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You don’t just win the World Cup every day. Score the final goal that gives your team, your country, its hard-earned victory. But Ferran had. And Pedri had been there, too—by his side, subbed on at the same time, in the final minutes to save the day. Ferran had kissed his head seconds before—a normal gesture between teammates to the rest of the world; their lucky charm, to them.
Ferran had told him, minutes after the final whistle had been blown, that it had been thanks to him. That it was because they’d entered the pitch together, that he had been able to score. He was sappy like that, and Pedri loved him even more for it.
The thing is, they did it, and no amount of PR or media training could have held them back from celebrating just like they wanted, like they deserved.
When they got to Cibeles and everyone made their entrances with a song of their choice, things escalated pretty quickly. Everybody was a little more drunk than they should, the music was way too loud, and overall, inhibitions were noticeably absent.
Then suddenly, someone decided it was karaoke time, and everyone seemed to wholeheartedly agree.
“We’ll go first, we’ll go first!” Pedri yelled, grabbing two mics from some poor staff’s hands. “Ferri, come!”
Ferran went like a puppy on a leash, letting himself be guided to the middle of the stage by Pedri’s drunk, frantic hands. He whispered something in his ear, to which Ferran agreed with a grin, and next thing they knew, they were singing in front of everyone.
The first guitar notes of Quevedo’s “La Graciosa” started to play, and everyone lost their minds.
«Dime quién fue ese loquito que te dejó roto y el corazón en pedacito' por culpa de ese maldito»
Ferran confidently sang into the mic, saying each word to Pedri, who watched him amusedly as he swayed from left to right, adorably drunk. He was probably out of tune and slurred a few words, but hey, Quevedo was no Freddie Mercury either.
«Tú no me das un chance, suelta la cuerda un poquito, mezcla tu miedo y mi romance, que yo ya compré el vinito»
He pointed at Pedri beside him, sultry and teasing like he probably shouldn’t be in front of everyone. Pedri only laughed, lost in him, in their own personal bubble.
«Ya veremos qué pasa despué', ya yo te pillaré, mi reina, yo no sé de ajedre'»
Pedri joined him for the chorus, singing in his cute canarian accent that always did things to Ferran’s heart. The rest of the team joined as well, dancing clumsily to the beat around the two of them, grabbing each other’s shoulders.
«y yo juego si no estás nerviosa, de ti yo me sé un par de cosa'»
Here, both of them pointed at each other, big teasing smiles on their faces, trying not to snort. They did know a few things about each other.
«En ese corazón cabe poquita gente como en La Graciosa»
Ferran poked his index finger into Pedri’s chest, right above his heart. Pedri caught it and held it there as they sang together, clumsily swaying their hips without much grace, their cheeks aching from smiling so big.
«No, no, no, no te voy a fallar. No, no, no te voy a engañar, yo sé que piensas que no encajamo', ma, pero el instinto te va a traicionar»
It was Pedri’s turn to sing now, trying to keep up with the slightly faster tempo of this part of the song. The people around them kept laughing at them, amused by Pedri’s skills. Ferran only looked at him fondly, hyping him up.
«A tu vida le falta sabor, vente, papi, que yo la puedo sazonar, hace rato no me doy un bañito, pero si es contigo me quiero mojá', ay, ay»
Pedri made a come hither gesture here, and Ferran stepped closer to him, the biggest grin on his face, always willing to let Pedri take him anywhere he wanted in the Canary Islands.
«Te llevo a La Gomera, de La Gomera a La Calma, de La Calma a Guaynabo, y de Guaynabo volvemo' a Las Palma'»
Pedri grabbed Ferran by the shoulders, jumping up and down as he screamed the different cities of his beloved homeland into the mic, flashing his gaze to crowd for the first time and hyping them up with his arm.
Ferran could only laugh, smiling like an idiot at Pedri’s drunken antics. He wasn’t usually one to get drunk, to draw this much attention to him, but he guessed today was different. Pedri had been buzzing with adrenaline ever since Ferran had scored, his eyes glimmering with a special kind of spark.
Pedri had his arm on Ferran’s waist, and he squeaked it, letting him know it was hit turn to sing. Ferran looked down at him and felt a very specific warmth spread in his chest at the sight—his dark, shimmering eyes, filled with happiness and so, so many other beautiful things.
With a swift move, he shifted his arm from Pedri’s shoulders to his waist and hoisted him up until Pedri’s weight rested against him, his legs wrapping around Ferran’s hips. Pedri laughed, throwing his head back and resting his arms on Ferran’s shoulders to steady himself, his cheeks as red as his t-shirt.
Their mics had been long forgotten by now, dropped to the floor amidst the maneuvering. The crowd erupted in screams and hollers, and the team started whistling and shouting at the top of their lungs.
«Da igual si no llegamo' a novio', vamo' a besarno' en el agua, y que nos vea to' el mundo, que nos vea toda la playa»
Ferran sang the words into Pedri’s face, their foreheads touching. They were doing it, they were doing it for real, what they’d been discussing for years now.
It was time the world knew.
Let them see.
«Que estos nos cojan envidia, y eso que no somos nada»
They weren’t nothing. Quite the opposite, actually. The magnitude of what Ferran felt for Pedri, of what he knew they felt for each other, was all-encompassing, worth every fear, every sidestep, every setback that this thing they were doing now might bring.
Ferran’s hands were busy holding Pedri up, so it was Pedri who pulled Ferran in by the back of his neck and crushed their lips together. It was clumsy and awkward, given their position, the swaying of everyone around them, their smiles so big they couldn’t even find each other’s lips.
But it was them, them at their very core, finally, for all the world to see.
Pedri tilted his head and pulled at Ferran’s bottom lip, Ferran chasing after his mouth like he always did, like a moth to a flame.
If the crowd had been cheering before, now their screams were downright deafening, loud enough to make it feel like the stage might crumble beneath them. Their teammates kept shouting behind them, Gavi screaming a litany of “Vamos!” into everyone’s faces, grabbing them by the collars of their t-shirts until he practically ripped them.
The song kept playing under all the noise, almost forgotten, and Pedri leaned back to take a good look at his boyfriend. His eyes were glassy, and Pedri snorted at the sight, an unbearable fondness in his chest threatening to swallow him whole. He gently brushed his cheeks with his thumb, and then he hugged him, burying Ferran’s head in the crook of his neck.
“Te quiero mucho,” he whispered in his ear, only for them to hear.
Ferran tightened his hold around him, feeling his heart hammer inside his chest. With adrenaline and fear, mostly, because what they’d just done was big, probably bigger than they could acknowledge right now. But with so much love as well. He had so much love for this unstoppable, mesmerizing man, he was convinced he’d grown a second heart while loving him.
His muscles were sore from holding him up, but he could still hold on a little longer.
“Yo más,” he replied, leaning back and kissing the side of Pedri’s head—their lucky charm, again.
Even though they probably didn’t need any.
If they were together, they’d be alright.