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Ferran has always had a thing for Pedri’s hands.
Even now, after more than a decade of knowing each other and a whole life between them, he can’t stop watching them, enticed like it’s the first time.
And it isn’t. Not the first time, and he definitely hopes it isn’t the last.
Pedri sleeps beside him, completely knocked out after their game last night. It’s barely seven in the morning, the early sunlight sweeps through the curtains of their bedroom, bathing his tanned skin in bright yellow lines.
He’s shirtless, because Ferran always runs hot even if it’s almost November, and Pedri likes to hold him a little too close during the night. Now the morning chill is swooping in and painting Pedri’s skin with goosebumps.
The sight tugs at Ferran’s heartstrings, a small smile finding his lips. Pedri’s hands rest beside him, curled up on each other, right next to his peaceful sleeping face. Ferran watches them and chuckles, low, trying not to wake him, remembering how badly Pedri had bitten through his nails during the World Cup five years ago. Ferran had had to push his hands away from his mouth every time. “Pepi, stop,” he’d said. And Pedri had just let out an angry huff, and then, when he’d thought Ferran wasn’t looking, he’d started biting at them again.
Bold of him to assume Ferran was ever not looking.
It hadn’t been Pedri’s best moment, that World Cup—recovering from an injury and in the middle of whatever was going on between them both. Nothing had happened yet, but things were starting to become confusing, feelings too raw and intense, suddenly.
Pedri had finished the tournament with his fingers chafed from how badly he’d bitten at them. And then, to make it worse, when things seemed like they were starting to settle, when they’d finally won their second star, Ferran had told him he was leaving Barça.
Ferran remembers how furious and frustrated Pedri had gotten at the news, how angry he’d been at his explanations.
“I thought this was what you wanted!”
“When did you stop caring?”
“When you got here, you said this was your dream! Why would you throw that away?”
His hands had shaken at his sides, knuckles white from how tightly he’d been clenching them.
Ferran’s chest still aches when he remembers that fight, but he tries to shake the memories away. He moves his gaze from Pedri’s hands to his adorable, sleeping pout, and his heart settles a bit.
He remembers how, for a few days, Ferran had thought those terrible words would be the last thing Pedri would ever say to him. They’d never, ever fought this badly.
And then came everything that happened after that.
The aftermath of the World Cup had been a literal shitshow. Ferran had made some bad, rushed decisions, had listened to the wrong kind of advice, and had made friends with people who really hadn’t had his best interests at heart.
And Pedri, despite still being mad at him, had tried to tell him, even if Ferran wouldn’t listen.
They’d made it work, eventually. Ferran settled in his new life in Paris, and their friendship had recovered from all the turmoil.
But then, when Pedri’s hands had started to get better—his therapist helping him with his anxiety and his nervous habit of biting his nails—it’d got even worse.
Ferran still remembers how anxious Pedri had been during his and Alejandra’s breakup. How his fingers had trembled, here in Ferran’s living room in Paris, when he’d pressed call and told her they needed to talk.
Now, Ferran holds those fingers gently and steadily. He traces the lines in them like it’s a ritual, a familiar dance engraved in him, in the marrow of his bones. Knows them like the back of his own hand.
He doesn’t want to wake him yet.
“I don’t love her anymore. I don’t think I ever did.”
Ferran had held Pedri then, embraced his trembling body in his arms until he’d finished crying. And later that night, while watching a movie in his living room, he’d pushed Pedri’s hands away from his teeth like he always used to do. “Pepi, stop that.”
Pedri stirs in his sleep, and Ferran takes his hands back because he doesn’t want him to wake up yet. He needs the sleep, he always gets grumpy if he wakes up before 8, specially after a difficult game like last night’s.
After the breakup, things smoothed out between them. Flights from and to Barcelona started to become usual, and to Paris too, even if Pedri always acted a bit reluctant about setting foot in the French capital.
Ferran remembers how clammy Pedri’s hands had been during their first kiss. They’d been in Pedri’s backyard, one hot summer night four years ago. He remembers how badly he’d wanted to hold them, and how adorably embarrassed Pedri had gotten.
“Pepi, it’s fine, give me your hand.”
“Don’t want to, leave me alone,” he’d said before hiding his blushing face in the crook of Ferran’s neck.
Ferran feels a lump grow in his throat from all the love he has for him. Remembers how freeing it’d felt back then, to finally understand what he really felt for his best friend, to acknowledge what they were.
He remembers with extreme, sharp precision how tightly Pedri’s hands had held onto Ferran’s chain around his neck, how they’d tried to get a grip on anything that would ground him, the first time they’d gotten themselves off in this very bed.
“I’ve got you, just let go,” Ferran had whispered. And Pedri had held tighter, his hands curled around the chain, pulling Ferran closer, closer, closer, until their mouths had found each other.
“Joder, joder, joder,” Pedri had cursed, crazed and sweaty, as he came in Ferran’s hand.
And Ferran will always remember, because there is nothing about Pedri that Ferran hasn’t carved at the back of his eyelids, that Ferran won’t keep in his heart and take to the grave.
The morning chill must be really getting to Pedri, because he stirs again and blindingly reaches his hands forward, as though looking for something. For someone, most likely. Ferran smiles fondly and gets closer to him, so that Pedri’s hands can reach him better.
They do, and Pedri’s body curls beside him, seeking his warmth and letting out a few adorable sleepy grunts as he settles, comfortably hiding his face in Ferran’s chest. His hands come up to Ferran’s chain, his fingers brushing the metal.
“Hmmmhhh…” he grunts.
Ferran chuckles, and the vibrations in his chest seem to reach Pedri enough to wake him up.
“‘Gd mrrnin’,” Pedri mumbles.
“Bon dia peque,” Ferran says softly before placing a kiss on top of his messy bed hair.
It was scary at first, navigating this new relationship with miles and miles between them. But it also was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him, and he wouldn’t change it for the world.
Ferran reaches his hand up to hold Pedri’s against his chest. It’s cold, so he envelops it and brings it to his lips to kiss it, hoping his warmth will seep through. They’re way better now, no longer bloody or chafed or sensitive, his nails finally fine and healthy.
Pedri makes an adorable sound and buries his face further in Ferran’s neck, returning the kiss, a soft brush against his skin. Ferran keeps their hands together, because he loves everything about Pedri, but his hands are his favorite.
He doesn’t want to let go yet.
They’re in their bedroom in their house in Paris. And in two weeks they’ll be in their bedroom in their house in Barcelona, because now they have two of everything. Two bedrooms, two cars, two homes. Everything Ferran owns is Pedri’s as well.
Like his heart, but this probaby has been Pedri’s all along.