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He saw Pedri through the crowd.
It was the ultimate stage, the peak of his career — the MetLife Stadium vibrating with eighty thousand roaring voices as the echo of his winning goal resonated through the pitch. The net was still settling in his mind, that singular moment where he struck the ball for his team, for the crest on his chest, for FC Barcelona, and for the entire nation of Spain watching with bated breath.
His blood rushed; his vision blurred with the ecstasy of delivering the world to his country. There was something about the cacophony of the cheering crowd and his teammates rushing over to him that sent him into a high of pure euphoria that left him buzzing as the weight of what he had just accomplished settled in his chest.
But then he saw Pedri.
He saw him in the middle of the pitch — just one figure among the sea of celebrating teammates, one face among the thousands under the blinding stadium lights.
Pedri was bathed in the same euphoria as everyone else — a beaming smile on his face, breath coming in short bursts, sweat clinging to his forehead and dark hair messy as he celebrated without a single care.
Ferran stumbled over his step, momentarily dazed. It was nothing major, just a brief pause in his stride that surely no one in the stands noticed, but a few of his teammates caught it. One look at his wide eyes made them exchange knowing smirks.
He was at it again; he was lost somewhere in the chaos with Pedri instead of focusing on the trophy right in front of them.
Ferran barely made it through the post-match interviews, his gaze constantly drifting back toward Pedri, who kept disappearing and reappearing through the chaos of press, staff, and teammates crowding the pitch. Ferran’s composure completely fractured — he stammered through simple questions from the reporters, his thoughts rushing too fast one second and drifting off into long pauses the next. One interview was in English, another in Spanish, and it didn't take long before he started tripping over his own words.
He was entirely winded by the time he stepped away from the cameras, despite the match having ended minutes ago.
Gavi, who had been eyeing on the two since the final whistle, trotted over to the forward, nudging him softly on the shoulder with a raised eyebrow and a smirk that Ferran knew that said "Now's your chance."
After Lamine finished shouting into the main stadium microphone over the PA system, screaming about the historic night and whatever mad celebrations they had planned in Madrid — he still couldn't believe anyone was actually making coherent sense right now — Ferran snatched the mic himself. The words tumbled off his lips before he could stop them.
“Actually, there’s something I need to say... and someone I need up here with me.”
The rest of the team knew, letting out a chorus of childish oohs, with Eric laughing in the background, teasing that Ferran had his eye on "someone special".
Half the staff and photographers tried to follow his line of sight, every onlooker wondering who he was talking about, but his eyes were locked entirely on Pedri.
Pedri assumed Ferran had to be looking at someone behind him — maybe one of the delegates or a family member in the front row of the stands — but Ferran’s intense gaze stayed glued right on him, a faint, fond smile tugging at his lips that made heat rush to Pedri's cheeks.
The moment Pedri finally met his gaze directly, Ferran’s grin widened. He gave a small nod and a crook of his fingers, beckoning Pedri to drop the hesitation and come over.
Pedri looked around, a silent question in his eyes — there had to be a mistake, it couldn't be him — but when he finally pointed to his own chest in confusion, Ferran gave him a firm nod of confirmation, a happy bob of his messy hair.
Nearby, a few of their teammates immediately started shoving him forward, laughing and cheering as they practically jostled Pedri toward the podium setup. They all knew the truth, knew every look and soft touch shared between the two of them, and they were more than eager to finally push him into the spotlight.
All the pitchside cameras immediately pivoted to follow Pedri's movement, tracking him as Ferran took a few impatient steps toward him, that goofy, fond grin never leaving his face.
Pedri was hyper-aware of the thousands of eyes locked onto them, of the high-definition lenses catching every single micro-expression. His cheeks were burning hot and his hair was an absolute wreck from ninety minutes of running and frantic celebrating — ay dios mio, this was broadcasting live to millions worldwide. He was going to be immortalized like this, a completely flushed, disheveled mess on global television, and it's right after winning his first ever World Cup.
But Ferran wasn't thinking about the cameras, the media, or the public guessing game at all. He was thinking about how Pedri’s eyes shone brighter than the blinding stadium floodlights, how completely free he had looked in the final minutes when the victory was finally secured — how deeply he felt every second on the pitch, every pass, every piece of himself he gave to the game.
And Ferran thought, without a single doubt, that Pedri was beautiful.
"I'd like to ask this brilliant man right here something," Ferran said into the microphone, his voice echoing across the roaring stadium. "Will you do me the honor of lifting this trophy with me?"
Pedri's cheeks were practically on fire. What were the odds that out of every single player on that pitch who had fought for ninety grueling minutes, Ferran was calling him out in front of the entire world?
And what were the odds that Ferran was practically trying to announce them to the world like this — asking him to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with pleading eyes and a boyish grin pulling at his lips, a look Pedri knew all too intimately in private.
A part of Pedri was too enthralled by Ferran up close to do anything at all — just standing there to stare at him and bask in his warmth, just for a moment longer — but a much bigger part of him was absolutely terrified.
Because he couldn't do it.
He wasn't ready for the entire world to finally know. The quiet safety of their relationship, protected behind closed doors and shared only with those they trusted most, was suddenly on the verge of being blown wide open... even though everyone pretty much knew about them together already anyways.
Overwhelmed by the sudden vulnerability, Pedri shook his head slightly, his eyes dropping to the grass instead of meeting Ferran's. He instead gestured frantically toward the rest of the team, asking them that they should be up there instead and prayed Ferran would pick up on the silent panic and desperation in his movements before the cameras picked up on it too.
At first, Ferran was taken aback — seeing Pedri shake his tousled head no stung right in front of a stadium full of thousands and millions watching at home — but then he noticed the genuine fear in Pedri's posture, the way his shoulders tensed, and the panicked look in his dark eyes.
It clicked then. Ferran realized the weight of the certain spotlight Pedri was so desperately trying to avoid, and he suddenly understood the real reason behind his boy's fiery red cheeks.
Pedri tried to take a subtle step backward as intended to fade back into the safety of the team, completely tuning out the confused murmurs starting to ripple through the pitch. Who on God's green earth would even hesitate to stand at center stage during a World Cup trophy celebration? But Ferran was slick, quickly reaching out to gently catch Pedri by the wrist, desperate to keep him right there in his line of sight for just a moment longer.
“I know you don't want the spotlight alone, but…” Ferran lowered the microphone slightly, his eyes thoughtful and his tone softening so only Pedri could hear. “Can you just hold the trophy with me? Share the moment with me, as a team, with everyone?”
His sentence sounded a bit clumsy, like he couldn't quite find the exact words to convey how desperately he wanted Pedri beside him before settling on a quiet plea that made him internally wince at his own lack of smooth phrasing.
Pedri’s eyes widened as he understood the compromise. Ferran wasn't forcing an official public reveal or dragging him into a terrifying spotlight; he was simply asking his midfielder, his teammate, his partner to share the crest and the victory with him and everyone else. It was something safe, something they had achieved together — hell, something they planned together, and Pedri gave a small, relieved nod.
Ferran’s smile split wide at the silent agreement. His hand slid down to gently wrap around Pedri's fingers, guiding him toward the main podium where the gold was waiting. He couldn't help but notice how Pedri stayed half a step behind his broad shoulders, their fingers briefly intertwined before settling side-by-side. It made Ferran's heart flutter crazily with the adrenaline coursing through his veins like the dizzying moment right before a plunge.
Behind them, the rest of the team proceeded to join them on the stage — a cheering wave of red jerseys packing onto the structure, hands clapping their shoulders and voices roaring into the night air as everyone crowded in for the moment.
It might have been the intoxicating sweat of a grueling match, or the rush of eighty thousand screaming people, but deep down Ferran knew — it was all just Pedri.
Ferran raised the microphone one last time toward the stands. “We won this together! Every single one of us; the dreams 47 million people!” He shot a quick side-smile at Pedri before placing his hands firmly on the handles of the trophy alongside his.
The MetLife Stadium blurred into a haze of blinding floodlights and powerful roar as they lifted the World Cup together, but Pedri was a sharp, brilliant focus right beside him, eyes shining with carefree joy.
The team lined up around the trophy shortly after. They took turns pressing sweat-streaked kisses against the gleaming gold; each having their moment under the flashing cameras, shouting into the chaos before handing it off to the next.
When the trophy finally reached Pedri, he held it tightly, closing his eyes for a brief second as he leaned down to plant a soft kiss to the top of the trophy before letting out a long, satisfying breath of pure relief and happiness.
He pulled back, smiling brightly as he turned to hand the trophy over to Ferran.
Ferran took the weight of the gold in his hands, but his gaze never shifted down to the metal. Instead, his eyes stayed locked directly on Pedri's glowing face.
The stadium was deafening, cameras were flashing from every conceivable angle like fireworks, and millions were watching live on broadcast screens in every place on Earth. Pedri leaned in slightly, intently expecting Ferran to follow the unspoken team routine and plant a kiss right onto the trophy.
Instead, Ferran completely ignored the heavy metal in his arms.
He reached out with one hand, cupping the side of Pedri's jaw, and leaned straight past the trophy to press his lips firmly against Pedri’s.
Time seemed to instantly stop on the pitch.
It was warm, deliberate, and entirely unhurried — all under the glare of the stadium lights. Pedri’s eyes widened in shock for a split second, his breath catching in his throat as the realization hit him. There was no hiding anymore.
Before Pedri’s mind could even register the absolute chaos erupting around them, the sheer comfort of Ferran’s touch grounded him. His eyes fluttered shut, his shoulders dropping as he surrendered to the moment, kissing him back right then and there, in the center of the world.
A split second of stunned silence gripped the pitchside commentary before the stadium exploded into yet another absolute frenzy of sound. Behind them, their teammates erupted into cheers — Merino shouting at the top of his lungs while Gavi practically tackled someone in excitement — he'll never be in the pitch without throwing hands, everyone knew that — before the squad swarmed around them in a tight circle of roaring celebration.
When Ferran finally pulled back, his forehead lingered against Pedri’s. He had a breathless, triumphant smirk on his lips, his eyes soft and entirely unbothered by the historic frenzy he had just ignited across the world.
Pedri stood there, his cheeks burning hotter than ever, but as he looked into Ferran's steady gaze, the lingering fear completely evaporated and instead was replaced by a deep warmth that rivaled their victory itself.
"I love you."
Ferran and Pedri knew they won one more trophy that night.