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For the first time in years, Pedri wasn’t looking forward to going back to Barcelona.
Ferran called him a couple of days prior to tell him that it was pretty much a done deal; he was going to Paris. He claimed that Pedri was the first person he called. Pedri did not fully believe him, but he pretended to. It had been all so weird after they left Madrid, up until that one night when Ferran texted him sort of out of nowhere. He had been a bit upset about Ferran not drunk texting before, he had to admit. He kept seeing all those pictures floating online, and Pedri had to wonder if he had found someone else to text late at night that wasn’t him. But then he did, and Pedri crumbled immediately. But despite his plea, Ferran was leaving all the same.
That sad feeling that had been underlining his whole vacation didn’t fully hit him until he had to go back to training on his own. Ferran wasn’t even in Barcelona, and driving past his place and not stopping to pick him up was the first hit of the day. Thankfully he had to go through some medical checks and later was allowed to stay in the gym, everyone understanding why he would need some time before he would show himself publicly on the training ground. Everyone tiptoed around him like someone had died, especially the guys who were not on the national team with them, unsure of how to act. Claps on the back, awkward hugs. Are you okay? Can I do anything to help?
He was, at least, thankful for Gavi’s presence. Just seeing him with that pink hair put Pedri in a better mood.
“You couldn’t have done a lighter shade, could you,” he teased his friend, who looked at him with wide eyes, as if to say, You're the one who’s talking. It was true; his hair was sort of ridiculous. He promised everyone he would dye it blonde if they won, and his hairdresser might have exaggerated a bit with that bleach. His head stung as he went through the process, and as he waited, his first natural reaction was to text Ferran to tell him how much that stupid bleach was stinging and giving him a headache, but then he refrained from doing so. After that phone call he wasn’t in the mood to talk to him, at least not to joke with him. Some time would have to pass before they would get back to that, if they would ever get back to that, a little voice in his head told him. It was probably a voice caused by the bleach. Of course they would be good friends again. There was going to be an international break in a little over a month; everything would go back to normal. Whatever normal meant with them, because Pedri didn’t know that anymore.
He knew he'd have to get used to a new normal, a reality in which he wouldn't have to pick Ferran up every morning. The karaoke sessions to wake them both up before early morning sessions and the dumb jokes only the two of them would get. Pedri was always complaining, You always make me drive, but now he would agree to be his driver for the rest of his life. He would drive Ferran anywhere, really. Back to his parents’ place in Valencia in the middle of the night. He would drive him to the end of the world.
i'm in barcelona tomorrow. The text came while Pedri was cooking lunch. It annoyed him because it wasn’t a private message but one to the group chat they had with their closer friends in the team. Everyone replied quickly, immediately making plans for dinner. Pedri didn’t bother to reply. It might’ve been petty, but he wanted to get a private message from Ferran. He could see the rest of the boys at training every day; he didn’t care about a group dinner. He looked at the messages as they came through: plans being made, a time and place decided, one of Ferran’s favourite restaurants for his goodbye. He ate lunch while fighting the strong desire to throw the phone against a wall. It had been like an hour, and Ferran still hadn’t texted him. He could’ve done that himself, obviously, but he was not the one who was leaving him behind, was he? If he wanted Pedri to forgive him, he should’ve tried a lot harder.
“Are you not coming to dinner tomorrow?” Eric asked him in the gym later. Pedri was, thankfully, still holed up in there, away from the pitch and the request to do silly TikToks or whatever else the social media team had in store for them. He wasn’t in the mood for any of that. He was not sure when he was going to be, really.
Pedri ignored his friend for a moment, ready to start his next rep, deciding what to say next as he wrapped his fingers around the barbell. “I don’t know,” he replied, before lifting the weight, concentrating on the move rather than looking at Eric.
“Oh, please. You have to come. And fix whatever shit you two have going on.”
“What shit?” He replied, feigning ignorance, as he dropped the weight. “It’s all fine; I just don’t feel like coming to dinner, ‘s all.”
Eric raised an eyebrow. “Sure, okay. So you’re telling me that there is nothing to fix?”
“What has to be fixed?” Pedri had, surprisingly, not seen Gavi enter the room, which was sort of incredible because with that hair it was easy to spot him even in the dark.
“Nothing,” Pedri quickly replied, just as Eric said "Ferran".
“Oh, that, yes. You’re not coming to dinner?”
Pedri sighed. “I don’t know yet,” he said again. “There is nothing to be fixed. Everything is fine,” he lied.
Gavi snorted. “You’re a terrible liar. And we have eyes, you know.”
Pedri was about to pick up the barbell once again but could see with the corner of his eyes that Eric had nudged Gavi. He was not surprised in the slightest; he suspected that the two of them might’ve talked about him and Ferran. Maybe not just the two of them. Lamine and Pau, despite being teenagers, spent enough time with them to notice. Having half your team on the National Team as well didn’t help their case at all. They practically saw each other all year long with very short breaks in between.
“We’re just saying this for you, you know. I think you would regret not seeing him the day before he leaves,” Eric considered as he sat on the bench next to Pedri.
“Exactly,” Gavi agreed.
Pedri did not reply, busy counting down his reps. Five, four, three, two, one.
“Whatever,” he finally said when he was done, dropping the weight down on the floor unceremoniously, a loud clang that made everyone else in the gym turn towards them. He left then, muttering something about having to go to the bathroom.
He wondered if Eric or Gavi or maybe Dani texted Ferran, because the private text came through that evening. Or maybe he did it all by himself, after having noticed that Pedri read through the whole conversation in the group chat without writing a single message.
can we talk tomorrow? just you and me.
And that was how the next evening he found himself in Ferran’s flat, maybe for the last time. Most likely for the last time. He wasn’t sure Ferran was going to keep the flat. They hadn’t talked about it, just like they hadn’t talked about most things lately.
The distance was both physical and metaphorical between them, Pedri thought bitterly. Ferran was sitting on the couch, and he was standing up, propped against a wall, his arms crossed in front of his chest. They had been there for what felt like ages, time dragging, the silence so loud. Ferran was already dressed up for the dinner, a white shirt and black pants, and Pedri was trying not to look at him too much, or it wouldn’t take long for him to crumble.
Ferran kept making jokes, but Pedri could not find anything funny about what he said. He tried to ask him about training and how the rest of the team was, but Pedri wasn’t in the mood to discuss the people who were once his teammates.
“So you’re really not coming to dinner?” He asked again. Pedri shook his head, looking to the side, at the television that was ignored so many times by the two of them as things happened on the very same couch Ferran was currently sitting on. Everything looked exactly like it did before they left for their training camp before the World Cup, and yet everything had changed. There were not going to be any late nights or early mornings in there, knowing where to find everything in the cupboards in the kitchen to make breakfast. Ferran’s dogs were not going to welcome them home anymore. The flat was so empty without them there.
“I think I’m going to go,” he finally said, because there was no reason for him to be there. It had been stupid to come in the first place at all. Pedri looked towards Ferran, just a quick look before heading to the door. He was looking up at him, not moving from where he was sitting on the couch. “I’ll see you next month, I guess,” he added. There were tears in Ferran’s eyes, Pedri was pretty sure, and yet he didn’t move; he didn’t say a word. He headed for the door. Ferran didn’t even try to follow him.
He spent his evening playing one of those stupid shooting games. Every character he killed on screen, Pedri imagined, had Ferran’s face. He lost track of time; he didn’t have dinner. It was all so stupid. He shouldn’t have been that upset. They never even talked about it. They never promised each other anything, and he knew how upset and frustrated Ferran was, especially during this last season. It was bound to happen. They would’ve stayed friends anyway, just like they were before they both moved to Barcelona. They were just friends, right? Friends who fucked sometimes. Just as he thought of that, he got distracted and he got killed in the game. He swore out loud. He should’ve gone to sleep; he had to show up to training in the morning. Instead, he started a new game.
Someone buzzed the intercom just as Pedri had been killed once again, and he had decided that it was about time to go to sleep. He hoped that – but it couldn’t be him, could it? That seemed like a scene out of a romcom, one of those he wouldn’t admit to anyone that made him cry. He got up from the couch and looked at the camera of his intercom, and sure enough, Ferran was standing outside his building, looking like a deer in the headlights. Pedri buzzed him in, wondering if he was drunk. Probably. Or not, maybe. It would’ve been stupid for him to travel to Paris with a hangover.
When Pedri opened the door, he couldn’t smell any alcohol on him. He was still wearing the same clothes from before, although the shirt was now half-unbuttoned and was a bit rumpled. He couldn’t even take all of Ferran in, couldn’t even utter a word because he was all over him immediately, taking Pedri aback with the force with which Ferran hugged him.
It took him a few seconds to realise what was happening and to hug him back, to hold onto Ferran’s shirt, hoping that it would somehow ground him there, forever in Barcelona at the entrance of his flat, just the two of them there, stuck forever in that embrace.
The tears were not so unexpected; what was unexpected was how Ferran started sobbing, his face leaning down on Pedri’s shoulder. I'm sorry, he said once, twice, a thousand times. He could feel his t-shirt getting damp, but it didn't matter. He thought it was sort of ironic how he was wearing one from their celebrations of the Eurocup two years earlier. He wore it all the time at home. He remembered so many things about that night, but if there was one thing that stood out in the euphoria of the win and everything that followed, it was the kiss that Ferran planted on his cheek when they were on the bus and how his whole face tingled, and yet Pedri didn't realise what that meant. He still barely did, to be fair.
Ferran's grip got looser, and he raised his head, sniffing. Pedri was still incredibly pissed off at him, but playing for hours and pretending to shoot him in the head in the game about a thousand times tonight helped. Maybe it had tamed the desire to punch the face of the real Ferran now standing in front of him.
“Sorry,” he said again, sniffing. “I know it's late, but can we talk? I don't want to leave without talking to you.”
Pedri blinked a few times, unsure of what to say. “It's 2 am, and I have training in the morning.” And anyway, whatever it was that needed to be fixed wouldn't be fixed with a quick chat. It would’ve taken quite a while to undo all those years of things left unsaid between them. They should've started from day one, really; rewind to their first meeting. The video is on YouTube for everyone to see. He had rewatched it many times lately. So awkward but so precious; not many people could say that they had their first meeting taped like that. It was a bit embarrassing that so many people had seen it; the comments made Pedri want to dig a hole in the ground and never get out of it again. How did people realise things before he did? How did they know that –
“Should I go, then? I'm leaving in the evening. I can come back for lunch tomorrow.”
Pedri shook his head. He knew he would regret this, but he couldn’t help the words that came out of his mouth next. “No, you can stay here tonight.”
They hadn't slept in the same bed since New York. Before the win, before that confession on the plane that changed everything. There’s a good chance I’m going to Paris.
They didn't touch at first, just lied there facing each other in the dark. God, Pedri should've told him to go home. Not a chance he was going to sleep now, not when he knew this was the last night they were spending together for a long time.
“I can’t believe you’re actually leaving,” Pedri whispered. Ferran shifted a bit closer to him, still a gap between them, but he tentatively started stroking Pedri’s arm. He let him. “You know I’m not, like, mad at you for leaving but for not telling me sooner? I mean I’m also mad at you for leaving.” Ferran laughed softly. “But I don’t understand why you wouldn’t –”
“I don’t know; I didn’t want to disappoint you, and then I ended up disappointing you even more,” Ferran said. They were both keeping their voices down, as if their low tones made the whole thing less real. Pedri was the one who shifted closer now, Ferran still caressing his arm. “It was, just, you know. A lot. With the World Cup and us going ahead and ahead in the tournament, I kept thinking I would tell him after the next game, and then we kept advancing, and it was too much all at once.”
“You can say that we advanced quite a lot in the tournament, yeah,” Pedri teased him, and despite the tension, it felt good. It was them, still; somewhere there they still existed in their older version, and that made Pedri feel better and loosen up a bit. Ferran laughed, this time a bit louder, shifting a bit closer, his hand now moving behind Pedri’s back, drawing circles with his fingers. It was annoying how the person who had made him feel like crap in the past week was one of the people who knew how to calm him the most.
“I promise that I’ll come back anytime I get the chance to,” he murmured, his lips brushing Pedri’s face, leaving kisses on his cheeks, then on his forehead. Waiting for a silent confirmation that he could kiss his lips too. His whole face was tingling just like that one night two years earlier in Germany.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Pedri said, unable to hide the hurt in his tone, his voice almost trembling.
“I am keeping this promise.” A quick peck on Pedri’s lips. “I promise you I will.”
Pedri had so much to say still, so much they had to talk about, but he was tired now, it was late, and he wanted to pretend for just a while that everything was how it used to be. That this was one of those nights where they kissed lazily for ages before they fell asleep and then went to training together in the morning, pretending that they hadn’t slept in the same bed the night before. And so they kissed for a while, and with Ferran’s lips pressed on his, it was so easy to forget that this wasn’t just another one of their nights, that the distance between their flats wasn't going to be just a few metres anymore but a thousand kilometres. A two-hour plane ride, instead of a five-minute walk. Pedri never wanted tomorrow to arrive, but it had been a long day, and he was exhausted. He fell asleep in Ferran’s arms.
you can stay over if you want, he texted Ferran the next morning when he left the flat. The damage had been done already, and anyway, they truly needed to talk before he left for the airport. He was still asleep when Pedri left for training, and he stood by the door for a while, observing Ferran for a while trying to maybe find some answers. But the truth was there were no real answers to this; it was all irrational and wrong and right at the same time. So he went to training, alone in his car once again, and of course Eric was all over him as soon as he spotted Pedri in the gym.
“So, did you see Ferran last night?”
Pedri was going to start training at a private gym. Somewhere where no one would ask him about Ferran Torres. Which, now that he thought about it, probably not anywhere on Planet Earth, especially not after the World Cup. Maybe the only safe place would’ve been Mars. Or maybe even the aliens would be asking him about Ferran Torres. He had a hunch that they would also enjoy certain TikToks that had been circulating lately.
“No,” he lied.
“Mm. Weird. Because we talked about it last night and he said he was going straight to your place afterwards.”
“Talked about what?” He snapped his head up, maybe too fast, definitely in a very suspicious way. Eric was standing next to him, a smirk on his face.
“Not much, really; your friend is just as cagey as you are. But he said that you were mad at him and he wanted to fix it.”
“Well, I haven’t seen him,” he lied again, ready to start his first series of exercises for the morning. Eric didn’t insist and finally moved to start his own training for the morning.
Ferran was still there when he came back home for lunch. There were sounds coming from the kitchen, loud music, and a song that Pedri did not recognise. What he recognised, though, was the smell of chicken that came from there. Because of course Ferran would cook him lunch before saying goodbye. Of course he would make things even harder. He knew he shouldn’t have let him stay. This little slice of regular life that he was going to taste was going to make Ferran’s departure hurt even more.
Sure enough, when he entered the kitchen, here Ferran was, in front of the stove. He had stolen his clothes, like he often did when he stayed over, raiding his drawer full of t-shirts, despite Pedri's protests. He had at least the decency to pick a Spain one and not a Barcelona one. He would've taken that off of him like he were one of those rabid fans online who had been writing the worst shit about Ferran for weeks now. Years, really.
"Hi." Pedri said finally to catch his attention, and Ferran touched his phone screen to pause the music before turning towards him. Pedri should’ve punched that stupid smile off his face and sent him to Paris with a broken lip. Then he would’ve loved to know what story he would’ve told people. Sorry, it’s this person I had a situationship with back in Barcelona.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you walk in,” he said, a smile still plastered to his face. Like it was just a regular day and he was home from training because of an injury and he wasn’t about to move to a different country in a couple of hours. He didn’t even know where Ferran was going to stay, he realised. Where were his dogs? So many things he didn’t know anymore. They used to tell each other everything, up until a month earlier.
“Of course you didn't; your music can probably be heard from your – well, ex-home, I guess.”
Ferran's smile faltered and he turned back to the stove. Pedri's attempt at making a joke has obviously fallen flat, and now he wonders if they would ever find their footing again or if everything would feel stilted and cautious the whole time now except at night, apparently, because last night had been great. Pedri had thought about it the whole time during training, which resulted in one of their trainers asking him if everything was alright because he looked quite distracted. It’s fine, he lied. It's just hard to get back into the routine after almost a month, you know. The trainer nodded, but the truth was that he must’ve known too, surely. Everyone did.
Ferran turned off the hob and then poured the contents of the pan in two dishes, bringing them to the table. They always sat in the same chairs. Oh sorry that's Ferran's spot, Dani teased him one evening when he came over and it was just the two of them. Pedri protested, saying that there was no such thing as Ferran's chair, but the truth was that it was very much a thing. Just like most things their friends teased them about.
“How was training?” Ferran asked then, and Pedri realised that he probably didn't know that he was not training with the others, unless maybe he guessed that from Instagram. He wasn't showing up in any photos or pictures so far. He didn't know if Ferran paid attention. “I noticed you weren't training with the others.”
Oh. Okay. So he did pay attention.
“You're stalking me then?” He teased Ferran.
“I wanted to see how well you were pulling off this hair, and I was disappointed I couldn't see you anywhere,” Ferran explained, looking down at his food. “You look great, by the way.”
“Thanks. You also would've looked nice bald.”
Ferran snorted. “Shut up.” He kicked him under the table and then looked up at him with a worried expression, as if to know if he was allowed to do that. Pedri appreciated his worry about boundaries, but it was laughable when they had spent who knows how much time snogging in bed last night. Yes, you can shove your tongue down my throat, but you're not allowed to play footsies. He smiled, and Ferran's features softened.
As they ate, Pedri explained that they wanted to keep him under observation for a few days; just as a precaution, there was nothing to worry about. Ferran nodded and asked questions; he had always been so caring, always looking after him. Not only after him, really; he’d always been selfless like that.
“Keep me updated obviously with, um, how things will go.” Ferran had that intense look of his as he looked at Pedri, silent for a beat as he obviously pondered about what to say next. “We can, you know. Call each other in the evening sometimes. If you'd like that.”
“Of course I'd like that.”
They both smiled and finished eating in silence.
They were going to pick up Ferran in an hour, and they hadn't truly talked things through. They had been able to have normal conversations for the first time in ages, and Pedri didn’t want to put an end to it. It was so nice to be just them again. They were still sitting at the table, their plates now empty, both of them clearly not wanting to break the spell. But then Pedri mentioned something that happened the day before: Lamine making jokes about his and Gavi’s hair, calling them Chupa Chups, and the atmosphere in the room changed.
“You know I’m going to miss it,” Ferran said, sheepishly. “I’m going to miss them all. And you, most of all.”
“If you thought you would miss me that much, you could’ve stayed.” He knew as soon as he said it that he sounded petty, a petulant child who stomped their feet on the ground until they got what they wanted.
“I wish it were that easy,” Ferran said softly, his hand moving to Pedri’s thigh.
“I know. Me too.”
The air was so thick now with all the words they hadn’t said yet, and Pedri could barely breathe. The clock was ticking, less than an hour before Ferran’s departure. He put his hand on top of Ferran’s, their fingers intertwining under the table.
“I came here last night because I wanted to talk, but, then, you know.” Ferran’s face turned red, and Pedri thought how endearing it was to see him blush at the thought of them kissing in bed like two teenagers. He wanted to tease him, but this wasn’t the right moment for it. He let him talk. “And I just – it feels so hard to put these feelings into words. But what I can tell you is I don’t want to lose what we have.”
“Me too," Pedri agreed, squeezing Ferran’s hand, still under the table, as if even now that they were alone they had to hide from the rest of the world. They were so pathetic. Even now, in the urgency of the moment, they were tiptoeing around it. “I don’t know how we can do this, though.”
“We’ll find a way. I’ll fly back anytime I have the chance. I’ll call in the evening. I told you, I’ll do whatever it takes to show you that I’m not letting you go. That this choice is not – you were the biggest thing that was holding me back from leaving.”
“You should’ve just told me before. You should’ve – I would’ve helped you any way I could. You know I would have.”
“I know. I know I wish I could turn back time and tell you some time in June. When we left for camp.” A pause, something passing on Ferran’s face that Pedri couldn’t quite capture. His expression changed now, a smirk on his lips. “Remember that first night at camp?”
It was the first time one of them acknowledged something that happened between them. This time it was Pedri's face that turned red. Ferran always told him that he liked when he blushed, which was quite often. It was hard not to blush right at the moment, when memories from that night flooded Pedri’s mind. Ferran’s fingers slowly opening him up. Ferran’s hand was on his mouth to keep him quiet as he fucked Pedri so the guys in the room next to them wouldn’t hear his moans.
“I do remember that night, yes. Not sure that was the right time to talk about Paris, though. I reckon we didn’t really have much energy left in us to talk after that.”
Ferran snorted, not expecting Pedri to be suddenly so bold about it. But it was time, was it? Less than an hour. Forty minutes, maybe, before he had to leave for the airport.
“No, definitely not that night, okay. The day after. I had so much time, and I kept making excuses, and also, I didn’t want to waste any minute I had with you when we were alone.”
“I know. You were insatiable,” Pedri teased him, finally, because he needed to be silly for just a moment.
“Me?” Ferran raised his free hand and put it in his hand, a comical expression on his face. “Bro, you –”
“Can’t believe you would call me bro right about now, so typical of you.”
Pedri snorted, and his brain, for some reason, short-circuited then, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Bro, remember when you couldn’t stop fucking me during training camp?”
Ferran was stunned. Pedri had said it. Had said the word: a whole year of pretending that nothing was happening, and now, finally, he did. Maybe Ferran leaving was going to do them some good, after all. Finally facing whatever the fuck they were doing.
“Say something. Did I ruin it?” Pedri asked, worried, when Ferran didn’t utter a word but kept staring at him as if it were news to him. “Did I read it all wrong? Do you want us to stop doing that?"
Ferran shook his head, finally a sign of life. Pedri was relieved. “No, no. I don’t want that. I just, you know. I find it so hard to talk about it.”
“Me too,” Pedri agreed once again, because after all, they were on the same page. They often were. Most times, really. Symbiotic, as Eric often told them.
“I’m glad.”
Ferran let go of his hand then, and Pedri was confused. But then he moved his chair, coming closer to Pedri, finally moving so the table wasn’t in the middle of them anymore.
“Can I kiss you before I go?” He asked, finally using his words, finally saying what it was, not hiding in dark rooms anymore. Pedri nodded.
“Of course you can, bro,” he teased, because that was the only way he knew how to break the tension. Ferran, though, pretended not to hear it and leaned in, finally kissing him with intention, with maybe a little less fear than in the past, which was, all things considered, a bit ironic. The future was unknown, and they weren’t going to spend every day together for the rest of the year like it had been for the past four years, and yet somehow there was a lightness to it; there was hope. Maybe they hadn’t talked about it at all; there was still a lot to figure out, but at least Pedri didn’t feel as terrified of the future as he was just the day before.
They couldn’t let go of each other later, when Ferran announced that he had to go. They hugged near the door for ages, just like the night before, and this time they both cried. Sloppy, wet kisses in between as they told each other how much they were going to miss the other.
“I’ll write all the time,” Ferran promised. “I’ll call you all the time. I’ll –” Pedri didn’t know what else he was going to promise because he shut Ferran up with a kiss.
And then he left for real, and Pedri realised that he was late for training. Shit. He rushed out of the door and sped through the city, ignoring every traffic rule as he made it to the training camp. He got there just in time. Thankfully no one asked why he looked so dishevelled. There was a good chance they all knew, anyway. Pedri didn’t care one bit.
ferran
i am in the car
now at the airport
about to board my flight
damn where are you
pedri
training unlike you
also what the fuck are you doing
ferran
updating you
i told you i would write all the time
i just landed btw
pedri
you didn’t have to be so literal about it
ferran
are you annoyed with me already then
i’ll stop
pedri
don’t you dare
ferran
ok pepi :)
pedri
did i tell you you could call me that again
ferran
not explicitly
i can read between the lines
pedri
mmh
well I'll have to think about it
you're still on probation
ferran
damn ok
can i call you later?
pedri
maybe
after i call my parents if it’s not too late
ferran
ok let me know :)
can i ask you something
pedri
of course
ferran
will u send me a pic
pedri
a pic of what
ferran
of your face
what else
oh
yeah your face
for now
pedri
ok
[image]
my face
for now 😛
ferran
you're cute
i really like the hair you should keep it for a while
pedri
thank u
ferran
❤️
pedri
oh we're doing hearts now
ferran
is that allowed
pedri
yes
❤️
ferran
❤️
pedri
you can call me now
if you’re not too tired
ferran
never am for you