Chapter Text
The stadium was completely dark.
For a few seconds, only the roar of the two sets of fans mingling in the stands could be heard. It was the Champions League final. The match everyone had dreamed of playing in.
And then, the lights began to come on.
First, in the PSG stands.
An entire section began to unfurl a huge banner.
Then another.
And another.
Until the Parisian end was covered by a gigantic blue and red mosaic.
In the center appeared the figure of a shark. It wasn't an aggressive shark. It was a shark moving through the waves, its eyes fixed straight ahead. Below it, a huge phrase:
LE REQUIN. NOTRE REQUIN.
The shark. Our shark.
The roar that followed was deafening.
"FERRÁÁÁN!"
The name began to echo throughout the stadium. Ever since the Spaniard arrived at the Parisian club and had been very open about the emotional difficulties of his transfer and the mental health issues he was dealing with, the PSG fans had embraced him like no other team ever had.
He wasn't the team's top scorer, but he scored a lot of goals and provided key assists. He was the one who ran the most, the one who tried the hardest, and that resonated with the fans.
They truly loved him.
"FERRÁN! FERRÁN…!"
He had stood motionless in the tunnel with the rest of his teammates, his nerves on edge for the most important match of the season. He couldn't believe they had made it this far; it had been one of the toughest years of his life, and he had considered quitting at many points during the season, but now he was here, and that was all that mattered.
Pedri looked up and saw him.
Ferrán.
He was a few meters away, wearing a PSG jersey, looking towards the stands. For a moment, Ferrán seemed speechless.
He smiled.
A small smile.
Almost incredulous.
Then he placed a hand on the PSG crest, caressing it, as if it had always been his. Pedri couldn't help but feel a little betrayed, but he understood that they were footballers and that in the end, each one had to defend the crest they were given. Whether they liked it or not, they were still employees.
The crowd responded even louder.
Pedri felt something strange in his chest that he couldn't describe. Yes, he had seen Ferrán receive affection before. Of course, he had received it at Barça at some point, but never like this. He had never seen an entire stand chanting his name like that; it seemed that his name truly meant something to them, as if he were a player who had been with the team his whole life.
As if they were proud of him.
As if Ferrán were theirs.
Pedri swallowed at the thought. He knew he had to get rid of the misgivings he had about seeing his best friend —if they could still consider him that— wearing the rival team's jersey.
Beside him, Gavi was also looking in the same direction, overwhelmed.
"Damn..."
He didn't finish the sentence, perhaps because of the shock or the nerves, but the truth was, he didn't need to.
Everyone was seeing it, the difference with their own fans.
All the Barça players remembered it.
The whistles.
The boos.
The comments.
The matches where Ferrán came onto the field after being a substitute for a long time, and even before he touched the ball, people were already protesting, demanding another player.
The mistakes that became memes.
The errors that seemed to weigh more heavily than his goals.
The shouts from the stands, cutting, like knives that would have shattered anyone.
"Get out!"
"Leave the club!"
"Sell him already!"
And they also remembered with pain Ferrán trying to smile afterward. He was always trying to pretend he didn't care, but he knew that at the end of the day, every harsh word was slowly eroding him; they never knew how to protect him.
Pedri remembered a conversation from years ago.
Ferrán sitting on a bench in the locker room, head down after a match.
"I'm used to it," he had said.
Pedri had thought he really was, or at least at first, but then he realized he wasn't. Nobody gets used to being made to feel like they don't belong there, to having the fans who should be supporting you want you gone. It didn't help that coach Flick used him as a backup striker or that no one at the club defended him from the attacks.
Looking back, Pedri felt they had truly let the Valencian fight alone against an army of a thousand men, expecting him to emerge unscathed.
The announcer announced the starting lineups.
First, PSG's lineup.
And when it was Ferrán's turn, the stadium erupted once again.
"NUMBER NINE... FERRÁN TORRES!"
The roar was so loud that some Barça players turned their heads.
Ferrán emerged from the tunnel, bent down to touch the grass, and made the sign of the cross over his chest with a kiss, as he always did. His ritual. The one Pedri had watched him do for so many years, and now, finally, after these months, could see it live again.
It hurt him more than he thought to realize how much he had missed it.
Then, something happened that the Canary Islander hadn't expected: Ferrán looked toward the stands with eyes he hadn't seen in a very long time. Sparkling. Perfect stars. Incredibly expressive.
And he laughed.
A genuine laugh.
A laugh of happiness.
The shark on the tifo seemed to move behind him while thousands of people jumped and sang.
Pedri felt a pang of pain.
Because that image showed him something he didn't want to admit. Something that everyone, especially him, had failed at at Barça.
Ferrán had always wanted this.
Not to be a hero, nor to have his mistakes forgiven… He just wanted to feel loved, for once, for someone to truly be on his team, to have his back. To feel that when he stepped onto the pitch, there were people hoping he would do well.
And now he had it.
But far from Barcelona.
Far from him.
Pedri lowered his gaze.
"Are you okay?" De Jong asked.
"Yes."
A lie.
He wasn't okay.
Because suddenly he felt guilty, terribly and miserably guilty, and he didn't know exactly why.
Perhaps because he had been there. He had heard the boos, the swear words, the insults… He had seen Ferrán lower his head and how he tried to pretend it didn't affect him. And him?
He had never done anything.
He had never told them to stop. He had never stood up for him in a match, never angrily confronted the ultras to tell them to shut up.
Perhaps because he was afraid too.
Afraid of facing the crowd.
Afraid of saying something that would cause more problems, inside or outside the locker room, and make him a target as well.
Unfortunately, he had been a coward, and depending on who you asked, a bad friend. And now he was seeing the result of all the decisions he hadn't made.
Ferrán was on the other side, smiling like he hadn't seen him in a long time. He was wearing colors dangerously similar to his own, but not the same, and that hurt.
And it also hurt, possessively, to see an entire fanbase shouting that he belonged to them.
Pedri looked up just as Ferrán turned his head toward the tunnel.
Their eyes met.
Only for a second, but it was enough for his world to go silent.
Ferrán smiled at him, a genuine one, toothy grin.
The same smile as always, the way he'd always looked at him since they'd met. When the older man looked at him like that, with that warm gaze, he felt completely defenseless. His eyes were so expressive he could see right through him, and Pedri could never deny they were the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen.
They conveyed only affection, no resentment whatsoever; it was as if nothing had ever happened.
That was what hurt the center-back the most, because it would have been easier if Ferrán had been angry. If he looked at them with contempt, remembering how they hadn't fought for him, how they hadn't asked him to stay with the strength he needed, how they hadn't defended him from the fans, the board, the coach…; if he looked at them like that, it would hurt less, it would be justified, they deserved it.
But no.
He just smiled.
Then he turned around and started walking toward the center of the pitch.
Pedri followed him with his eyes.
"Pedri."
It was Eric this time.
"What?"
Eric looked toward the Parisian backdrop, specifically at the shark banner.
"We never did that to him, did we?"
Pedri didn't answer.
Because he knew perfectly well what he meant, and it didn't seem like a question that needed answering right now.
No.
They hadn't, and perhaps that was the worst part.
PSG didn't need Ferrán to be perfect. They just needed him to be a capable striker if given the chance, to be himself.
The shark.
His shark, his mind played a trick on him again.
He knew it was stupid to talk about us when it was really the club members and the fans who were doing these things. They weren't involved in any of it, but that's how it felt in football, especially in this team, everyone just another entity beneath the blue and red crest. In the end, that's what they preached, right? More than a club. For being more than a club, the Canary Islander felt they hadn't been that for his friend, and that wasn't fair at all; it was something he couldn't get out of his head. People decided he would be the scapegoat, and when they could tear him apart, they didn't let go, until they made him want to leave without them having done anything to support him.
Pedri took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. All these thoughts and regrets from the past weren't going to do him any good.
Then the referee called the captains.
The two teams began to enter the field.
And when Ferrán appeared on one of the screens, the stadium roared again.
Pedri heard it.
Thousands of voices.
All for him.
For the first time, he truly understood what Barcelona had lost when they decided to stop believing in Ferrán, or perhaps what they had never known how to give him.
A place where he felt loved.
Pedri pressed his lips together.
Because that night they were going to play a final. One of the most important finals in the world, the Champions League final.
They were rivals, and he was going to stop it.
As he walked toward the center circle, a certainty pierced his chest: He didn't want to be the person who made Ferrán feel small again.
Never again.
So he promised himself he would give his all. To respect the opponent in front of him, the formidable striker he knew was his friend. He would give his all to win this match.
"You won't win this match, Ferri," he thought, looking at him across the field.
As much as he wanted him, as much as he loved him —with all his heart—he was going to beat him.
There could only be one winner, and it would be them.