Chapter Text
Afternoon sun beats down on the Barcelona training center, shining on the twenty-or-so men running laps around the field. Gavi pulls the maroon shirt up to his temple, mopping away the sweat collecting at his brow. A hand almost immediately finds his stomach and pinches it.
"Fuck, dude!" he yelps, dropping the hem of his shirt. It's Pedri. Of course it is.
The older runs off laughing before Gavi can catch him, hiding behind Ferran's stupidly tall build. He watches Pedri peek from behind the man. If he was any taller he'd have tackled Pedri and pinched him back, but the Valencian made it his life's mission to protect Pedri, so he stood no chance.
He settles for brushing the back of his hand across his forehead as he picks up the cones in front of him at Flick's request. Training goes on like this for the rest of the evening. Pedri bothering him, he means. Not picking up cones. He'd like to think he was a little more important than just putting away training equipment at the Ciutat Esportiva.
'Bothering' was an overstatement, at least when you knew the man currently pulling the football out of your grasp for the last seven years of your life.
A hand waves in front of his face. "Focus, Pablito." It's soft, never a hint of judgment. As was typical of a man who knew you like the back of his hand. "I know you're better at this than me. Don't let me beat you."
It fuels him, he can't lie. As orders of 'head!', 'knees!' and 'toes!' are yelled out, he jumps to get the ball every single time, beating Pedri thirteen in a row to two. The same hand now runs its fingers through his hair. "Better. Good job." Pedri offers him a soft smile, which then turns sinister as he wraps his arms around Gavi's waist and tries to lift him.
It ends as it usually does, with Gavi flailing around just a couple centimeters off the ground, Pedri dropping him unceremoniously on the grass, and them rolling in laughter under the warmth of the sun. As expected for two people so intertwined in each other's lives.
Gavi could pretend like this meant more. Like the arms placed around his waist were only for him, and not currently around Ferran's shoulder. Like the pinches and prods were not something everyone in this team did to everyone else, an annoying little sign of amity. That any of this could be more than what it truly was. Friendship.
"Gavira!" calls Flick, and he takes it as his sign to drop it from his mind. He jogs over to the coach and watches the rest slowly start to file out. Coach gives him and Balde a long spiel about the upcoming month's games, steady reminders about their substitutions and playing time. By the time he's done, the grounds are empty save for them and a few staff pottering about.
He heads back into the locker rooms, pulling his sticky jersey off. Another pinch lands on his ribs. He nearly squeaks. It was neverending with this team. "Balde, I swear on–"
"–that's for making me wait so long to take you home. Now hurry up and get showered, I'm hungry," says Pedri, smelling of geranium and citrus. He stalks off in the direction of the exit, leaving Gavi standing shirtless with a burning feeling at his side.
Like every other thought that's bothered him since he was fifteen, he takes it and baptizes it under the running stream of the training ground's showers. In this same place he had come to peace with the Pedri-shaped hole in his heart. That was five years ago. Now, under the flow of cold water, he rubs shampoo into his hair and hopes it washes away the want clouding his head.
His hair is longer, the kind of length his mother would complain about when he was a kid in La Masia and barely had time to keep his hair short. He cuts it often these days, but the longing never really goes away, does it? It's embarrassing to admit that all he wants is to mean more.
One day he'd drown that thought in the freezing waters of the Ciutat for good — but for now, Pedri was waiting for him outside.
Gavi climbs into the Porsche. Pedri's laid back, Quevedo blasting on the speakers as he types out the usual post-training replies. He pats Gavi's half-wet hair. "What did Flick say?"
"He's subbing me on next week." It draws a content smile out of himself. It's been a few weeks without game time for him — what feels like months for Balde, whom he doesn't envy — and he's finally getting his chance again. Gavi rests his head back in the passenger seat and closes his eyes. "I've missed playing."
"I can imagine, tío, I'm glad he's playing you again," replies the older, offering a consoling hand on Gavi's thigh. Sometimes, Gavi feels bad. If he was plagued by this injury, Pedri was plagued by having to hear about it. He's heard the younger's frustrations over every meal, cooldown session and drive home, whether by his will or against. "How's your leg holding up after today?"
"Not bad." Which wasn't a lie. It certainly wasn't the best Gavi's ever felt, but he wouldn't complain about the lack of pain shooting up from his knee either.
They leave it at that, Pedri driving towards Gavi's home with the music still pumping from the speakers. The mood lightens from there, the two singing all the way up to the street where Gavi's apartment sits. He unlocks the front door for them and makes a beeline for the couch, flopping facedown into one of the pillows. His groans are muffled as he asks, "Can we skip dinner?"
"Only if you want the nutritionist to kill your dreams of playing next weekend," Pedri laughs, locking the door behind him. "I wouldn't put it past her." Gavi begins to get up begrudgingly, but a hand on the small of his back stops him. "Stay. I'll heat up the food."
He watches as Pedri flits around his kitchen with ease, heating up the food left in Gavi's fridge and portioning it out for the two of them. He needs no acquaintance of course, Gavi's house was practically, in all ways except by the name on the contract, also Pedri's. He pours two glasses of water and beckons for Gavi to join him at the table.
In his heart blooms the acute awareness that this is more domestic than Pedri probably means for it to be.
He leaves long after the sun has set. Gavi is left to wash dishes in silence, humming along to the tune of something he'd heard back in Pedri's car. The simple domesticity of them would probably kill him one day, but it's been like this since he can remember. Sue him, but having Pedri by his side nearly every day in every team he played for, gave him way too much fodder for his crush.
He flops back onto the couch afterwards, pulling out his phone to finally check Instagram. It's business as usual. Sponsor posts, national team posts, one of Barça PR's many, many Instagram stories to swipe through. He does his due diligence, reposts the stories he's tagged in and stays a little longer on the ones that have Pedri in them.
Gavi hops onto Barçaverse, another of the PR team's latest inventions. Regardless, he still thought Cat was their greatest creation. They had a lot more freedom on it compared to Instagram, aiming to increase fan engagement. If he was being honest, he felt like those kpop idols he'd heard of vaguely from the youngest of the team members.
He scrolls past multiple old posts of Lamine's, leaving silly comments on them he knows the younger will answer with equally or increasingly chaotic replies. The last thing he sees as he's about to close the app is Dani's account on livestream.
He clicks onto it. The blond is sitting in what Gavi knows to be a corner of his kitchen, eating rice from a box of takeout placed in front of him. There's also a post-it note on his forehead. Gavi looks closer. Scribbled on the yellow sticky note is 'paella con gambas', which wavers as Dani takes another, very silent, bite.
When it finally hits him that it was an attempt at ASMR, he bursts out laughing, grabbing a screenshot to text the groupchat immediately. He continues watching, looks through the comments and finds Laura there too. She's probably in the house watching from the other end of their shared kitchen.
His phone buzzes with replies.
Today, 20:48
you guys will not believe this
[picture]
ly: NO WAY
fer: IS THAT A FUCKING STICKY NOTE LMAO
pau: all that paella con gambas and none for us :(
you know damn well you could walk into his house and he'd give the whole bowl to you
pau: :3
ly: i'm SO clowning him for this
fer: get his ass
Content with the chaos he has put out into the world, he continues listening to Dani and catching up with his texts. The night draws late when Dani ends his stream, and not ten minutes later does Gavi receive a vaguely threatening text message.
Today, 22:03
dani old man: pablo gavira when I see you tmr it's over for you
Lamine had clearly done his job. He snickers, sends Dani a selfie of him with his tongue out, and skips off to the shower.
He walks out of a steaming hot bath smelling like 'ocean'. Whatever 'ocean' was, because whoever made the soap clearly didn't capture the scent of seawater and sand well enough. He should know. The summer he spent in Las Canarias with Pedri was the whole reason he still buys different ocean-scented soaps, trying desperately to recreate the feeling.
He knows his head is full of Pedri-shaped thoughts again. He has to do something about this.
It doesn't take long before he comes up with an idea.
Still dripping water from the shower, he pulls on an oversized hoodie he most definitely stole from one of his taller teammates' houses and bashfully takes a few selfies with the collar pulled to one side. He chooses the best photo, his collarbone out and ample expanse of neck showing.
Of course, none of these are going directly to Pedri — he'd honestly rather die than do that — so he quickly uploads it to Barçaverse and shuts off his phone.
Nobody said his idea was supposed be a good one.
✨bellingoal✨ commented on your post: oh my god.