Work Text:
Pedri's arm moves up and down steadily, following the rhythm of the back it rests on.
His mind drifts to last night, to how he got here.
Parties at Lamine’s always end up being a bit too wild. He smiles as he remembers. It'd been so long since they’d allowed themselves to have that much fun.
It’s not the first time he’s had to stay the night. Everyone was too drunk to drive home, so they all took different rooms to crash.
It's not the first time he shares a bed with Ferran in these circumstances, either. They were always attached at the hip before Ferran left. It's what made the most sense.
But it’s the first time Pedri wakes up and finds himself wondering how Ferran’s tattoos would feel under his fingers.
Maybe it’s the distance they had been forced to put between them.
Maybe it’s the extra years they both carry on their backs.
Pedri doesn't know why, but today, he wonders. And he figures it can't hurt anybody, to try and see for himself.
The first touch sends tingles down his spine, an exhilaration so unlike anything he’s ever felt. It feels like he’s trespassing, somehow, like he’s doing something he shouldn’t.
But he keeps doing it anyway.
He traces the wings first, majestic and proud. Then the brain, the heart, that roman warrior Pedri had given him so much shit for when he got it.
Pedri always thought Ferran wouldn’t be soft.
Men are not supposed to be.
Pedri has only ever touched girls, and girls are soft. It's what they are. But Ferran is soft in a way that makes Pedri’s chest ache for some reason.
He is soft and perfect and his honeyed skin feels good against his fingers, in this hazy morning where Pedri can’t really tell if he’s woken up yet or if he’s still dreaming.
And Pedri doesn't know why it surprises him, the softness of Ferran’s skin.
Because Ferran has always been soft edges and warmth and comfort and home. Even if their friendship hasn’t been quite the same, these past months.
Pedri doesn't know why he would even think that in the first place. You’re not supposed to wonder whether your best friend's skin is soft or not.
A pang of shame coils in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn’t be doing this. But as he traces the ridges of Ferran’s muscles, the chess piece on his shoulder blade, he realizes that he has always wanted to.
Why has he always wanted to?
He doesn’t even know if Ferran is his best friend anymore. And that thought alone is what pushes him to keep touching him, to make the most out of this because he might never get another chance.
Ferran’s cheek is squished against the pillow, his lips pushed into a pout, soft huffs escaping them. His breathing is even and quiet. His hair is disheveled in the way it usually is after a match, and Pedri feels ridiculous because he’s flushing at the thought that it suits him.
Why is he thinking this?
Why is he lifting his hand and brushing the unruly tufts of hair falling across Ferran’s face?
He’s playing with fire. And he prays that Ferran is actually sleeping and not faking it, because he wouldn’t have an explanation for what he’s doing.
He checks Ferran's back again, still steadily moving up and down, and he’s hooked again. “Faith,” Pedri reads as he traces each letter with careful fingers, Ferran’s skin getting goosebumps under his touch, completely unaware.
And Pedri smiles, because God, he’s always wanted to do this.
But this is not something you do, and Pedri always does what he’s supposed to.
But ever since Ferran left, what’s good and what’s bad and what’s supposed to be and what’s not has become blurry.
So he touches, and keeps touching. Again, and again, and again. Up and down, right and left.
He realizes then that he’s always known these tattoos by heart. That he could even draw them in his sleep, if he knew how to draw.
And why has he never felt brave enough to reach out and touch them?
Because you’re not supposed to—an unknown voice echoes inside his head.
He’s not supposed to want to touch another man’s skin. Certainly not that of his best friend.
But right now, who cares? He tells himself. It’s still early morning, and Ferran is right there, perfect and soft and everything Pedri has never allowed himself to want, much less have.
But right now he’s here, so Pedri touches.
He reaches the eyes, his sister’s. And Pedri’s chest feels tight at the thought of Ferran’s way of loving. So unapologetically, so loud and brave, and so unlike Pedri’s.
He traces the black ink of them, reaching the small of Ferran’s back where the two olive branches lie. And he’s so entranced by the way they move under his fingers, he doesn’t notice Ferran sleepily opening one eye.
Pedri keeps his gaze there, where his fingers play as though they could bring those branches to life and curl them around his fingers.
Ferran’s body quietly pushes against Pedri’s touch. As if saying, it’s okay, go on, I like this too.
But it can’t be, right? Ferran is sleeping. He has to be.
Pedri’s heart rate quickens, its pounding hammering in his hungover ears. His eyes dart up to check Ferran’s face again, and Pedri’s breath settles when he finds him still looking as asleep as before.
It’s fine. He hasn’t fucked anything up. He hasn’t trespassed any boundary he shouldn’t have.
So he keeps touching, but a little softer this time, more carefully. Just in case.
His touch is so soft he ends up lulling himself back to sleep. A slumber so deep he doesn’t even have time to pull his hand back.
It lies there, on top of Ferran’s tattoos, where Pedri—deep down—always wanted it to be.
And if a smile makes its way beneath Ferran’s nose, well, it’s no one’s business but his own.