Chapter Text
Ferran sat on the bed in his hotel room. The lights were dim. He cursed whoever decided hotels shouldn't have any overhead lighting. Why did he have to turn on one million lights if he wanted it to be bright? There was the light in the entryway and the bathroom light and the lamp that sat on the desk and the bigger lamp that sat next to the desk and then each bed had its own little lamp right by the headboard. See? One million lights. If Ferran had wanted it to be bright in his room—which he did, hoping that his mood would follow suit—he would've needed to turn on one million lights. After a long day of traveling followed by a somehow even longer day of training—his first day of training at PSG, in fact—Ferran simply didn't have the energy to turn on all of those lights. Instead, after slipping out of his sweatpants and climbing onto his bed in just his boxers and a hoodie, all done without turning on a single light, Ferran opted to turn on just the small light that sat near the headboard of the stiff hotel bed.
The moving van couldn't get here fast enough. He needed to be off of this mattress and back on his own.
Ferran took a deep breath. He needed to calm himself down somehow. He could take a hot shower—or a cold one, to mimic how he started the day—but that would be too much effort. His legs were sore and his head was throbbing. He was hungry. He could call down to room service, but the phone was all the way over on the other side of the room. He wasn't that hungry. Staring at the TV in front of him, he considered turning it on. The remote was well within his reach, after all. He could turn on some home improvement channel and numb his mind until he couldn't take it anymore and his body shut off in protest, forcing him to sleep.
If nothing else, he hoped that some television program would stop his mind from racing. Since the minute he landed the previous day, there was one conversation he just couldn't get off of his mind. Even now, just over a thousand kilometers away from where it happened, he couldn't stop thinking about what he did. What he had left behind.
Who he had left behind.
Ferran's foot twitched back and forth. His left palm was open in his lap and his right hand was sending small, rhythmic punches into it. Not heavy enough to hurt, but strong enough to make a sound. He was restless. It was like he'd had a pot of coffee. Or five shots of espresso and an energy drink. His nerves were getting to him. If he thought he’d be awake, he would call his therapist. They'd had lengthy conversations about his move to Paris. This had been in his mind for a while, but it hadn't become official until recently. He hadn't had the time to talk to him since it became official. Nor had he had the time to talk about the conversation he had before he left. That would be the main focus of their next session—if he made it to that session without making the situation worse, that is.
He wanted to do something—say something. He needed to say something. He had left on such a bad note that it wasn't fair for him to not say anything. Eventually, he would need to pick up the phone that was burning a hole through his mattress next to him and call him. Say something. But what would he say? What could he possibly say now? There was no way he could make things better again. There was no going back to normal—not after what he had done. Ferran knew better than that. He had fucked things up and now he had to deal with the consequences. His therapist would tell him what to say. He would tell him how he felt and then he would draft the perfect response. Well, they'd work together to draft the perfect response. He would write it down and then he would call him and he would say what was on his mind—and in his heart—and, no, things wouldn't go back to normal, but maybe the next time he saw him on the international team things wouldn't be so awkward.
The previous day—how had it only been just over a day? It seemed like it could've been years—Ferran had made an announcement at the club. He had gone in that morning in secret—made sure that no one saw him coming—so that he could say his final farewells. There had been rumors and speculations for weeks about his departure from the club but he wanted everyone to hear it from him that he was officially leaving. He didn't want them to see an Instagram post about it or hear it from someone who heard it from someone else. No, he had to be the one to tell everyone. To tell everyone that later that afternoon he would be on a flight to Paris and that the following day he would be training with PSG. That he had a new home and it was only a matter of time before all of his belongings were moved. That he wouldn't see many of them until the international break. He wanted to thank some of them, too, for being there for him when he felt the most pressure. They knew who they were, even if he didn't have the strength to say their names aloud.
Ferran stood on one of the benches in the locker room, looking over everyone. There was one face he couldn't get himself to look at throughout his entire goodbye, but he knew he was there. Staring at him. Begging him to look in his direction. Ferran knew that if he looked at Pedri—looked into his eyes—he would throw it all away. Rip up the transfer deal. Well, maybe he wouldn't be that dramatic. There would be some diplomacy involved. But he would start crying—and he didn't want to be crying right now, not in front of his entire team. Well, they weren’t his team anymore, were they? His old team. He told himself—told everyone else—that this wasn't a goodbye but instead a... see you later. He didn't believe it and neither did anyone else. He knew Pedri didn't believe it even without looking at him.
At the end of his farewell, the locker room erupted into cheers. They swarmed Ferran, bringing him down from the bench and surrounding him in a hug with pats on the back and congratulations. It was no secret that he felt unhappy at Barça. His teammates, though sad to say goodbye to someone they had trained alongside for years, were happy that he was getting out of the environment that had been so toxic to him. It wasn't personal—it was what he felt like he had to do.
Pedri didn't feel that way. He thought it was personal. Why wouldn't he?
As the other players dissipated and found their way out of the locker room to begin their training for the day, Pedri stayed back. Ferran tried to leave. Even now, he couldn't face the other man. Couldn't meet his eyes. Couldn't give a goodbye more personal than the one he had just given.
Pedri had other plans. As Ferran tried to leave, Pedri grabbed his wrist, pulling him back into the locker room.
"So that's it?" he hissed. "You're just... leaving? Just like that?"
Pedri could afford to be a little late to practice. Besides, he wasn't going out onto the pitch today. There was an "injury" he was tending to. A muscle problem he had that prevented him from playing on the pitch. The heart was a muscle, wasn’t it? Maybe he would be back out tomorrow. But, for now, he'd be training in the gym. Going to physio. Trying to see why the fuck Ferran hadn't told him he was leaving Barça without getting upset.
That last part wasn't going so well.
"And you didn't think to fucking tell me?" he added.
"I just did, Pedri. You found out just like everyone else."
The truth was, Ferran wasn't sure why he hadn't told Pedri before. He should've. He knew he should've. It was out of character for him to not have told him. To not have picked up the phone the minute he found out and called him to tell him the news. He had been owed that. But Ferran chickened out. He couldn't do it. Couldn't get himself to face the other man—even over the phone—to tell him that it was over. That he was leaving. He needed to make it as impersonal as possible otherwise he'd end up a sobbing mess—like he could feel himself slowly becoming now.
"You and I both know I deserve a little bit more of a heads up, Ferran. After all we've been through I think I've earned more than a day's fucking notice."
"You knew this was coming, Pedri. We've been discussing this for weeks."
"I would've liked some more time to process, is all," Pedri stammered out.
"Have you not?" Ferran asked, incredulous. He couldn't believe this was turning into an argument—of all things, he hadn't expected a fight. "Do you remember what you said last week? You said you thought it was best that I leave. That I would be happier there. You sounded happy about it all—like, like you wanted me to go."
"I was saying what I thought you wanted to hear, Ferran. I never thought you'd leave m—leave us. The team. Couldn't you see that?"
"No, Pedri. I couldn't see that. I was trying to find every reason to stay and you told me you thought I should leave. It broke my fucking heart."
A tear escaped Ferran's eye, then another. He couldn't stop them. He brought his hands up to his face to wipe them away but they kept coming as fast as he got rid of them. What a stupid last note to end on. An argument. Really, Pedri? You wanted to end things between us with an argument?
"Well I don't want you to go, Ferran. Are you happy? You finally got it out of me. No, I don't want you to fucking go. Every single day you aren't here is going to be miserable. I'm going to look at whoever takes over your locker and hate them for it. I'm going to look at them and I won't stop being able to think about you. Is that what you want to hear?"
"Pedri-"
"Don't 'Pedri' me. I love you, Ferran," Pedri said. Ferran was getting on his last nerve and he couldn't control himself. The tears he saw in his eyes—his eyes? Really? As if he should be the one to be crying right now. "Fuck it," he muttered. His hands were on his head one second and off it the next, shaking. He didn't know what to do with them. Well, he knew exactly what he wanted to do with them. He wanted to place them on Ferran. Whether he wanted to feel every curve and every angle of his body or slap him he wasn't sure, but he wanted to touch him. Feel his skin beneath his own—feel its warmth. Pedri turned around. He knew what he wanted to say but he didn't have the strength to say it to the other man's face—not without his emotions getting the better of him, at least. "I'm in love with you, Ferran."
Pedri brought his hands up to his face. What had he just done?
Silence hung in the air.
Ferran didn't reply. He wasn't sure what to say, so he said nothing.
When Pedri turned around, Ferran was gone.
Ferran knew it wasn't fair. Knew he owed Pedri a response—but, Jesus, dude. Fuck. No, he hadn't seen it coming. Why would he? They had been friends for years—just friends. How could Pedri have just... fallen in love with him? It didn't make any sense. He hadn't thought Pedri was gay. He had just gotten out of a relationship with a woman. Had that been fake? Had he been in love with him the entire time? Ferran's mind spun. He needed to sit down. Needed to get some water. Needed to eat something. His flight was in just a few hours. He couldn't be thinking about these things—not right now. Not with a big move in front of him. No, he would need to calm down first. Need to think about his feelings. Need to find a way to let Pedri down easily.
If that's what he wanted to do, at least. Let him down. Tell him he didn't feel the same.
Ferran heard a loud bang from the locker room. He figured it was probably Pedri hitting one of the lockers with his fist. Fuck. He'd really fucked things up, hadn't he?
Rushing out of the training center, Ferran jogged to his car. Stepping in, he slammed his head against the steering wheel, careful enough to avoid the horn but just reckless enough to really feel it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What has he just done?
Ferran sat with his head in his hands. There were tears streaming down his face. His breath was coming in scattered and uneven increments. The only thing he knew was that he wasn’t getting enough air even though his breaths were getting faster. Shouldn’t that bring him more air? Why did he feel so lightheaded? He knew exactly why. It wasn’t his first time having a panic attack. He wouldn’t be in therapy if he hadn’t been such a nervous wreck all the time. He tried to remember his therapist’s words. Deep breath. Five things you can see. Another deep breath. He couldn’t see much, tears were blocking his vision. He cleared his eyes. He could see his steering wheel. He could see the training center in the distance. Where Pedri was. Probably just as upset as him. Fuck. This wasn’t helping. What was the next one?
Four things you can touch. He could feel his steering wheel. He gripped it with all his strength. He could see his knuckles turning white. Hey! Another thing he could see. What else could he feel? He felt his shirt against his skin, wet with sweat or tears or probably both. His car was warm. He needed to turn on the air conditioning. What else what else what else? He knew what he wanted to feel. He wanted to feel Pedri’s skin. His lips. How they felt against his own—not just how the other man’s neck or cheek felt below his lips. He wanted to know how he tasted. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck this wasn’t helping.
Three things you can hear. Ferran’s car was off. He couldn’t hear anything—anything except for Pedri telling him that he was in love with him. It was on repeat in his mind. It was all he could hear. How heartbroken he had sounded when he had said it. Of course he was heartbroken. There was no logical way this could go anywhere. Right? Ferran was leaving and they were both professional football players. Football players weren’t gay—not that he knew, anyway. They couldn’t make it work, could they?
Ferran thought about it. What it would mean to be in a relationship with Pedri. He let his mind wander to his most outlandish fantasies. Fuck it. Why shouldn’t he imagine what it would be like to sleep with him? It wasn’t like that was going to happen. Ferran had sealed his fate. He had left Pedri standing there and was moving to fucking Paris. God he messed that up.
Where was he? What did he need to notice next? Ferran had lost count—lost himself in the idea of being with Pedri. It would’ve been good. Really good. They could wake up next to one another and stay in bed just a little longer, lingering in the warmth of the other. They could eat breakfast and kiss next to the stove and next to the sink and he could lift Pedri up onto the counter and—
Ferran couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t think about everything he couldn’t have anymore. It was all too much to bear.
Ferran buried his head in his hands and silently sobbed. He needed to get going. He had boxes to pack. A life to move. He couldn't be here—in some hypothetical that would never come to pass.
Pedri wasn't faring any better. After slamming his fist into the locker—into Ferran's locker—he sunk to the floor, his back up against the wall. His knees were at his chest and his head was in his hands. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He was so fucking stupid. He never should have said those things—never should've gotten angry at Ferran in the first place. He knew how awful things were for him here at Barça. He knew exactly why he wanted to leave and he knew Ferran well enough to know that, if he didn't have to leave—for his own good—he wouldn't. So, yeah. He had told Ferran that he supported the move. Of course he did. Maybe then it wouldn't eat him up inside. Maybe then he wouldn't lie awake at night taking all the hate from Barça's fans. Maybe he could get out of his head for long enough to get better at the game he loved with his entire heart. This move was what was best for him. There was no point in trying to get him to stay for his own selfish reasons. So he said what he needed to. And he'd do it again. He wouldn't have had this interaction again, though. He had gone too far—said too much. Revealed too much. Gotten too angry—too emotional.
"Pedri?" A voice said. "Oh, fuck dude. Are you okay?"
Pedri lifted his head from his hands. He knew his face would be stained with tears but it was too late to care about that. Opening his eyes, he saw Gavi. He knew it was Gavi because his hair was dyed a hideously bright shade of pink. It worked on him, somehow, Pedri thought. Gavi's eyes were wide. He was clearly worried. Pedri nodded, remembering he had been asked a question. He wasn't, in fact, okay, and he was sure that that much was obvious, but there was no point in saying it—or, well, nodding it.
Gavi sat down next to Pedri, pulling his own knees close to his chest. He put an arm around Pedri's shoulders. They looked silly when they were together, with his pink hair and Pedri's white. Put one brown-haired person between them and they were suddenly Neapolitan ice cream. But Gavi didn't have time to laugh about that right now, he needed to do something about whatever this was in front of him. Or, well, beside him.
"Did you and Ferran get into a fight?" he asked. He knew the answer. He had been the last to leave and had heard the start of it. Knowing it was absolutely none of his business, he left and didn't look back. These two always came around to one another again. They were just like that—had been as long as he had known them.
Pedri nodded.
"Want to tell me what it was about?"
Pedri shook his head.
Gavi knew what it was about—even if he hadn't heard it. Well, he was pretty sure he knew what it was about. He had seen the way Pedri looked at Ferran when Ferran wasn't looking back at him. Saw the way he leaned into the hugs and the kisses. Saw the way he looked when he planted kisses on Ferran. There was nothing friendly about it. It was a bit taboo to talk about, so he didn't, but he knew what he saw. He wondered how many others knew, too?
Gavi decided against pushing. He would talk to Pedri about it later—corner him sometime, sometime long after Ferran was gone, long after the wound was healed. He wondered how long that would take? He couldn't wait that long. All he knew was that Flick was about two minutes away from yelling at him to hurry up and three minutes away from forcing him to run extra laps and do extra drills. Pedri could take care of himself. He would have to.
Gavi hugged Pedri's shoulder, pulling him in closer. "I'm here if you ever want to talk," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as he stood up. "I know how much Ferran... meant to you. I'm sorry things ended this way for you two. I was rooting for you."
Pedri looked up. He looked like his world had been shattered. How had he allowed himself to get caught? How obvious was it that he was in love with Ferran? How many people knew? This couldn't be happening. "I won't, uh, tell anyone," Gavi added, noticing the shock on Pedri's face. "But, seriously, come and find me. Let's talk. Okay?"
Pedri nodded. He hadn't had anyone to talk to about any of this. Not his brother, not his parents. Not even his last girlfriend. He'd ended things for stupid reasons, not wanting to tell her that, somewhere along the way, he realized he was gay. That was too much to handle—especially so soon after he had realized it himself. He had barely said it out loud to himself and now, here he was, almost talking about it with someone else. That made it real. Too real.
Pedri lowered his head again as Gavi walked out of the locker room.
Pedri watched the movers as they worked. Ferran's house was right next door. Well, not quite right next door—but he could see it from the front window of his own house. Could see the movers taking all of the boxes out of his house. All of his belongings. All of him. Soon, they would be driving it all to Paris. And Ferran would be gone. Just like that. In the blink of an eye. It would be like he never existed. The walls would get painted back to their original, neutral color and the garden would be trimmed and the driveway repaired. Everything would be reset. And Pedri would have to stare at it every day. Every single goddamn fucking day he would have to look at Ferran's house and know that he wasn't in it. That someone else had taken his place. It killed him. Ate at him from the inside.
Ferran picked up his phone. His hands moved toward his contacts by muscle memory alone. He had called Pedri so many times he didn't even need to think about the sequence of buttons he needed to press to get himself there. Before he knew what he was doing—before he could get himself to stop, before he even considered whether or not Pedri would pick up a call from him—Pedri's contact information was on his screen. He was calling him. Even if he didn't pick up, the other man would get the notification. He would know he had called. It was over. He had done it. There was no going back now.
The seconds stretched into minutes as he willed the other man to pick up the phone. Finally, he heard the other line connect.
"What do you want?" Pedri said on the other line. He was still watching Ferran's house being torn apart. Ferran thought he sounded tired. He figured he must be. He had seen the training content that had been put out. It was Pedri's first day back on the pitch. His first day of real training. After a month of vacation, training took it out of you—he knew that all too well.
"I made a mistake," Ferran said. He was admitting it to himself as much as he was admitting it to Pedri. Those words had been bouncing around in his skull all day but he hadn't managed to get them out—to say them out loud—until now. Until Pedri was on the other end. What rotten timing, he thought. He wasn't sure how to unpack it. He had no plan. But he was in it, now.
"What?" Pedri demanded. There were a million different things Ferran could've been talking about. In Pedri's eyes, the last few weeks had been fraught with mistakes on Ferran's end. Everything from his vacation with Llorente—the guy who spouted anti-sunscreen bullshit—to leaving Barça. All those little mistakes added to make one big one that left a stain on Ferran's life. "You're going to have to be more specific."
"I shouldn't have left you like that," Ferran responded. It was the first thing he needed to apologize for. The most pressing issue. He had been a massive dick and he needed Pedri to know how sorry he was about it. About all of it, really, but he'd get there in time.
"Again, Ferran. You're going to have to be more specific."
"Yesterday, Pedri. In the locker room. You told me you loved me—that you're in love with me—and I left you. I shouldn't have done that. I should've handled things better. And I'm sorry. I know you'll probably never forgive me, but, I just... I had to tell you."
Pedri stayed silent for a moment. He wanted to cuss Ferran out. Call him an asshole. Tell him that he could go fuck himself. But he couldn't get himself to do it. Couldn't make his lips move to make those words. He was still in love with Ferran—one day couldn't change that. He was angry at him—angrier than he'd ever been at anyone in his entire life—but he was still in love with him.
"Thank you for saying that," Pedri replied. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. He hoped Ferran didn't expect for things to go back to normal after this. He didn't expect them to, but he wasn't sure what Ferran was expecting. They usually bounced back after arguments, but Ferran was in Paris now. A quick kiss on the cheek wouldn't fix anything. A kiss somewhere else might, Pedri thought before shooing the thought out of his mind. He couldn't let his mind think those thoughts anymore.
"And, Pedri?" Ferran said. "I know this is really bad timing, and—and I know you've probably moved on, especially after how I treated you, but..."
Ferran hesitated. The pause was killing Pedri. Was he about to say what he thought he was about to say?
"I've been doing some thinking, and..."
Pedri thought Ferran needed to spit it out. He couldn't take it anymore.
"I can't imagine my life without you in it, Pedri. I don't care what form it takes. I just—I need you. I've always needed you. I don't think I've always... been in love with you... but..."
Ferran sighed.
"I think I am now. I don't really know what I feel. And I'm feeling a lot of emotions that I haven't had time to parse but. If you'll give me time, I think—no, I know—that I won't stop loving you."
It was Pedri's turn to sigh. He had gotten what he'd wanted. The man he had fallen in love with was telling him that he was in love with him, too. Pedri figured he'd be happier to hear this news. To know that this wasn't some one-sided thing. But he wasn't happy—not the kind of happy he thought he'd feel, anyway. The man he loved was over a thousand kilometers away. Over a ten hour drive. A quicker plane flight, sure, but the distance that separated them wasn't trivial. What rotten timing, he thought. He should've said something sooner. Maybe then Ferran wouldn't have moved away? He knew that was a selfish thought. Ferran needed to move, and Pedri needed to be at Barça. There was no way for them to be together.
"I'm sorry I ever said anything," Pedri said. He meant it. It should've stayed with him.
"Don't be sorry, Pedri, please. Please don't be sorry. I would've never thought about this—about us—about what we could be, if you hadn't said anything. And I'm so glad you did. Now, at least. After some freaking out. And I- I think we could make something work, if you're willing to give it a try."
"You're in Paris, Ferran," Pedri said. Tears were streaming down his face. "I'm watching the movers pack your shit."
"The club season isn't forever, Pedri. We have the international breaks. We're closer than you think. Please, Pepi. Just think about it, okay?"
Pedri shut his eyes. He knew it couldn't work. Could it? He couldn't allow himself to think like that. But when he closed his eyes the only thing he could see was Ferran. The way his skin glistened in the warm Barcelona sunshine after a long day of training. The way his smile reached his eyes every time he saw him. The way his lips felt as they pressed against his cheek and against his neck. How his hands felt when he ruffled his hair. He wanted it all back. He knew he could never have it—have him—the way he wanted to. But maybe that wasn't a death sentence. Maybe they could work something out.
"Okay," Pedri said. "I'll think about it."
Pedri closed his eyes. He couldn't believe those words were coming out of his mouth, and neither could Ferran.
"I love you, Pedri. I hope you know that."
"I love you, too, Ferran. We'll talk soon, okay?"
"Okay," Ferran replied. It was the best he was going to get for the night but he took it. He knew things couldn't go back to normal, but, maybe, they could make a new normal. They could find a new rhythm. Move at their own pace. Be together in their own way. He had to believe that—had to hope—because he'd fall apart otherwise.