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1.
Pedri is a tease.
This is a conclusion Ferran has come to after years of them being together.
His innocent, golden boy image is a ploy, and a fake. Pedri is a malicious, conniving, plotting, ridiculous menace of a man Ferran has been in love with for as long as he can remember.
Especially on the pitch—out there where everyone can see.
He likes to do this thing where he baits Ferran.
Ferran still doesn’t know if it’s to fuck with him, or with their fans.
A goal is a goal, no matter who scores it. And Ferran’s eyes always look for his one person, every celebration—he waits for the weight of him in his arms; comforting. Grounding.
Home.
His feet take him before he even realises he’s doing it, take him home; take him to Pedri’s arms.
Except Pedri is a smug bastard who knows he’s Ferran’s north. Knows Ferran is coming for him and only him. To hug him, hold him in the middle of the pitch—harsh lights and thousands of eyes—feel the press of his body flush to his; to nose into his neck taste the sweat against his flesh.
Tucked safe and comfortable. Where everyone can see.
But, as we’ve established, Pedro Gonzalez Lopez is a fucking tease.
Does his little hop skip backwards run, makes Ferran go to him; chase him. A dog on a leash.
Obedient.
The slam of their bodies is always a welcome, solid ache. Muscle on muscle and overwhelming warmth. Pedri’s arms around his neck, fingers digging into the flesh beneath his jersey; Ferran prays there are marks in the shapes of his nails when he takes his shirt off later.
Bruises he knows Pedri will press wet kisses to under the shower head later.
It’s funny that Ferran is the one leashed when Pedri’s the one who always starts their little dance backwards. Muscle memory dragging him to the closest surface to press against. And Ferran follows him step for step, until the press of fingers sting and there’s a nip hidden in the flesh of his throat.
Pedri’s realised what he’s doing.
Ferran laughs into his hair, squeezes him closer for just a second, and pulls back.
He’s sure there’s a smirk tugging at his face, but Pedri’s eyes are bright and glowing and maybe Ferran can’t kiss him silly in the middle of the pitch, but he can squeeze the back of his neck, and press a kiss to his temple; taste the sweat of him on his lips.
Pedri’s still watching him, eyes wide and glowing. So many words in irises like melted chocolate. Words they can’t exchange right now, even cupped behind their hands.
Ferran hears them all anyway.
He squeezes the back of his neck one more time, just to see his eyes flutter, his limbs go loose.
And then he leaves him swaying in the middle of the pitch as they reset.
2.
Pedri being a tease is always cute.
But Ferran’s favourite thing is when he forgets himself for just a moment.
The adrenaline of his goal like a halo around him, arms wide, and eyes narrowed in a smile as he races to him.
And Ferran’s already braced, knees bent, legs apart.
Absorbing the impact is easy.
One arm around his waist, another scratching into the hair at his nape.
Pedri’s legs are wrapped so tightly around him, and there’s that wonderful sting of fingers pressing bruises into his back.
Pedri’s weight against him is hypnotic. A delicious pull of muscle as he supports his whole world with only his body; with the strength in his arms.
There’s Pedri’s nose, hot and wet, pressing up against the column of his throat, hidden there where he presses kiss after kiss, something like a prayer falling off his lips. A prayer that sounds a little like Ferran’s name.
It should feel like sacrilege. (It feels almost like absolution.)
It’s so, so easy to shoulder Pedri’s weight. And Ferran doesn’t want to put him down yet, even as those legs drop from around his waist.
It’s been moments. It’s felt like forever. Even forever won’t ever be enough.
Not for them.
So he holds him just a little longer, pulls him into a spin just so he can see Pedri throw his head back, hear him let out a breathless little giggle. A breath of a, “Ferri,” that no one hears or sees.
Setting him back on his feet feels something like loss, and it’s all he can do to pull Pedri just a little closer. Squeeze him until it feels like he’s crushing him, just to feel the press of him all over.
Pedri finally shoves him away—all for show—strong calloused fingers still wrapped around his forearms.
Ferran can’t help it; grabs him around the face to smack a wet, playful kiss against his forehead.
Any teasing in the locker room later—about how Ferran can’t ever keep his mouth to himself—is well worth the way Pedri’s eyes glitter.
It still amazes Ferran every single day—that he gets to come home to this.
That later he’ll be pressed skin to skin with this man, hands in his hair, face against his throat, holding him. Peppering kisses against every available inch of skin. Tasting the soap on his flesh after he showers for the second time, because he swears he can still feel the grime of the pitch on him.
It still terrifies Ferran, in the best way possible, that Pedri gives this to him.
A gift he’ll forever cherish.
3.
Pedri is slow to wake; difficult, as well.
Ferran takes advantage of these slower mornings.
He’s always been an early riser. Pedri’s always called it some sort of evil wizardry. Ferran cherishes it, because it allows him this: letting the dogs out into the yard, feeling the early morning dew between his toes, tasting the sweet morning air with every deep breath.
He wiggles his toes in the grass, just for the tickly feeling, and kisses each of their three dogs. (Sometimes he kisses Nilo twice, a quiet apology for Pedri’s morning crankiness.)
The cool morning air wakes him up, and it’s easy to find the energy to start breakfast.
He doesn’t get to do it often. Pedri’s clingy in the best possible way, and Ferran doesn’t ever mind whiling away the quiet mornings as a personal pillow—tracing veins and moles and freckles and dimples, until Pedri’s breathless and giggling. (Because he’s ticklish and won’t ever admit it.)
Yoghurt bowls (this peanut butter, chocolate chip concoction of madness for Pedri Ferran doesn’t particularly understand, but indulges him with anyway. And a more neutral bowl of porridge for his own self, with some apple chunks and cinnamon. He would’ve done berries, but he knows Pedri’s going to try to smash them together, and would prefer peanut butter on his apples rather than his berries.) and whole grain toast, and Pedri’s eggs—fried, but the whites must be cooked to perfection, the yolks runny. Pedri’s protein smoothie—strawberry and chocolate and tastes an odd amount like straight up sugar, but Ferran is nothing if not indulgent.
And, of course, coffee.
Ferran’s humming as he sets the board, a pretty towel that he folds over, and a small bundle of flowers picked fresh from the garden and tied with twine.
Pedri’s still asleep as he slips through the crack he left in the door. Ferran delights in crawling over him—after he sets the tray down—body slotting against Pedri’s easily. He nuzzles into Pedri’s neck—just this side of aggressive—lets his stubble rub against the soft skin of his throat, until Pedri’s wriggling and grumbling. Until he’s blinking slowly, warm, warm hands coming up to cup Ferran’s face.
“Morning,” his voice is rough, and crackly and Ferran kisses his nose, just because he can.
“Good morning, corazón,” Ferran replies, nuzzling into the side of his cheek, and kissing him again, just because. “Made you breakfast.”
“I love you,” Pedri’s voice is still cracking and scratchy, but his eyes are wide and shining, and Ferran kisses each of his eyelids, once and then again.
“I love you. Now come, eat before your eggs go cold.” He gets yanked back down as a reward, Pedri’s lips hot against his jaw, working his way up until he can nuzzle in behind his ear, nip at the skin there. “Pepi,” but there’s no heat behind his warning.
“Don’t shave today,” is his non-sequitur, hands resting in Ferran’s hair to drag their cheeks together until Pedri’s skin is rubbed raw and red. He looks oddly smug at this, swaying like a drunk kitten as they finally sit up, fitting himself into the slot between Ferran’s legs, back flush to his chest.
It’ll be a little awkward for Ferran to eat like this, but Pedri presses another kiss to his jaw, and breaks into the toast, bringing a bite up to press against Ferran’s lips.
“You’re spoiling me,” he murmurs, but accepts the bite anyway.
Breakfast is a slow, indulgent thing, Ferran’s hands hidden away under Pedri’s sleep shirt, nails dragging light scratches into his skin. His chin is tucked over Pedri’s shoulder, accepting one bite of food at a time, licking the yolk from Pedri’s fingers as it runs.
He’s warm, and solid, and oddly floaty, drunk off the delicate attention.
Pedri presses kiss after kiss to the stubble on his jaw, rubs their faces together anytime the redness finally starts to cool.
Ferran wants to work a mark into his skin—big and dark and unmistakable, but they have to face cameras today. So he settles for those light scratches of his nails across Pedri’s torso.
“Thank you for breakfast,” Pedri eventually murmurs into their indolent quiet. “You spoil me.”
“You spoil me more,” Ferran counters, finally pressing his mouth the Pedri’s, licking the remains of chocolate and strawberry from behind his teeth. “Besides,” he can hear how rough his voice is, and he knows his teeth are sharper than they should be knowing they have press duty today. “I like spoiling you.”
He’d been expecting it, but he still sighs into the burn of Pedri’s fingers tugging on his hair, pulling their mouths together so hard Ferran’s sure they’ll bruise.
It’s easy—probably too easy—for Pedri to turn in his lap until he’s straddling him, bearing down on him until Ferran’s a boneless, pliant puddle, mouth opened and panting as Pedri tries to lick his way into his throat.
Ferran knows he’s holding onto Pedri’s waist hard enough to bruise now, and it just makes him hold on tighter, pulling him down just to feel him groan halfway down his throat.
But there’s a shrill blaring from the other side of the bed, and Pedri pulls away, eyes narrow and exasperated. He’s panting and flushed and hard where he’s still unconsciously rocking against Ferran.
Ferran lets out a huff of a laugh against Pedri’s collarbone—he can’t help himself—even as his back meets the bedding, Pedri crawling halfway up his chest to reach his phone.
“Why?” He groans, not bothering to adjust himself, flopping right down on top of Ferran. Ferran pushes his shirt up and kisses idly at his chest, knowing they won’t get too distracted. Pedri’s next alarm will start going off in fifteen minutes.
He hums instead, works a tiny little mark against the side of his ribs. “Your own fault. So pretty they need to see you on the big screen more often.”
Pedri huffs again, but shifts just a little, encouraging Ferran’s teeth on his skin. “We’re both on press duty today,” but it’s a pointless argument as Ferran scrapes the edges of his teeth all the way up to the dip of his clavicle just to feel him shiver.
“Ferri,” it’s somehow a mix between a whine and plea, Pedri pulling at his own t-shirt, trying to lodge Ferran’s mouth against where he wants it—the soft skin right where his chin meets his throat, in the shadow of his Adam’s apple.
“You have to be in front of the cameras, cariño,” but he worries at the skin anyway, little kitten bites that won’t leave a single mark.
“Ferri, please,” and it is so pretty to hear him beg; unbearably so. Ferran has him on his back in seconds, dragging his teeth against his throat and lodging a knee between his legs.
“But what’re you gonna tell the cameras about whose bed you spent the night in, huh? Possessive bastard who doesn’t even try to hide his marks?” He punctuates the question with a bite, just to hear him whine—high and needy. His legs wrap tight around Ferran, hands tugging into the hairs at his nape, even as he pulls him ever closer.
“Mosquito bite,” it’s breathy and high, more a pant than anything, body rolling up into Ferran’s, searching for friction.
“Must’ve been one bloody hell of a mosquito, huh?” Ferran nips at his ear, voice a quiet rumble. He lifts himself up higher, just to feel Pedri ’s legs tighten, to feel his fingers tug him back until they’re chest to chest once more.
“Ferri,” he repeats, and he sounds breathless, and desperate and wrecked and Ferran just has to kiss him, card a hand through his hair and shush him with quiet breaths pressed right into his mouth.
“Mmm,” he drags his nose until it sits in the hollow of Pedri’s cheekbone, and speaks straight into skin. “You’ve got two options,” he says, low, kisses Pedri’s cheek when he rocks up into him, huffing. “I can leave a proper mark right where everyone can see—big and bold and claiming. Or,” and he lets one of his hands drag down now, fitting between their bodies until he’s cupping Pedri’s length, “I can take care of this for you. We don’t have time for both.”
Pedri whines again, rocks up into his palm, and Ferran finally pulls back from his face.
Except Pedri’s pulling him right back into his neck, lacing his fingers with the one Ferran has pressed between their bodies; bringing it up to kiss at his knuckles.
“Pedri?” Ferran’s still blinking against skin, confused, but quickly understanding. And they’ve been together for years at this point, but Ferran feels a blush spreading hot and abrupt across his neck.
Pedri wants— “Want you to mark me.”
Ferran’s teeth clamp down hard, before the words even register fully. Pedri’s please comes when Ferran’s already reached a point of no return.
.
.
.
Pedri’s styling his hair when Ferran finally comes out of the shower, alighting behind him just to look at him.
He hooks his chin over Pedri’s shoulder, mindful to keep his chest back, before he soaks his shirt, and presses a kiss to the side of his neck.
Pedri hums, soft and pleased, and leans into the touch. But Ferran’s eyes are fixed on the mirror, where can see clearly the rather outrageous mark he’s left.
“I may have been a bit too enthusiastic,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the bruise; apologetic.
“Are you kidding?” Pedri twists so he can kiss at his jaw, nuzzling against the stubble he had obediently left untouched. “It’s awesome.”
“You look mauled,” Ferran states.
“No, I look ravished,” and he’s really much too pleased about it, eyes narrow and gleaming. “Loved. Owned,” his voice sounds almost dazed, eyes suddenly far away. And if Ferran doesn’t let go right now, they’re going to be later than late.
And yet, instinct seems to be winning over logic these days, because he can’t help himself, tilting Pedri’s chin up so the mark is stark and visible. Locking their eyes in the mirror, he presses another kiss to Pedri’s throat; he feels him shiver against him—full bodied and thrilled—and has to summon every last bit of self control not to pull them together.
His hand flounders blindly against bathroom counter top, for the little dish he keeps his necklace in. It’s easy to keep Pedri distracted with wet little kisses, arm around his waist pulling his warmth closer.
Cold metal finally touches his fingers, and he lets his mouth follow the path up to the spot beneath Pedri’s eyes, kissing against whichever freckle he finds, planting those breathy little, feather light kisses that make Pedri huff out tiny little laughs.
“Close your eyes for me, love,” he prompts, and Pedri does, pressing up on his tiptoes to rest their temples together; his fingers are little brands of warmth, pressing against Ferran’s hips, thumbs moving in mindless, captivating circles.
He gasps a little at the cold press of metal, a tiny hitching of breath, but keeps his eyes pressed close, even as his fingers tighten against Ferran’s skin.
Closing the latch is muscle memory, and Ferran makes sure the chain is short enough so the cross sits in the hollow of Pedri’s collarbone; presses nearly against the mark he’s left there.
He turns Pedri back around to face the mirror, and plants little kisses until he can whisper against his ear, “Open your eyes, sweetheart.”
And when he does, Ferran gets to see the way his pupils blow dark, fingers climbing to tangle in the chain.
“Ferran—“
“Now,” Ferran whispers, pressing a kiss to Pedri’s shoulder, “you look owned.”
4.
They nearly don’t make it to practice on time that day.
And even when they do, Pedri does not escape the locker room until he’s flushed, and so pretty Ferran wants to hide him away, do as he pleases.
But also it’s—it’s something that has every little knot in his chest untangling, watching Dani prod at Pedri’s throat, and listening to all the comments Gavi and Lamine make, as though it’s a competition for who can say more.
And Pedri—Pedri just laughs, red as he is, fingers playing with the chain. His eyes always find their way back to Ferran’s, and hold. His smile soft and content.
Someone groans—Pau, maybe—and rattles something off about being too single for this. Ferran kisses Pedri’s head out of spite before they leave the locker room. There’s a distinctly amused grumble that follows them.
.
.
.
Training is what it usually is—Ferran and Pedri get distracted a little too often, finding increasingly ridiculous ways to be near each other. Until Eric and Dani are staging an intervention and dragging them until they’re on opposite sides of the training field.
But there’s laughter, and an ease in the air that lets Ferran give his all in practice.
If chasing Pedri around to tackle him is part of that all? It’s nothing their teammates aren’t accustomed to.
.
.
.
Press later that evening is… slightly closer to a nightmare than anything else.
It’s been a matter of hours, and somehow Pedri has already built a habit of his fingers finding the chain around his neck.
Ferran watches surreptitiously, trying to keep his eyes on the reporter’s face. It’s funny, because she’s trying very hard to be professional. But Ferran’s watching her—probably a little too closely—otherwise he’ll be watching Pedri. And God alone knows what his face will do if it focuses on Pedri right now—drowning a little in one of Ferran’s more innocuous sweaters, the collar large enough so his mark, and his new chain is on full display.
But Ferran’s focus is on the reporter, so it’s easy to see the way her eyes keep going back to the mark. Pedri doesn’t make it any easier for her, his fingers hooked in the chain, and seemingly intent on finding a home there.
Ferran almost sees her snap in real time, and winces in anticipation of the next question. Sure enough, she says, “Practising for the upcoming season doesn’t seem to be holding you back from distractions at home.”
It’s sniping and snarky and less than professional. Ferran can feel his hackles rising, calves tensing in nervous anticipation.
It would almost be funny—the sheer pettiness of it—if not for the way Pedri’s brows draw together, hurt. His shoulder finds Ferran’s, and the pressure is easy to return.
The chain twists around his fingers tighter, until Ferran’s sure the pattern will be pressed into his flesh. His teeth press into his lips for a second, expression pinched and thoughtful.
Ferran presses nails into his own forearm before he can snap at anyone on Pedri’s behalf.
“I don’t see how my home life is relevant,” he eventually says, arms folding over his chest. His elbow is pressed gently to Ferran’s ribs. “I train hard, and respect my team. My home life isn’t a distraction, it’s a balance all athletes try to find. If we gave our entire lives to the game, we’d all lose our minds. Especially considering we’re always under such intense scrutiny.”
Even Pedri’s scolding is soft, and Ferran doesn’t think the reporter looks appropriately remorseful; it is, however, somewhat mollifying to see her frown when Pedri continues, “I’m incredibly grateful to have a partner who will love me so publicly, even as we keep our relationship private.”
His smile turns softer then, a wry tug at the corner of his mouth, elbow pressing a little harder to Ferran’s side.
Ferran has to bite back on a smile that’s just a little too sharp, tilting his head and giving the reporter innocent eyes when she finally addresses him.
Pedri’s elbow is still a warm press against his side; a pressure that sits just beneath the beat of his heart.
.
.
.
As expected, their corner of the internet explodes just a little. (A lot. The group chat will not give them peace.)
Ferran’s perched on the counter while Pedri chops something for dinner. (He’s allowed kitchen privileges for breakfast because Pedri knows he can’t fuck that up at least. He’s allowed to help with the baking sometimes. But anything more complicated Pedri takes over.)
The internet is a very amusing place when you learn to let things slide off your back.
“They think you’ve found yourself a werewolf, Pepi. The omega allegations are increasing.”
Pedri laughs at that, loud and free, head thrown back. “It’s actually so fucked up that sometimes I’m so happy they don’t get close enough to smell us. Some of them are supernatural, I swear. The jig would be up in seconds if one of those fanfic writers ever actually found us.”
It’s Ferran’s turn to laugh, scrolling again to find more ridiculous theories.
“Oh, here’s a fun one.” Pedri hums something in response, the sound covered up by the sizzle of the pot. “Apparently I did not control my face as well as I thought.”
Pedri snorts at that, and Ferran lets out a huff of indignation.
“Dude, I nearly had to sedate you. What were you gonna do? Attack her?”
“I was not that dramatic,” Ferran defends, legs parting automatically for Pedri to slot between them. He’s lowered the flame under the stew—a mistake they’ll never make again. Pedri had been upset for days the last time Ferran let his stew burn—and his arms are warm where they’re wrapped around his core.
“You were moments away from lunging,” but Pedri’s voice is soft and sweet, chin perched on Ferran’s chest, so his head is tilted at an angle. He’s looking up at Ferran through his lashes, all wide eyed and pretty.
“I absolutely was not.”
“Mm. You controlled yourself very well. My Prince Charming,” he gets a kiss against his chest. “My white knight,” another kiss high on his sternum. “My hero,” yet another on the line of his jaw. Pedri has always had some weird obsession with his jaw. “Thank you.”
It’s been so long, Ferran keeps thinking maybe the thrill of it all should’ve faded into a gentle simmer by now. But no, his stomach still flips with those telling little butterflies, and it’s nothing and everything—arms wrapping around Pedri, hiding his face away in his neck. Everything, inhaling the scent of Ferran’s own cologne, faded with the day, melting into the scent of their dinner on the stove.
Pedri squeezes him tight, kisses against his neck where Ferran has him trapped.
Tries to pull him right off the counter.
Ferran—it’s more a squeak than anything, a… a manly yelp. Pedri cackles, nearly drops him. Then the dogs are nosing at them, trying to figure out the commotion, and Pedri does drop him, laughing so hard he’s on his knees on the floor.
Look, Ferran does not doubt Pedri’s ability to hold him. He’s held his weight many times… while hopped up on adrenaline and the high of a good game.
But…
Pedri avoids gym days like the plague. Ferran works out because he enjoys it. Pedri…
Ferran rolls his eyes and scoops him right up off the floor, cradled in his arms like a damsel in distress.
“This what you were trying to do?”
“Show off,” Pedri huffs, but his arms come up around Ferran’s neck anyway.
“You’re the one who runs from the gym.”
“You’re the one who’s a weird gym freak.”
“Yeah, but that just means it’s easier to carry you. You know,” Ferran loosens his hold for a moment, grinning when Pedri tightens his arms, “without dropping you?”
Pedri slaps at his chest, and Ferran sets him down with a kiss on his head.
“You’re a terrible person.”
“I know,” Ferran laughs. “And this terrible person is going to shower before dinner,” he meets Pedri’s eyes with a serious look. Pedri considers dinner a pyjama affair, and therefore Ferran has to be showered and in nightclothes before they can settle to eat. Why? He can’t even say, but such is life. “I’ll be down in a few minutes, okay?”
“Okay.” Pedri rocks up on his toes to press a kiss to his nose. “And you have to feed the dogs tonight.”
Ferran just barely stops himself from rolling his eyes, ducking to press a kiss to Pedri’s chain, just to feel the way his breath hitches.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of that.
5.
It’s late at night.
It’s been a long day; the kind where they both get home bone tired, exchange one glance and immediately agree it’s gonna be take-out.
The kind of night where Pedri barely has the energy to keep himself up, leaning into Ferran’s side as he gnaws at a dumpling. One of his socks is pulled all the way up his shin, the other is halfway to being off his heel, like he started taking it off and lost the energy midway through.
They’re both still in the clothes they changed into after practice.
Another dumpling gets speared straight through with a single chopstick, Pedri’s other hand wrapping the chain around his finger, once and then again, pulling until it’s a snug press of metal against flesh.
His eyes are glazed over, staring into the fireplace they never use.
Today’s been the kind of day that’s terrifying, and Ferran’s hand worms its way up under the hem of Pedri’s shorts, massaging at tense muscle.
An awkward fall.
Nothing more than a strained muscle, thank God. But terrifying nonetheless. A reminder of how fleeting their careers can actually be. A regular athlete usually has about fifteen years. Less, if they’re injured.
Ferran lets his fingers press gently into the strained muscle. He knows he’ll have to ice it later before bed.
He lets his chin settle in Pedri’s hair as he abuses another dumpling.
There’s no consolation at times like these, Ferran knows. But he can be close, and he can be something solid for Pedri to lean on right now.
Pedri gives up on eating eventually, shuffles completely into Ferran’s lap and hides away into his chest. Ferran adjusts for him—will always adjust for him—wraps him in his arms, a tight, almost suffocating pressure. It’s what Pedri needs at times like this; something that anchors him to reality, that keeps him tethered to his body.
It’s the type of night where words are meaningless, and all Ferran can do is squeeze tighter at the feel of Pedri’s first broken breath. Press a kiss into his hair, and another. Hands drawing up and down the skin of Pedri’s back, the barest scratch of his nails. Counting his rib bones as he passes them, pressing into the dimples at the base of his spine. He scratches up into Pedri’s nape and drags his fingers all the way back down, matching Pedri’s breath until they’re both breathing slow and deep and even.
Ferran feels like they can both fall asleep right here, on the living room floor, pressed against the couch, staring at a fireplace that’s never been used.
It’s minutes, or seconds or hours until Ferran finally feels Pedri’s body going lax against his. Halfway to sleep then.
“Think you can stomach anything right now?”
Pedri shakes his head against his chest. Ferran was expecting the answer.
“Alright then. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”
Ferran waits for Pedri to nod before standing.
Pedri’s weight in his arms has always been a comfort, and it still is, even now, as he carries him all the way to their bathroom.
“Shower, love. I’m gonna go get the ice pack by the time, yeah?”
He looks exhausted, eyes lidded, and sunken. He looks pale even in the warm bathroom lights. He nods anyway; holds his arms up for Ferran to help him get his shirt off. Tilts his head up—for Ferran to press fleeting pecks; his chin, his jaw, his cheeks, the sides of his temple, his nose.
It’s a simple routine, one they’ve established, easy as breath.
Ferran gets clothes together for him as he showers, a hoodie that’s too big on both of them, and a pair of shorts he’s probably had since he was a teenager.
He sets the kettle, and clears the living room, making sure the food gets put safely in the microwave. (Pedri’s gonna sniff them out like a criminal rat in a couple hours. And then he’ll complain it’s all cold if he puts it in the fridge.)
He makes sure the dogs are fed while the tea steeps.
And then he makes his way back to the bedroom, tea and ice pack in hand.
Pedri’s in his corner of the bed, hood tucked low, and knees pulled high to his chest.
Ferran hands over the tea first, which he accepts with both hands, and eases Pedri’s leg out into a stretch. He presses a kiss to the flesh before the ice pack, soothing gentle patterns into skin when Pedri hisses, skin still overwarm from his shower.
The silence still isn’t broken, not as Pedri drinks his tea. Not when the cup is finally empty, and the compress has been pressed to the sore muscle for long enough. Not even as Ferran accepts the cup, carrying it back downstairs and washing it; he replaces the ice pack in the freezer.
When he gets back to the bedroom, Pedri’s knees are once again pulled close to his chest, and Ferran kneels over him to press a kiss to his knee before taking his own shower.
Pedri might actually kill him if he gets into bed in the clothes he’s worn all day.
The silence is sustained, even as he tucks both of them into bed. Pedri presses close, presses one kiss, and another to Ferran’s bare chest. He nuzzles close into his neck, and tangles their legs together.
It’s not long before they fall asleep.
.
.
.
It’s two hours that have passed (Ferran checks the clock) when he feels the warm press of lips to his jaw, and then weight of Pedri trying to scramble over him subtly.
He’s hopeless, of course, and Ferran huffs a quiet laugh, even as he follows him down the stairs.
“I love you,” Pedri says quietly, when they’re both sitting on the island counter, feet folded under them as they eat their takeout at midnight. “Even when I go quiet.”
“I love you,” Ferran replies, reaching out to stab a piece of Pedri’s chicken—just to see the affronted face he’ll make; see the rush of colour flooding back into him. “Even when you’re quiet.”