Chapter Text
i.
As the Spain national team climbs onto their bus, it’s uncharacteristically quiet. There are pockets of light conversation, the rustling of bags — but the air is thick with the team’s collective disappointment. Their first match during the World Cup was a draw.
After a team debrief in the locker room and press that seemed to last forever, the team is finally heading back to their base camp in Chattanooga, Tennessee. The sun is starting to dip beneath the horizon, casting orange light on their red uniforms.
Pedri scans the bus. He spots Gavi and then Ferran a couple rows behind him. He meets eyes with Ferran, who enthusiastically points at the empty seat next to him from the other side of the bus. As Pedri shuffles his way down the aisle, he shakes his head and mouths, “Next time.” Ferran purses his lips and shrugs.
Pedri sinks into the seat next to Gavi. The younger midfielder has his headphones on, but he slips one side off when he notices him. Pedri’s eyes drop down to Gavi’s hand rubbing against his right knee, over the ghost of a surgical scar. He feels something heavy drop to his stomach, and his brain produces a flurry of questions.
He settles on one to say outloud: “Does it hurt?”
“No — not really.” Gavi’s lips are pulled into a frown and his thick eyebrows are pinched together.
Pedri doesn’t say anything, just keeps studying Gavi’s face. He’s an open book; the type of guy who loves — and hates — with his entire chest. It’s one of the qualities Pedri’s always liked about him. He’s never left him guessing. So when Gavi says it doesn’t hurt, Pedri believes him. And yet he continues to worry, has never stopped worrying about him since he’d gotten the news of Gavi’s ACL injury three years back.
These days, Pedri always, always keeps an eye on Gavi whenever he’s on the pitch. Maybe it’s because he feels guilty for not being at the match where it happened due to his own injury. Maybe it’s because he can never forget the way Gavi looked the days following his first surgery, like he’d been drained of all the gusto and tenacity that made him Gavi.
Pedri never wants to see his best friend’s light dim ever again.
The bus begins to move, rolling slowly out of the parking lot. Even at this hour, the Atlanta traffic is brutal.
“I just keep thinking,” Gavi begins softly, licking his lips the way he usually does in interviews when he’s figuring out the right thing to say. “How things might be different if, you know…” His voice trails, and he continues to worry the skin of his knee with his fingertips. “Maybe I’d be more useful to the team. Maybe I’d be—”
“That’s enough, Pablito,” Pedri cuts him off. He hears Gavi scoff at the endearment, and he bumps their shoulders together. “You’ll waste all your energy thinking like that.”
Gavi’s brown hair looks lighter as it drinks up the last dredges of the setting sun. Pedri watches the way the crease between Gavi’s eyebrows softens, how one side of his mouth quirks into a small smile. He can’t help but to reach out and place a hand at the base of Gavi’s neck, jostling him a bit like he could shake a bigger smile out of the younger midfielder.
“Just remember,” Pedri’s voice drops as he pulls Gavi a little closer. For some reason, he only wants Gavi to hear this. “You earned your way here. And we need you.”
Gavi’s throat bobs. He turns his face toward the window for a second, then looks back at Pedri and nods. They’re silent for a few beats, just looking at each other. Pedri sees that fighting spark in Gavi’s eyes. Then he’s pulling Pedri into a hug. The angle is a little awkward, given that they’re sitting next to each other, but Gavi melts against him regardless.
“You’re right. Thanks,” Gavi’s voice is muffled against Pedri’s neck. His headphones press uncomfortably against Pedri’s chin, but he doesn’t say anything. Gavi has a habit of nuzzling, has yet to outgrow his penchant for physical affection. Pedri secretly hopes he never does.
Before pulling away, Pedri feels Gavi press a kiss at the spot just above the collar of his kit. Gavi’s not the only one who doles out kisses to his teammates, but he is the one who does it the most as far as Pedri’s noticed.
“Don’t forget,” Pedri’s lips pull into a grin. “I need you on the team to make me look taller.”
“Shut the hell up. We’re the same height now — I’m not seventeen anymore, you know.” Gavi gives him a hard shove on the shoulder, and the older midfielder just snickers. “And I look more handsome standing next to you.”
“Psh, keep telling yourself that,” Pedri quips back. He notices that Gavi’s no longer rubbing at his knee. The bus picks up speed on the highway, and the sun is getting low. Orange streetlights blink awake. Atlanta looks so different from Barcelona. Pedri still can’t believe he’s halfway across the world at his second World Cup. Him, the kid from Tegueste, who dreamt of nothing else for his life but football.
Gavi slips off his headphones, then leans over to rest his cheek against Pedri’s shoulder. The weight is familiar. They’ve changed a lot in the last four years, have endured even more in that time. Pedri’s grateful that their bond’s stayed intact through it all.
“‘m tired,” Gavi mumbles. Pedri hums and just pats Gavi’s left leg.
Pedri counts himself the luckiest that he gets another chance to make his country proud alongside his best friend. The draw today doesn’t mean it’s all over. In fact, things have only just begun.
ii.
They sail straight into their victory with Saudi Arabia. At the end of the match, Pedri’s kit is completely soaked with sweat, but no one on the team seems to care as they grip one another into tight embraces on the pitch. Everyone crowds around Lamine and Mikel — the two bright, shining stars of the match — but even as he joins along in the celebrations, Pedri’s first instinct is to look for Gavi in his yellow pinnie on the sidelines.
It’s Gavi who finds him in the tunnel on the way back to their locker rooms.
“Let’s go!” Gavi loops both his arms around Pedri’s shoulders from behind, his weight throwing him off-kilter. “What a beautiful game, bro.” His mouth is close to Pedri’s ear so he hears him above the din of their boots clattering against the smooth, cement floors. Pedri can hear the grin in Gavi’s voice, and he finds Gavi’s enthusiasm more electric than an entire stadium of chanting fans.
Gavi stays in Pedri’s space, cradles the side of his head with one hand and smacks a kiss on the other side of Pedri’s face, right on the rosy flush of his cheek.
It’s not like this is anything out of the ordinary. But maybe Pedri’s senses are already a little fried after a full match under the harsh stadium lights, surrounded by the screaming people in the stands. Maybe he’s just a little overstimulated from the way everything in Atlanta seems brighter, faster, and louder than home. That must be the explanation for why something as simple and innocuous as a kiss on the cheek makes Pedri lose focus — so much so he nearly stumbles over his boots. Of course, Gavi’s arms are still around his shoulders and has decided to cling to him all the way to the locker room. So he’s there to steady him.
“Woah, you okay, Pepi?” he asks, voice laced with concern.
“Just tired,” Pedri breathes out, allowing a smile to tug at his lips. He jostles against the younger midfielder. “And you’re heavy.”
“Well, duh. That’s why I can squat more than you,” Gavi is quick to retort, ever competitive, refusing to budge and totally committing to going full spider monkey as they walk through the hall. It’s ridiculous. All the other players are walking ahead of them. At some point Dani passes by them, throwing them a curious glance over his shoulder.
“Not true,” Pedri shoots back.
“Okay, I’ll prove it when we get back to Chattanooga tomorrow,” Gavi promises.
“That’s not fair, I just played a full match. I need to recover.” They’re nearing the end of the long hall that leads to their locker room. And if Gavi minds the way Pedri’s sweaty kit sticks against him, he doesn’t say anything.
“Oh, so you’re rubbing that in, huh?” Gavi turns and brings his mouth close to Pedri’s ear. He feels the ghost of Gavi’s breath. And there’s something about the way Gavi’s tone drops that almost makes him shiver. Again, Pedri must be feeling overly sensitive from all the exhaustion.
“Maybe,” Pedri responds evenly, hiding his embarrassment with a smirk.
Inside the locker room, the entire team is in high spirits. Lamine is holding up a speaker, blasting reggaeton while Nico two-steps next to him. Efficiency isn’t on anyone’s mind as they all get ready to board the bus for the two hour drive back to the training camp, but eventually, they’re all ready to go.
Even after a quick cold shower, Pedri finds that his cheeks are still flushed after playing so hard during the match. He’s not the only one who notices.
“What a pretty color,” Ferran teases as the team funnels their way from the locker room to the bus. He reaches up and pinches Pedri’s cheek.
“Yeah, whatever.” Pedri tries to swat his hand away which makes Ferran bark out a laugh.
“No, seriously. I’ve seen the way people drool over your post-game glow on Instagram, Pepi.” Ferran presses. Ahead, Gavi is walking next to Pau and Lamine. “Yo, Gavi, don’t you agree with me?”
“What?” Gavi turns around, his eyes flitting between Pedri and Ferran.
“Our Pedrito’s cheeks.” Ferran reaches up to pat Pedri’s face for emphasis, and Pedri just rolls his eyes. “Aren’t they so pretty?”
For Pedri, Gavi’s never been too difficult to read. Which is why he’s confused to see his face so guarded, maybe even annoyed — it’s a far cry from his playful disposition earlier.
“Don’t patronize him,” Gavi responds curtly. And it’s clearly not the response Ferran was expecting from the younger midfielder. He meets eyes with Pedri, and the latter just shrugs, giving him a look that says: let’s just drop this, please.
Oh, but Ferran doesn’t drop it.
“Well, I think they’re pretty,” Ferran replies with a rakish grin which just makes Pedri roll his eyes once more. “Makes me want to give you all the besitos, Pepi.”
“Gross,” Pedri responds, giving Ferran a light shove which makes the taller striker laugh again. Gavi doesn’t say anything, facing forward again and walking a few paces ahead. Pedri notices the way his shoulders look a little rigid, and he curiously eyes Gavi's tight grip on his leather duffel.
He’s half-tempted to ask Gavi about it later on the bus. The next morning, when they’re back in Tennessee, he thinks about asking him about it again at breakfast. But by that time, Gavi’s all smiles and laughter again, insisting they both head to the weight training room after this.
Ferran, he notices, is sitting a ways away at another table.