Work Text:
1)
“Shit, Pedri.” Gavi hissed, crouching down to the mentioned, who was curled on the pitch, ankle in hand.
They had been playing another mini match during training. Gavi was, as usual, treating it like a Champions League final. Pedri had just dribbled past him, maybe a little bit cheeky in the way he smiled after nutmegging the Sevillian, but it still didn’t deserve the tackle he got.
Gavi ran after him, cleat aiming for the ball when it collided with his ankle, tearing through his sock and probably skin immediately. Pedri yelped, all focus gone, tripping on his other foot as faliled in the air for a moment before falling on his butt, bleeding ankle in hands.
He could hear Flick blow the whistle from the sideline, hear Araujo smack the back of Gavi’s head for such a tackle, but it was all sounded out by the deep panic in his chest. Tears were swelling in his eyes, fast and obvious and childish.
He kept his head down, trying to will them away before any of his teammates saw. Gavi was crouched next to him now, a hand on his shoulder and the Gavi-esque apologies.
“You’re fine, just a little bleeding.” He mumbled once he pried Pedri’s hand away.
Pedri just nodded and cursed himself for getting into this situation. Wished everybody else could disappear for a moment while he gets himself together. Or in other words, wish he could cry without any of his teammates seeing the stupid tears.
Gavi’s words became muffled from where they came next to him. Pedri could only think, again.
It happened again.
He finally spent a season without injury, went a whole year, but now all that progress could be swiped out from under him. His ankle felt numb in his hands, his whole body did. The tears were dangerously close to spilling out,
“Are you okay?” A voice emerged from his internal panic, Ferran’s. He was crouched where Gavi had been, a hand on Pedri’s back and brows furrowed together so close the word ‘no’ would make them touch.
Pedri wasn’t a baby, he wasn’t, but it took everything in him not to curl up into Ferran’s arms and sob right there. Maybe, if they weren’t here, if they were in Ferran’s room or Pedri’s car, it’d be different. But they’re not, and Pedri’s panicking when he shouldn’t be panicking. So, without a word, Ferran slid his hands up Pedri’s knees and back, picking him up with a quiet huff.
No one spoke as Ferran carried Pedri into the building adjacent to the field. Only a few chuckles from Lamine who quickly stopped when Ferran glared. Flick gave an approving nod as they entered the building, Pedri in Ferran’s arms, awkwardly trying to look normal, to not curl up and cling.
“You don’t have to cry,” Ferran whispered once they passed through the entrance, “But I’ll block them from seeing if you do.”
And Pedri didn’t speak because Ferran took the words from him, like he always did. He just pushed his head against Ferran’s chest, leaning into the warmth and finally letting the tears fall, quiet but loud in how they said exactly what he couldn’t.
Ferran didn’t set him down, just continued carrying him, all the way to the physio room, knocking on the door with his foot, hands occupied obviously. No greeting came, so Ferran leaned to the side and opened the door, settling Pedri down on the table.
Pedri stared up at him, and for a moment, all the fears and embarrassment flooding his mind evaporated, replaced by a great sense of gratitude, or admiration, or even attraction. His ankle throbbed where it laid, but Ferran was standing there, tall and concerned, having just carried Pedri all the way in here without hesitation. Let Pedri cry and still hold on to his dignity.
So when Ferran leaned down and carefully pulled off Pedri’s cleat and sock, hissing, “Sorry, sorry,” even when Pedri didn’t flinch, he couldn’t help but let out a little laugh.
Ferran looked up at him, brows still furrowed, but raised a bit, like he was both relieved and surprised.
“What?” He asked, a chuckle behind his breath like he didn’t know if he was allowed to laugh yet.
Pedri smiled, looking down at his ankle, a purple bruise already forming at the bone, mixing with the red of the blood and tan of his skin.
“Nothing,” He murmured, still with a little smile, tears drying on his skin.
“Pedri,” Ferran breathed, leaning back to get a full view of the man in front of him, “You could be injured, don’t giggle at me.”
Pedri pouted now, all those feelings he had just minutes before gone like that. Now it was just Ferran, and Ferran’s stupid face.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” Ferran pulled closer again, examining the ankle like it was a grain of rice, “You need ice. I’ll get you ice.”
Pedri didn’t say anything, didn’t even have the chance to before Ferran corrected himself, “Wait, no, I need to clean up the wound first.”
“Wound?” The shorter asked, but Ferran didn’t reply, just rummaged through the drawers until he found toilet paper, running it under the water of the sink for a moment before approaching again.
“What if you get an infection?” He patted the torn skin, “What if we have to cut off your foot and I have to carry you everywhere and you steer me around like a car and that’s our lives forever?”
Pedri was smiling from above, watching the blood soak into the paper towel, Ferran’s face hidden, but he could tell he had that stupid smile like an idiot.
“I would like that, actually.” He corrected.
“Me too.”
Once all the blood was gone, Ferran finally looked up at Pedri with a small smile, asking quietly, “Are you okay?”
Pedri nodded, letting his eyes shut and body lean back into the wall, unspoken trust.
He felt something touch his ankle again, not cold and shocking like ice, no. It was warm and familiar, lovely in the way that made Pedri shiver and look down. Ferran’s lips softly pecked the forming bruise, one near the bottom of his ankle, another on the bruise, another on his achilles.
He didn’t stop, and Pedri’s heart swelled. It wasn’t the first time Ferran kissed him, wasn’t the last, but it still had the same effect on him. Made him stutter and blush like a school girl. He was just about to reach out his hand when the door opened, the physio stepping in.
Ferran jolted back, landing on his butt and palms, quickly standing and bowing (bowing, seriously?) at the physio. If Pedri wasn’t so full of embarrassment he would have laughed. But he was embarrassed and so, so terrified the physio saw more than they could explain.
“Good evening.” Ferran said, hands together in front of him.
The physio raised a brow, “It’s 10 in the morning.”
“Yes!” Ferran nodded, clapping his hands together, “Just testing how aware you are,” He laughed awkwardly, “You know, tests.”
Pedri forgot all pain in his ankle with how hard his hand was holding onto the table he was on, knuckles white.
“Pedri was just asking me to check out his ankle,” Ferran cleared his throat, “Pretty bad tackle, I cleaned up the blood.”
“Of course,” The physio nodded, clicking his pen and writing on his clip board, “Thank you, Torres.”
Ferran smiled where he stood, that stupid idiot smile again.
“Well, I let you examine him in peace,” He moved to the door, turning around one last time, “See you later, Pedri.”
Pedri didn’t reply, just melted into where he sat, wishing he could evaporate away and kill Ferran at the same time.
The physio didn’t say anything, just glanced between the two before stepping forward and clearing his throat, “Alright…”
Diagnosis: Ankle sprain. Rest, Ice, Compression. Player should be back in 2-4 days.
2)
The pre-season ended just as fast as the summer did.
So, not fast at all. Hot and humid and so much time Ferran couldn’t spend with Pedri.
It almost drove him crazy, finally getting to be close with him again after vacations and events and everything in the world trying to separate them, but even now, the most time he could spend with Pedri was a brief nap together after training in Korea.
So, given an opportunity like a team bus, too many seats, too few players, Ferran didn’t think twice.
It was night, most of the older players stayed up in the front with the staff, headphones on. The others found their own seats, pulling out whichever device they packed for the hour long trip back to the hotel.
Ferran didn’t hold Pedri’s hand like he wanted to, but instead rested on the small of his back, guiding him to the very end of the bus, the last seats. Private, quiet, peaceful.
They only played fourty-five minutes of the match each, so they weren’t as sleepy as they typically were on these post-match rides. And Ferran was grateful for that. Even if Pedri being tired meant he would fall asleep on his shoulder and snore softly. Because it was more time with him than he’s gotten in a while. He was counting these chances like they were Copa Del Rey minutes.
Pedri sat first, sliding into the window seat, Ferran plopping down next to him.
He knew Pedri was having fun in Asia. Saw how excited he got in Japan, how he practically turned into a little kid at the Pokemon store. He’d never seen Pedri so publicly unguarded, it twisted something inside him. One part loved that Pedri wasn’t afraid to show his true self, even for just a moment. And the other wanted to make everyone else turn away, to not let anyone see how precious Pedri is.
But that was with everybody else with them. Half of the team had gone on that walk into Japanese downtown, leaving Ferran no choice but to admire from afar, what he’s been doing for so long.
This is all to say, he’s a bit pent up. Not sexually, well mostly not sexually. He just misses those quiet moments with Pedri. Where he can kiss his forehead and nose and the corner of his lips without Pedri going wide-eyed and glancing around to see if anybody noticed.
So, taking advantage of the privacy of their teammates all a good few feet from them and facing away, Ferran let his arms wrap around Pedri, squeezing him.
If some did glance at them, it could be played off as ‘bromance’, which is what everybody already calls them.
Pedri turned toward him, brows raised just slightly, enough to ask, Is this safe?
Ferran just gave his shoulder another squeeze, and Pedri, and little bit rung from all the traveling, just leaned into it.
For a while, they stayed like that, Ferran lazily scrolling through his phone while Pedri stared out the window at the Korean night sky. If he closed his eyes, maybe he could pretend they were home, in Ferran’s room, just taken the dogs for a walk and ready for an afternoon nap. (Or after some midday sex, but Ferran’s thought couldn’t be too dangerous with his teammates just feet away).
Eventually his phone screen showed a video of Pedri. One from last year, during the Euro’s, before he got injured.
It was from Adidas’s page, asking Pedri to do a dance trend. And of course, Pedri awkwardly did it, hips swaying slightly and palms down his chest. He could imagine Pedri complaining about it, whining about how embarrassing it is that he’s so bad at dancing, how he doesn’t know how to say no without being a dick, so he just agrees, and makes himself look awkward. And Ferran would laugh and tell him the awkwardness makes him himself. That he’s so graceful on the pitch, God just had to make him that teeny tiny bit of weird off of it.
And in the middle of his thoughts, Pedri’s whisper broke through from beside him, a quiet, “I hate that video.”
Ferran turned, glancing between him and the video before laughing, “I quite like it.”
“Of course you do.” Pedri mumbled, reaching to swipe off it.
Ferran pulled the phone away before he could, putting it too high in the air for him to reach, mumbling a low, “Maybe you could dance for me later.”
Pedri’s brows furrowed, scandalized, a deep breath in and a peeking glance around the bus before he turned back to Ferran, hissing, “Ferri.”
“What?” Ferran smirked, “The way you shake your hips in this…”
Pedri didn’t wait for him to finish, just jumped up slightly from his seat and grabbed the phone from him.
“You drive me crazy.” He mumbled, closing out of the app.
“The good kind?” Ferran asked, still with that stupid smirk.
Pedri didn’t answer, just let himself smile, and Ferran didn’t hesitate. He dipped his head down low, pecking a quick kiss on the side of Pedri’s neck.
Before Pedri could hiss out another ‘Ferri!’ a quiet cough came from a few rows ahead of them.
Joan.
Looking at them, Joan.
Saw the entire interaction, Joan.
Saw Ferran kiss Pedri’s neck, Joan
Pedri’s brows shot up, practically to his hairline, hand landing on his neck where Ferran just kissed.
“Oh wow, you got the bug.” He said, a little too loudly, a little too wide-eyed.
“Bug?” Joan asked.
“One.” Pedri nodded, “On my neck.”
“Big nasty Korean one,” Ferran added, “He was afraid it would bite him.”
Joan nodded, starting to turn back around when Lamine pulled off his headphones.
“There’s a bug?”
“No!” Pedri almost yelped, “I mean, Ferran killed it. Ate it.”
Ferran turned to him, eyes wide like, What the hell are you saying?
“Ferran ate a bug?” Lamine yelled because of course he did.
“Yup.” Ferran answered, nodding his head. “Tasted like shit, but it almost bit Pedri so it deserved it.”
And before anyone could say anything else, Inigo turned around from where he sat in the front, a low, “You kids better shut the hell up while I’m trying to get some sleep.”
And after Lamine turned back around and no one was looking at them anymore, Ferran didn’t miss the way Pedri’s hand didn’t move from the side of his neck, didn’t miss the low complaints, and definitely didn’t miss the way he leaned just that more into Ferran.
3)
Pedri missed Ferran.
He had only been gone for a couple of days, but he still ached without the presence besides him in the locker room. Where typically he’d be clinging onto a jumping Ferran, he stood still, watching the rest of the team celebrate.
Of course he was ecstatic, they’d just won the league on their city rival’s head, but the void left behind glared obvious.
Ferran was in the hospital, appendicitis diagnosed a few days prior, the surgery the night before, recovery this week. Ferran didn’t cry when it happened, didn’t even cry when the stomach pain was unbearable and the vomiting started.
But Pedri didn’t have to see tears to know how disappointed his boyfriend was. The season had been the best he’s had at Barca yet. Scored the equalizer in the Copa Del Rey final, the spark that brought Barca back to life against their biggest rivals. Scored another equalizer in the Champions League semi final just a few days later, and then got a hattrick of assists against Madrid. All the hate he faced suddenly became doubted. It wasn’t ‘sell Ferran to Saudi’ anymore, but ‘Tiburon’ and ‘Super sub’. And Pedri was so happy for him, so happy he was finally getting the credit he deserves and the form he works so hard for.
And then, just as all the work of the season’s efforts finally showed, where they were allowed to celebrate and cheer, Ferran couldn’t. Stuck in a hospital bed and watching from a tv.
Pedri called Ferran from the locker room after full-time. It was loud, Lamine had brought out his speaker and all the younger players were trying to yell over each other. But he still face timed him because his chest ached when he stood alone and imagined Ferran alone.
Ferran answered quickly, smiling at the screen like it was Pedri in front of him. And Pedri smiled back, setting the phone down so Ferran could see the chaos of the locker room, could experience just some of it.
Inigo approached, yelling “Vamos!” Into the phone with a clenched fist. He couldn’t hear Ferran’s laugh over the noise of the room, but the sight of it made that ache in his chest ease just enough.
Dani walked over now, crouching down at the phone before he turned up at Pedri, “We should go see him.”
Pedri tilted his head, about to ask how when Inigo chimed in, “Yeah!”
“We could take those rental bikes to the hospital.” Dani suggested, picking up the phone now, yelling into it, “Stay there, Tiburon, we’re coming to see you.”
And even though usually he’d shake his head and say it’s a stupid idea, that people could recognize them, that they could get lost, that Flick wouldn’t like it, he wasn’t like how he usually is. Because Ferran wasn’t there. So, stupid and lonely, Pedri nodded his head, slipping into the shower and buzzing with quiet excitement.
They got there without any problems. Some fans recognized them, but let them on their way, just cheering the four of them along (Eric had joined them). The staff let them up to the floor Ferran was staying in.
The night passed by quickly, as it always did in this group. Pedri laughed louder than he ever did, stupid jokes Ferran made clearing the disappointment clouding his vision. He had been sitting closest to the bed, opting for the floor just so his hand could be just that close to Ferran’s.
They talked for hours, serious at some points, stupid at others. But, eventually, Inigo stood, stretching his arms out.
“I gotta get home, need to see my daughters before they go to sleep.”
Eric stood as well, “I should get too, it’s pretty late.”
Pedri watched Ferran nod from his bed. He couldn’t sit up yet, body still fragile in a way Pedri barely ever saw it.
Dani followed the first too, saying something about his girlfriend.
After a few minutes of last minute jokes and quiet pats on the back, the three left, leaving Pedri and Ferran alone.
Pedri stood, stretching his legs out and letting the quiet settle before leaning against the hospital bed. Pedri didn’t have to say anything for Ferran to know what he was thinking, what he had been thinking since he first went to the hospital.
“You’re not allowed to pout at me right now.” Ferran chuckled, reaching his hand out, palm up.
Pedri took it immediately, squeezing, “I’m not.”
Ferran laughed again, closing his eyes, “I’m the one in the hospital bed, some organ ripped out of me by doctors just hours ago, and you have the nerve to come in here and whine.”
“Yeah.”
“Of course you do, Pedri.” Ferran murmured.
There, they stood together, fingers intertwined so tightly it almost hurt. It was as if the touch was a breath of air Pedri had been holding in, finally releasing as their palms touched and fingers curled.
“Well,” Ferran started, voice low, “I’ll say what you can’t. I missed you.”
Pedri’s eyes never left him, his breath didn’t hitch and his palms didn’t sweat. Because that ache was gone now, had been healed just by some hand holding and words. Words he couldn’t articulate until Ferran did it for him.
“Come here.” The taller muttered, scooting to the side of the hospital bed and lifting the blanket.
Pedri did speak now, a quiet, hissed, “No!”
“It’s your turn to indulge me.” He patted the mattress.
“Ferri, you just had surgery last night, we can’t have sex.” He looked around the room like someone could be listening.
“You think I can get my dick up right now?” Ferran laughed, “Just lay with me, I miss you baby.”
Reluctantly, and with one last glance around the room, Pedri crawled into the bed, body curling next to Ferran’s.
Ferran didn’t wait, wrapping both arms around Pedri, pulling him in so his face would press against his chest.
Pedri thought it funny that even though Ferran was the one in hospital, he still held Pedri when they cuddled. But that’s how he is. Pedri knew that, leaned into it and let out a low whine he knew Ferran would love. The one that made Ferran feel like he was taking care of Pedri, like holding him together held him together.
He doesn’t know how long they laid like that, speaking without words, bodies touching after days of separation and aching.
Pedri was just about to flip and press his back (and butt) into Ferran when a knock at the door startled them both up. Ferran winced, grabbing the low of his stomach, and Pedri would turn around to make sure he was okay if he wasn’t on the floor, having flown off the bed with a speed he didn’t know he had (he’ll have to bring this up with Flick).
The door opened a second later, Olmo in the doorway.
“Forgot my charger, probably woke you…up.” His sentence slowed as he looked down at the two in front of him, Ferran’s hand still on his stomach, but with an awkward smile.
Pedri remained on the floor, face first before he slowly pushed himself up, muttering, “And…fifteen. Fifteen push ups. Told you I could, Ferri.”
Olmo raised a brow, “He didn’t believe you could do fifteen push ups?”
“Sleeper build.” Ferran chimed in now, nodding his head like what he just said was the most logical thing.
“He’s seen you do push ups at trainings.” Olmo laughed, leaning down to grab his forgotten charger.
“He’s stupid.” Pedri answered, too quickly.
Dani didn’t say anything now, just glanced between the two one last time before turning around and laughing with a shaking head, “Alright then.”
And only after the door shut behind him and the buzz of the hospital room was the only noise between them did Ferran say, “Were you about to twerk on me?”
“Ferri!”
4)
Pedri was a tease, Ferran always thought. Little waist and huge eyes.
So when Pedri, with the exhaustion of training catching up with him, lying down on the pitch stomach first, chin resting on a football and back arched, Ferran almost shook his head.
He had to be doing it on purpose.
Slowly he walked across the pitch, ignoring Lamine yelling something about rondo’s, and stood right in front of Pedri.
The shorter didn’t even look up at him, just leaned to the side so he could see the pitch around Ferran’s legs, like a nutmeg with his eyes.
“Oh?” He tilted his head, before nodding, agreeing to compete in whatever this is.
Pedri liked to play innocent, liked to brush off how high he lifted his hips during stretching as just what he did, the way he looked at Ferran through his lashes as something he didn’t even notice he did. But he knows, in moments like this, Ferran knows he knows. Plays a little hard to get act in between the innocence.
So Ferran lets him. Walks around him so he’s standing with each foot on either of Pedri’s calves.
“Oi,” Pedri stretched to turn around, eyes squinting in a little glare, “What’re you doing tio?”
Ferran didn’t reply, just leaned down until his knees rested against the turf, straddling Pedri’s hips.
And Pedri, poor, poor, Pedri who can tell exactly what Ferran is about to do, who’s experienced this way too many times, tries his very best to get away.
Ferran doesn’t let him get far, though. His chest presses against Pedri’s back as lies down on top of Pedri, hands bracketing the shorter’s head.
And Ferran knew if they were at home, if they were in Pedri’s bed, he’d yelp and kick and play. But they’re in the middle of training, with all their teammates just feet away. So through his teeth, he mutters, “Ferri…Get the hell off me.”
Ferran laughs, sitting up a bit, crotch against Pedri’s butt now.
“Why?”
“Ferran, I will fucking kill you.” Pedri said so low he almost didn’t hear him. But he did, and instead of sliding off and letting him win, he pressed his palms to Pedri’s shoulder blades, feigning helpfulness. Like Pedri had been lying there begging Ferran to help stretch his back.
But with each push into the boy in front of him, Ferran moved up subtly, rubbing his crotch against Pedri in a way only they could feel.
He could tell, because Pedri was silent now, he was doing everything in his power not to make a noise. To not let Ferran win whatever this was, and to not let their teammates look over and report them for public indecency.
Because Pedri was good, and Ferran wasn’t.
“Very tense,” Ferran said from above, “I think you need to relieve some of this, somewhere private maybe?”
“Ferri.” He could almost see the steam coming off Pedri, and a part of him wishes he was flipped over, so the shorter’s face would be right there, in its flushed and embarrassed glory. But on the other hand, he didn’t mind the view below him, plush ass rubbing against his crotch. He almost starts to worry he’ll get a hard on right there.
“Ferran and Pedri,” A sing-songey voice came from a few feet away, Lamine, of course, “K-I-S-S-I-N-G”
Pedri yelped now, the effort to remain quiet practically stomped on by the young player.
Ferran immediately pulled himself back, the other scrambling forward.
“Yup, Pedri,” Ferran nodded, “You need to do some more shoulder stretches in the morning.”
Pedri didn’t speak, just blinked up at Lamine, whose smile never seemed to fade.
“Helping him stretch or..?” Lamine giggled, and Ferran knew he was just teasing, he didn’t really see anything they couldn’t explain, but Pedri didn’t seem to. Sat there, wide eyed and panicked.
“What? You don’t ever help Pau or Balde stretch?” Ferran asked, tilting his head.
Lamine laughed, “No! Not like that.”
Ferran raised a brow now, standing up off the ground and stretching his arms out.
Casual, Ferran, casual.
“You kids and your dirty minds.”
“Pedri, Ferran, Lamine!” Flick yelled from across the pitch, “Is training time for you guys to lie around? I don’t think so, get your asses over here.”
Pedri quickly scrambled up along with the other two, speed walking away before Ferran even got a chance to mutter a low sorry. And he knew he would pay the consequences for his little indulgence later.
Pedri didn’t let Ferran kiss him until Ferran apologized more times than he could count, vow to never ever do something like again, and make Pedri a tea. And feed the dogs and do the dishes and then apologize once more because Pedri is petty and embarrassed and a little sadistic bitch.
The next day Ferran didn’t miss Lamine trying to convince Balde to practice “shoulder stretching.”
5)
Pedri had that look.
The one begging to be touched. Not the one in bed, where his eyes stared up, dilated and pliant. No, the silent plea to be held, to have their skin touching, to feel the weight of Ferran on himself.
Training was long, double session in the mid August Barcelona sun. Ferran could tell Pedri was spent when he hadn’t insisted on driving home. And then, in the passenger seat, he laid quiet and dazed. Ferran always thought it was similar to a kid after a big meal, how Pedri got after a long day. All spent and waiting to be carried to his warm bed.
And he thought it that way, was ready to unbuckle Pedri’s seatbelt and slide his hands under his thighs and shoulder blades. But, before he could even step out of that car, Pedri sat up slowly, like his body was a minute behind his mind.
Cute.
“Let’s watch something.” He suggested, a quiet mumble between the loud slaps of his slides on their driveway.
Ferran didn’t say anything back, just nodded and put a hand on the small of Pedri’s back. He knew he didn’t really want to just watch Ratatouille again.
A few minutes was all it took for the shorter to look up at Ferran from where he was lying on his chest, big eyes and quiet neediness hidden behind the beauty of his deep brown iris and blown pupils.
It wasn’t pride that kept Pedri from asking it aloud. He wasn’t like that, never had the identity of someone too good for anything. Ferran always knew that, but came to understand it at one point. Pedri wasn’t too good to be asked for a hug, no. He was too scared. Or maybe he was too nervous. That nervousness that made his cheeks flush and eyes flicker. The one Ferran wished he could breathe in, wished he could taste. It wasn’t shame, it wasn’t fear of his reaction, it was pure shyness like he was still a virgin, like the words would make him evaporate if they ever left his mouth.
So Ferran, as sadistic as he is, never made Pedri say it out loud.
Don’t get him wrong, though. He does let it sit for a moment. Let Pedri’s gaze plead with words his tongue would burn at the taste of, smiling down at that beautiful face.
Slowly, he sits up, hand cupped around Pedri’s head, fingers intertwining with soft hair. Pedri made the effort to move up with him, even if he was so, so, sleepy.
Ferran stood first, leaning down with both palms up, waiting for Pedri to take them. He always thought it funny he’d always refuse help on the pitch and during training. Declined hands offered when he was tackled or slaps on the back after a conceded goal during mini games. Ferran knew it wasn’t arrogance, stated before, Pedri doesn’t have that type of pride. It was something similar to the way he could never ask for what he’s begging for now. But, here, in the dark of their living room after a double session training, Pedri accepted Ferran’s help standing up with a quiet huff.
His feet hurt, Ferran could tell from the way he was balancing on his heels.
“Baby.” He smiled, the light of the tv flickering on Pedri’s still sleepy face.
The shorter didn’t reply. Just leaned forward, cheek squished against Ferran’s chest.
He could probably hear his heart.
“Here,” Ferran muttered, “Put your feet on mine.”
Pedri furrowed his brows, glancing up for a moment, before his face settled again. Pliant and obedient.
His socked feet were a little heavy over Ferran’s, but the little noise of relief Pedri made had Ferran smiling like an idiot.
He found Pedri’s hand, fumbling in the dark, eventually intertwining their fingers until their palms were flat against each other. He pulled the cold little fist up to his face, leaning down to press a kiss to the outside of it, watching Pedri’s eyes fluttering shut.
“Gorgeous.” Ferran mumbled, lips still brushing the hand he’s holding. “I’ve got you.”
Pedri made another noise now, leaning even harder into Ferran’s chest, all high and accepting.
Slowly Ferran pulled Pedri’s palm to reach up to the back of his neck, grabbing the other so Pedri’s fingers were hooked on Ferran’s neck.
He placed his own hands on Pedri’s torso, at the ribs, before sliding down and finding his waist, tiny and delicate in his hold.
Pedri continued to stay silent, just kept tilting into Ferran like if he pushed hard enough, he could melt into him.
And there, in the dark, the only light being from the long abandoned movie flickering on their bodies, they swayed together. Ferran did most of the work, sliding both their feet on the hardwood and humming lowly how he knows Pedri likes.
And when Pedri’s hands curled tighter where they clung to Ferran, a quiet sense of joy washed over him. The specific one he only gets from this, only gets from Pedri and his silent neediness and surrender.
The rest of the world disappeared, no more football, no more trophies, no more diet. All that was being was Ferran and Pedri and that little bit of air between their chests. Like a string connecting their hearts, synced in a calm beat and quiet safety.
In these quiet moments, Ferran let himself brush the idea that maybe he wasn’t doing this all just for Pedri. For needy, sleepy, little Pedri who needed to surrender for a moment. That maybe this embrace in the dark wasn’t a one sided dance. That a part of him was healed in the moment too.
And he swears, swears he can hear a quiet snore come from below. Pedri’s eyes shut now, mouth open just ajar. He wishes he could take a photo somehow, capture the moment from this perspective, store the memory in his wallet and kiss it before games.
“Baby-”
“Pedri!” A loud voice came from the entrance hallway, a streak of light flashing on the hardwood where their stacked feet stood.
If Pedri was asleep earlier, he definitely wasn’t now. He immediately pushed off Ferran with a quiet yelp, falling back on the couch.
Awkwardly, Ferran stayed standing, one hand still in the air where Pedri’s waist had been, and the other at his forehead like he’d been hit.
Fer, Pedri’s older brother, walked in, a dish of food in hand.
“What’re you doing with my little brother, Torres?” Fer asked like a joke, though his raised brow spoke more than his weak chuckle.
“Nothing.” Pedri answered for him, hair still bent where it had been pushed into Ferran’s chest.
Ferran laughed, finally taking his hands out of that weird position and putting them up in mock guilt.
“He wanted help stretching.” He answered, tone surprisingly smooth for how hard his heart was beating in his chest, “Too embarrassed to admit it.”
Fer didn’t say anything for a moment, just glanced between the two before setting the dish on the side table.
“Uh huh.” He nodded, letting the sound drawl out and Ferran could almost see the internal flurry of panicked words in Pedri’s mind.
“Well, anyways,” Fer turned to Pedri, “Mom wanted me to drop this off, said you’re not eating enough.”
Pedri nodded, hands fidgeting in his lap.
“She also said, you,” He faced Ferran now, “could have some too.”
And with a sly wink, Fer turned, walking out the room and shutting the front door behind himself.
For a few moments, they stayed silent, staring at the casserole dish Pedri’s mom had made before Ferran let out a chuckle, a hand through his hair.
Pedri didn’t say anything, just groaned and wiped his hands over his face.
The one time they were caught:
Ferran’s careless, shameless, confident in a way like nothing will ever go wrong.
Pedri’s known this since he met him all those years ago.
Something he didn’t quite know was how much it rubbed off on himself.
Training had ended not even an hour before, but the locker room was empty. Everyone was always in a rush to go home after a double session. And typically so were Pedri and Ferran. But today was Sunday, the last day of training before the break on Monday. And Fer had already gone to Ferran’s house to feed his dogs and let them out. There was no training video or family dinner waiting at home. Maybe a few dirty dishes, but that was something for Monday.
They had just finished showering, an unnecessarily long time, stupid jokes over the hissing of the water, a few slaps on the butt, and they were out, changing together.
Pedri had just slid his shoes on when he glanced towards Ferran. He was bent, leaning forward where his fingers worked at the laces of his own shoes.
Pedri always liked the way Ferran’s hair shrunk just a bit from the water, (he did have a weird thing for bald guys) and didn’t miss how his t-shirt clung to his biceps just slightly.
In a moment of blind serenity, Pedri stepped over, crouching down in front of him.
Ferran immediately looked up, a sly smile like he was delighted Pedri was giving him attention.
“Hey,” Ferran said, like they didn’t just spend minutes in the shower staring at each other’s crotches, about to go home together.
Pedri didn’t reply, just leaned forward and connected their lips in a clean kiss. No tongue, no teeth, just the touch of their mouths.
Ferran hummed against him, hands long forgetting his shoe laces, finding Pedri’s cheeks and pulling him just that much closer.
And just when Pedri started to suspect Ferran was about to guide him onto the floor, the door swung open.
Pedri’s heart stopped, his body following along and freezing. His back was to the door, so all he saw was Ferran’s wide eyes, hand moving to Pedri’s shoulders, helping him up.
“Boys…” A voice started, an older, almost quiet, German accent.
German accent.
Flick.
Pedri shot around, only to be met with the face of his coach. It wasn’t disappointment, wasn’t anger, wasn’t even shock. It was more like a mixture of acceptance and amusement.
“You two should be heading home by now.” He spoke, his words hanging in the air.
For once, neither of them had some lame excuse, some weird way of making it clear, no, they weren’t just kissing, not at all.
“Maybe you should come to my office before you go.” The German suggested, the locker room door swinging behind him.
Pedri didn’t say anything, just stood there wide-eyed and internally freaking out of his mind. Flick didn’t seem mad, but what if that was his way of keeping from becoming overwhelmed with fury? What if he’s homophobic? What if he sells Ferran now?
Before Pedri could collapse with anxiety, Ferran reached a hand out, intertwining their fingers and walking them to the door.
He squeezed Pedri’s hand twice.
I’m here.
Flick was writing something down on his clipboard when they finally walked in, Ferran first, Pedri following.
The German glanced up at them, watching them sit down in the seats adjacent to his desk before clearing his throat.
“Let’s start this with the obvious. I’m not blind. And I’m not stupid.” He looked between the two, “And I’m not here to scold you. I like both of you, you are some of the best players in your positions. And you’re good men.”
Pedri’s hands fidgeted in his lap.
“But this,” He waved a finger between both of them, “This will not get in the way of the team, or in the way of each other. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Yes sir.”
Flick took another deep breath, looking at Pedri now.
“My daughter, she’s about ten years older than you,” The Canarian nodded, “You remind me of her, quiet, smart, keeps everything inside.”
Ferran placed a hand on Pedri’s thigh.
“When she first met her husband, she kept it a secret. I don’t know why, but I’ll tell you what I told her,” He looked at both of them, “If you are blessed enough to have found someone you love, don’t waste your time hiding it from people who care.”
Pedri’s throat went dry.
“I’m not saying you have to come out to the world, especially not to this world, but you don’t have to constantly be looking over your shoulders,” He took a deep breath, "Especially not with me.”
They both nodded, all anxiety gone.
“And if your families don’t know, for God’s sake let them. You two aren’t very subtle.”
“Of course,” Ferran answered, his hand still on Pedri’s thighs.
Flick just started to stand when he spoke up one last time, “Oh, and don’t think I didn’t notice that ‘shoulder stretching’ incident.”
Pedri almost shriveled up and died right there. He could feel his flush blossom across his entire body, embarrassment consuming him.
Ferran coughed, “Sorry, sir.”
“Okay, you boys go home now.” He opened the door for them, “And no more kissing on training grounds.”
The drive home was quiet.
Ferran drove because Pedri’s hands were still too shaky.
It was only when they turned the corner onto their street did Ferran ask, “Did he call you his daughter?”
And Pedri, a mix of shock and embarrassment and immense relief, replied a quiet, mumbled, “I think so.”