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When Ferran’s phone began to ring, he didn’t even bother looking at it. He didn’t bother looking when it rang the second time, either. Or the third time.
He did, however, grow tired of hearing it by the fourth time; and so with a deep sigh he stood up and walked over to the table where his phone rested.
The caller was Pedri—and Ferran wasn’t sure why he was even the slightest bit surprised. After all, there was nobody else who’d bother to call.
Ferran stared at Pedri’s contact photo as he let it go to voicemail yet again.
He picked up on the fifth time, but said nothing.
“Ferri,” Pedri breathed the second he realized Ferran had answered. “You—”
Ferran cut Pedri off with a loud sigh as he crossed his free arm over his chest and leant against the edge of the nearby counter.
“Pedri,” he said slowly. “There isn’t a thing you can say to make this better.”
Pedri made a broken little sound that tore at Ferran’s heartstrings—it only added to his misery. “I know that,” Pedri said. “I do. I understand. But—”
“No, you don’t understand,” Ferran snapped. He took a deep breath to center himself; Pedri didn’t deserve his wrath. When he spoke again, his voice was much gentler. “You don’t understand, baby. But I’m so damn happy that you don’t.”
“I’m going to book a flight to Paris,” Pedri blurted. Then, with much more determination: “Yeah. I’m going to book a flight to Paris, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Ferran opened his mouth to protest, but Pedri wasn’t finished. “The earliest flight is in four hours; I checked before I called. It’s only going to be a one-way, so I’ll need to—”
“Pedri,” Ferran interrupted softly. “You can’t come here.”
A beat of silence. “Why?” he practically whined, and Ferran could hear the slightest hint of laughter despite it all. It was almost comforting, in a way. “Do you not want to see me?”
If the circumstances were different than Ferran would’ve laughed at the ridiculousness of the question—because of course Ferran wanted that. Since the moment they met, not a second had gone by where he didn’t want that.
“You had a match yesterday, and you have another one in less than 72 hours,” Ferran explained. “And you leaving the country to visit your ex-teammate right after he made a fool of himself in front of millions of people will definitely look suspicious.”
Ex-teammate tasted like ash on his tongue.
“You didn’t make a fool of yourself,” Pedri argued, tone back to seriousness. “You just had a bad match, that’s all.”
Ferran wasn’t so self-flagellating that he’d go so far as to check social media after today’s events—but Ferran knew damn well nobody would agree that it was just a singular bad match.
Just like that it dawned on him. Nothing he ever did would be good enough, would it? Ferran had known this distantly—he always had—but now he knew for sure. It was set in stone; it was etched in history.
He was torn from his thoughts by Pedri. “Whatever it is you’re thinking? Stop it,” he said firmly.
Ferran blinked, confused. “What do you think I’m thinking?” he asked, aiming for teasing but falling short by miles.
“That nobody else would agree with me,” Pedri said matter-of-factly.
“Maybe you should add being a mind-reader to your list of skills,” Ferran answered dumbly.
“I’m not a mind-reader, I just know you. Better than anyone else, and better than anyone ever will.” Pedri sighed. “That’s what happens when you love someone.”
Ferran closed his eyes and let out a breath, suddenly overwhelmed. “Pedri,” he whispered. “It’s because you love me that you’re comforting me. There isn’t a soul on earth who’d agree with what you’re saying.”
Pedri scoffed. “Hakimi missed a shot that a kid from La Masia would’ve been able to make with his eyes closed,” he responded dryly. “And I’m pretty sure Vitinha was shooting to get the ball to his country rather than inside the net.”
Ferran couldn’t help but smile slightly at the quip.
Yet the fact remained that: “At least they redeemed themselves.”
Ferran hated how bitter he sounded, because he wasn’t actually bitter. He really wasn’t. After all, they were a part of his team; they helped rescue the match.
More than that—they’d celebrated Ferran’s brace. They’d celebrated him when he rescued their match prior.
The silence that followed was a silence Ferran recognized, if only from having done so many joint interviews together. It was the type of silence that meant Pedri was contemplating his words with more care than ever.
“Can you do me a favor, amor?” Pedri asked eventually.
He sounded so soft, so gentle, that Ferran wanted to cry. He wanted to fold himself in Pedri’s arms—he wanted Pedri to card his fingers through Ferran’s hair and hold him close and tell him that everything would be okay.
But none of those things were possible, and Ferran didn't really deserve them even if they could.
“Of course, Pepi,” he whispered. He was grateful yet surprised that his voice didn’t waver.
“Go lie down on the bed,” Pedri said, and to say Ferran was surprised by the words would be a massive understatement.
“What?” Ferran asked.
A soft sigh. “Go lie down on the bed,” he repeated. “Then put your phone on speaker. Leave it next to you.”
It was with slow, confused, and unsure movements that Ferran did just that. Pedri waited patiently for Ferran to finish. “I’m lying down.”
“Good,” Pedri said. “Now get under the covers, grab one of the pillows, and hold it in your arms.”
Ferran did.
“I can tell you’re holding it in a stupid position, you know,” Pedri said flatly. “The point is for you to hug it.”
It was obvious by this point what Pedri was trying to accomplish by doing this, and he would be lying if it made him feel ridiculous.
But at the same time, if he held it tight and closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was Pedri.
As if reading his mind, Pedri confirmed it moments later. “Now I want you to pretend it’s me, okay,” he said gently. “Hold it tight, think of me, and know if I was there that I’d hug you even harder than that.”
Ferran felt a tear run down his cheek, but he made no effort to wipe it away.
“I love you, Ferri,” Pedri said. He sounded strained—as if he was fighting to keep his voice from shaking. “I love you so much, okay? Everything is going to be okay.”
Ferran let the words sink in for a moment before he started sobbing loudly, uncontrollably, choking wetly on every breath. “I can’t do this, Pedri,” he managed to stutter out. “Nothing I ever do is good enough.”
Pedri made a wounded little noise that Ferran was surprised he was able to hear. “You can do this,” he argued, his voice filled with complete conviction and faith. “You’re still trying to find your place there, right? All of this is new, but I know you’ll get there in no time. God, Ferri, you’re the strongest person I know.”
The human body was 60% water, and by the time he calmed down, Ferran was pretty sure it dropped half of that.
Hell, it probably would’ve been even more if Ferran didn’t have Pedri’s voice to comfort him; if he wasn’t able to have the soothing sound wash over him like a balm.
“Ferran,” Pedri prompted softly. “Are you back with me?”
Ferran wasn’t entirely sure… but he certainly wasn’t going to say that.
“I’m back,” he said. Then he couldn’t stop himself from flushing the slightest bit with just how hoarse he sounded. It was almost unrecognizable.
Pedri didn’t comment on it. “How about you head off to sleep,” he suggested quietly. “If you weren’t tired out before, then you definitely are now.”
I’m not tired, Ferran wanted to say. I don’t want you to go yet.
Instead he asked, voice pathetically weak, “Will you stay on the phone until I do?”
There was a long pause. Ferran opened his mouth to apologize, convinced he’d said the wrong thing, when Pedri finally spoke.
“Of course, Ferri,” he said quietly. “Of course I will.”
As if it was all his body needed to hear, Ferran’s body went lax. His eyes fluttered shut without his permission, and he was lost to the world in seconds.