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Like a coward he parked his car on the opposite side of the street. Even from here he feels like a trespasser.
Ferran has crossed this threshold thousands of times – walking groggily, pushing his body to its limits after a demanding match; dragging his feet after a particularly painful defeat; floating on cloud nine with a grin so wide it made his skin itch after a win. Ferran has crossed this threshold hundreds of times alone, and twice as much with Pedri by his side. An easy comfort in the moments of doubt and in the days of greatest victories. This threshold over which they stumbled repeatedly when weariness pressed additional weight into their muscles. This threshold which marked the finishing line, instead of the referee’s whistle.
This threshold, his home.
Ferran eyes this threshold now and his hands involuntarily clench over his car’s steering wheel. Shame grows in him like a tide – persistent and unavoidable, a force of nature one cannot fight. Disappointment Ferran knows intimately but shame is different, more private and more acidic. Disappointment wears off eventually, can be replaced with something sweeter, louder and more vivid. It can be buried under the swelling pressure of pride. Shame doesn’t give you the same luxury. It stays with you, burns through your heart and melts into your bones. When you think its way past you, it will keep you aware at night and feed on the heat of your blood and the wheeze of your pulse.
Already there is a sour aftertaste at the back of Ferran’s throat, even though he does not feel sick. Instead he is grieving in shame for the future that was not meant to be his.
Paris Saint-Germain is a good decision. He needs a new challenge, he needs a clean slate. He hopes – fools himself – that the distance will make the collection of his lively disappointments fade away. Already he can feel some of these memories slipping from his hands. It’s painless like death. He only fears that along with them other pictures will lose their colors too.
The leather creeks under his hands, the lines of his house in Barcelona are getting a bit blurry. The threshold appears softer now, from a distance. It always marked a safe space for him and his secrets. It guarded his tears of frustration and his outbursts of anger. Shame nips at the back of his nape. He wishes he gave this threshold a chance to guard another secret too ć a quiet confession, a soft kiss maybe if he was brave enough. The house would be so kind to him, loyal in its privacy. Perhaps, that’s why it never quite worked for Ferran who always bled passion. Perhaps, that’s why time after time he stumbled over its quiet threshold.
His phone lights up and without checking the number, he picks up, knowing who’s on the other side of the line.
For a moment neither of them says anything. Through the speaker, Ferran can barely hear one of Quevedo’s songs. His heart squeezes in his chest and he rests his forehead on the steering wheel, laughing soundlessly. He doesn’t even fucking listen to Quevedo, is the thing. But he knows every single song; knows the title of every single album, knows how many songs it takes to get from here to Ciutat Esportiva.
“Stop making fun of me,” Pedri’s voice comes from a distance. He sounds so far away.
It’s jarring to listen to Quevedo and Pedri through a speaker instead of by Ferran’s ear.
“I didn’t say anything,” Ferran replies teasingly, aiming to sound cheerful, even though each word tastes like ash.
“Mhm,” Pedri hums, “I know you well enough to know when you’re laughing.”
Whatever air Ferran had in his lungs gets knocked out of him with a singular, deliberate punch.
“Of course you do.” He doesn’t try to stop the words. Hopeless against other more dangerous truths wedged at the back of his throat. If he is to lie today, let it be a merciful lie – pieces of truth he may give but not the full picture, never the full picture; that is too shameful to share.
Pedri stays quiet for a moment, and Ferran suddenly understands how Pedri guessed Ferran had been laughing. Because now, even though Ferran can’t see Pedri, he simply knows that Pedri’s fingers are drumming against the steering wheel. Not the rhythm of the music, never to the rhythm of the music. A different melody instead, one played by his anxiety and worries.
If Ferran was sitting in Pedri’s car right now, he would lean to the left and nudge Pedri’s shoulder. He would keep annoying Pedri until he peels his anxious hand away from the steering wheel to smack Ferran’s shoulder. And then Ferran would laugh and the light would turn green sometime during their squabble and a car behind them would honk at them and Pedri would be pissed but he wouldn’t be anxious, and wasn’t that the whole point?
Well, moments like this will be no more.
“Are you heading to the airport soon?” Pedri’s voice comes off more muffled. Maybe he is driving through a tunnel.
Ferran quickly presses the heel of his hand to the corner of his eyes.
“Yeah… on my way as we speak,” he lies easily. Some truths are for him only.
There’s a tiny pause at the other end of the line.
“Oh, really?” Pedri drawls, sounding half-amused, half-breathless.
The hair at the back of Ferran’s neck raises. A spark of irritation tickles his chest.
“Yes, really, I–”
A loud honk cuts through his sentence. Ferran’s head instinctively whips to the right, anger already bursting the seam of his lips because his car is parked god damn it, so the asshole in the other car can suck it and–
“Oh,” Ferran breathes out, the sound so quiet it can’t possibly carry through the speaker of his phone. Pedri can read it from the move of his lips though.
“Liar,” Pedri comments and ends the call. And Ferran watches him do it. Takes in all the irritation coiling in Pedri’s bones when he presses his thumb to the screen a little too hard. Takes in the fond scrunch of his nose too.
The truth at the back of Ferran’s throat digs deeper, its sharp edge sinking into the soft, wet tongue until it gives away to the pressure. He can taste blood in his mouth and it is sour; like shame he eats with every breath. That, too, he swallows.
When Pedri rolls his window down, Ferran scrambles to do the same. Always eager, always so fucking hopeful. His finger slides over the button when he moves his body to the passenger seat to be closer still. Even if the fantasy of driving together again has long evaporated, replaced with the bitter disappointment. (It is temporary, must be.)
Ferran’s hand grips the edge of the seat when he is close enough to see the shadows under Pedri’s eyes. It’s Wednesday morning and for once Pedri and he are not wearing matching training uniforms. At least in the bruising beneath their eyes – they match. Ferran’s throat works over the lump in his throat. He wets his lips. Watches Pedri watch.
Jesus Christ.
“You changed your hair,” Ferran points out dumbly, just to fill the silence. Just to have something to focus on to avoid leaping out of the car and sliding into the familiar seat in the car next to his.
Pedri laughs, a short startled sound. His hand lifts and his fingers ruffle through the pale strands. A pink flush already blooms across his cheeks. That is also familiar in a way that makes Ferran’s chest tighten.
“As promised,” Pedri replies, a bit self-consciously. He glances at Ferran. “It looks kind of silly, doesn’t it?”
Too many lies for a day – Ferran can afford one more truth today.
“No.” he shakes his head. “It’s good. You look good… Handsome.”
The blush on Pedri’s cheeks darkens into a pretty fuchsia. Something in Ferran’s chest flips when the flush is paired with the mischievous spark in Pedri’s bottomless eyes.
“Oh, Ferran, oh, Ferran,” he drags the syllables teasingly. “The World Cup’s heartthrob complimenting old little me? Alert the press! Let the girls and boys know. Next thing you know Buzzfeed is going to ask you about your ideal type, and what then? Are you going to say it’s Pedri post World Cup 2026 special?” he snorts and his eyes crinkle, and Ferran so very much wants to say yes.
And that would be a lie, too, because his ideal type is any Pedri.
He doesn’t say it though. Instead, he groans and rests his face against the neckrest.
“You’ll never let it go, will you?” he asks and Pedri laughs again.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” he grins. “Worry about Olmo instead. Trust, he will still be at it all season and–” he stops abruptly, his face paling unexpectedly as if he was struck by a sudden sickness.
It takes Ferran a moment, just a beat of a second, to connect the dots.
Olmo will be still joking about it in the locker room all season. And Ferran will not be there. Eventually, the joke will wear off. And Ferran will not be there to breathe with relief. Everyone will forget about it; like it’s a disappointment even though it’s not.
Ferran takes a deep breath.
“Shouldn’t you be on your way to Ciutat?” he asks quietly, words slick with blood.
Instantly, he hates himself for saying that.
Pedri’s teeth worry the corner of his mouth as if he was chewing words into softness before spitting them out.
“It is my usual route, you know…” It’s hardly a question but rather a confession, and it feeds into the dark hole that has been growing in Ferran’s stomach for weeks.
He tries meeting Pedri’s eyes but to no avail. He wonders whether if Pedri looked at him, he’d be able to hold his gaze anyway. Maybe this is an act of mercy, maybe this is Pedri offering a way out yet one more time – giving Ferran space to look, and see, and admire, pretending that Pedri is blind to it.
When Ferran draws in another breath, it is shaky in its nature, carrying a hint of salt, an uncomfortable reminder that it is not just eyes that cry.
“Are you going to drive Rodri to the Ciutat too?” Oh, how he hates the picture, the mere suggestion of it makes him sick.
Still he keeps his tone conversational, almost casual if not for the obvious grief in his voice.
Pedri’s shoulders raise and fall, and Ferran can see the exact moment his mind snaps back into focus. His posture changes minutely, the lines of his muscles running beneath his skin grow more pronounced. Ferran has seen this transformation happen countless times – every time Pedri was about to step onto the pitch. Desperately, he wants to ask – what is Pedri playing now? What kind of game unfolds between them? Who’s to win and what’s to lose? Of course, he says none of that.
Instead, he’s already waiting with a smile when Pedri turns to him, a shadow of light-hearted mockery pressed into the corner of his lips.
“I doubt Rodri’s a passenger princess like you are.” Is what he says, and Ferran can’t help the ungraceful snort that makes it past his lips.
“I would drive you around if you weren’t such a pussy,” he teases back.
“Apologies for not wanting to die in a car wreck,” Pedri rolls his eyes but he is smiling. That little smile between them when he enjoys the conversation too much to hide it.
Ferran’s heart skips a bit, something equally bright and dark heating up in the gaps between his ribs. He licks the roof of his mouth, licks the sourness off his gums, braces himself and hopes it won’t backfire on him.
“When you come to Paris, you’ll have no choice but to allow me to be your driver.” He sounds good, sounds stable, and oh so very much in control that he almost fools himself with his faux confidence.
There’s a beat of silence. Pedri’s eyelashes flutter, and Ferran knows that if they were to catch moisture, he’d call Paris Saint-Germain there and then and call the whole thing off. But Pedri’s eyelashes are dry when he looks at Ferran again. His eyes are round and big and full of sorrow but his eyelashes are dry.
“Sounds fair enough,” Pedri breathes out, “You never chipped in for the gas anyway.”
Ferran’s face breaks into a smile; relief immediate and bone-deep.
“My company and DJ duties were enough for payment,” he points out. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be listening to Quevedo on loop.”
“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Pedri scoffs.
The screen of his phone lights up then. Both of them look at it. From a distance, Ferran can’t make out the letters, the names, but he can recognize the string of emojis, can recognize the groupchat’s picture. The one he was removed from days ago – no hard feelings, Ferran, but we discuss the matches’ strategy there sometimes. And Ferran knows it, knows it very well. Between then countless snippy comments and poorly aging memes, Barca’s players occasionally talk about football, their football, too. Ferran is no longer a part of this conversation.
Slowly, when Pedri’s eyes scan the message, Ferran slips back onto the driver’s seat.
“You’ll be late,” he points out. “You should go,” he adds as his hands wrap around the steering wheel. He makes a point of fixing his gaze on the pavement ahead of him.
He prays that Pedri will protest. Hates him if he does, hates him if he doesn’t.
“I–” a long shuddering breath. “Yeah… probably…”
Neither of them speaks for a moment. The flicker of familiar dynamic slotting back into the long stretch of memories woven from hundreds inside jokes and thousands comforting silences.
No more, no more, not like that.
“Ferran,” Pedro starts, or maybe finishes because all that he says is Ferran’s name alone.
Just like any other time, Ferran wishes he could taste its shape on Pedri’s lips. Hopes it wouldn’t taste sour.
He lifts his head, indulges in the view. Pedri against the landscape of the street Ferran knows like the back of his hand. Pedri metres away from the house that was as much his home as it was Ferran’s even if none of them ever addressed it. Pedri at the threshold of something, refusing to cross it alone.
“I’m gonna miss you.” Ferran hasn’t really planned on saying that, fearing it would be too much of a secret to share, but now he feels rather silly – he states something obvious after all, something both of them know.
Pedri’s smile is tiny. It is also sad.
“I’m gonna miss you too,” he confesses after a moment, closes his eyes and takes a long break. “If we… can we… we should…”
“I’ll call you when I land,” Ferran offers way too quickly. “Let’s talk every day, in fact!” Hopeful, always so fucking hopeful. “We don’t– nothing has to change, just the distance.”
Pedri inhales sharply and looks away. His eyes rise to the sky but all that is above his head is the rooftop of his car. There are boundaries that cannot be physically crossed.
“That sounds… yeah, that sounds good.” He agrees, voice tight, before starting the engine. “I…” their eyes meet one more time. “See you around, Ferran.”
Ferran’s hand feels like it weighs a tonne when he lifts it to wave Pedro goodbye. He stays like that for a very long time. Waving slowly at the dissolving fumes, the crumbs of sand peppering the road, the shades falling over his old threshold. He waves for a very long time before his hand slips back onto the console and he turns on the music.
It’s fucking Quevedo.
Autumn takes over Paris with the delicacy of a lover. Leaves cup the trees with yellow and orange hues; a whisper of chill ruffles the newspapers laid on the outdoor stools; ribbons of rainwater snake down the roads. It is all very gentle, very unlike autumn in Manchester which paints the world in greys; very unlike Barcelona where autumn is a dying breath of heat.
When Pedri opens the door to the passenger seat, a little bit of summer slips into Ferran’s car.
“It’s so cold here!” Is the first thing Pedri says, shuddering extensively.
Ferran ducks his head down, but does nothing to conceal the smile.
“Try jogging in the weather every single morning, then we’ll talk,” he hums as he starts the car.
Pedri scoffs, “I’d rather not. Tenerifian, remember? I’m not built for this.”
Two months ago, a comment like that would still sting Ferran, serving as an uncomfortable reminder that there are places where Pedri will not follow him, lives that he wouldn’t commit to. A bitter pill to swallow, a sour truth to accept. Two months ago, it was all still very fresh, an oozing wound, a bruising ache. The hurt has been diminishing though, slowly but steadily. Each text, each conversation, every single word exchanged between them. No need to align all of their steps to thread the same route. How odd, what a strange realization for Ferran, after years of thinking that he’d never catch up on Pedri.
Ferran smoothly pulls into the street, joining the Parisian evening’s traffic. It’s been raining all morning and even now the grey clouds hang low over the picturesque buildings.
“Do you miss it? The weather?” Pedri asks after a long and fruitless battle of trying to connect his phone with the car’s Bluetooth.
Ferran shrugs, scrolling on the screen until he finds one of the playlists he vividly remembers Pedri enjoys a lot.
“A little? I miss the sun and knowing that I won’t risk catching a cold every time I step onto the terrace,” the corners of his lips twitch. “Paris is still much better than Manchester though.”
“Guess so,” Pedri hums, his head bobbing slightly as the next song starts playing. It’s familiar, it’s endearing, it’s I don’t miss the sun in the sky, I miss another star instead. Ferran quickly looks away.
People say that distance and time tend to mellow the feelings. Ferran is yet to see this happen. He quickly shakes his head.
“How’s the team?” he asks, turning the heater on when Pedri pulls his sweater tighter over his chest. The quiet hum of air-con joins the soft melody coming from the speakers.
“What?” The question seems to startle Pedri as if he forgot that Ferran was right beside him. “Oh, the boys? Good, all good…” he shakes his head, there’s a moment of hesitation, and Ferran catches Pedri’s gaze with the corner of his eyes. The wariness on his face telling enough.
“Listen just because I’m not there anymore, doesn’t mean that I’m no longer interested in gossip,” Ferran laughs, lifting his finger and making a circle. “Trust, I will tell you what Hakimi has been up to recently, whatever you want to or not. Besides…” he bites his bottom lip, pulls at it a little, tastes the nervousness and relishes in its taste. “Barca’s your life,” he turns his face, makes a point of meeting Pedri’s eyes and holding his gaze. “And you know that I’m always interested in that.”
The almost breathless laugh he gets in return is worth it. Pedri’s smile is soft, almost bashful, charming in that unintrusive way. His cheeks light up in color, flushing rosy, flushing with warmth that Ferran has been craving the moment the wheels of his plane broke contact with the Catalan airport. He wants to reach out desperately, he wants to touch and see if Pedri runs as hot as sun, wants to risk burning – to hell, maybe the Parisian rain will put him out before he turns to ash.
Ferran has risked a lot in the past several months, gambled plenty, and maybe it is becoming a second nature to him because before he knows it – his fingers pinch the round curve of Pedri’s cheek. Just like that.
The traffic light turns green, the car behind them honks.
“Alright then,” Pedri laughs, louder now, as he swats Ferran’s hand away. “So listen to this. Gavi has found himself a new victim…”
“No grand mansion this time?” Pedri teases as he exits the elevator and starts following Ferran down the hallway. “The paycheck doesn’t accommodate your needs?”
Ferran flips him off and fishes the keys out of his pocket.
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, not really looking at Pedri, stuffing the truth behind his eyelids before Pedri catches the glimpse of it. He didn’t want a house because it would never be a home without Pedri living somewhere close. One day, he will have a home with walls, for now, an unshakable truth, his home is a person. “I felt like this was more than enough for my needs,” he adds, pushing the door open, standing by it and making space for his guest to walk inside.
When Pedri’s foot catches over the threshold, Ferran almost laughs. The irony too tangible to ignore. Pedri glares at him and forcefully tugs at the handle of his suitcase. The tiny wheels clatter against the wooden floor, the soles of Pedri’s shoes squeak against the panels. It’s not familiar yet but it will be with time.
For a moment, Ferran doesn’t move. Commits the view to his memory. His body is standing in front of the door to his own Parisian apartment, hundreds miles away from Spain, weeks into the season of 2026/2027, and yet his mind is elsewhere. It’s exploding with joy under the blinding July sky in New York, it’s basking in the sunny afternoon in Barcelona a year ago, it’s a young thing on the beach in Valencia when his eyes gaze at the boy next to him. The place changes, the time too, but Pedri is a singular immovable object in his vision.
It punches him in the gut. Anticlimatic as always.
“You coming in or do I need to invite you into your own place?” Pedri looks over his shoulder with a smile, shrugging his sweater off and Ferran–
“I think I’m still in love with you.”
Pedri’s eyes widen, his fingers still around the zipper of his sweater. Ferran can feel his own heartbeat shaking the back of his throat and it’s so hot that his mouth tastes like heat rather than acid.
“You… think?” Pedri asks slowly.
Ferran shakes his head. He is still standing in the hallway where anyone can overhear.
“I know I’m still in love with you,” he amends.
“Still?” Pedri repeats.
“What is this? Ten questions game?” Ferran laughs quietly. He is barely breathing. “Yes, still. As in: nothing changed.”
Slowly, unhurriedly, Pedri takes off his sweater and rolls his suitcase to the side. He is as short as ever but he seems to fill the entire space past the doorframe. Ferran thinks he has never seen Pedri this serious. Maybe except for that one El Clasico in 2025. Just like back then, now too Ferran is cold with anxiety and hot with anticipation all at once.
“Nothing changed…” Pedri drawls slowly, rolling the syllables over the roof of his mouth. He takes a quick inhale, the muscle beneath his eyes twitches. “Is that what you meant when you said that nothing has to change, huh? Just the distance?” he asks, almost accusatory and suddenly Ferran is thrusted months back.
An early morning in Barcelona, a memory of a house that is no longer his, and a man who has never been his even though he very much wanted him to be.
Ferran thinks, oh karma is a bitch, when he tastes shame on his tongue again. He wants to reply but Pedri beats him to it, his voice quiet but steel cold.
“Because that’s cruel, you know? Turning me into some estranged pining idiot when you could just–”
“Pining?” Ferran echoes.
Pedri rolls his eyes. He looks so beautiful that Ferran could kiss him. Maybe he will. He bites his tongue to stop that train of thought for now though.
“Obviously,” Pedri crosses his arms on his chest. “What you thought I was your personal chauffeur for years out of the goodness of my heart? That I allowed you to annoy me because I was bored? That I was all heart-eyed because you are pretty? Please,” he huffs. “You are not that handsome, don’t let the internet fool you.” Pedri smirks but the blow is softened by the blush coloring his cheeks.
Ferran’s chest will explode if Pedri continues this for a moment longer.
“In Paris I’m your chauffeur though.” he points out, taking a tiny step forward, just shy of stepping through the door. “I annoyed you hoping you’d allow that. And… I don’t know about myself but I do know that you are pretty.” His lips twitch a little.
Pedri scoffs, uncrossing his arms.
“You are so full of shit,” he comments and reaches out, his fingers grabbing the lapel of Ferran’s jacket, pulling him into the apartment. “I think I am in love with you. I’m still in love with you,” he parrots. “Well, I love you, so there you have it. Commit to it properly, you owe me that much now,” he whispers harshly, but he’s so close that Ferran can taste his breath on his own lips.
He can already tell Pedri will taste sweet. He could close the distance already but instead he rests his forehead against Pedri’s, closes his eyes and breathes in. He can smell… the grass on the pitch, the sun, the ocean’s breeze, the early mornings and the late afternoons; he can smell the Parisian rain and the sterile sharp scent of the medical center and the overly greasy fries on Fifth Avenue. Every single memory – bitter or sweet – is filled with Pedri’s presence, either physical or phantom.
Ferran exhales quietly and lets his breath carry his confession at last.
“I’m in love with you. Whether I’m here or there, now or before or later. I’m in love with–”
He doesn’t get to finish, doesn’t get to draw in another breath, his confession stolen by the press of warm lips against his.
He was partially wrong, it turns out. First and foremost, Pedri tastes like eternal summer.
Neither of them notices when the doors close behind them. A safety of a tiny home in a forever bubble.