laugh when Joan made a joke about the French people. 

Eric noticed that behavior.

When a brief lull settled, he stepped closer, angling his body so the other two were slightly outside the immediate circle. His voice dropped. 

"You okay? Really?" 

Ferran met his eyes for a second, then looked away. "As okay as I'm going to be." 

Eric didn't push for more details in front of the others. Instead he reached up, rested a hand on the back of Ferran's neck, and pulled him in just enough to press a soft kiss to his forehead, the kind of gesture that carried quiet understanding. When he pulled back, his expression was steady and kind. 

"You'll find someone good for you someday," Eric said quietly, for Ferran's ears alone. "Someone who sees all of it and stays. Don't let this make you believe otherwise." 

Ferran's throat tightened. He nodded once, unable to trust his voice for a full reply. Eric gave his shoulder a final squeeze and stepped back, allowing the group farewell to resume. 

The final boarding call for his arrangements came sooner than any of them expected. Dani and Joan pulled him into a rough hug and told him to text when he landed. 

Ferran picked up his carry-on, offered them all one last look that tried and failed to be light, and turned toward the secure corridor that would take him to the plane. He didn't glance back until the last possible second. When he did, the three of them were still standing there, watching him go. He lifted a hand once, then kept walking. 

The glass doors closed behind him. 

For a minute the three of them remained where they were, the space Ferran had occupied already feeling noticeably empty. Dani exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face. Joan checked the time on his phone without really seeing it. Eric was the one who turned slightly and caught movement near the far edge of the large windows that faced the departure area. 

A figure stood partially hidden behind a structural pillar and a tall advertising display, close enough to the glass to see the planes. Hoodie up. Dark sunglasses even though they were indoors. Shoulders slightly hunched. The posture was familiar enough that Eric's stomach dropped before his mind fully caught up. 

"Is that—" Dani started. 

Eric was already moving. "Stay here a second." 

He crossed the floor quickly. As he drew closer the figure became unmistakable. Pedri. The oversized hoodie swallowed most of his frame. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but nothing could hide the rigid set of his jaw or the way his hands were shoved deep into the front pocket as if he needed to anchor himself. He was staring through the glass toward the area where Ferran's transport would eventually appear, watching the final stages of a departure he had been invited to and had not been able to stay away from. 

Eric slowed down when he was only a few meters away. He glanced back at Dani and Joan, who had stopped a short distance behind him, both of them registering the same recognition and the same quiet shock. 

"Give us a minute," Eric said, voice low but firm. "Please." 

Dani looked like he wanted to argue, but something in Eric's expression stopped him. Joan simply nodded and steered Dani a few steps farther away, far enough to offer privacy without fully abandoning the space. 

Eric turned back to Pedri and closed the remaining distance slowly as if approaching something fragile. He stopped beside him rather than directly in front, following Pedri's line of sight through the glass for a moment. In the distance a vehicle was moving across the tarmac. Whether it was connected to Ferran's departure or not no longer mattered. Pedri was watching as if it were the only thing left in the world that made sense to track. 

"Pedri," Eric said quietly. 

No response at first. Pedri's shoulders rose and fell with a controlled breath. The sunglasses remained fixed forward. 

Eric shifted slightly so he could see more of Pedri's face in profile. That was when he saw them, the tears. They had already escaped from beneath the dark lenses and were tracking slowly down Pedri's cheeks, catching the bright airport light. Pedri made no move to wipe them away. He simply stood there in the hoodie and the sunglasses, watching the place where Ferran had disappeared, while the evidence of everything he could not say ran freely down his face. 

Eric's chest tightened. He did not speak again immediately. He simply stayed beside him while the noise of the airport continued around them and Pedri's quiet tears marked the true cost of the night before. He didn't rush. He had known Pedri long enough to recognize when words needed space before they could surface. 

Eventually Pedri's voice came, low and rough, barely audible above the ambient sound. "I do love him, you know." 

Eric turned his head slightly, but said nothing.

Pedri's throat worked. Another tear slipped free. "I love him as I will love no one else. Ever." 

Pedri's hands tightened inside the hoodie pocket until the fabric strained. 

"But our world is cruel to people like us," he continued, voice steadier now only because he was forcing it to be. "You know it. You've seen the whispers and the articles that would write themselves. I watched what happens to the ones who try to live it out loud, so I decided I wouldn't let that happen to him. Or to me. I protected us both the only way I knew how." He finally turned his face toward Eric, the sunglasses still hiding his eyes but unable to hide the raw exhaustion underneath. "Last night he told me and I had to use the only shield I had left because if I ever let myself have him, everything we had both worked for would explode. And now he's gone thinking the love was only ever his." 

Eric's expression had softened into something deep and understanding. There was no surprise there, only the quiet recognition of a truth he had perhaps already sensed in fragments over the years, the way Pedri's attention always found Ferran first in a room, the particular brightness that appeared when they trained together, the careful distance Pedri had started maintaining once certain public expectations settled around him. 

"I get it," Eric said simply. His words carried no judgment and no false comfort, only acceptance. "I've seen enough of this world to know why you made that choice. It doesn't make it hurt less, but I understand." 

Pedri's breath left him in a slow, uneven exhale.

"I need you to do something for me," he said after a moment. His voice had dropped even lower. "Check on him, please. Regularly. Don't leave him alone over there. He'll say he's fine. He'll bury himself in training, but he won't be fine. Text him. Call him. Make sure someone is actually seeing him, not just the version he shows the cameras. Please." 

Eric nodded once, the promise already forming without hesitation. "I will, Pedri. You don't have to ask twice." 

Pedri's shoulders dropped a fraction, the first small release of tension since Eric had approached. He turned his face back toward the glass, toward the place where Ferran's plane would soon leave the ground and carry him into a different life. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but the tears kept falling and he let himself cry about it all for the first time. Eric held him through it while Pedri grieved the love he had for one single moment, for one kiss. The love he had chosen to protect by destroying it in the only way he knew how.