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Chapter Text

“So, tell me. What team are you a fan of?” The guy asks.

Silence. Gavi is pacing around, staring at the broken windows and the wrecked furniture surrounding him. He checks the gun in his pocket, makes sure it is loaded. 

“Don’t tell me you don’t have a favorite team. Everyone does, to some extent. My mom, for example, doesn’t watch football as much but she roots for Milan. Because she’s Italian, you know, even though I grew up in France. It’s a nice place to live.” He sighs. “I’ll miss it. I’ll miss everything.”

Gavi raises an eyebrow. If this dude wants to keep whining he would very much rather blow his head right now. He regrets not having drugged him more so he would have been unconscious for longer. 

“We’ve been here for hours. And I still don’t know anything about you. C’mon. Talk to me, at least. What team are you a fan of?”

“Barcelona,” Gavi replies dryly. He knows they’re playing against Real Madrid right now. Wonders if they’re winning. He wishes there was a TV there so he could watch the match. 

Gavi has been there, stuck in the living room of an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere with dust, mold and termites. And this very condescending Kylian guy with the annoying French accent is insanely boring. He’s wearing a suit and has a golden watch in his wrist than probably costs more than Gavi’s getting paid to do this. And he will not stop talking. Gavi hoped that, because he is literally about to get killed, he would at least reflect on his life in silence before he becomes nothing but flesh. But no. He wants to yap about frivolous things. Gavi is so done. He hopes Lewandowski calls to give him the green light as soon as possible.

“They hired a Barcelona fan to kill me?” The guy laughs. He’s tied to a chair, about to be shot in the head, those are the last minutes of his life. What’s so funny about it all?

Gavi snorts. “Do you have a problem with it?” 

“I prefer Madrid, you know. Do you think Barcelona’s gonna win the league this year? I don’t think so, man. Well, I guess today’s match will settle it-”

“Jesus.” Ah, yes, Madrid fans. Always talking too much. Gavi sighs and paces around a little more. He just wants to get done with this. He knows dying of boredom isn’t possible but he’s about to do so.

“Alright, alright. Not in the mood for talking.” He chuckles, then sighs. “My head hurts like crazy. You spiked my drink, didn’t you? I knew you didn’t look like a waiter. I’m so stupid, I shouldn't have believed you.” Silence. Gavi taps his foot on the floor, waiting for Lewandowski to call. “Who hired you?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I want to know who’s behind this.”

“You’re going to die anyway, why do you want to know?”

“Exactly. Since I'm gonna die soon, can't you at least tell me? Can this be my last wish before you kill me?”

“No.”

“C’mon. I can give you some thousands for that, you know? There’s a few bills in my wallet.”

“If you really want to know, there’s a lot of people who want you dead, Kylian.”

“Why?” He seems genuinely surprised. “I’m a decent guy.”

For the first time in hours, Gavi laughs. Cackles, even. 

“What’s so funny about this?”

“You’re not a decent guy, Kylian. No one is. I am not, neither are you. We both deceive people. The difference is, I pull the trigger and you just sit behind a desk on a building worth millions of euros like you rule the world when in fact you’re just a coward.”

“I’m not deceiving anyone. Business is business. You gotta do what you gotta do to survive in this field.”

“Business is business? You lie about millionaire investments and wreck countless of people’s lives. Is that what your life is all about?”

Kylian chuckles. “Talk about wrecking people’s lives. You would know about that, wouldn’t you? Besides-”

Gavi’s phone rings. He grabs it, and Lewandowski’s number is on the screen. 

“Hi. Can I finish this?” He picks up the phone, sighs and pouts. “I wanna watch the second half of Barça.”

“Is there any day you’re gonna take this job seriously, Gavira?”

“Don’t pull up the dad talk on me again.” Kylian frowns his eyebrows at Gavi and stares at him with confusion. Gavi turns away and speaks lower into the phone, almost whispering. “Just tell me if I can do it, okay? This guy’s a pain in the ass, no wonder why they’re giving us a fat check to blow his brains out.”

“Yeah, you can wrap it up.” Gavi mentally thanks the heavens and reaches for his gun. “But you’re not going home after this. You’ll meet me in Warsaw and we can talk about your new assignment.”

“What? Give me some time, I’m barely even started with the mess here.” Gavi rolls his eyes. As much as he enjoys exploding the heads of assholes like watermelons, he could catch a break sometimes. 

“Time is expensive. You know it. The plane departs at nine. I’ll send your tickets to your email.”

He snorts. “But-”

“Don’t be late, and don’t do anything stupid,” he hangs up before Gavi has time to complain about anything else.

Gavi turns to Kylian again. He’s contemplating something out of the window. He is startled by the sound of Gavi preparing his gun.

Kylian looks at him. Gavi can tell his life is flashing through his eyes right now, not that he gives a fuck. But before he points the gun at him, he reaches for his backpack on the floor. 

There’s a light blue polaroid camera inside, it’s pretty new, he bought it a few weeks ago in a store in Sevilla. He carries it everywhere now. He grabs it and points it at Kylian. “Say cheese.” The camera flashes, Kylian blinks and jolts his head. 

“You really took a photo of me before you kill me? What type of assassin are you?”

“One of the cool ones,” he says. 

The polaroid drops to the floor, Gavi leaves it there for a bit. He raises his gun and pulls the trigger. The gunshot is loud, it goes straight through Kylian’s forehead and makes a mess out of him. His body drops back to the chair and now there’s blood and brains everywhere. Gavi grabs the photo, contemplates it for a bit and tucks it inside one of Kylian’s pockets.

Gavi checks the time on his phone. Barcelona is still playing. If he hurries back home, he can still watch the rest of the match.

Pedri taps his ID card on the sensor and the door to the elevator opens. He enters, taps the ID once more, and starts moving towards the fifteenth floor. He leans back on the metal wall behind him, adjusts his gray suit and checks his watch. Nine twenty six. He is a little late because of traffic and he hates that. He is never late, for he takes his job very seriously. And maybe because he never stays up later than midnight. There is no point since he doesn’t party or hook up with anyone, all he ever does is watch football and some TV shows.

There isn’t much going on in his life besides tracking killers the regular police cannot stop. He wouldn’t claim half of the labels people usually put on him—genius, psychopath hunter, Albert Einstein of the blood chasing field—but he is undeniably good at what he does. After graduating with honors in Psychology and Criminology at the University of Barcelona, he made his way to Spain’s International Intelligence Centre, where he now works as a young and condecorated analyst.

It sounds like a nerve racking job but everything is merely routine to him, sometimes it even gets boring. Call him an emotionless weirdo of sorts, but to survive in his field one has to be as cold blooded as the psychopaths on the streets. As such, Pedri’s only worry right now is whether or not they fixed the coffee machine in the office. He wouldn’t be pleased to go down fifteen floors just to get an overpriced espresso at the Starbucks down the building.

The elevator jolts at Pedri’s stop. The door opens and he is received with the strong smell of freshly brewed coffee. Great.

The office is eerily quiet, although Pedri can hear sounds of keyboards and low chatting. His coworkers usually talk loudly so he doesn’t get why they’re whispering. As he says hi to them, they say hi back but look at him with worry as if he’s the only one not aware of a secret going around. What’s happening? Is this an internal joke he’s not part of? Are they making fun of him for being unusually late? 

He walks to his desk and looks at the stuff on it that make that corner entirely his. The stack of psychology books, a bag of pistachios, his coffee mug with a drawing of the Canary Islands, a frame with a photo of him and his family. He stares at it for a few seconds and the bittersweet taste of homesickness lingers under his tongue before he’s pulled back into reality.

“Flick needs to see you.”

Pedri jumps. “God, Ferran, you scared me. I don’t even get a good morning? A cup of coffee to compensate for the tantrum that’s about to come? Damn, there was a time.”

Ferran chuckles at the joke, but Pedri knows him well enough to tell he is forcing it. “It’s serious, though. He really needs to talk to you.”

“What happened?” Pedri asks, trying to understand Ferran’s expression—his facial muscles are more tense that usual, but there isn’t much else Pedri can get from it. His analytical skills only go so far.

“Kylian Mbappé is dead.” 

Pedri frowns. “The French investor? The founder of that one AI company?”

“Yes, him. He went missing three days ago after a private afterparty in Madrid. He was found this morning in an abandoned house in the outskirts of the city.” 

“Do we have any suspects?”

“We don’t have much on the case so far. He was a very controversial guy. Lots of people wanted him dead.” He takes a sip of his cup of coffee. “You should talk to Flick. He’ll give you more information on it.”

Pedri takes a deep breath. Ferran is usually on a great mood even when he’s talking to the prime minister on the phone or emailing someone in El País about the frenzy caused by the most recent criminal scandal. Much like everyone in the office, he’s chill, really. Now, he’s clearly unsettled. Not that Kylian deserves anyone’s sympathy, he was just another rich guy with no sense of humanity. But a killing of this magnitude is enough to make anyone think who could be next.

Pedri feels like he’s being watched by the entire office. He looks around and they all pretend to be invested in their own tasks. 

He walks to Flick’s room and knocks. A few moments later, he hears a voice from inside. “Come in.”

“Hey, Flick,” he says as he opens the door. Shuts it behind him. “Ferran told me we have a new case. What’s the procedure?”

Pedri takes a seat. He can’t see Flick at first, who’s sitting down, facing the opposite direction. He then spins the chair and turns. He has a mug of coffee in his hand and nothing like a smile on his face. 

“You know, sometimes I wish I could be a killer just to shoot people like Kylian in the head. But I chose to be on the other side,” he chuckles, and the tension on his face eases a bit. 

“Yeah. A private afterparty, huh? Maybe it was someone on his circle that did this to him? Or maybe someone that sneaked into the party and gained his confidence first?”

Flick slides forward a yellow folder. “Take a peek and tell me what you think.”

Pedri opens the folder. It’s mostly pictures of a house that probably saw some good days in the last century, now covered in old furniture and debris. Then there’s pictures of a body tied to a chair, its head perforated. There’s a lot of blood on the walls and on the ceiling. 

“Interesting place for a man like Kylian to be,” Pedri jokes, intrigued by the contrast of Kylian’s fancy clothing and the worn out surroundings. “Doesn’t suit him very much."

“The autopsy shows no signs of fight, but they found traces of ketamine in his blood. He was probably drugged and taken there. But that’s not the most intriguing part. They also found this,” Flick hands to Pedri a transparent, sealed small bag with a photo inside. It’s a polaroid of Kylian. He’s alive in it, it seems to have been taken right before he was shot. “It was found in one of Kylian’s pockets, it’s likely that the killer took it. But no one knows why they would do such a thing.”

Pedri squints. He traces his fingers over the plastic bag and tries to get the most out of the picture. The blurred lines of Kylian’s body, the flash lighting up his expression. He doesn’t smile but also doesn’t show fear. If anything, he looks simply stoic, resigned to his fate.

“A death polaroid? I’ve never seen anything like this before. It seems performative. Maybe the killer’s just messing with us.”

“Maybe. But we have to find out who’s behind this. Ferran is in contact with the Interpol and the Spanish police, he’ll update you once we get more information. Rapha is going to upload what we already have to the database so you can take a better look.” He runs his hand through his hair. The white strands are nothing short of signs of experience in the field. He’s been in situations like that before, multiple times. And he’s brilliant at what he does. If there’s anyone Pedri looks up to, it’s Flick. “Can I count on you?”

“Absolutely. I’ll start working on it.”

Pedri doesn’t know who’s behind Kylian’s killing, but, given the guy’s background and influence, he is sure that this case is much more complicated than it looks like.

Chapter Text

There’s a lot to unpack. Yet, Pedri’s left with nothing but a folder with pictures of the crime scene and a polaroid. 

It’s been days, and so far the Spanish police only knows the obvious: that Kylian Mbappé was shot in the head by an assassin that’s perhaps a part-time photographer. The Interpol is still getting on the case, tracking possible killers: Kylian’s company’s cofounder, who was pushed out of the company and has every reason to hate him. An Italian psychopath, who has escaped from the psych yard a while back and is known for a series of assassinations.

But no. Pedri knows it can’t be them. If it was the cofounder, the crime would have been be loud. Lawsuits, leaks, whistleblowing. Shooting Kylian in the head and leaving a polaroid behind felt too intimate for a businessman to do. And, given the extensive history of violent killings of the psychopath, a single, sharp bullet straight to the forehead doesn’t suit his profile. If it were him, Kylian’s body would probably have been torn apart after being stabbed multiple times.

But who else can it be?

Pedri has studied the minds of killers of all kinds. After all, that’s all his life is about. Yet now he’s swimming in the open ocean during the peak of the night—he knows nothing about this case, and there’s not much he can do to trace the killer’s next steps. 

“Hey,” Fermín approaches his desk while he is comparing the crime scene’s photos with others on their archive. “How are things?”

“Just trying to work out what I can.” He smiles, hoping the lazy edges of his lips don’t convey the exhaustion in his mind. “Any other clues you’ve been working on?”

“Not really, there isn’t much to analyze yet. I’m just taking a look at the necropsy report to see if there’s anything else relevant to the case. Eric’s on the way to the crime site again with some officials from the police. Hopefully they’ll be able to find more clues.” 

“That’s good. Let me know if he finds anything.”

“I will.” Fermín nods, but hesitates to leave. He looks at the polaroid on Pedri’s desk. “What do you think this photo means?”

“No clue. It’s probably just the killer trying to mark his presence. Or trying to play with us.” Pedri glances at the picture again, he’s looked at it so many times that he could easily draw it by memory. “It’s almost like… This shit means nothing. And we’re here losing time with it, the way this assassin wanted.”

“Maybe. Well, I’ll leave the extra thinking with the expert,” he smiles. “I’ll call Eric in a bit to see how things are going.”

“Perfect, let me know how that goes.”

Fermín leaves. Pedri looks at his desk again. It is nothing like it was hours ago. The pictures of the crime scene are all scattered around, there’s at least five books open, alongside files of old cases that he’s trying to find parallels with, his mug is halfway through his fourth cup of coffee of the day. And, of course, the cryptic polaroid is the cherry on top.

Pedri’s really never seen something of the kind. The way the photo was set up makes him shiver. The flash of the camera, contrasting with the dark surroundings, puts Kylian in a spotlight of death. He seems so alive yet so doomed to the eminent passing a few minutes away from him. He’s looking straight to the camera, to his killer, and there’s a type of darkness in his eyes that Pedri can’t reach. He wonders what he’s thinking about, both him and the killer. He wonders what the killer looks like at that moment. 

“Pedri, I think I might’ve found something,” Rapha pulls Pedri out of his trance. He has his laptop in his hands. “Look, I recovered some deleted security camera footage from the night Kylian vanished.”

Rapha shows him the laptop. On the first footage the back of a building is shown, early on the evening. Rapha speeds up the video and a few minutes have passed, some people have walked back and forth. “Here, look.” He points to a guy wearing a brown hat and a black suit, a bag in his hand. He stops by the back door of the building, picks up some tool from his pocket, does something to the lock with it and unlocks it in a matter of seconds.

Pedri raises his eyebrows. “That was swift.” 

Rapha switches the camera, and now they can see inside the building. The same guy climbs a bunch of stairs, maybe up four or five floors, from what Pedri counted. He then stops by another door, unlocking it and sneaking inside the same way he did before. 

“This is the place where the party was hosted. I pulled up the building’s map and I am sure this is the sixth floor, right where Kylian was last seen.” He says. 

“Maybe this guy is our assassin. Do you think we can identify him based on this?”

“Well, not with this footage alone. If that’s the killer, he’s good at what he does. He avoided the cameras, so I couldn’t really have a glimpse of his face. But there’s a bunch of establishments nearby.” He gives the keyboard a few clicks and flows through footage of different places. A supermarket, a clothing shop, a cafeteria. “Here, I spent some time looking into the surveillance cameras and I found a very strange guy half an hour earlier on the Starbucks down the block.” 

The camera films him from the side, his face can barely be seen. He sits on an isolated corner; there’s no one on his surroundings as if they can feel the obscurity he exalates. He looks the exact same—he has the same hat and coat of the video Rapha showed Pedri earlier, except now he has a Starbucks cup on his hand. His eyes are fixated on something Pedri can’t outline.

“What’s he looking at?” He squints.

“Do you see the commentators?” He points to a TV on the opposite of the footage, barely visible. “I think it’s an El Clasico prematch thing.”

“Interesting. Well. Our killer likes football? Can’t judge him,” he chuckles. “Can you send me the address of this Starbucks? Maybe someone that works there saw him that day.”

“Absolutely, I’ll send it to your email. I’ve also uploaded the videos to our database so you can check them out later.”

“Awesome, thanks, Rapha. You’ve helped a lot.”

Pedri isn’t the one to stay in the office after his shift ends, but today he stays late. He keeps replaying the footage of the guy at the cafeteria, trying to read through his actions and understand his motives.

Pedri overanalyzes every detail and takes notes. He zooms in the cup on the guy’s hand. It has whipped cream and something akin to caramel on top, Pedri’s nauseous only imagining the amount of sugar on that. Interesting choice, he thinks. Why would he pick that over regular coffee? Pedri zooms in the half of his face that can barely be seen, doodles and traces his silhouette on the notebook. He zooms in the TV. Are his eyes vidrated on it because he wants to watch whatever is on, or is he an actual football fan? Is he rooting for Madrid or Barcelona?

After a few hours, he can recount every detail on that footage by heart. He’s been watching the alleged killer for so long that he can feel as if he’s hiding in Pedri’s own shadow, right behind him, yet Pedri knows he is still so far away. The polaroid itself doesn’t seem to suit the narrative Pedri has been given by the surveillance camera footage. He needs to come to a conclusion.

When he realizes, it’s way past midnight and everyone else has left. He leaves, too, but the blurry lines of Kylian’s pre-death figure stay at the back of his mind, nipping onto his flesh like hungry ants. He desperately needs to find out more about why the killer would leave a photo, a trace that is more his than Kylian’s, behind. Or why he would order a frappe a few hours before shooting Kylian Mbappé in the head. There is yet a lot of pieces to put together in that puzzle, and Pedri is determined to do so.

Monaco is a quite overrated place. Boring casinos, rich people that have probably done nothing useful in their entire lives. Gavi hates it all, but he likes the beaches. He also likes yachts. Yachts are fun, they’re like floating hotel suites, he thinks. He wants to buy one for himself once he’s done with this project. 

The one he is on right now was rented by the company Gavi works for, a mafia agency of sorts. He doesn’t know much about it beyond what Lewandowski tells him, but he doesn’t really care. As long as the money falls into his account and they don’t bother him after his jobs are done, he is chilling.

Gavi tried to talk to the sailer of the yacht for a bit but his replies were dry, clearly showing uninterest. Well, some company while Gavi is there floating for hours wouldn't hurt, but he’s used to being alone. Prefers it, even.

Now he’s lying against the grid on the external area with a margarita in his hand, the wind is blowing strong, almost as strong as the sunlight glimmering on the sea waters. It’s almost blinding. But he can still see his target from afar.

The yacht Gavi is looking at is much more lively than his. There are man with beers in hand, there are women in biquinis, all laughing and enjoying the warm weather. Deep inside, Gavi yearns for whatever they have. A superficial mind, perhaps. Would be nice. 

His target is there, too, amongst them. Karim Benzema, or however he is called. He’s the only man on that yacht that is wearing a shirt and there’s a cigar in his hand. That man is rich as fuck, he could buy every yacht by that shore if he wanted to, and the amount of money spent would probably be the same as he kills on an average day. 

Gavi has been looking at him, overanalyzing every little thing—who he talks to the most when he is on the external area of the yacht, how much time he spends inside before coming out again, how many drags he takes off the cigar per minute. Not because of his job, he could easily kill Karim without knowing all of that. But because he has this guttural need to find patterns in things. They keep his life less boring. And staring at a bunch of rich people throwing bills at the sea, high on all sorts of drugs, isn’t the most exciting thing in the world. So he needs to find ways to entertain himself so he doesn’t want to draw the knife on his pocket against his own neck.

Gavi gave the sailer an excuse about wanting to get closer to Benzema’s yacht, something about being an avid fan of a popular Spanish singer that’s in there. When Gavi’s yacht gets close enough, he heads to the front. He waits for a bit and sees Karim heading inside alone. Quietly analyzes the gap between the two yachts, steps onto the grid and jumps swiftly from one to the other, landing on his feet on the back of Benzema’s. He makes his way inside and make sure no one sees him.

The yacht is nothing short of luxury. Its inside room is entirely in white and pastel tones. The sofas have beige and fuzzy cushions, and there’s a TV facing them, two small glass tables in between. There’s a giant chandelier on top of it all. It’s undeniably beautiful. 

Gavi wants a picture of that. He grabs his camera, slung around his neck, and points it up, looks through the lens to see how the photo would look like. He hesitates for a bit. There is something missing on that frame.

He shows his hand to the camera and raises his middle finger to the fancy furniture beyond him. Much better, Gavi thinks. He clicks the picture and shoves the polaroid into his pocket.

 “What the fuck-” Gavi hears.“Who are you?”

Gavi looks back, it’s Benzema. Bingo.

“Nice yacht.” He says nonchalantly, dropping his camera. “Yours?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” He takes a few steps away, heads to the door, grabs his phone and starts tapping frantically. “Stay the fuck away. I’m calling the police.”

“Well.” Gavi shrugs. “That’s smart, Karim. Thinking in advance, right?”

Karim stops and looks up. He frowns his eyebrows and looks at Gavi with confusion. “What? How-”

“Somebody’s gotta clean up the mess. Right?” Gavi takes a few steps closer, reaches for his pocket knife and unfolds it with his thumb. 

Before Karim has time to hit call on his phone or run to the people outside, Gavi holds him, covers his mouth, digs the knife on the side of his neck with precision. He chokes and tries to scream, biting Gavi’s hand. Gavi increases his grip and carves the knife deeper, twisting it before removing it all at once. Karim falters to breathe for one last time and drops to the ground near the dining table. 

Gavi takes a look outside of the yacht. Everyone is busy dancing and drinking and celebrating God knows what, they probably won’t notice Karim is gone for sometime.

Gavi cleans his knife on the kitchen’s sink. He puts it on his pocket again, and his fingers brush against the polaroid. 

He stares at the photo for a bit. Not his best work, he thinks, the lighting is a little off. But that will do it. He sticks the photo onto the fridge with one of the magnets there. He hums a classical song that has been stuck in his mind for a while as he leaves and jumps back to his yacht. 

Chapter Text

Eric’s driving his car as he and Pedri head to the Starbucks where the alleged killer was seen before kidnapping Kylian. The coffee shop almost gets lost surrounded by all those buildings and cars. It’s a small one, very suburbian, even though it’s relatively close to the heart of the city of Madrid. 

It’s around four PM so the place is not very crowded when they get there. Pedri’s hit with the unmistakable smell of brewed coffee as soon as he enters. The AC is a little strong so he gets chills. Low music plays, setting the background for soft chatter and the baristas taking orders and preparing the drinks. 

There’s three of them by the counter. A brunet guy, probably in his early twenties, is the one on the cashier when Pedri and Eric approach. “Any orders?” He asks.

“Hey, I’m Eric, this is Pedri, we’re from the CNI.” Eric says, showing his ID to the cashier. “We’re conducting an investigation and we believe one of our suspects was here Saturday afternoon, around three. We’d like to ask some questions to however was at the counter at that time.”

The cashier widens his eyes and looks around. He whispers something to one of the other baristas, a red haired girl. She looks at Pedri and Eric and whispers something back. They chat low about things in the lines of who was it, I don’t really remember, maybe check with Lucia. 

Another one of the baristas, a blonde girl, approaches the counter. She talks to the other two baristas briefly before cleaning her hands on her brown apron and greeting Pedri and Eric. “Hey, I’m Lucia. I had a shift that time. Don’t know if there’s much I can do to help you, though. I don’t pay much attention to the clients.”

“It’s fine, we just want to ask a couple questions,” Eric says.

She shrugs. The three walk to an empty corner of the Starbucks and sit down. “Thanks for helping us.” Pedri starts by sliding forward a folder with screenshots of the photage Rapha showed him the day before. “Do you recognize this guy, by any chance?”

Lucia stares at the pictures. Her eyes get stuck in one of them, one that’s zoomed in to show the suspect with his drink. She squints. “Actually, yeah, I think I remember him. Asked for a large hot chocolate, I think, with whipped cream. He also asked for sprinkles.”

“Woah. That’s a lot of sugar.” Eric chuckles.

“Yeah. But at the time we were out of sprinkles, and he seemed really pissed about it. He was very weird. He sat on that counter over there for a good time, just watching TV.”

“Do you remember his name?” Eric asks.

“Uh, I think he was called Juan. Or maybe Leo. I don’t really remember, I might be mistaking him for someone else.

“How did he look like?”

“Uh, he wasn’t really tall. Less than six feet, for sure. He had, uh, a sharp face. He was wearing a hat so I couldn’t really see his hair. But, wow,” she chuckles, “his eyebrows, wow, they were really thick. Really expressive. His eyes were out of this world. Really pretty.” 

Pedri’s been writing everything down while they talk, trying to connect the dots and find details about the killer. He and Eric leave shortly after, the girl really doesn’t know much beyond what she’s told them, but that is already something.

“Our killer loves whipped cream and sprinkles?” Eric says when they’re back in the car. He chuckles. “Twelve years old and a professional killer? That’s one hell of a résumé.”

Pedri ponders for a bit, looking through the window. “I’ve traced the profiles of some killers like these before. They find comfort in some very weird things.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was part of a research project involving a German psychopath when I was still in college. We studied his case and, like, he had some sort of age regression coping mechanism to compensate for the traumas he’d had since he was a child. He loved plushies, he had lots of them at home. It was truly an obsession. He once sent one with a bomb inside to one of his victims.”

“So, you’re saying Kylian’s killer has some sort of age regression coping mechanism?”

“I can’t say that from a Starbucks order alone, but it is a possibility.”

“Interesting.”

Pedri opens his notebook again. He reads over his notes and analyzes the pieces of information he has about their suspect. Not really tall, sharp faced, wears a hat, has a polaroid camera, likes sprinkles to a concerning amount. His eyes were out of this world. Pedri wonders what they saw in Kylian, how they interpreted his last moments, how they saw the opportunity to click a photo of him before he was shot.  

When Pedri notices, he’s made a doodle of the ghost he’s chasing.

“Wait, Pedri, listen to this,” Eric turns up the radio.

“... found dead by two of his friends inside his yacht in Monaco earlier this afternoon. Karim Benzema worked for a major fossil fuel conglomerate and was accused of exploiting African markets. The police of Monaco is investigating a possible homicide…”

“Holy fuck,” Pedri exclaims.

“Do you think this has anything to do with our killer?”

“Two rich, important and very controversial men killed in the span of a week? This can’t be a coincidence. We have to go to Monaco as soon as possible.” 

“Okay, I trust your judgement. I gotta stay here and see what else I can find about Kylian’s case, though.”

“Alright. I’ll ask Flick to go with me.” He picks up his phone. “I’ll ask Ferran to get in contact with the Monaco police and get us on the case. Maybe we can find more clues about our killer there."

Gavi knocks. Waits. Knocks one more time, faster. Waits. He snorts. Knocks one more time.

“Na litość boską!” Lewandowski exclaims. Gavi knows enough Polish—and about Lewandowski—to tell he is mad. “I’m coming, Jesus,” he grunts from inside the apartment. 

He opens the door halfway through, his expression is not very welcoming. He is wearing a black night robe and his lazy eyes show he was probably just asleep.

“It’s midnight,” he points out. 

“I am well aware.”

“What are you doing here?” He asks, then his glance drops down to Gavi’s hands. He’s holding a white box. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s cake.” Gavi smiles. “Happy birthday.”

He brushes his eyes. “Where did you get that?”

“A bakery down the block.”

“At this time?”

“I didn’t say it was open,” he shrugs. “Can I come in? Please.” Lewandowski snorts and opens the door fully, making way for Gavi to come in.

Gavi already knows Lewandowski’s apartment in Spain by heart. The floors are a spotless gray marble that somehow always looks cold, no matter how much sun bleeds in through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The furniture is minimal, sharp-edged, all beige and chrome, like a showroom no one actually lives in. Everything smells faintly of cedarwood and old money. There are no personal photos, no clutter, just carefully placed art pieces Gavi’s pretty sure were chosen by a decorator, not Lewandowski himself. The only thing that ever changes is what’s on the coffee table: sometimes classified files, sometimes a pistol, sometimes a single old photo with family members that Gavi never dares to question about. Today, it’s the last two options. 

Gavi places the cake box on the coffee table right by the pistol. He never knows if it’s there for protection or just to show off and scary intruders like him. Yes, he knows he’s an intruder in Lewandowski’s life. But Lewandowski doesn’t scare him. Surely, he has pointed his gun at Gavi’s head multiple times, but never with the intent to kill, just to lecture him. Gavi knows it. 

“How was Monaco?” Lewandowski serves a little bit of whiskey for both and slumps into the sofa, his expression more relaxed now.

“Hated the people. Had some great drinks, though.” He replies, taking a sip of his cup of whiskey.

“And what brings you here at this hour? Besides the absurd need you have to bother me even on my birthday.” 

Gavi glances around at the paintings, his eyes stopping one of a dead man being eaten by some lions. His favorite. “Dunno. Just wanted to be first person to wish you happy birthday.”

Lewandowski chuckles. “No one gives a fuck about that except for you. You’d be the first even if you wished me three months from now.”

“Alright, just be grateful I got you cake.” Gavi smiles, sitting beside him. “You’re old as fuck.”

“You’re talking as if thirty six brings me remotely close to being in a retirement home.”

“Might as well. I can see the wrinkles.”

“Because my job stresses me out. And, guess what, you’re a crucial part of it,” he sighs. “A polaroid? Of Kylian? Seriously, Gavi? What is that about?”

“It’s art.” 

“This is not art. It is your job. You kill people. There’s a lot involved in this and you know it. And I’ve told you countless times to take it seriously. Stop playing around and leaving behind clues that can ruin everything.” Lewandowski gives him a serious look. “The CNI is tracking you now, you know that?”

“No, they’re not.”

“Yes, they are. They recovered some surveillance camera footage of you from the day you killed Kylian.”

Gavi shrugs. “They’re not gonna find me, don’t worry, I'm not an idiot.”

“If they track you down, you know you’re fucked for good. So you might as well start being careful or else. You know I can’t keep taking you out of jail or prevent one of the Six to explode your head if they want.”

“Exploding heads.” Gavi laughs as he remembers Kylian’s stupid face right before it exploded. 

“You see? You keep acting like a kid and you have the audacity to expect to get a promotion.”

“Whatever.” He whines and throws his head back to the sofa. “The one time I ended up in jail was not because of the stupid CNI and their stupid agents. They’re not gonna get me.”

“The only time you ended up in jail was when you let your guard down. And I see it happening again.”

“This is entirely different.” 

“It doesn’t matter, Gavi. I just…”  He sighs. “There’s only so much I can do to protect you. And there’s only so much you can do to protect yourself. Please remember that. Alright?” His voice is calmer now. Sometimes it feels like he can never get mad at Gavi for long.

“Alright.” Gavi snorts, crossing his arms. It’s true that he hates being a subordinate, but at least the only one that gets to give him orders is Lewandowski. At least it’s someone that, beneath the crust the mafia world has inevitably grown around his heart, cares about Gavi in his own twisted way.

Lewandowski gives him a look, softer than before, and Gavi finds in it a glimpse of the paternal warmth he’s never had. “Go cut us both a piece of cake,” he smiles.

Gavi goes to cut the layered chocolate cake with rainbow sprinkles. The sprinkles are very lovely, Gavi likes lively colors, especially on something as delicious as chocolate. They eat the cake in silence before Lewandowski leaves the living room shortly and comes back with a beige envelope.

“What’s this?” Gavi asks.

“Instructions for your next target. I was gonna wait to give it to you tomorrow, but, well, someone here doesn’t know the meaning of a good night of sleep.”

“Time is expensive,” he says with a mocking voice, “I once heard.”

“You’re impossible,” he hands Gavi the envelope. “I’m being very serious. Don’t mess it up.”

Gavi rolls his eyes. “I won’t.” 

The lack of trust this entire association has on him, even though he’s been able to get away with countless killings of multiple different magnitudes in the past? It’s impressive.

He glances at the envelope in his hands. The National Intelligence Center? It has nothing on him and on what he does. And he is going to prove it.

Pedri and Flick hop onto the first flight to Monaco they can get. By the time they get there, Karim’s yacht is moored to a pier, yellow police tapes separating it from the nosy public. The body has already been taken to autopsy and the Monaco police has told Pedri and Flick they will send the necropsy report back to their office once it is done. The officers were a little hesitant to let them into the case. Fair enough, Pedri knows the geopolitical implications of letting the intelligence agency of another country into your own. But Pedri and Flick insisted, and, with a little help of Ferran’s diplomatic charisma, they are now here.

They’ve been told he was stabbed in the neck. There are some drops of blood that increase in quantity as they approach a big stain that is where Pedri supposes Karim fell down. Despite this, the crime scene overall is pretty clean. Karim probably didn’t fight back or try to run away. No weapons have been left behind.

Other than that, there isn’t much from the crime scene that says anything relevant. Flick is talking to officials of the Monaco police and they are telling him that they suspect that Karim was killed by one of the people who were in the yacht, someone Karim knew—it makes sense, extreme betrayals of trust that lead to killings are really common amongst people who have too much money in their hands.

Pedri walks to the kitchen, a small, very narrow place where two police officers chat mindlessly. It is also very clean, no signs of damage or blood. It has a sink, some cupboards and a white fridge. He looks at the latter. It has a lot of magnets, holding postcards of different countries around the world, mostly coastal landscapes. Beaches, islands, everything of the sort.

But there’s one photo that contrasts. It is significantly smaller and doesn’t show a landscape like the others. 

It is a polaroid. 

Pedri freezes.

It’s a picture of the living room of that same yacht. The sun slips through the windows and makes it very light, somewhat blurry. But there’s something at the corner of the frame that’s even more intriguing—a hand with a middle finger up.

There’s nothing more theatrical and metaphorical than this. There’s nothing that doesn’t set a pattern more than this—no weapons left behind? Sure, any smart killer would do that. But this?  There’s only one person who could’ve taken that polaroid, and Pedri knows everything and nothing about him at the same time.

He runs to Flick on the other room, “I think I might know who killed Karim.”

Chapter Text

Flick stares at the polaroid in his hands. Eyes squinted, eyebrows frowned, the type of look that says a lot more than what the few words he uses daily can say—he’s never been a fan of small talk and would rather save his speech for the useful stuff, Pedri knows it. Finally, Flick places the photo down. “Are you sure this was taken by the same person that killed Kylian?”

“It’s an assumption.” When Flick questions it like that, it genuinely seems like a dumb conclusion to make. “I mean, it could be someone else. But-”

“Polaroids are really popular these days. My daughter just bought a camera a week ago.” Flick sighs. He doesn’t seem convinced. “Look, Pedri. I would never overlook your judgement. You know you’re the last person on this office I wouldn’t trust. But we need more than this. For now, focus on finding clues about Kylian and let the Monaco police take care of this. There’s not much we can do in their territory.”

“But, Flick-”

“I’ll let them know about the polaroid. But they already tracked down their suspects. And here we have basically nothing, so we have priorities settled. Please, go with Eric to Madrid again. We have a witness that was there at the party when Kylian disappeared. I want you to be there and take notes while Eric interviews her.”

“Alright.” Pedri sighs. He realizes maybe he's just being stubborn, and the gifted child in him that used to beg for validation from his teachers is taking over again. “I’ll be working right on it.”

Flick gives him a restrained side smile. “Good.”

Pedri knocks at the forensic lab on the other side of the floor. “Fermín?”

Fermín doesn’t take long to open the door. “Hey, Pedri.” He smiles. “Come on in.” 

The place brings Pedri back to his days in high-school and college labs with those bright fluorescent lights, the cold air, and that sharp chemical scent of alcohol wipes and rubber gloves. The metal tables lined with scanners, fingerprint dust, and coffee-stained folders are also nothing short of nostalgic and Pedri can recall when he did an internship in a lab exactly like that. A whiteboard in the corner is filled with Fermín’s messy notes—half forensic patterns, half inside jokes. It’s organized chaos. Familiar, in a way Pedri finds almost comforting, even with the blood samples, weapons that have been used to kill people and everything that is akin to morbid.

“Forgive me for the mess, didn’t really have time to clean it up. So, what brings you here?” Fermín asks. “Didn’t expect you to be back from Monaco so early.”

For a second, Pedri almost forgets that’s why he’s there. There are people being killed by mysterious, devilish hands and he needs to solve that.

“Yeah, there wasn’t much we could do there, the Monaco police was already all over the place and they were hesitant to let us investigate. Ferran tried to convince them over the phone that we suspected that it might have something to do with a case we’re investigating, but I bet they thought we were just trying to boss them around in their own territory. I get it, to be honest.”

“Yeah. International relations are not my favorite things in the world, definitely,” Fermín says.

“Neither they are for me, that’s why you stay in the lab with people’s blood samples, I track down complete psychos and Ferran gets the phone calls.” They chuckle. “Now, speaking of tracking down psychos. Can you do me a solid?”

“Sure, what is it?”

Pedri picks up the polaroid he found at Karim’s yacht from his pocket. “I need to find out if Kylian’s killer took this. Do you think you can do it?”

Fermín grabs the photo and stares at it for a few seconds. “Interesting. Where did you find this one?”

“In Karim’s yacht’s kitchen, stuck on the fridge’s door. You had to see it, it was such an outlier. All the other pics were so different from this one. If I can find concrete proof that the two cases are intertwined… Then maybe I’ll get Flick’s trust to fully investigate everything.”

“I see. Cool. I can try to find some fingerprints on the two photos and try to match them. I’ll talk to Rapha as well. Maybe he can trace where the polaroid film was purchased, and if it’s the same for both pics.”

“That would be incredible. Do you know how long it would take?”

“Uh, these things generally take up to two days. But, if it’s urgent, I can try to get it done by tomorrow morning. Pull-up an all-nighter here and see how things go. I have a date tonight with Berta but we can schedule it for sometime later.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She’s doing great, she’s been doing some modeling jobs across Spain. Really busy, like I am. But we manage to see each other when we can.”

“That’s nice. She seems really nice. You should be grateful she even agreed to date you,” Pedri laughs. 

Fermín rolls his eyes playfully. “At least one of us is not gonna die a virgin.”

“I’m not a virgin.”

“At this point, you’ve become one again.”

“Just because I don’t get laid every week doesn’t mean I’m a virgin again.”

“Alright, but do you ever get laid?”

“Well. Let’s stick to business.” Pedri laughs, but it’s true. He doesn’t remember the last time he shared a bed with someone. Maybe that one girl he met when Ferran took him clubbing, and that was for sure at least over eight months ago. He doesn’t really mind. If he’s feeling horny he can just jerk off, and he doesn’t feel like bringing someone into his life emotionally. Not with the way he lives, always chasing danger into the unknown. And, to be brutally honest, Pedri just gets bored of everything, including people, very easily. None of it would be fair with the other person. 

“Alright.” Fermín chuckles. “I’ll let you know once I have information on this.”

“Awesome. Thanks, Fermín.”

“Her name is Daniela, she’s a twenty eight year old woman who is the daughter of the owner of one of the companies that hosted the party,” Eric states as they stop the car by the witness’ house, protected by high brick walls and grid gates with a fancy design, something from the 1600s, if Pedri still remembers that kind of thing from the History classes he took in highschool.

Eric rings the intercom and tells the doorman they’re from CNI and they’re here to interview Daniela, as scheduled. He asks them to wait for a few minutes before opening the gates.

They drive through a path towards the house, in the middle of a beautiful garden. It is well taken care of, with flowers of all types, from carnations to azaleas to dahlias to sunflowers. It’s a pretty environment, Pedri would enjoy living there. The house’s gigantic. An old mansion in the middle of the woods. It has dozens of windows and the door is wide. 

When they step out of the car, there’s a butler waiting for them. He guides them inside, which is no less fancy with the blood-red carpet, high columns and aristocratic paintings, and takes them to a giant room upstairs with an empty dinner table where they are offered drinks. Eric gets some whiskey, Pedri plays it safe with sparkling water.

Daniela arrives shortly after. She’s tall and blonde, and wears a business casual outfit that shows she’s about to head off for work. “Hello.” She greets them. “I am Daniela, nice to meet you. I hope you’ve been treated well here. The weather is very nice today, isn’t it?” 

“Indeed. It’s my favorite. Not too cold, not too warm,” Eric chuckles, Pedri nods with a smile that he hopes isn’t too fake. He gets why Flick despises small talk. It's so pointless. Just go straight to the freaking point. “I’m Eric, this is Pedri, we’re from the CNI, and, as you know, we're investigating Kylian Mbappé's passing and we’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Alright.” She smiles and sits down.

“To start, can you tell us more about your relationship with Kylian?”

“Well, we didn’t know each other much. I used to hear on the news about him. I know from my dad that his group was trying to make some big moves on the market. But I don’t directly deal with that kind of thing so I wasn’t really involved with him.”

“I see.” Eric replies, Pedri takes notes. “So, did you see him at the party?”

“I did. A few minutes before people started asking where he went. I was near the bar and he was there, too. He was… Weird, to say the least. Kept checking his phone, he seemed tense, I saw he wasn’t really enjoying the vibes. I thought it was just business getting to his head, because that kind of thing happens, you know. But then he left his drink on the counter, almost untouched, I think. I saw him heading towards the restrooms. Then, he vanished.”

“And did you notice anything else unusual? With Kylian, or in the party?”

“Well, yeah. Security was looser than usual. Like, some of the regular guys weren’t there. And I noticed one of the cameras near the restrooms wasn’t working. And there was… There was a guy that no one really knew. Someone said it was the new bartender and it was a last-minute replacement. He looked young, way too young to be working there. And he stayed there for a very short period of time. Someone else took his place shortly after.”

“Did you see him talking to Kylian?”

“No. But I think he was the one on the counter when Kylian got the drink.”

“Could you describe him physically?”

“Not very tall, brown haired. He looked cute. I couldn’t really see from afar. But, yeah, one of my dad’s associates is from Poland and he said they talked and the guy knew some Polish. Don’t know if that helps, but.”

It is all so intriguing. How did he manage to turn off the camera in between drugging and kidnapping Kylian? Maybe he is just that much of a sneaky genius, a tech master, even. But that doesn’t explain how security was loose. He must have had a team backing him up, maybe he works for someone else. Someone powerful. And the Polish thing is just another piece on the puzzle. It says nothing by itself, but, if gathered together with more information, it could mean something. 

Eric and Daniela talk for a bit more before he and Pedri leave Daniela’s house. Pedri should feel relieved, this is the most information they’ve got in days. But there’s this feeling punching him to the gut that says this killer is still very much unattainable. 

Not for long, though. Pedri is determined to understand him, to stop him. Whatever it takes.

The office has been doing what they can. Eric has been back and forth interviewing witnesses, Ferran is in constant contact with the Interpol and other associations, Fermín has been trying his best with the samples he has. Rapha has been looking for more digital footprints of the alleged killer. Flick is trying to prevent everyone from going crazy.

Pedri won't admit it, but he kind of is.

He’s not used to this. To not have answers delivered to him very soon because he’s just clever like that. Time is ticking and he still has so much to work on, has to trace the lines of a face he sometimes dreams about, a brain he has no clue about. And he despises not knowing things. If he doesn’t, who is going to do it for him?

Pedri usually tries to separate his personal and professional environments. But, these days, he can’t think of anything else but the killer. Even when he’s home trying to chill to some Netflix or football he thinks of polaroids and sprinkles on frappes and knowing Polish and eyes that were out of this world.

It’s one of those days. Instead of resting, he’s on his bed at two in the morning, going through the CNI database trying to figure things out. He’s almost falling asleep on his laptop and he hasn't found anything he can work with. He is on the verge of giving up for the time being, for he feels like this is all pointless work.

He didn’t expect to get a call from Fermín at that time, but maybe the blond knows that, at this point, everyone in the office would pick up the phone this late if it meant getting closer to the assassin that has been chasing them in feverish dreams.

"Hey, what's up?"

“Hey, Pedri, sorry, it’s really late. But I have something. I’m in the lab right now, Rapha left a bit ago. But we are very sure that those two pictures were taken using the same camera.”

“Fuck. This is great. Okay. Fuck, it’s amazing. We’ll talk about it tomorrow in the office. Thank you,  Fermín. Really. Thank Rapha for me as well.”

Fermín says he’s got to go home and hangs up. Pedri almost jumps out of his bed straight to his fridge to grab his bottle of vodka and drink a few shots with bliss. Maybe this case has been hard, but it’s making him euphoric, it’s been a while since he’s felt like this. So light yet full of energy, ready to explode. 

But he knows it’s not the time to let that feeling sink in. It’s not enough. He wants more.

Drunk in the motivation that Fermín’s finding gave him, Pedri goes through the online archives at a faster pace now. He’s so sure Kylian and Karim share a killer and he is a bit childish and a wannabe photographer. And, whoever this person is, he’s not a rookie, so he couldn’t have come from nowhere. He has to have some sort of record, at least.

Half an hour after Fermín hangs up, Pedri finds something.

It’s the criminal record of a guy named Pablo. He was involved in cases of theft and physical violence when he was fifteen, and has bunch of other serious infractions starting from that point. The last thing in the list is that he went to jail in Spain for qualified murder, but escaped around a year ago and hasn’t been seen ever since. His record hasn’t been updated beyond that. 

There’s some other personal stuff, too. His parents died in a plane crash when he was very young. He lived in a foster home. Went to a juvenile facility for young criminals in Spain. Attended a private rehab institution in Poland for a few months.

Poland.

Pedri’s heart races at that and he feels every drop of the flaming adrenaline rushing through his veins. Whoever this Pablo guy is, he might actually be the killer Pedri has been dying to know about. And he feels an urge to find him that’s borderline biological.

Chapter Text

“Fermín confirmed it.” Pedri slides forward the two polaroids. “Same pressure marks, same roller pattern, same chemical distortion along the edges. And Rapha traced the film batch to a black-market seller in Sevilla. It’s the same for both. The polaroids were taken with the same camera.”

Flick leans towards his desk and looks at the two pictures. “Tell Ferran to contact the police of Monaco and tell them I’ll be in contact shortly. Good job, Pedri. I should’ve listened to you at first.” He smiles. Something sharp makes Pedri’s stomach sting and he knows it’s claws of the monster of academic and professional validation that hides within him, happy that it’s being fed. “Tell me, what else did you find?” Flick doesn’t sound defeated, he never does. He’s humble enough to admit when he’s mistaken, and he is never unsettled by pride. Pedri learns a lot from him even when he’s wrong.

“I found the criminal record of a guy that has some eerie similarities to the killer we’re looking for,” Pedri says. “Pablo Martín, that’s how he’s called.”

“Pablo Martín?” Flick squints and scratches his stubble like he does when he’s thinking.

“Do you know him? I was hoping you had some info on him, since the CNI has investigated him before.”

“It’s not an unfamiliar name.” Flick turns to his laptop and starts typing. “Huh.” He raises his eyebrows. “This guy?”

Flick turns the laptop to Pedri and there it is, a mugshot of Pablo. Pedri’s eyes first drop down to the sign in his hands— PÁEZ, Pablo Martín. 5’8, 1.73m, DOB: 05/08/2004. The info matches with what Pedri saw on his record.

Except on the record Pablo’s picture was tiny, lost on a small rectangular on the corner of Pedri’s laptop screen, so he didn’t pay much mind to it. Now Pedri’s met with a face that makes his spine shiver. Eyebrows thick and slightly raised like a child who begs for mercy, Pedri can picture the pout of a toddler on the guy’s face. Although his mouth is closed, lips perfectly aligned. His glare is so sharp that Pedri bets he could kill just by staring. And the dark circles underneath are deep, enough to hide gallons of blood, decades worth of criminal secrets and maybe some pain.

“It’s him.” Pedri says. He’s sure not only because, logically, considering the information he is given, it is very unlikely that the polaroid killer would be anyone else. He’s sure because he feels so. 

“There was a whole CNI investigation on him a couple years back, shortly before you were hired. My colleagues from another office tracked him down and arrested him,” Flick says. “He was the devil incarnate. Killed five people by the time he was seventeen. Such a talented little demon. Investigation says that The Six hired him as a hitman.”

“The Six?”

“They are a mafia-style organization that used to terrorize Europe. Started by six inmates in a Barcelona prison back in the eighties. They grew fast, spread all over the continent. I spent the early part of my career tracking down their agents.” He lets out a half-smile, then looks down. The memory seems bittersweet. “I was part of the main operation that nearly wiped them out, thousands arrested in just a few months. We hoped it would be over, but we knew they would come back. A few years ago, they quietly started rebuilding. Recruiting kids like Pablo.”

“Where is he now? Any idea? It seems like he vanished.”

“I know he escaped prison, The Six probably pulled their strings. If I were to take a guess, I’d say he goes by a different name now, that’s why people can’t find him. I've seen it happen.”

“We have to find him and stop him. Who knows who’s gonna be next on his list? If he’s a hitman of The Six, then I don’t think he will take long to kill someone again.”

“This is true,” Flick says, taking a sip of his cup of coffee. “I’ll ask Ferran to make sure all the CNI unities are aware of the case. We’ll move fast. I need you to update his behavioral profile, narrow down his movement pattern, and cross-reference any known aliases with recent travel logs.”

“Got it. I’ll get right on it.”

He looks at the screen of Flick’s laptop again. The picture of Pablo twists his stomach like he is being poisoned, like he’s the next victim on the list. 

Pedri doesn’t remember the last time he took a picture of himself with a polaroid. He wonders how it would feel like to take one right now—or to have one taken.

On the same day, with the help of Rapha’s tech skills and Ferran’s networking abilities, Pedri quickly tracks down key places where he could get useful information on Pablo. The foster home he grew up in, the schools he attended, the juvenile facility he went to. 

They can’t find the exact location of the rehab institution in Poland right away, which is intriguing—Rapha and Ferran suggest it’s probably associated with The Six. Rapha says he’ll do some deeper web search to decode the location, and Ferran will be in contact with Polish officials to get more information.

For now, Pedri decides to visit the foster home Pablo grew up in, in Sevilla. Ferran gets in contact with one of their partner airline companies and rents him a private jet. He goes alone, Eric’s busy with a different case.

The place looks abandoned. The gate hangs crooked on rusted hinges, and the sign out front, once painted with cheerful cartoon animals, is faded and chipped beyond recognition. Weeds push up through the cracked pavement, and the windows are either barred or clouded with dust. Pedri even wonders if it’s still open, but he doubts it ever looked good. He wouldn’t want to live in a place like this.

The smells of old paper and cleaning fluids welcome him as soon as he enters. The painting on the walls is almost entirely peeled off and he can see the mold growing from near the wooden floor. There are a few hallways and most of the doors are shut, their labels either missing or scratched out. The place is a lot quieter than he expected, too quiet for somewhere children are meant to live. No laughter, no footsteps, not even the hum of a television playing some random cartoon. Just the distant drip of a leaky pipe and the soft creak of the floor beneath Pedri’s shoes. It feels less like a home and more like a place that’s been waiting to be forgotten.

A very young lady approaches him, and he only gets aware of her proximity when she touches his shoulder. He jolts. “Hi, sir. Sorry. Are you looking for something? Or someone?” She asks, her voice is really soft, barely louder than a whisper. She’s wearing a blue dress, a white apron and she holds a broom.

“Actually, yes. Nice to meet you, my name’s Pedri. I’m from the CNI.” He shows his ID, trying not to shake too much. He’s a grown man, he shouldn’t be scared of some field work. But he’s definitely not used to this. Unlike Eric, he’s for the office. But he’s trying his best. “I was wondering if there’s someone I could talk to about a kid that lived here until around five years ago. I am conducting some investigation on this person and this could come in handy.”

The young lady looks at him as if Pedri has just said something absurd, but her expression then softens. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir. No one that works here has been here for longer than two or three years. It’s not a very nice work environment,” she chuckles, then looks at the floor. “If you saw the kids, you’d understand.”

“I can imagine,” he smiles understandingly. He pictures Pablo as a child running from the caretakers down the hallways after trying to kill another kid. “Well. Do you think I can get some information on him, at least? I’m assuming you have some sort of database.”

“Yeah,” she hesitates. “That I can try to do. We’re short staffed today but I believe working out an old computer shouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” she chuckles. 

Pedri follows her to the main desk, it’s full of dust and piles of folders and papers, a small printer lost in the mess. She sits down and starts typing on the computer, it does look old. Rapha would be the person to tell what model that was and when it was fabricated, but Pedri doubts it is younger than ten years. “What’s his name?” She asks.

“Pablo Martín.”

She types on the computer for a couple of minutes and prints out some sheets of paper. She staples them and gives them to Pedri with a restrained smile. “Here, I hope this is who you’re looking for.”

“Thanks, miss. This is really helpful. Have a great day.”

“You too.”

On the corner of the first sheet of the document in Pedri’s hands, he’s met with the same haunting eyes he saw on Flick’s laptop earlier that day. Except now they’re much younger. Pablo has always been corrupted, apparently, but there’s something in that picture of his child self, around eight years of age, that makes Pedri feel much more uneasy about him. Maybe it’s how much smaller his face looks. Maybe it’s his crooked teeth. Maybe it’s the remnants of innocence in his eyes. 

The document doesn’t say much beyond what Pedri already knows—lots of notes about his upbringing and bad behavior. But it says he has a sister, something Pedri was not aware of. He makes a quick call back to the office and in the span of a few minutes Rapha locates her. Her name is Aurora, and she lives by herself in a small house in a quiet neighbourhood in Sevilla, not too far from the foster home, so Pedri decides to take a taxi there. It is not a planned trip, and he doesn’t know if it’s safe to do so. So he doesn’t tell Flick about it right away.

Pedri knocks at her door. He meets a blonde young girl, probably in her twenties, wearing jeans, a white shirt, an unbuttoned blazer. She’s smoking a cigarrete and has her hair up in a messy bun. “Yes?”

“Hi, I’m sorry to bother… My name’s Pedri." He shows the ID. “I’m an agent of the CNI and I wanted to ask you a couple of questions…”

“Is this about my brother again?” 

Pedri widens his eyes. “How did you know?”

She chuckles, pushing the smoke of her cigarette out. “You know, having a problematic brother often puts you into situations like these. I got used to police officers knocking at my door, even though I haven’t had anything to do with that little fucker for a long time.” She says nonchalantly. Pedri can’t tell if that’s sibling banter, like he does with Fernando, or if it’s a scar that she carries. “If you wanna talk, come on in. But, please, be quick. I have something at seven and I gotta get ready.”

Aurora makes way for Pedri to enter the house. It’s almost as small as Pedri’s apartment, but messier. There’s clothes, shoes, magazines, plates, boxes of cigarretes, cans of beer and everything everywhere. She slumps against her couch, there’s a cooking reality show being aired on the TV. Pedri hesitates. He has to carefully remove a take-out box from the armchair beside Aurora before sitting down.

“So. Who did he kill this time? I hope it’s one of those monarchic fuckers.”

“We’re still investigating some of the assassinations we suspect he’s been involved in. But we need to find him first.”

She laughs bitterly. “Good luck. I’ve tried to do so my entire life.”

“I’m assuming your relationship with your brother isn’t one of the best.”

“It’s complicated.” She stops for a bit. Sighs. “After mom and dad died, it was just the two of us. I was trying my best to keep everything together, including myself, and I promised him to get a job and get us out of that foster home. But he was always in his own stupid little world and I don’t think I was ever part of it. Do you know how I felt when the ladies at the foster home called me in the middle of the night because he had tried to suffocate one of his roommates to death with a pillow? Do you know how guilty I felt because my brother did such a thing?”

“Do you think you know why he would do that?”

“I have no fucking clue. His way of coping, maybe. I was much more of the silent grieving type, but he was too different. Making sure everyone was miserable just because he was. Or maybe he just wanted attention. He needed it way more than me. Always did. He had a lot of hobbies and all of them involved getting people’s attention.”

“What type of hobbies did he have?”

“He did a lot of things. He used to play pretend even when he was already a teenager, and his characters were always so out there, always the villains that would fuck the others up in the stories he made. He used to play football with the other kids and make some very aggressive fouls that would get the caretakers to reprimand him. But what he did the most was take photos.”

A siren sounds inside Pedri’s head. 

“He was really smart,” Aurora continues, “he found a digicam in our basement and he fixed it by himself. He used to take photos of everything, print them and spread them around the house just to annoy people. He did it with me, a couple times. I would wake up and there would be a photo of me sleeping with my mouth open on the bulletin board on the hallway.” 

“How did the people in the foster home deal with all of this?”

“The other kids feared him, some admired him. The caretakers couldn’t stop him, he was so irreverent. Never took any orders, did what he wanted. Never followed curfew, got into fights pretty often. I overheard a few conversations saying they were considering transferring him to an institute for bad behaved kids. It didn’t happen until he was fifteen.” She stops. “Until he stabbed one of boys in the eye with a pencil. It was terrible. The kid was screaming in the middle of the night, blood everywhere like he'd been killed.”

“Why did Pablo do that?”

“The other guy was gonna get adopted soon. And he teased Pablo about it the day before, saying no one would want him because he was a monster. He kind of deserved to be stabbed, to be honest.” She shrugs. “But after that things only went downhill. Pablo got transferred to a juvenile facility for young criminals. And then I stopped seeing him, for good. Only heard about him on the news. And from cops who tried to interview me anytime they could." She looks at Pedri. "Don’t take it personally. You get used to it, as I told you.”

Pedri can now understand why Pablo is the way he is, and he feels insanely bad for Aurora. For both of them. “Thanks for sharing all of that. I don’t wanna take much more of your time. Do you think you have anything else that could help me find him?”

“Are you gonna kill Pablo?”

“No, I don’t plan to do so. I just wanna stop him from killing others.”

“Good.” She nods. She stands, grabs a folded note from a box on top of the fridge. “Here. He sent me this note on the mail after he left jail. That’s all I know from him now. You can take it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I don’t mind. Just don’t kill him, please. I still have hopes that he can become a better person. It’s pointless, but don’t blame a sister for dreaming.” Beneath the nonchalance she displays, Pedri can see the sorrow of a caring sister through her opaque eyes, one blue, one green. 

Pedri smiles and thanks her a million times before leaving, trying to show compassion after hearing that story that’s so hard to swallow. 

He opens the note in the taxi while on the way back to the airport to board the jet again.

“Aurora,

It’s me, your brother. In case you really need to see me, I will be living in Barcelona under a different name. I know you will be able to find me. But please don’t come after me unless it’s extremely necessary. I don’t want to get you involved in this and, if I try to explain it, you will already be.

Cheers,

Gavi”.

“I asked for half sugar, they messed up my order again.” Lewandowski complains. “Remind me we should go to another café next time.”

“Noted.” Gavi takes a sip of his frappe. He could never complain about the amount of sugar in his drinks. Only if it’s too little. He’s going to say something about it but gets distracted seeing a stray dog on the street outside. “I kinda want a pet.”

“What type of pet?”

“A snake.”

“A snake?” He chuckles. “Venomous?”

“No. A python. They kill by constriction. That’s much cooler.” 

“So, you want a new weapon. Not a pet.”

“No. I don’t wanna use it to kill people. But it wouldn’t stop it from doing so, if it wanted.” He looks outside again, there’s a couple arguing across the street, near a bus stop. He imagines a python wrapping around the guy and tightening its grip until his body’s crushed and his guts jump outside through every possible cavities. “So. What else is new?”

“Not a lot. I might buy a new car. And I got an allergy from that fish dish I had for lunch a couple days ago.” Lewandowski takes a sip of his cappuccino. “And, oh yeah. There’s a guy in the CNI who won’t give up on finding you.”

Gavi frowns his eyebrows. “What?”

“He went to your foster home in Sevilla. And he even talked to your sister.”

Gavi shivers. There’s nothing in life that unsettles him as much as the foster home he grew up in and anything that has to do with his family. Somehow, this asshole in the CNI he doesn’t even know has managed to strike him with two bullets at once.

“What’s his name?” 

“Pedri González.”

Gavi laughs. The name sounds funny in his head, for some reason. “And what does this fucker want from me?”

“You should actually be concerned. If you get remotely close to being caught, The Six are going to put you on compulsory vacation. They might even kick you out. It’s serious.”

“I won’t stop just because a stupid wanna be detective thinks he can outsmart me.” Or mess with my personal life, he thinks. “I want to continue with this. And I will.”

“I don’t wanna have to warn you again.” Lewandowski takes another sip of his drink, his blue eyes always knifelike. “Please.”

Gavi can’t lose control. He never does. He wants to explode right now but has to keep calm. He has learned to use killing as a tool and not merely a wrath response like he used to do when he was younger. 

But, right now, he wants to kill this Pedri guy.

Chapter Text

Gavi didn’t have much to pack for Berlin, he never does. His life is as volatile and explosive as gasoline so he never settles down anywhere. Therefore, he’s learned to not keep a lot of stuff because it’s more convenient to move when he doesn’t have much to take. Now, he’s at the station, his train is late. He’s bought a pack of churros with hot chocolate to make the wait less insufferable. 

He watches people as they go to and fro on the platform. He doesn’t care where they are going, for the mere idea of travelling with my two children or moving to Germany to start my new office job makes him want to throw up with boredom. But it’s interesting to think about the secrets they have to hide in their fucked up minds. He’s sure that, for example, everyone there has thought about pulling the trigger on someone at least once. Yet not everyone has had the courage to do so. That’s what makes Gavi different.

But now he doesn’t feel like a swift killer, very well known among different mafia organizations who would pay millions to have him as an associate. Instead he feels weird, unsettled, small like the toddler he was never allowed to be.

There’s one thing on his mind that is making him feel like that.

Pedri González.

The name is like a piece of gum of a flavor Gavi doesn’t like, it has a weird taste but he keeps chewing it for some reason. He can’t swallow it, but he also doesn’t want to spit it out.

Gavi has been investigated before, that’s what his life has been about since his fingers touched a gun for the first time, years before he was even allowed to touch a steering wheel or a can of beer. Being chased is a part of who he is, who he chose to be. He’s used to it. 

But now he feels, more than ever, that it has got to a personal level. Gavi should've got close to getting away with the deaths of Kylian and Karim, given the fake clues The Six implanted to incriminate other people for them. But there's this stupid guy who apparently doesn't give a fuck about this and didn't give up on finding Gavi. 

Pedri is clearly very obsessed with him. Well, Gavi doesn't blame him. He knows he has a mesmerizing ability to captivate some poor souls here and there, no wonder why he’s had countless people who’d kill millions to destroy him or even have him, including people within The Six or the police. 

Most of them can't find Gavi’s weakest points and use them to their favors, but some of them have been able to trigger that ache that never leaves the depths of his heart. And that's where Gavi draws the line, that’s the only thing that scares him, that can wreck him, that can put him in jail, for example. And he isn't letting it happen again. 

On the train, Gavi picks up his laptop—he’s filled it with Barça stickers—to try to find something about this Pedri González guy. He lives a low-profile life, which is expected, so it's hard to find stuff about him on the surface level of the internet. But Gavi’s had some deep and dark web tech lessons with The Six, so he finds Pedri is an analyst who has worked in the CNI for a few years. He's graduated with honors and has won awards for his services and this and that and blah, blah, blah. That doesn't impress Gavi. He could do the same if pretending to be one of good guys—fucking hypocrites, always trading one killer for another if it makes them look smarter—wasn't so fucking boring.

But Gavi finds an old recording in the University of Barcelona’s archive where Pedri, freshly decorated, gives a forty minute talk on “the psychology of killing”.

Gavi plays the video. Pedri is an attractive guy, he has some distinctive features like his nose and eyebrows. Gavi watches as he yaps about some things he couldn't care less about. He skips some parts that he finds are just boring theory, trying to find something interesting about Pedri. He's failing so far.

But then he gets to a part where Pedri starts talking about theatricality on political assassination. For some reason, that deeply resonates with Gavi. The next few minutes pass in the blink of an eye while he is focused on the talk.

There's a passage from Pedri that really, really unsettles him.

“If a killer wants to disappear, he leaves no trace. But if he wants to be remembered, he curates the scene. It’s not just about violence. That’s his own twisted form of art.”

Gavi pauses. Rewinds. Watches it again.

“It’s not just about violence. That's his own twisted form of art.”

His body trembles lightly, akin to a shiver.

Since he agrees that what Gavi does is art, the little fucker isn't going to mind some performance, is he? So that's what he is going to get.

Gavi wants to make a bold stance, but he also can’t get caught. He can do it. He can outsmart Pedri. 

Outside, the sun is setting and it starts to rain. Gavi leans his head against the window and reviews his killing plan in his mind a few more times, making some changes here and there before falling asleep. 

He dreams he’s a plane pilot and Pedri’s one of the passengers; he crashes the plane intentionally and both die.

Gavi portrays himself as a student from Andalusia who’s graduating in Government and Economics in the University of Berlin and is at the headquarters of the Konrad-Adenauer-Stiftung, a political party foundation, for an internship. He just needed the doe-eyes of a gullible young adult, a fancy suit and a flawless German—he’s been practicing—with a strong Spanish accent to infiltrate himself. 

He won't admit it, but his main way of preparing himself for this role was watching Pedri’s nerdy speeches.

He infiltrated himself into a meeting with a bunch of politicians. It is just as annoying as Gavi thought it would be—just a bunch of guys in suits talking about guns and investments and geopolitical strategies and everything else that's ruining every country, yet they still pretend they're planning on doing something good with all of this. 

As soon as the meeting ends, Gavi waits for everyone to leave and goes to talk to Toni Kroos. From what Gavi knows, he’s an associate of Konrad-Adenauer and has been involved in some very shady economic deals with Die Asche, the mafia organization that rules Germany. See. Those guys are all hypocrites. Kroos is supposed to work for the wellness of his country, yet the only difference between him and Gavi is that Gavi is not afraid of being his true, disgusting self. 

The Six want him dead because Die Asche are their biggest rivals, and, with Kroos’ assistance, they are growing exponentially across Europe. And Gavi has an even more urgent demand—he will go shopping in Paris, Chanel has released this new cologne and he needs to have it. So, he’s here to end the life of a charlatan and get his money to spoil himself because he deserves it. It’s a win-win situation.

“Mr. Kroos? Can I talk to you for a second?” Gavi asks. “I’m a student at the University of Berlin and I wanted–”

“Look, kid. I have another meeting on the other side of town in an hour.” Kroos is packing his stuff inside the suitcase, he doesn't even look at Gavi. Fucking asshole, he really deserves to die. “I have to–”

“I promise it won’t take much of your time. I am a big fan of your work, I even wrote an essay on you that got me into college,” he chuckles. He doesn’t get why people feel so bad for lying—it’s so easy and fun. “Please.”

Kroos looks at him over his glasses and analyzes him, drawing his glance up and down. “What do you want?”

“I started my internship here today and I was wondering if you could give me some tips on how to apply game theory in real negotiations. Someone said you explained it brilliantly during a summit last year, I’m so sad I couldn’t come, had this paper due, you know. But it would be a pleasure to hear it from you now.”

Kroos frowns his eyebrows initially, but his face softens. “Sure, we can talk about that. But briefly. I don’t have much time.”

“I promise it won’t take longer than five minutes. Thank you, Mr. Kroos, this means the world to me,” he smiles. He shakes his hands a little, pretending to be anxious. He opens his brown leather laptop bag. “Oh, I am so clumsy. I left my laptop upstairs. Would you mind stopping there with me for a second? I wanted to take some notes.”

Kroos sighs, looking at his watch again. “Okay. But this can’t take longer than ten minutes.”

They walk outside and down the hallways of the building, Gavi asks him a question or two about one of his hypothetical Government classes to make the lie more convincing. Kroos seems to fall for the narrative.

When they approach the elevator Toni asks, “why do you carry a camera with you?”

“It’s one of my hobbies,” Gavi promptly replies, touching the polaroid hanging on his neck. “I like to register the moments that matter the most to me. Being here is a pleasure, so I like to make sure I’ll remember everything.”

Kroos nods. He smiles for the first time since Gavi’s seen him, but the blond doesn’t say anything. 

The elevator opens and they both enter. But it doesn’t take long until the naive student, who probably struggles to pay rent yet is more worried about his exams, dies, and Gavi then comes to life.

Gavi suddenly grabs Kroos by his black tie and runs outside the elevator, holding Kroos near the door right before it closes. He makes sure to cover his mouth so he doesn’t scream—Toni bites his hand and tries to let go, but Gavi holds on until the door closes and the elevator takes off, with Kroos’ tie stuck to the door. The tie tugs tighter with every second, the elevator rising like a guillotine. Gavi hears Toni’s muffled screams until he stops breathing, strangled inside.

Before leaving, Gavi picks the camera up and takes a photo of the closed elevator, the tie stuck between the two doors. He thinks about passing the photo through the slit and leaving it there; but, this time, he doesn’t. He puts it in his own pocket and leaves the building swiftly.

The news headline that Ferran shows Pedri during their lunch break hits him like an electric shock. German Politician Toni Kroos Dead at 35, Presumably Suicide.

“You think it was suicide?” Ferran asks.

“No.” Pedri replies. “A man like Kroos would’ve overdosed in his hella expensive bathtub or jumped in front of a train before work or whatever. Not this, unless he really wanted to make a stance. Otherwise, someone did this to him.”

“Someone meaning–”

“Gavi.”

“You think so?”

“This is very theatrical,” he takes a bite of his bagel. “It’s something he would do.”

“You’re talking as if you know him personally.” Ferran chuckles.

“I don’t. But I know his modus operandi. I’ve been studying it for weeks.”

“You need a break.”

“I’ll take a break once Gavi’s in jail.”

“Okay, stubborn. What are your next steps, then?”

“Rapha gathered information on three guys in the penitentiary that Gavi was in that used to be associated with him. We can try to talk to them and see what we get. Me, you and Eric.”

Ferran squints. “Who are the guys?”

“Two guys who used to work with him in The Six. And one guy he was close with in jail.”

“Interesting.”

“What do you think? Do you think you can try to get us to talk to these guys?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

Pedri smiles. “Awesome.”

The two guys formerly associated with The Six don’t have much to say about Gavi. But Pedri knows how those things work—if they end up disclosing information about one of their colleagues, someone within the mafia may kill them, so he doesn’t insist much. He knows it's dangerous for both parties.

The interrogatory room has gray walls, a blacked out window and a table in the middle with two chairs on opposite sides, Pedri is sitting on one of them. He thinks it’s too cold there, the AC is really strong.

“Who’s next?” Eric asks. 

Pedri glances down at the clipboard on the table, he has notes on each one of the three guys there. “Héctor Fort. Got arrested for being part of a drug trafficking scheme. He used to be close to Gavi.”

Ferran enters again, Héctor walks behind him. He has dark and thick curls and looks really young, the softness of his skin and the slimness of his body show no signs of aging. But the scars, the tattoos, the handcuffs and the orange clothing show he’s been through a lot in his short lifetime. He looks around hesitantly before entering.

“Hello, Héctor. I’m Pedri, this is Ferran and this is Eric. We’re conducting an investigation and we need to talk to you about a couple things–”

“What’s this about?” He slumps into the chair, looking down to his handcuffs. “I don’t owe anything to anyone.”

“This isn’t really about you,” Pedri continues. “We’re here because we want to talk about Pablo Páez. Or Gavi, however you know him as. You know him, right?”

Héctor frowns, and his dark eyes find Pedri. His glance finds Ferran, Eric and lands on Pedri again. “That fucker?” He chuckles bitterly. “I haven’t heard from him in a long time. I have nothing to do with him anymore. If that’s what you wanna know.”

“Can you tell us more about your relationship with him?”

“I loved him, okay?” He shoots, leaning aggressively towards the table. “He promised to get me out of jail, told me he knew people inside and outside here. Then he fucking left without me. Fucking bastard. He deserves to burn in hell.”

“Do you know who took him out of here?” Eric asks.

“A guy in The Six. His name was Lewandowski, it was his mentor during the time he spent in Poland or some shit like that. He told me Lewandowski was gonna take both of us out of here. But he lied to me. About everything. He said he loved me, too. And I believed it because he was so, so convincing. He even told me about this one guy he fell in love with, who had deceived him, how he’d never do anything of the kind to anyone else.”

“Who’s this guy who deceived him? Is he also here?” Ferran questions.

“No. I don’t know much about him. He just said that he’d trusted him and that he ended up in jail because of him. He promised me he was different. Then I woke up one day and he was gone. After everything, I– I don’t know. I thought I finally had something to believe in.”

“We want justice to be made, okay? We want him in jail.” Pedri states fiercely. “Do you think you could help us find him?”

“I don’t know. He can be anywhere. Everywhere, yeah. He’s where The Six need him to be. But– I know people here. Who can help you guys find him. I can try to find out more about where he’s now. But God knows what The Six are going to try to do to me if they find out I’m cooperating with the police against their freaking little jewel. I just need protection, but I think I can help. I’d do anything to see this fucker rot in a cell forever like he deserves.”

“That’d be spectacular.” Pedri states. “We can reduce your time in jail significantly if you cooperate with us.”

“Really?” His eyes widen. “Well, I– I can definitely try, then. I promise. I can tell you everything I find out about this asshole.”

“You just need to trust us, but we also have to be able to trust you. It’s a process.”

He licks his lips, ponders for a bit. “I’m down.”

“Perfect.” Pedri smiles with satisfaction. “You were of great help. We’ll keep contact.”

Before Héctor leaves with the jailer that has come to pick him up, he turns back. “Uh, Pedri?”

“Yeah?”

“Just, uh, just be careful with him. He’s really smart. It won’t be easy to chase him. He can get you good.”

Pedri looks at Héctor with both empathy and curiosity, an eager to know more about Gavi that’s been eating him up. “Thank you, Héctor.”

“Reduce the guy’s time in jail?” Eric says, there’s worry in his voice. “Does Flick know anything about this?”

“No,” Pedri replies from the backseat. “But we can pull some strings. C’mon, this is an important matter. Héctor can really help us.”

“Are you sure trusting a drug dealer is the best thing we can do right now?” Ferran questions. “I’d never mistrust you, Pedri, but don’t you think this is going a little too far?”

“It’s okay, really. Héctor needs revenge. He’ll do anything to see Gavi’s downfall, so he’ll help us, for sure.”

Eric and Ferran go silent, they don’t seem to trust him a lot on the matter. But Pedri knows what he is doing.

Eric drives by Pedri’s building and he leaves the car. The night is chiller than usual, Pedri just wants to get warm in the comfort of his apartment with no worries for at least a couple of hours. But Gavi’s been corroding his brain like a caterpillar eats a leaf, so Pedri knows he won’t get rest.

What is Gavi about, even? A cold-blooded killer? An artist? A deceiver of hearts? A misunderstood orphan? A human being like him, flaws and all? Pedri doesn’t know what to think anymore.

As he enters, the doorman in duty announces he has a package. It’s a small, white envelope. Pedri finds it weird, his monthly bills have been paid and he isn’t expecting anything.

He waits until he's inside his apartment to open the envelope. His entire body shivers when he sees what’s inside. It’s a polaroid. On the photo, there’s an elevator with something peeking out from the slit between the doors. Pedri assumes it’s a piece of cloth—a black tie.

On the back of the polaroid, there’s something written.  

I know you’re after me :)

Freaking little demon.

Chapter Text

It’s the first time in weeks when Gavi doesn’t have a new assignment right away. He likes to call it the “post rush hour” or “killing intermission”. When a few corpses fall to the ground and the current threats to the demands of The Six are eliminated, everything falls back into business as usual for a while. 

That’s when Gavi loses meaning again. Because if he’s not allowed to pull the trigger, there’s nothing left of him. Well, except for the new Chanel cologne he’s bought. And the limited edition Yves Saint Laurent gray tie with golden prints that can only be seen under sunlight. And the new pair of black and white Dior sneakers. And the brown Chloé glasses he’s wearing right now. And everything else inside his bags for which he’s forgot how much he’s paid. 

Paris is the perfect place to kill the existential dread with fancy clothes and overpriced deserts. Gavi’s been here more than he’s seen his family. He’s been shopping nonstop the past few days, but every time he hears the ring of approved from the credit card machine, he gets bored again.

So he calls the only person in the world who wouldn’t kill him for being the most insufferable piece of human being in the world. Because, with Lewandowski, he is like that all the time, yet he’s somehow still alive.

“Bonjour.”

Lewandowski grunts. “It’s seven in the morning.”

“I said bonjour. Ouh la la, tu es de mauvaise humeur.”

“You’re on break. Why are you calling me?”

He pouts. “Je m'ennuie tellement.”

“If you’re so bored, go buy one of those milkshakes you like. I bet they sell unicorn vomit somewhere there in Paris.”

“You should come here. I’m sitting at a very cool café facing the fucking open sewer that they call a river. The view is beautiful, though. And I have tickets for the PSG match tomorrow. We should go and hate watch.”

“I can’t, Gavi. I have work to do here.”

“Lewy, c’mon.” He pouts. “Let’s watch the game. Please. Please. Please. Please. I’m so bored. And you hate when I’m bored. Right? Don’t make me kill the lady who just served me coffee. She’s so nice, her parents own the place.”

“Gavi–”

“Or the manager at the Chanel store who was two steps away from inviting me to have brunch yesterday. I can go back there as an innocent young boy from Italy who wants to start a fashion business in my hometown,” he says, faking an Italian accent.

“Gavi, for the love of God–”

“And then seduce him so I can poison his drink or some shit like that. I’ll make sure to dose him the right amount so he’ll be still conscious to pay the check before he collapses–”

“ Gavi, come on–”

“Or Pedri.” A lamp lights up above his head. “I could kill Pedri. I’d be more than happy to pull the trigger on him,” he says with a softness on his voice as if that’s a beautiful memory he wants to make. “I know where he lives. It’ll be so easy to cover his apartment in blood and leave like it’s nothing–”

“You’re impossible,” Lewandowski hangs up. He’s clearly annoyed at Gavi. And, when he is, he does everything Gavi wants. 

Gavi smiles. 

Gavi hears a knock on the door of his hotel room. He’s wearing his Barcelona night robe and is doing his skincare, so he hopes it’s important.

His eyes meet Lewandowski’s gun pointed at him when he opens the door. Lewa pulls the trigger, Gavi doesn’t flinch. The noise is startling, but he knows it isn’t loaded.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to get one of those. One of the best in the market, they say.”

“You make me want to quit this job,” the Pole says, putting the gun back in his pocket.

“It’s not like you can,” Gavi chuckles, jumping on his bed again. It’s filled with shopping bags and clothes. “Do you want food? I bought macaroons. But they’re really sweet. I don’t really think you’re gonna like them.” 

“We’re going to the stupid PSG game tomorrow,” he says, entering the room and closing the door. “But then I’ll go back to Spain and you will, too. You’re so lucky I don’t despise you. Found you a task so you’ll stop pestering me. And you better not call me like that again because next time my gun will be actually loaded.”

“A task?” His eyes widen. “But I thought that–”

“Don’t get so excited. You’re not gonna kill anyone.”

Gavi frowns, crossing his arms. He’s genuinely offended. “Then, what’s the point of hiring me?”

“It’s a different thing,” Lewandowski sits on the edge of the bed. He sighs, licking his lips and looking around the room as if trying to find the right words to say. “The Six have been conducting some investigation on La Masia.”

La Masia. The name alone makes Gavi shiver. It’s not like the other open wounds he has; it’s deeper than that. It’s like a grenade that hides beneath his skin. 

“What do they want to do with fucking La Masia again?”

“There are some prisoners there that are being a little rebellious. Leaking information about us to the Interpol. We need to find who those prisoners are and avoid them from going any further–”

“I’m not going back to La Masia,” Gavi exclaims, stuffing his mouth with a macaroon.

“Listen to me. You’re gonna be paid well. The Six are gonna regain their confidence on you. And the CNI can’t catch you if you’re in jail already.”

Gavi looks at Lewandowski like a misbehaved child who’s being sent to boarding school. Because, really, in their world, this is nothing different.

“Do The Six really want me to be an investigator? The only thing I pull is the trigger, and they know it. I’m not gonna do this. They should hire someone else.”

“Okay, then. I’m assuming you prefer playing dress up around Paris and waiting for Pedri to come catch you. I’m not sure The Six will be very happy with it.”

“Okay,” he rolls his eyes, “Fine, but I’m not staying there for more than a couple of weeks. Three is my limit.”

“It depends on how well you do. You just have to find out who’s conspiring against us and report back to me. And you know I trust you to do so gracefully.”

“Fine,” Gavi snorts, eating another macaroon. “Can you get me a Barcelona jersey? If it all goes well.”

“Gavi,” Lewandowski scratches his eyes.

“Do you think Pedri watches football?”

“Can you stop with this Pedri guy?” 

“I should send him a jersey. He’ll learn not to mess with me. Do you not see my vision? See. I can kill some random Barcelona fan and send Pedri the jersey covered in blood with a letter saying you’re next. ”

“I’ll blow your brains out if you do.”

Gavi laughs. “I’m kidding. Do you really think I’d do that?”

“You’re unpredictable. I’ve learned not to make assumptions about you.”

“I don’t know if I should be offended or not.”

“Take it as you wish,” he gets up from the bed. “We’ll leave after the game. Get your stuff ready, I don’t wanna have to say it twice.”

“If you all take too long to pick me up from that stupid jail I’ll find a way to leave by myself.” 

Lewandowski leaves and shuts the door. “I am not kidding,” Gavi screams and sighs. He hopes his message has been delivered.

Gavi spent years in La Masia—it’s a penitentiary sectioned into a place for bad behaved youngsters and a real jail for adults. He remembers both really well. The creaking bunker beds, the lifeless concrete on the walls, the food that tastes like plastic, the people he hates. But all of this gives him a weird sense of security. He recalls La Masia with a twisted fondness because, despite the trauma, that’s the only place in the world where he felt safe. A place where he wasn’t a fish out of water; everyone was equally as fucked up as him. He thinks about it with nostalgia that tastes like poison.

Yet he hates having to go back there. He doesn’t like to be reminded of the crude reality—the fact that the only place where he can belong is La Masia. A prison. A fucking prison.

But if he were to be emotionally weak, he would’ve died in this business a long time ago. He’s a part-time artist; he can turn this mission into a performance. He can be all he wants—a recently jailed former medicine student and gifted child who built a empire of drugs in college, a half-French dude who’s been involved in a money laundry scheme, a dumb rich guy who is involved in his family’s shady deals. 

And at the end of the day, his true self will be revealed and he is going to end the lives of some unlucky prisoners. He knows he’s not supposed to kill anyone now, but The Six know very well he’s a hitman and not simply a freaking detective.

He’ll leave that boring one to Pedri.

“Pedri, I think you should–”

“I knew all along.” Pedri leans toward his desk, his fingers tracing the edges of the polaroid. “Now we know exactly who did this to Kroos and I’m going to prove it–”

“Pedri, no. Screw this,” Ferran takes a step closer, turning Pedri’s revolving chair to face him. “This guy knows where you live. Do you even realize how insane that is?”

“You don’t get it, Ferran.” He stands up. “I’m this close. He made a huge mistake. I can track him down, put him on jail and finally end this once and for all.”

“You’re not thinking clearly. What I see is you falling for a trap.” 

“I’m just doing my job.” 

“ Really?” Ferran grabs one of Pedri’s folders from his table and leafs through it. There’s a lot about Gavi in it. Pictures of him, screenshots of the security camera footage Pedri has available, the polaroids, sheets of paper with endless notes that make zero sense out of context, a deep dive of Pedri’s mind into Gavi’s. “This is not just your job, Pedri. It’s an obsession.”

“I’m not obsessed,” he claims. “I do this for every case and you know it. It makes things easier.”

“Yeah? So you’re telling me every killer you’ve ever studied has emailed you polaroids? He’s targeting you, Pedri.”

Pedri grabs the folder back. “The Six wouldn’t risk targeting a CNI agent right now. It doesn't make strategic sense.”

“Screw strategy. It’s the mafia. He’s a killer, Pedri. You think logic matters to someone who strangles people in elevators and leaves you souvenirs? Listen to me. Both of us know this is not normal, you’re in danger. How long is this going to last? Until you’re fired? Until we have to bury you–”

“I have everything under my control–” 

“Really? Do you?”

He swallows. “I do.”

“Look, I’m not trying to pull rank. I’m your friend. And I’m worried. This isn’t sustainable. You need to step back.”

“Ferran?” Rapha calls. “Can you help me with something here real quick?”

Ferran hesitates to leave, giving Pedri a final concerned look. “Think about what I told you. And please talk to Flick about this.”

Pedri leans back against his chair and lets out a deep sigh. Maybe he’s too far deep into this; he can’t go any further, but going back now is also risky. He’s on a field of land mines and they’re everywhere on his surroundings, waiting for him to step on them.

But he needs time. He just needs time, and soon enough he’ll have everything he needs. Or so he hopes.

Pedri’s brother is in Barcelona for the weekend. Fernando is the bridge that connects him with his old life—warm waters, golden shores, football, videogames, and food that tastes like childhood. The few things in his life that are unchangeable, the safe ground he steps on. He needs it more than ever now.

Pedri and Fernando decide to grab dinner at their favorite place in Barcelona. It’s a quiet, very private restaurant with dim lights which serves some great Catalan food. They order without thinking much—pa amb tomàquet to start, the bread already softening under the crushed tomato and oil by the time it hits the table. Fernando goes for botifarra amb mongetes, a rustic choice that suits him, while Pedri settles on suquet de peix, the saffron-rich broth steaming gently in its clay dish. 

“So, when are you going back home?” Fer asks. “Mom’s preparing a surprise for you.”

Pedri smiles with fondness and honesty. He truly misses his family, it feels like he hasn’t been home in forever. “Not sure yet,” he replies, diving his spoon in the broth. “It’s hard to know when I’m gonna get a break.”

Pedri’s family knows that he works as a detective, but they respect the boundaries he imposes regarding knowing too much about what he does. He doesn’t tell them a lot about it, it’s safer that way. 

But the way he lives never ceases to raise concern among them.

“You need some rest, you know? These past few days we haven’t even been able to talk to you.”

“Is that why you came?” Pedri chuckles. “I bet mom sent you to spy on me. Like she used to do when I’d sneak out on Fridays.”

“Yeah, but the difference is that you used to be at the library ten minutes away, not in the continent, miles away from us doing God knows what,” Fer smiles, but gives him the worried older brother look that Pedri’s used to receiving. “I know your job is hard and all. And I respect you so much for protecting us by not letting us know much about it. But I just… I’m just worried, Pepi. I’m not dumb, you know. I know what you do is risky. And I… God. I don’t even like to think about it.”

“Don’t worry. I know how to take good care of myself. I promise.”

Fernando sighs. “I know you do. It’s just that you’re still my tiny younger brother in my eyes. But you’re a smartass, you can solve any problem,” he smiles. “Well, changing subjects. You didn’t tell me about the girls you’ve been talking to.”

Pedri laughs. “What girls?”

“C’mon,” Fer chuckles. “I’m your brother, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying. I don’t even remember the last time I talked to someone outside of family or work.”

“No one? Really? Well, we need to change that. We’re going out this week.”

“But–”

“We’ve never done this together. Let’s do it. We can have some drinks and see how the night goes. You might get lucky and find a pretty girl. And don’t pull up the I don’t look nice enough card because that’s just false modesty and, bro, you’re gonna be offending both of us. C’mon.”

Pedri rolls his eyes. “Do I have a choice?” 

“No. Invite some of your friends and we’re gonna conquer the streets tomorrow night.”

“Okay. If you say so.” Pedri chuckles. “But I won’t take more than a few drinks.”

Fernando smiles and takes a sip of his wine. “You do you.”

If there’s one thing the two brothers have in common it’s determination—Pedri knows Fernando won’t give up on taking him to a club. And he owes his brother one, anyway. With Pedri always stuck with work, it’s been long since they’ve spent sometime together.

So, he’ll leave his social comfort zone for once. With the amount of stress he’s been having recently, he definitely needs a break.

“Do you still have your console? We can play some games tonight,” Fernando suggests.

“Yeah, that’s a great idea. I’ll stop by the supermarket and we can get some snacks.” 

“Awesome.”

Pedri takes a few turns and enters the supermarket’s parking lot, finding a spot to park the car. “Can you go and grab some stuff in advance? I remembered I have to call my boss. I’ll meet you inside in a second.”

Fernando laughs, shuffling his brother’s hair. “The motherfucking whizz-kid never stops working, does he?”

“I promise it’s the last of the day. Now, go ahead and stop pestering me.”

When Fernando leaves, Pedri lowers the windows to grab some fresh, chilly air—the Canarian in him insists in raising the heater’s temperature to the point it always gets insufferably warm inside. Besides Pedri’s car, there’s only another one five or six spots away from his in the parking lot. The supermarket is about to close; no wonder why it’s so empty. 

He searches for Flick’s number on his phone—Pedri promised he’d call to give him some updates on Gavi’s case, he hopes Flick isn’t bothered by the lateness with which he does so.

He dials and looks outside. As the phone rings, waiting for Flick to pick up on the other side of the line, Pedri’s eyes meet the only other car on the parking lot. It’s dark to tell, but if Pedri had to take a guess he’d say it’s a Porsche Cayenne. 

He takes a few seconds to notice that there’s a man standing there, leaning against the car. He’s looking right in Pedri’s direction, and for a brief moment they make eye contact through the shadows of the night.

“Hello? Pedri?” It’s Ferran who picks up the phone. Pedri must’ve clicked the wrong number, and he’s ready to say so and hang up, but he’s frozen. Frozen in the glare a few meters away from him, unwavering, which seems to see through him with such precision that it reaches his soul. 

Eyes that are out of this world.

It can’t be who he thinks it is. Can it?

“Pedri? Are you there?”

“Hi, uh… Uh… Hi, Ferran…” The man is still staring at him, Pedri also can’t look away. “S-sorry, I meant to call Flick, but… Yeah, I…”

His hair is fluffy and his eyebrows are thick like Gavi’s—Pedri’s mind has to be making things up. He can’t really outline the rest of his features because of the lack of light but Pedri can swear he sees a smirk forming on the guy’s face. It makes him want to throw up all the dinner he’s just had.

“Are you okay, Pedri?”

No. Fuck, no. I’m staring at my killer. Or maybe it’s a ghost my mind’s making up. Either way, does it sound like I’m fucking okay?

“Yes, I… I’m with my brother and…” Pedri looks at the supermarket’s entrance. If he screams for help, will Fernando listen from inside? “He’s... Spending the weekend here. He, uh… Wants to go out with me tomorrow. Like, you know, to a club. You should... You should go, too, actually.”

“Go out? You?” Ferran chuckles. “Are you sure you’re okay, Pedri?”

“Yeah, with the whole Gavi thing, I… I just need to chill for a bit.”

“Okay, I guess… I’m down, then. Text me later if you’re still willing to do it.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I will. See you.”

Pedri hangs up, his entire body is shaking. He hesitates to look back to the guy, but, when Pedri does, he isn’t there anymore; just the car.

Is he inside the car? Did he run away? Did he vanish?

Pedri opens the door in a rush, the windows are open but he’s still lacking air, suffocating. He runs to the Porsche, touching the cold metal of the car to make sure it’s real—it is, but it’s empty. There’s no one inside, beside it, underneath it, anywhere.

He forgets about the call he has to make to Flick and runs inside the supermarket—everything there seems so normal. Bright lights, shelves almost emptied out, cashiers serving their last customers of the day.

And no sign of the man standing outside. 

Pedri can’t be going crazy.

Chapter Text

Gavi has a list with reasons to hate every place he’s ever been to. But, with time, he has learned to love Barcelona, one of the few little corners in the world where he feels like he belongs. The city is a perfect mix of art, architecture and football passion, all of which suit him very well. It’s a warm late afternoon with zero to no clouds in the sky when he visits two of his favorite museums, goes to a mall and makes two dinosaurs, one blue, one red, at one of those build-a-bear stores, besides buying the newest Barcelona home jersey. He then stops for an early dinner at a restaurant with some arròs a la cassola that he loves more than anything. 

After he leaves the mall, he’s on the road when he takes a wrong turn and drives past La Masia. Before accelerating at the green light, he takes a lingering look at the worn-out, lifeless bricks of the buildings and the high walls that surround it. The memories make something sharp twist in his stomach.

The Six tracked him down when he was in the juvenile section of the penitentiary many years ago; he ruled that place, he’d have built his own gang if they let him there for longer. But he spent the rest of his teenager years in Poland in a school for killers that The Six disguised as a private prison for youngsters. Gavi remembers—with modesty, for sure—how he was the most talented of all of them. It didn’t take long for him to get officially hired as a hitman, Lewandowski as his mentor and his main connection—and only, most of the time—with The Six. 

Years later, when Gavi was already an adult, he got put in La Masia again by the hands of one of the only people ever he’s deeply loved, someone who betrayed him in response. It’s a memory he hates, an unwanted dweller of his mind he’s been constantly trying to kick out. He can’t. So he just tries to bury it deep inside his brain to the point the eyes of his past lover become just a blurry, meaningless recollection. 

But there’s no space for a broken heart inside someone that constantly makes other people’s stop beating. So, after everything, it didn’t take long for him to be back to work. He spent a month in prison before Lewandowski took him out. Knowing the Pole, he would’ve done it earlier, but he knows The Six wanted him to be jailed for a little longer as a lesson, a punishment for fucking things up. But that has long been forgotten by all parties involved. Now, Gavi just wants to keep doing his thing. And he’s made himself two promises. One, to never trust anyone like he did again. Two, to never get caught again.

He won’t break them.

Gavi wants to know more about Pedri, just to make sure he has enough information on the enemy he’s dealing with. It’s just plain war strategy. But there’s an itch at the back of his brain, it’s agonizing that he can’t reach it. Not that Gavi’s afraid of Pedri, but he feels like his stance is not clear enough—Pedri needs to be fully aware of who he’s playing with.

Instead of heading back to his apartment, he puts the address of Pedri’s building on the GPS. It isn’t so far from where he is right now. It’s a twenty minute drive, thirty at most, if there’s any traffic.

He’s on the way, humming to a song on the radio, when Lewandowski calls him. 

“We need to talk.”

“Not even a good evening these days? There really was a time.”

“Don’t play with me right now. You’ve been ignoring my messages.”

“What did I do this time?”

“Surprisingly, you didn’t do anything. It’s regarding your La Masia assignment, we need to get a few things straight.”

“Okay, fine. But you’re gonna have to wait for a bit. I kinda have to… Sort some things out.”

“Regarding what? Where are you?”

“Barcelona. I’m heading to the bank right now, as we speak. Having some problems with my account.”

“The bank? At this time?”

“Yeah, duh, I made a special appointment. I don’t wanna be seen in a place like the bank in broad daylight. Wonder who taught me about those things.”

Lewandowski sighs. “Alright, but we’ll meet when you’re done. I’m in Girona right now, I’ll let you know where exactly.”

“Gotcha.”

“And don’t drive like you’re being paid to kill somebody.”

“Well, yeah. Not like this, at least.” Gavi chuckles. 

“Just let me know when you’re done. Don’t take long or I’ll get someone to track you down.”

“Alright. I won’t.”

“See you later.”

Gavi hangs up and keeps on his way to where Pedri lives.

The building has five floors at most, yet it’s the tallest in the area. It’s a very quiet neighborhood, there are more trees around Gavi than people. He parks the car behind another one near a trash bin, a few meters away from the building’s entrance. A part of him wants to sneak into the apartment, but he knows that isn’t the swiftest move. So he just waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Holy shit, he’s so done he could swallow a grenade right now. 

How long is this Pedri guy going to take to show up? For God’s sake. Gavi’s been here for more than thirty minutes, watching uninteresting people as they go inside and outside the building while he crafts perfectly measured plans on how he would kill each of them based on the vibes they give.

Around eight o’clock, he finally notices Pedri’s car leaving the building’s parking lot—Gavi knows its license plate and everything. He takes barely a second to decide he’ll follow it. 

They take the road together and Pedri has no idea Gavi’s right behind him the whole time. Around twenty minutes later, Pedri parks the car by a busier street, lots of establishments. Gavi takes a spot on the opposite side and watches as three men leave the car. There’s one that looks similar to Pedri, maybe it’s his brother. There’s also another dude that doesn’t look similar to neither of them. Is it their friend? One of them’s boyfriends? Well, Gavi doesn’t have time to think about this. It’s unimportant.

Gavi realizes there’s a nightclub on the street and the three guys are entering it right now. Duh, it’s a Saturday night, so of course that’s where they are going. Gavi should’ve thought about that. But that’s still surprising—he wouldn’t expect a nerd like Pedri to go clubbing. Maybe he got him wrong, them.

Gavi can take advantage of this situation, flip the coin and become the hunter instead of the hunted. He smiles as he leaves the car and sneaks into the club.

Gavi doesn’t remember the last time he’s had a night out, and every time he does something like this he’s reminded just how much this kind of place doesn’t suit him. He hates parties, always has. Too many bodies, too little meaning. Noise for the sake of it. He likes his chaos sharp and calculated, not spilled all over the floor in cheap gin and bad perfume.

But he doesn’t leave. No, not right now, not when he’s at a table up in the VIP area of the club, drinking some sips of the sangria the blond guy sitting across from him told him to get. His name is Dean and he’s half Dutch, half Spanish, he goes by his surname because his family is stupidly rich and, apparently, he wants to prove a point—maybe he’s overcompensating for something. His family, the Huijsens, are associates of the club or own it or whatever. Something of the kind. Gavi’s stopped listening three sips of cocktail ago. 

“So. Joaquim, right?” The guy smiles, leaning closer to the table so he can be heard over the loud music and seen through the dim neon lights. “I’ve been talking for a good time. I feel like you know everything about me and I know nothing about you. Where are you from?”

“Born and raised in Lisbon.” Gavi sighs, faking a Portuguese accent and putting on a smile that’s just as deceiving.

“You know, Portugal is a nice country. I mean, Spain is much better, we have a World Cup,” he chuckles. “We also have a larger GDP. Thirty three percent higher, not to mention that the GDP per capita is also significantly greater than…”

God. If there’s one thing Gavi hates, it’s finance dudes. But he had to bear with this one so he could get access to the VIP area. If he was poor, no one would want to talk to him. Gavi takes another sip of his sangria and hopes this Huijsen guy realizes anytime soon how insufferable he is, for his own good. 

Gavi glances down to the dance floor. He hasn’t seen Pedri in a while; last time, he was near the bar with the two guys he came with. Gavi spots him again when a green neon light is flashed to his face, his silhouette standing out in the middle of the wasted crowd. He’s with his friends, vibing to the song that’s blasting.

“Hey, do you wanna go down and dance for a bit?” Gavi interrupts Huijsen’s insufferable yapping and asks, giving him his best suggestive look. 

“Well, sure thing,” he says without questioning. His insistent, unwavering gaze on Gavi is nauseating. He’s so enamored by a character and it’s laughable. Well, it isn't really Huijsen's fault, anyway. The actor portraying it is very hot.

They step down from the VIP area and Gavi gets suffocated by the loudening music and the strong scent of marijuana. He walks towards the middle of the dance floor with Huijsen behind him, making his way through the crowd like he’s fighting a tsunami. 

He only stops when he sees Pedri a few meters away, but this time he’s alone. He doesn’t look back at him, he’s talking to someone. It’s a dark haired girl, a little shorter than him, they’re dancing together. Pedri clearly doesn’t belong here, he dances as if there’s superglue in his joints. It’s funny to watch, Gavi admits to himself. 

It’s actually ridiculous. 

Gavi wants to stab him. 

Pedri and Gavi’s jobs should be a part of who they are; they never quit, there’s no break, there’s no nine to five. It’s twenty-four seven. Even a club night out should be calculated, but stupid Pedri is too distracted right now. If Pedri was a little more intelligent, he would realize Gavi’s right here. He could catch him and end this for good. But he’s more focused on the ugly brunette that’s laughing histerically at something he said. 

Pedri’s vulnerable, distracted, a prey in the night—that’s the difference between him and Gavi. Gavi is always attentive, and he’s on a mission. If he wanted to, he could find a way to spike his drink. Take him to a dark corner outside with no cameras and stab him a few times precisely. Or he could go back to his apartment and implant a pack of explosives there.

There’s so many things Gavi can do, but, instead, he pulls Huijsen closer fiercely as if it’s an order. His eyes don’t dart away from Pedri while he kisses the blond who’s been waiting the entire night for him to finally give in.

The kiss is staged, measured to the last bits like everything Gavi does, and it’s getting more obscene. Tongues leaving no time for breathing, hands where they shouldn’t be, at least not in public. Gavi doesn’t understand why he’s doing this. Is it for pure indulgence? Or does he want to be blatant and get caught, ruining everything? Still, he isn’t able to do either of those things. Gavi isn’t satisfied, and Pedri isn’t looking. The motherfucker isn’t even looking. Gavi could point a gun to his head and he would only realize it when it’s too late to even say goodbye.

At some point, Gavi doesn’t see Pedri or his friends anymore. He wonders if they’ve left. Meanwhile, Huijsen has moved his lips to Gavi’s neck. “Let’s go to my house, it’s not far from here.”

“No, let’s just stay.” 

Maybe Pedri has left with the girl. The girl that was taking sips of Pedri’s drink, laughing with him.

“C’mon. Please,” he kisses Gavi on the lips again. 

“No.” 

“I can pay you another drink.”

Pedri was spinning the girl, bringing her closer until they started making out. Gavi hates how the memory is like wet paint, it’s so fresh and he’s sure it’s going to stain the walls of his mind. Fucking hell.

He finds his knife in his pocket and unfolds it.

“I said no.”

“Come on–”

There’s a second, just a blink, where Gavi thinks he might be going crazy. Then the knife is already in Huijsen’s stomach.

Only when the blond falters to breathe and screams for help that realizes what he’s done; his eyes widen. He puts the knife back inside and storms outside of the club.

It’s okay, this was supposed to happen, Huijsen was an annoying asshole and he deserved it. Gavi has everything under control. He really does.

The next morning, Gavi’s in Girona. He sits down on the edge of the bed like a misbehaved child, fidgeting with an aluminum foil that came with his takeout order from earlier. 

Lewandowski is furious, pacing around the hotel room.

“For fuck’s sake, Gavi. You didn’t have problems with your bank account , did you?”

Gavi shrugs. “To be fair, I always do.”

“Listen up. Look at me.” Gavi looks up. Lewy’s red, his jugular is on the verge of exploding. “What were you doing at that club last night?”

“Just having some fun.”

“Oh, sorry. Sorry, I forgot the little prince’s got some very important demands for entertainment. You think this is some sort of joke? You think we’re just playing a little game? Snakes and ladders, Tom and Jerry, call it however you please? When I tell you we have to talk, it’s not because I want to grab brunch with you and give updates on each other’s pathetic lives. I’m doing it because I’m being paid to do so. And so are you. It’s a fucking job. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” Gavi looks down. He’s still playing with the aluminum foil. Folding it, tearing it into pieces, crumpling them into little balls.

“You hate clubbing. What the fuck were you doing there?”

“I don’t know. Trying out new stuff.” Gavi shrugs, playing with the strings of his pants. 

“Something tells me this has something to do with Pedri.”

Gavi looks up, startled. “Why’d you think that?”

“Well, I don’t know.” He says with sarcasm. “Maybe because you never stop talking about him. And maybe because he was also at the same club last night.”

“How… What… How do you know that?”

“There’s not a single feasible explanation of why you followed this guy into a club in Barcelona. This is going too far, Gavi. I’m telling you.”

“I wanted to kill him.” Gavi bites his lips, his mouth tastes bitter. “I was this close to doing so. I was gonna kill him and the CNI would think twice before messing with me again.”

“You wanted to kill Pedri.” Lewandowski steps closer, leans down and looks Gavi straight into his eyes. He shows him his phone, on the screen there’s a headline that says Local Economist and Influencer Undergoes Emergency Surgery After Being Stabbed at His Family’s Club. “And this is what you did?”

Gavi doesn’t answer.

“Why did you stab Dean Huijsen?”

“He was bothering me.”

“If I tried to kill every person that has ever bothered me, you’d have had at least eight different funerals by now. You know you don’t get paid to go around killing whoever you want.”

“I didn’t kill the guy.”

“That’s irrelevant. Answer my question.”

“I told you, he was being annoying!”

“You should really stop with your shenanigans this time. You know how much headache I went through to convince The Six to keep you? This is serious, Gavi. They’re serious about kicking you out.”

“Okay. I won’t fuck anything up this time.” He snorts, throwing himself back on the bed, arms wide open. “Just let me know when and where they’re gonna pick me up to take me back to La Masia.”

Lewandowski takes a deep breath. He’s calmer now, but his glare is still intense. He hands Gavi a white envelope, the younger grabs it. “The address is inside, be there tomorrow at night, eight o’clock.”

“Fine.”

“Take it seriously. This is your chance to prove yourself. If you wreck The Six’s trust on you a little more, you’re done.”

“Fine. Got it. Can we go eat gelato now?”

“Do you think you deserve it after everything?” Lewandowski crosses his arms.

“It’s been a heck of a week. Please. I’ll stop being a pain in the ass. For now.” He pouts. “Please.”

Lewy snorts, but gives in. “Fine. Go get ready.”

Gavi smiles, jumping off the bed and heading to the door. He looks over his shoulder before leaving. “Lewy?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

He frowns. “For what?”

“For not letting them kick me out.”

Lewandowski analyzes him, shooting him a half smile that’s barely more than a twitch on the edge of his lip. “You’re welcome.”

Pedri wakes up and remembers this is not his house and there’s a pretty brunette sleeping by his side. He’s almost in disbelief that, for the first time in almost a year, he finally managed to hook up with someone. Fernando was right, he really needed a night out. 

A little hungover, Pedri grabs his phone to text Ferran and Fernando a big what the fuck just happened. He’s got a ton of missed calls from Ferran; he’s sure it’s regarding last night.

Well, it is. Just not the in way he thinks. But he leaves that for later.

He grabs breakfast with the girl, her name is Antonia and she’s a kindergarten teacher. They talk for a bit about work and life—Pedri doesn’t reveal much, like always—before he leaves. He’s grabbed her number, although he isn’t really interested in the idea of calling her back.

In the taxi on the way home, he finally calls Ferran back.

“Hi. I just can’t believe that–”

“Did you not see the news? I’ve been trying to call you all morning.”

“I… What?”

“Dean Huijsen.”

“Huh? Who’s that?”

“Do you live under a rock? His family owns the club we went to last night. And he literally got stabbed. On the fucking dance floor.”

Pedri’s voice dies in his throat. 

“It was him. Wasn’t it?”

“We… We can’t be sure that–”

“Pedri. You’re not dumb and neither am I. This guy’s tracking you, I told you.”

“Does Flick know about this Huijsen guy?”

“Yeah, I called him earlier. Did you tell him about the photo Gavi sent you?”

Pedri swallows. “Not yet. I’ve been meaning to, but–”

“What the fuck’s happening with you, Pedri? It’s never been like this for you. It’s such… It’s so… It’s almost like it’s a personal matter, at this point. He’s chasing you. He wants to kill you. You. And you’re letting it happen.”

“If he wanted to kill me,” he whispers into the phone. “He would’ve done so. He had an opportunity yesterday. But he chose not to.”

“Do you hear what you’re saying? Do you really want to sit back and give him another chance to–”

“Listen, I’ll work the clues out once we have them. I need time to think about this. I’ll call you back,” he says, hanging up.

Fernando’s at the supermarket when Pedri gets home, he said through text that he was going to grab some ingredients and cook them lunch. Pedri’s hungry—and hungover—, but eating isn’t the biggest of his worries right now. 

Over the past weeks, he’s brought to his apartment lots of his files on Gavi’s case so he can work from home, to the point his nightstand looks like a Gavi sanctuary. There’s still lots of puzzle pieces to connect, and Dean Huijsen’s the newest one.

Pedri does some quick research on him. He finds that, besides being a subordinate of his family’s clubbing business and getting under the spotlight for constantly being wasted scandalously and hooking up with famous influencers, Dean doesn’t do much in life. He doesn’t seem like the type of person to be targeted by the The Six. 

And if there’s one thing that Gavi does right, it’s his assassinations. Vanishing like a ghost from a yacht, sticking a man’s tie to the doors of an elevator. Flawless, performative killings that still leave Pedri fascinated. This man is an artist. This is a lot different, stabbing a guy in the middle of a dance floor with dozens of witnesses; and the person who did that either had no intention to kill or they just made a rookie mistake. Neither of that suit Gavi’s profile. 

Maybe he wasn’t the one to commit the crime, or maybe something significant about him has changed.

If the latter is the case, then this search is going to end very soon. This is the wrongest step Gavi has taken, and Pedri is finally on the verge of catching him. 

He firmly wants to believe that. That he’s in control, that he isn’t Gavi’s puppet. But ever since he saw him—or maybe it wasn’t even him—at the parking lot, Pedri’s been noticing this case really is different.

It’s almost like it’s a personal matter, Ferran’s voice rings in his head. Pedri doesn’t want to think about it that way.

But it is personal, and it’s certainly twisted. Why didn’t Pedri tell Flick about everything he knows, and why didn’t Gavi kill Pedri the day before? It feels like there’s a barrier that avoids them from doing what they’re supposed to. 

It’s so twisted. At this point, in a normal world, Gavi should be in jail and Pedri should be six feet under the ground. Or vice versa.

Pedri really needs a break.

He doesn’t want to worry about this for a couple of hours, at least; he helps Fernando with lunch and they spend the day playing videogames. In the early evening, they’re watching Barcelona’s march when he gets a call from the doorman.

“Hello?”

“Pedro? There’s a package for you here.”

“A package? But I didn’t–” He freezes. “Oh. I’ll… I’ll go pick it up.”

He doesn’t even bother to wait for the elevator, he just storms down the stairs and picks up whatever the fuck he’s got this time. It’s a small cardboard box. 

He really hopes there isn’t a grenade inside. Or one of Dean Huijsen’s fingers. Or something of the kind.

He leaves the building to open the box on the street, just in case. If it explodes, at least it won’t damage the building or anything. With his heart in his hands, he tears the box apart with anxiety. But there’s no bomb.

Instead, it’s a plushie. No note. No blood. Just this.

A red dinosaur plushie.

Chapter Text

Pedri stares at the entrance of the La Masia penitentiary hesitantly before he goes in, a tiny notebook in his hands. A security guard escorts him to the visitation room, where he meets with Héctor for the third time this week. It's a lot, really. Pedri’s never had to collaborate with another criminal this much. At this point, he feels like there's blood in his hands by osmosis.

So far, Héctor’s given Pedri the names of two inmates Gavi used to work with, the location of a hidden locker Gavi kept stashed in the old wing, and the alias he once used to forge Interpol access. Héctor has been really helpful in Gavi’s case.

He seems like he could've been a good guy, he’s just had a difficult background. After the death of his parents, Héctor went to live with his grandma and his uncle, a drug dealer. He was inevitably made part of this world as well—Pedri wants to believe there's still hope for people like him.

He looks at Pedri in the eyes through the glass wall separating them. “I thought you wouldn't come back,” he says through the phone.

Pedri frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well, since Pablo’s here, I thought–”

“What? What do you mean he’s here?”

“What, you didn't know? He's here, in jail. I actually thought y'all had put him here.”

Pedri tries to digest the words being thrown at him. “Are you sure it's him, Héctor?”

“I would recognize that fucker from miles afar.” 

“That can't be. We’re still looking for him. And someone like him should be in a high security penitentiary. Not here.”

“Maybe The Six are involved. You know, maybe he's on a mission here. It's not uncommon.” Something on Héctor’s gaze shifts. Pedri sees fear in his eyes. “Do you think he’s here to kill me, Pedri?”

Pedri swallows. “Don't worry about this, I'll make sure this doesn't happen.”

“You promise?”

“I promise,” he licks his lips. He knows he can't promise to preserve something as fragile as a life in a world that's so inherently corrupted. But he needs Héctor's confidence. “Just tell me what else you know, and in the meantime I'll try to transfer you to another penitentiary.”

“Okay.” Héctor presses the phone closer to his face.“I know a bit about who The Six are targeting right now,” he whispers. 

Pedri picks up his pen. “Who is it?”

“All I heard is that he's associated with the British royal family. And that he's gonna host a private event in Stourbridge soon. It's the perfect place for Pablo to act. You might be able to stop him, if he's involved.”

“For sure, I will,” Pedri says, and it's more to himself. It's a promise. “Thank you, Héctor. This was of great help. I'll keep you posted.”

Héctor smiles for the first time ever since Pedri’s met him. Pedri feels so sorry for the guy, for using him as a tool to get to Gavi. But it's for a greater good. 

“His name is Jude Bellingham and his family is close with the British royals,” Rapha says, Ferran, Pedri, and Flick all gathered around his laptop. “The event in Stourbridge is to raise funds for an NGO that fights against human trafficking.” 

“So, what's the hypothesis?” Ferran asks. “Are The Six targeting him because he’s just too perfect like that?” 

“The worst ones always try to overcompensate with a flawless image,” Pedri states. “Everything’s for show.”

“No mafia wants a philanthropist to fight against their dirty business, either.” Flick says. “Well. It's irrelevant. We need to get moving. Rapha, gather as much data on this event as you can, specially regarding the guests. Ferran, get in contact with the MI5 and the Interpol. Tell them to get their troops ready, and ask them to report back to us as soon as possible.”

“Are we not going to England?” Pedri asks.

“We shouldn't get too involved in this right now.” Flick says. He’s relaxed, but his tone is serious. “It's already a high risk situation, plus we don't want to make it political. If Gavi’s acting in foreign territory, there's only so much we can do. The Brits are already cautious with the Interpol, imagine if they find out Spain is also trying to be part of this.” 

“Flick, I really want to help, regardless. I've been studying this case for a long time. I know everything about Gavi. I know how he likes to act, the weapons he uses, what type of marks he likes to leave behind. Everything.” Ferran gives him a death stare that goes unnoticed by Flick. Pedri plays clueless. 

“That’s exactly why I need you to work with Ferran and make sure the MI5 and the Interpol are aware of who they're dealing with.” Flick says, squeezing Pedri’s shoulder. “Can I count on you?”

Pedri swallows. “Yeah.”

“Great. I'll be in my office, call me if you need,” he says finally.

When Flick leaves, Pedri heads to the coffee machine to grab himself some to keep going with the day, it's going to be a long one. Ferran follows him.

“We need to be at this event. It's our chance.” Pedri asks, filling up his Canary Islands mug for the second time today.

“Don’t even start. After what happened to Huijsen, do you really wanna risk it?”

“It wasn't Gavi. They already arrested the guy who did it.” Bullshit. Pedri knows Gavi is involved, but he is in denial—he doesn't want to believe Gavi is actually stalking him.

“I still think there's something off with this.” Ferran sighs. “You haven't told Flick about the polaroid, have you?”

Pedri licks his lips but doesn't reply.

“Pedri, for the love of God.”

“Listen, if I do, he's gonna get me out of the case, okay? I cannot let this happen. The polaroid’s just part of Gavi's performance, he wants to be seen. That's part of what he does, of who he is. And I know how to deal with it. I told you, everything’s under my control.”

Ferran crosses his arms. “I'm very worried about you, you know.”

“Trust me. Please. We're gonna get him before he kills Jude, and everything’s gonna be okay.”

Pedri has always been convincing with words; but, right now, he can't even believe his own self.

Like always, Pedri’s apartment is empty when he gets home. Except this time there's a dinosaur plushie waiting for him.

He hasn't told anyone about it; he doesn't plan to.

It would’ve been a really caring gift if it came from anyone else other than Gavi; instead, it should feel like a softcore threat. But the plushie just exists, in a way. It's been laying on Pedri’s nightstand, haunting him at night, although it doesn't scare him.

This time, before sleeping, he touches it for the first time since the day he got it. The dino’s soft and fluffy on the outside but it is heavier and harder than a regular plushie, it's probably been stuffed with a lot of cotton. Its wide eyes are stitched above a crooked smile sewn in black thread.

He brings it closer to his face, smells it until he finds a spot where the scent of fabric morphs into leftover cologne. A soft shiver spreads through his body. He doesn't know if the perfume’s there by accident or if Gavi put it on purpose. 

Either way, it plagues Pedri’s mind. He smells other spots of the plushie to try to find more of the cologne. He finds remnants of it, but not a lot. So his nose keeps going back to that one specific spot where the perfume is stronger.

There's something sharp under the sweetness of it, like bergamot twisted with smoke, or sandalwood left too long on skin. It evokes memories that aren't his, triggers a nostalgia for times he hasn't lived. He can almost picture the faint silhouette of Gavi at the corner of his eye; it disappears every time Pedri’s nose gets further from the plushie, but the feeling of having a knife pressed against his neck lingers.

The plushie hides secrets about Pedri that he can't reach; it's one of the dozens of things he hasn't been able to keep control of lately. He needs a way to make it feel part of his routine, giving it a sense of security, even if it's fake.

Maybe giving the dinosaur a name will help.

“Raddish,” he whispers to himself. “It's a nice one.”

Raddish, it is. 

Pedri puts Raddish on the nightstand again and goes to sleep.

The La Masia penitentiary hasn't changed much. Smells of rusty metal and cigarettes, mold on the walls, grey uniforms, people with nothing to lose. It's exactly like Gavi remembers, he's used to it. Being here shouldn't feel like the worst thing in the world.

Except he didn't get to pick what persona he gets to be this time, and his cell-mate won't shut the fuck up.

“Pablo,” he says, as if trying out the name. It's very sour, at least for Gavi. “I’ve seen lots of Pablos around here. You should get a nickname that sticks.”

Pablo is disgusting. Fucking bastard he was, Gavi thought he’d killed him for good. He doesn't want to be associated with this version of him anymore, but The Six forced him to adopt his old identity to protect the one he’s got now. Bullshit. 

“I'm good for now,” he says. He's got his eyes closed, trying to get some sleep. Has the fucker on the other side of the room not realized that? 

“Okay, Pablo it is. I'm Lamine, by the way. In case you forgot.”

Gavi doesn't care. He just wants to wake up tomorrow, do his job as soon as possible and leave this place.

“I’m still learning the ropes. I got here a couple weeks ago. Sold some drugs, stole a couple of cars. You know, no biggie.” He pauses. “What did you do to get here?”

“Rule number one of jail, don't go around saying what you did outside here. Rule number two, never ask that to others.”

Gavi opens his eyes and sits on the bed, across from Lamine’s. Gavi's on the verge of ending the conversation for good, but he almost feels bad for the guy—he's got a flashlight on and is reading a book. He's very young, skinny and probably trying to play cool while, in fact, he’s just a scared child, attempting to make sense of the world he’s being thrown into. Like a mirror, he reflects this old version of Gavi that he sometimes forgets is still part of him.

Gavi sighs. There's a bitter taste in his mouth, he's not used to it; maybe it's empathy. 

“Also, if you want to protect yourself here, just know that in this world no one survives alone. You gotta have the right connections. And know the people you should avoid.”

Lamine looks at him, his eyes shimmering with the faint, almost dying flashlight. “Then, which of those categories are you part of?”

“I'm gonna let you find that one out.” Gavi chuckles. “Tomorrow we can walk around and I'll teach you how to survive here.”

“Well, thank you, Pablo.” Lamine grins, but then contains himself.

Gavi shoots back a tiny smile and lays down in bed again, hoping to catch some sleep. He dreams about yachts and dinosaurs.

Lunch is a meat stew with orange juice and a small muffin as dessert; like always, everything tastes like plastic and screwdrivers. Lamine sits across from Gavi and eats slowly and grimaces constantly, just like the older one did the first times he had food in jail. 

“You see that guy over there, on the other table?” Gavi leans closer and points discretely with his head. “He’s been here five times, and counting. Word on the street is that he killed two inmates. So, I wouldn't piss him off if I were you.”

Lamine widens his eyes. “Woah. I would have never guessed. He looks like an old dude that's here solely because he didn't pay taxes, or something.”

“Here's another jail rule, never judge by looks.”

Gavi goes around giving Lamine information on the inmates he can see. The younger one nods, listening attentively. 

At some point, Lamine takes a curious peek over Gavi’s shoulder. “Hey, I know that guy.”

Gavi looks back and his eyes almost jump out in disbelief; it's Héctor Fort, entering the dining hall with his tray and skimming through the dozens of tables. He hasn't changed much and it makes Gavi feel unsafe.

“You know Héctor?” He asks, playing it cool.

“Yeah. I heard that he's got police protection now,” Lamine says.

“Police protection? For what?”

“I don't know much. But I think he's helping them with something. It's what I overheard a few days ago.”

Fucking bullshit. Gavi knew Héctor was weak but not this much. Does he think he's doing any good to himself with this? Because he's not; he's just digging his grave further below.

As he watches Héctor from afar, chatting mindlessly with two other inmates, Gavi’s haunted by a faint memory of a time he thought he was capable of liking someone again. A total failure. He thought he was falling in love but Héctor was just a distraction, an easy way to ease lust and boredom.

But Gavi doesn't like to think of himself as guilty on that matter; if anything, he did Héctor a favor. If he hadn't left him, someone else would have, anyway. At some point he had to understand how cruel this world really is. But, apparently, he didn't learn much.

“Listen, Lamine,” Gavi begins. “Wanna help me out with something? If you do, I can tell good things about you to the inmates I know. I swear it's gonna make your life here much easier.”

Lamine blinks a few times, as if trying to put Gavi’s face into focus. “Uh, sure. What is it?”

“I want to find out what this Héctor guy’s all about. If he's involved with the police, then he must be a threat to everyone here.” 

“You're right,” Lamine replies, pondering for a bit. “So what should we do?”

He leans closer. “Do you know the library upstairs?” Lamine nods. “We’re allowed one hour there a day. After lunch, I want you to go there and find a paperclip. They're gonna be easier on you since you're new, but be careful. They conduct inspections once we leave the room. Don't get caught with it, put it under your tongue or something. Get it?” He nods again. “Bring it to me at night.”

“And what do I do after that?”

Gavi smiles. “Leave the rest with me.”

At the end of the day, Lamine and Gavi reunite at the cell.

“Did you get it?” Gavi whispers.

“Yeah,” Lamine stands near the cell door, looking down the hall to look for guards. He slips one of his sleeves up and pulls out a tiny piece of metal, it shines underneath the dim light of the old, rusty lamp in the cell. 

“Good,” Gavi smiles. “Just stay here and be quiet. Also, I need your flashlight.”

After the nightly inspections, Gavi knows he's got around ten minutes to explore the blind spots that'll be left around the penitentiary during the shift change between the security guards. And he does so; right after lights go off, he uses the paperclip on the cell lock and, when he hears a click, he swiftly sneaks outside.

He double checks and there's a single security guard down the hallway; Gavi silently goes the opposite way. He avoids the few other guards on duty at that time and walks upstairs, stopping by a metal door with a sign that says Authorized Personnel Only. It’s got a digital lock with a password. When he arrived a couple of days ago, he was being dragged down the hallways by two guards as he watched another one go into the room. He remembers how the guard’s hand moved on the digital lock: down, up, right, tap. One-two-five-eight, maybe. He’d only need one try. 

When he types in the password and gets a green light, he smiles and goes inside, shutting the door quietly behind him.

He doesn't turn on the lights to avoid raising suspicion; instead, he uses Lamine’s tiny flashlight. In the room there's a bunch of shelves, around five or six, with cardboard boxes. He looks for one marked with the letter H and puts it on the floor. It's a little heavy but he can manage.

He goes through the stack of files inside until he finds the one with Héctor's name—it has his picture on it, his criminal record and all of that stuff. Nothing that Gavi doesn't know; Héctor has told him everything.

But a note down on the right corner catches Gavi’s attention. 

Subject is currently cooperating with CNI under protective agreement. Authorized for monitored contact with agency operatives. Access to restricted areas permitted under supervision. Surveillance priority: Level 2. Any alterations to custody status must be cleared through central command.

Great. Héctor is clearly the spy The Six are looking for, and Pedri is definitely involved in that bullshit.

Gavi should be happy that this has been cleared out. Instead, he feels nauseous. 

The following day, Gavi visits Héctor in his cell at night before inspections. He stops by the entrance and waits for the younger to realize he's there.

Héctor stands up from the bed, startled by Gavi’s presence. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to talk.”

“Really?” He scoffs. “Now you want to talk? After everything? I'm gonna call security.”

“Calm the fuck down, okay? Please. Just because you're helping the CNI and they gave you a single cell it doesn't make you rule this place,” Gavi says, entering the cell and shutting the door behind him, blocking Héctor’s exit. His eyes widen—if the loser had a gun it’d probably be pointed at Gavi right now. If he had the courage, because he looks as pale as a paper sheet to do anything. Instead, he just backs off.

“How… How do you know that?”

“What did they promise to do for you? Don't trust them. Fucking pigs, they are.”

“Yeah? And who should I trust? You? Don't make me laugh, Pablo. Get the fuck outta here.”

“Listen,” he sighs. “I'm sorry, I didn't want to meet with you this way. I'm not here to fight. I really just wanted to talk and clarify things. You're not talking to a guy named Pedri, are you?” Héctor doesn't say anything—he opens his mouth and closes it but he doesn't make any sound. Gavi makes his body tremble, his eyes filling up with tears. “I– I knew it. Goddamn.”

Héctor looks at him with confusion. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Gavi lets the waterfalls flow freely, his eyes burning more with every tear that is formed. “He’s not who you think he is. He’s in love with me, Héctor. He desperately needs to catch me, and God knows what he's gonna do when that happens. And I know he's also gonna come after you. So I just wanted to come here and say sorry before it's too late. I'm sorry. You know how much I loved you, but they wouldn't let me. They didn't let me take you with me, Héctor. Do you know how many nights I spent crying, thinking I should've never let them take me away from you? Years later I still love you and it hurts. It fucking hurts. I’m sorry. I wish things were different for us and that we had more time and–” 

“Hey, I'm– I'm sorry.” Héctor pulls him in for a hug; he's also crying. “All this time, I thought you hated me. Fuck, Pablo, don't do this to me. Tell me there's a way to stop this so we can be together–”

“There's no need for that,” Gavi pulls them apart, holding Héctor’s face between his hands as he looks straight into his eyes. “We don't have much time together left, anyway.”

Héctor’s lower lip trembles while he raises his eyebrows in despair. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Gavi nods, a final tear dropping down his cheek. “I do.”

With a swift motion, he twists Héctor’s head abruptly to the left. He can hear the last breath that comes with the crack on the younger’s neck, his eyes open, soulless, frozen like that for eternity.

He lays Héctor’s body on the bed and puts a blanket over it. He wipes away the leftover tears on his face and heads back to his cell.

The war isn't over. For some people, though, this is the final line.

Chapter Text

Pedri loves to be back at his parents’ restaurant, after all it’s his favorite bit of home. It’s warm, really warm, he hasn’t felt like this in a while. His mom and Fernando sit side by side across from him on the table; Pedri loves how their laughs merge into a single sound. It’s a muffled noise and it makes him feel physically distant, hovering up above. Being disconnected from the world around him is soothing in a way, specially when his job consists of him being mentally aware of his surroundings all the time.

But there’s something weird with the way costumers look at him and whisper to each other from afar while he sits among them with a small plate of greasy boiled potatoes. It feels like he’s an intruder now.

“My dear Pedro, you didn’t tell us your boyfriend was so funny,” his mom says.

“My boyfriend?” He questions, and feels a hand on his thigh. “I don’t have–”

When Pedri tilts his head to the side, his eyes land on Gavi. His face is blurry as if a thin cloud covers it. His elbow is leaning on the table, there’s a plate right beside it. But there’s no food there; just a gun. 

“We’re so happy to have you here, Gavi.” Fernando smiles and turns to his brother. “By the way, Pedri, when’s your funeral going to be?” 

Fernando says it so lightheartedly, as if seeing his brother in a casket is the most normal thing in the world. Pedri swallows as they’re all waiting for an answer he doesn’t have. He realizes just now that Fernando’s holding Raddish, the dinosaur, who looks uncannily like a real animal.

“We were planning on doing it three months from now. That’s all the time in the world I need to kill him.” Gavi laughs and reaches for Pedri’s hand. They’re wearing matching rings. “I want you all to be there when I pull the trigger. Blood all over me, it’ll be so special.”

Pedri’s heart races. His mom and Fernando laugh again, and this time Gavi joins them; it’s not soothing anymore, it’s loud, wicked and it poisons Pedri like they’re all evil witches. The air around him thickens like hands pressing around his neck. 

He needs to get out of here quickly or he’ll suffocate. So he grabs the gun from Gavi’s plate and shoots his own head.

Pedri wakes up with a jolt in his body and a shiver through his spine. He heavily inhales and exhales, touching his forehead and slipping his fingers through his hair just to make sure he’s still here. He reaches for his phone on the nightstand and sees it’s around two in the morning, his window is open and the wind blows through the curtains, it eases the burn in his skin and dries the sweat in his nape. 

He looks at Raddish sitting on the nightstand with his usual smile, so clueless about it all. Or maybe he knows something and just won’t tell Pedri.

After going for a cup of water in the kitchen, Pedri rolls in bed a few times but he can’t sleep anymore. Engraved in his mind is the picture of Gavi looking at him through the fog in his eyes as if telling him he could find him everywhere, even in the middle of a thunderstorm. 

He thinks about the gun and being in a casket and promise rings and funeral as a twisted metaphor for marriage or vice versa. It’s not the first time he’s dreamed about Gavi, but there’s something so unexplainable about this one. It’s scary; not because it essentially means something supernatural, Pedri’s pretty skeptical about that kind of thing. But because his brain is telling him that maybe it’s time to back off, this is getting too dangerous and Pedri’s starting to lack some physical and emotional control.

But backing off now is like losing a match. Pedri hates losing.

The morning in the office is quiet like a church before mass. And Pedri is the sinner here.

There’s a lot of work to be done—a new synthetic stimulant is causing deaths across southern Spain and the CNI believes the production is being handled by a former military chemist. Fermín’s on the lab analyzing some new samples of this drug while Eric is working with Rapha to track down places where it’s being manufactured. 

Pedri, in the meantime, is organizing his files on Gavi’s case—Operation Polaroid, they’ve decided to call it. He’s a bit reluctant on sending Gavi’s info to the Interpol; they don’t know him as well as Pedri does, and he isn’t sure how they’re going to deal with this case. But, well, if Flick wants him to do so, then so be it. 

He just needs the green light from Ferran now, since he’s the one who does all the networking. But Ferran isn’t in the office right now, which is odd. So Pedri just keeps going through his database while he waits. 

There’s a really lot. Gavi’s full criminal record, with the blanks Pedri wants to fill. A high-resolution scan of each polaroid, catalogued by victim, date, and staging pattern. A folder titled “Body Language Patterns” filled with screenshots from the video footage Rapha recovered, cropped to just Gavi’s hands, his shoulders, the angle of his head tilt. A report on every person that ever spoke on Gavi to Pedri—the barista at the Starbucks, the girl at the party Kylian vanished, Aurora, Héctor. Twelve photos of people Gavi targeted in the past, but didn’t kill. A photo of him as a child that doesn’t bring anything useful to the case; it’s just there. 

Before saving everything into a different folder, he goes through a file named sleep , where he’s been detailing every dream he’s had about Gavi. He won’t send that one to the Interpol along the others, for sure. 

After a while, Flick arrives to the office. He’s walking fast, his face isn’t very friendly.

“Pedri,” he says as he walks by the desks. “My office. Now.”

Pedri shivers. He, Eric and Rapha exchange a few worried glances as he follows Flick into his office and hopes a bomb isn’t going to be thrown at him. There’s something very wrong, he knows it—he would like to believe it isn’t about him and Gavi. But the answer lies within him, both of them. 

Pedri and Flick sit down. The older one sighs. “You should’ve told me about the polaroid Gavi sent you, Pedri.”

“I- I’m sorry. I was going to.” Pedri looks down, it feels like he’s being punched to the gut. He has no excuse and he knows what’s next. 

“When? After he sent you a second one? Maybe a handwritten love letter next time?” Pedri doesn’t say anything, there’s a lump forming at his throat.  “You’re compromised. And not just a little bit. You, out of all people. I’ve never thought it would get this far with you. Lying to your own team. Holding back evidence. Putting you and others in risk. Do you understand what this all means?”

Pedri finally has the courage to look up at Flick, his eyes are burning, still dry, although he’s on the verge of breaking down into tears. 

“Are you going to fire me?”

“No. I would,” he says simply. “But Ferran and Eric convinced me to let you stay. With one very simple condition. Interpol will take the lead. You’ll forward every file you have. Full database access, nothing hidden. You’re done with Operation Polaroid.”

“I can work this out, I promise. I’m this close. I know what I’m doing–”

“No, Pedri. For the first and last time, you have no idea of what you’re doing.” He says, his words sharp. Not like a knife, more like the edges of a sheet of paper. “Just listen to what I’m saying. I’m giving you a second chance. But you’re going to move on and work on different cases. And don’t think this is going to happen every time you screw up.”

“Alright.” 

Flick sighs, relaxing his frown and scrubbing his eyes. “I just want you to understand that I'm doing this to protect you. We don't want you to become the next target of The Six.”

“I understand.” Pedri nods. “Thank you, Flick. For letting me stay.” 

Flick gives him a restrained side smile. Pedri leaves the room with a bitter taste in his mouth, something like I was so close and I could’ve done it if I had more time. It’s an epic loss.

But he knows this isn’t over, and he isn’t the one to let go so easily. Not when it feels like he’s buried alive, deep into concrete Gavi made with water from the tears Pedri’s been keeping at bay. 

When Pedri looks at the mirror of his bathroom, he sees disappointment. Not in his face, but in his essence. He still remembers the way Flick looked at him earlier like he’d just failed an important test in college; it’s like he’s made of glass and has been shattered into a million pieces. He’s been carrying that weight on his back the entire day, not even a warm bath was capable of tuning that feeling down. And so it lingers, drawing lines in his mind with permanent ink, pretty much like everything else in his life that has been plagued with the idea of Gavi.

There is usually nothing good on television when Pedri gets home at night. But he could use the distraction tonight and he doesn’t have the energy to browse through the Netflix catalogue, so he just puts on the news broadcast while he eats mint chocolate ice cream directly from the pot, hoping to feel any less miserable. It would be easy if he just accepted he’s entirely lost, but he’s in denial. Maybe out of pride, maybe because he doesn’t know a life where failure is an option for him.

The broadcasters always talk about the same things, from weather to car crashes to transfer news to updates on how the pickpocket levels are increasing in Spain. In between, they make space to gossip about the life of a celebrity no one really cares about, but that distracts them from their mediocre lives.

Tonight, they talk about Jude Bellingham. Apparently, his event in Stourbridge is going to be a huge thing. Gavi must be excited to perform for a great audience like this. That’s the type of setting where he thrives the most.

While Pedri watches the news, Ferran calls. Pedri knows it’s going to be a hard conversation, and he would rather not pick up and pretend nothing has happened—because, even though he’s been blaming Ferran internally, he knows he’s in the wrong and he’s not ready to face it.

“Hey, man.” Ferran starts. “Flick told me you two talked. I just… I just wanted to apologize for being a snitch. But I also want you to know I was really, really worried about you and I didn't know what else to do.”

“Hey. It’s okay. I did let this go too far. I, uh… Appreciate that you care about me.”

“Good. Just wanted to check in, see if you're okay with all of this. It'll be okay. The Six  shoudn’t target you anymore once they find out you're out of the case. But, you know, you should take care regardless.” 

“I will. Flick advised me to get protection.”

“That’s a great idea. Keep me posted,” he sighs. “Anyway. Mercurio Azul, huh? Did you hear about that new drug? It's all over the news.”

“Yeah, Eric told me more about it.”

“Shit’s serious, man. It's one of the worst drugs of recent times.”

Under normal circumstances, Pedri would care about that. He would have a notebook open right now, writing notes all over it, profiling the potential sellers and manufactures, attempting to get to the core of the issue.

But, right now, there's only one thing—or person—on his mind.

An excerpt of an interview with Jude Bellingham is being aired on the TV. Pedri’s sure that people all over the world would kill to have him, he's wealthy as fuck, is engaged with a couple of social causes and is objectively very attractive. 

But Pedri can't see any of that. He sees vulnerable flesh. He sees Gavi’s next target.

“Pedri? Are you there?”

“H-hey,” Pedri stutters, realizing he’s been out of it for a couple of seconds. “Sorry, I was paying attention to the news.”

Ferran sighs. “Look, I know you might be a little distressed with the whole Gavi thing. I think once you start out on the Mercurio Azul case, you’ll be able to get your thoughts off him for a minute.”

“I just… Goddamnit. I don’t wanna accept defeat, Ferran.”

“It’s not defeat, Pedri. Look at what you did. Few people in the world could get to know Gavi from afar as easily as you did. We all know a lot about him now, thanks to you. But you can’t catch him by yourself, it’s not easy, let alone safe. You gotta let other people do the job for you.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

He glances at Jude on the TV screen again. To kill him, Pedri knows Gavi will try to make a subtle performance with a touch of perfectionism and an intended chaotic subtext. His mind goes wild thinking about the possibilities. A precise sniper shot from afar while Jude gives a discourse? A tiny high-tech bomb implanted in Jude’s clothing, that will be activated at the very right time? A perfectly measured amount of cyanide on his food that'll make him die suddenly in the middle of the party guests?

They let it slip on the news that Jude's event in a few days will have “high security” to avoid “potential threats”. Ah, the media, always doing its thing. 

This is bad. If some dots are connected, the entirety of Europe will be aware the Interpol will be there. And by now Gavi’s probably already got an entire plan to deal with it because he's just clever like that.

Well, not more than Pedri. What Gavi needs is a surprise element to mess with his little theatrical act.

“Look, I’m going to hang up now, I need to, uh… Shower and go to bed. Gotta be up early tomorrow, I promised Eric I’d help him with the Mercurio Azul case,” Pedri says. He feels terrible about lying to people that care about him so deeply, but he’s got to do what he’s got to do. 

“Gotcha,” Ferran replies. “Just keep me posted, alright? I’m here if you need anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks. I’ll let you know.”

When he hangs up, he picks up his laptop to sketch his newest plan.

“Hi, Lewy.” Gavi says, sticking a lollipop inside his mouth. “I just bleached my hair.”

“You… What? Where the fuck are you? Are you at the hairdresser? You’re supposed to be on the way to England, you little–”

“Chill, dad. I am at the airport, waiting for the jet to pick me up. I bleached my hair this morning, not right now.”

“Oh, thank God. Please, put that information first next time. You almost made me travel all the way back to Spain just to drag your ass into that plane.”

Gavi chuckles. “You’re funny.” 

“What’s even the point of bleaching your hair?”

“I met a guy in jail who convinced me to do so. You had to see it, he was so gullible it actually made me feel bad about him. But he was okay, ish. So I befriended him. And he told me that he feels cooler with bleached hair and that I should try it out. And I had nothing better to do so I just did it. I’ll send you a pic later.”

“I see. So, what else did you call me for besides telling me you got a chemical cut?”

“No other particular reason.” Gavi shrugs. “Uh, I forgot my coloring book in my apartment. Which sucks. So, yeah, I don’t have anything else better to do right now. And they’re taking so freaking long with that jet. Can you tell them to hurry up? Also, should I get a frappe before they arrive?”

“I made a smoothie today that you should try sometime. It can replace the diabetes bombs you call drinks.”

“Is it poisoned? I bet it is.”

“No. It’s kale, banana, flaxseed, beetroot, creatine and a hint of protein powder.”

“That’s even worse than poison. What are you, a horse? I would rather die.” He grimaces just imagining how that would taste like grass and sadness. “Also, I saw a woman with a dog earlier and it actually made me want to die. I think that one was a chihuahua, it was so fucking annoying. I mean, God, who wants a tiny piece of shit that keeps barking?”

“Just because you like cats better it doesn’t mean other people have to agree with you,” Lewy says. “Well, since you didn’t say anything about it, I’m assuming you haven’t heard about Pedri.”

Something about the way Lewandowski says that, as if it’s a warning, the strong wind blows before a hurricane, makes Gavi shiver. He almost spits out the lollipop. 

“What happened to him?”

“They took him out of your case a couple days ago. Apparently, he resigned.”

“He resigned? ”

“We are still not sure whether or not this information is correct. But he’s not looking after you anymore. One hundred percent.”

“Wow.” Gavi chuckles. “Isn’t he, like, one of the smart ones? I mean, I wouldn’t know. But I thought he was better than this.”

“What’s up with you and this guy, Gavi?” Lewandowski laughs. “You don’t even know him and you talk as if you do.”

Gavi looks at his backpack resting near his feet. It’s open, he can see the blue dinosaur he got a while ago peeking from inside out.

“Yeah. I don’t know him.” He shrugs. “But now I know he’s a coward. I bet he got scared after he learned what happened to Héctor. He better know not to mess with me anymore.” He smiles, but he’s not entirely satisfied. Pedri wouldn’t go so far with this just to resign at a crucial moment. Unless he’s been forced to do so. “Well. Anyway. Any other CNI agents on the case? Interpol?”

“Right now, they’re tracking potential threats to Jude’s event. Chances are that they’ll be there, so try to be careful.”

“So, they’re gonna be watching me.” Gavi grins. “Cool.”

“Be professional, this is not your fucking personal show. Do what you gotta do and don’t fuck it up.”

“Alright. I’ll keep you posted. I’ll let you know once I blow Jude’s brains out,” Gavi says. “Actually, I was thinking, I’ll buy a few packs of gummy bears instead of the frappe.”

“You never learn.”

“You should learn from me. Go and bleach your hair, too. It’s actually freeing.”

Lewy sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

The gala glows with soft golden light, every surface polished to the point Gavi can see his reflection in them. Marble floors gleaming beneath expensive as hell designer heels, champagne bubbling in crystal flutes. The string quartet plays something elegant enough, barely louder than a lullaby, to make even silence feel expensive. Every guest looks like they’ve come here right out from a Vogue photoshoot. It’s the kind of night where nothing should go wrong; and that’s exactly why it might.

Jude isn’t the great guy people portray him to be—he should be talking to guests and throwing vague words about world peace at them. But he’s upstairs, making out with Gavi as if there’s no tomorrow, clueless about the fact that he dribbled a couple of Interpol agents to be here.

Gavi almost wants to throw up thinking he’s skyrocketing this guy’s already gigantic ego, but at least it was very easy to get him away from the crowd because, apparently, he thinks with his second head.

Gavi’s suit is already a mess, but fuck that. He just needs to make Jude a little more vulnerable and it’s done—once he’s on the bed, he’ll choke him to death, hang him in the bathroom with his tie to make people think it’s suicide and then leave through the window swiftly. It’s a perfect plan , he thinks while biting Jude’s lower lip.

He’s never got attached to a single person in his life. So making out is to him, most of the time, just something to satisfy his carnal wishes, or merely a way to help him get what he wants. He’s killed many people like this before, men and women. Being attractive is a powerful tool.

A stray idea crosses his mind and he thinks that, if he ever got the opportunity to kill Pedri, they’d be like this at some point, somehow.

He frowns. He doesn’t know why he’s thought about that, so he kisses Jude harder, more saliva and more tongue to turn him on, with an urge to get done with this mission as soon as possible.

“You’re so hot,” Jude says.

“Shut up,” Gavi mutters back against his lips, dragging him towards the giant king size bed whose rose gold sheets look like they’re actually made of precious metals.

Jude starts undoing the buttons on his white shirt once his body collapses against the mattress. Gavi leans in for another kiss and his hands already find Jude’s neck, tightening around it. He moans with the grip at first; poor thing. He doesn’t know those are his last moments on Earth.

“Let go of him.” 

Gavi frowns. At first, he thinks he’s dreaming.

“Let go of him, Gavi. Now.”

Gavi looks to the bedroom door; there’s a gun pointed right at him. He can barely believe his eyes.

“Pedri?”

Chapter Text

The gun’s heavy in Pedri’s hands—one slight twitch of his finger and his life will forever change. He hopes his fierce glare hides how much he’s panicking inside; he can’t be vulnerable around someone like Gavi.

“What the fuck is happening?” Jude exclaims, desperately buttoning his shirt back up. “Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?” 

“Saving your life,” he says. “I told you to let go, Gavi,” he insists, voice firm.

“Gavi? Who the fuck…”  Jude pushes Gavi away; Gavi resists. “I thought your name was–” Gavi knocks him out with a punch right to the nose; Jude falls unconscious in the bed, a drip of blood slipping down his right nostril.

Pedri’s legs shake lightly, hand steady as he cocks the gun with a sharp click, in sync with a restrained exhale of his. “It’s loaded. Don’t play with me. I’m not afraid of your little game.”

It’s the first time they’re seeing each other but it also feels like the last. Gavi looks at him, tearing his gaze up and down; he stands up from the bed slowly, clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled—Pedri’s surprised to see it bleached—, eyes daring not to look away. 

“Hands up.”

“You know, he’s so fucking annoying, I did a favor for both of us by knocking him out–”

“I’m not telling you again, put your fucking hands up, Gavi–”

“Okay, what the fuck,” he says, and does as asked. “Seriously.” He chuckles. “You didn’t think coming here and fighting me alone was a good idea, did you?” 

“I’m not here to fight you.”

“Then, why are you here?”

Gavi takes a step closer. Pedri takes one further.

“Don’t.” Pedri swallows, gun still pointed at Gavi. “Drop your knife to the floor.” Gavi opens his mouth to say something. “ Don’t say you don’t have it. I know you always do, I’m not freaking stupid. Put the fucking knife on the floor. Now.”

“Okay, boss,” he reaches for the knife in his pocket, holding it in the air for a moment and dropping it to the floor like a coin. 

“Pass it to me.”

“How’d you like it, my captain?” Gavi chuckles. “Do you want me to cross it to you so you can put a header into the back of the net? I mean, not that you’re tall enough, but–”

“Ha, ha. Very funny. Pass me the knife, Gavi.”

“Do you want me to dribble past two or three markers first? Or, maybe, you prefer a through pass?”

“Stop fucking playing. Pass the fucking knife to me or I'll come get it from under your corpse.”

“Alright, alright.”

“And keep your hands up.”

Gavi shrugs, and kicks the knife in Pedri’s direction. Pedri halts it beneath his foot.

“Well, if anything, I’m surprised,” Gavi smiles. He sounds like he’s been humbled, but Pedri knows how much of a good actor he is. “I’m assuming neither the Interpol or the CNI know you’re here. Because, well, I don’t think you even should be.”

Pedri doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move either. He imagines the sound of the trigger being pulled, it tick tacks inside his head.

“What are you here for, exactly?”

“I’m here to catch you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He drags his finger along the trigger softly, feels the cold metal right against his skin. He’s afraid of this, more than he’d like to admit. 

“And what a great job you're doing. You know, just a reminder, you’re stranded here with me.”

Pedri looks back over his shoulder, he sees there’s a key hanging on the lock. He pushes himself against the door, right hand on the gun, left hand on his back, reaching for the key. He twists it and shoves it inside his pocket after the door’s locked.

“If I’m stranded, you’re stranded, too, Gavi. And don’t think about running to the window. I’m not afraid of using one or two bullets on you.”

He’s locked himself in a room with a freaking serial killer. What the fuck.

Gavi takes another step closer, this time Pedri can’t go any further because the door is locked. Congrats, genius, he thinks.

Gavi moves swiftly, too quick for Pedri to fully react, but not fast enough to catch him off guard. In one smooth, reckless motion, Gavi lunges, grabbing Pedri’s wrist with brutal precision and slamming him backwards into the door. Their chests collide like rocks in an avalanche, like two planes that’ve wrongly, or maybe intently, made their way into each other. Pedri holds firm onto the gun. Gavi’s hand presses against his shoulder, trying to unbalance him, while his other still grips at Pedri’s fingers over the gun.

Pedri looks for Gavi’s eyes unconsciously, as if that’s the missing piece on the messy puzzle he’s been trying to put together. They hide obscurity and corruption behind the glimmer of childlike innocence that not everyone sees through. They’re powerful, Pedri thinks.

He feels the weight of the moment in the way his breath syncs with Gavi's, deep and heavy. He almost forgets why he’s here. 

“Do you have any idea of what you’re doing?” Gavi squints, breath raw, hitting Pedri’s face. “Are you just going to wait for Interpol to come and save you like you’re their little princess up in a tower? Oh, poor thing. You know your career will be ruined if they see you here, right?” 

“As long as you get what you deserve, I’m fine with anything.”

“So, fucking me up is your whole life’s mission now? Whatever it takes?”

Pedri hesitates, but nods. 

“Good to know,” he gets closer, lips near Pedri’s ear. “For the record, it goes both ways.” His voice is low, a threat disguised as a whisper. 

It’s like a fever dream; and waking up right now would be a lot worse. Pedri deserves to see how this one ends. It’s his nightmare, he started it, he was the one who chose to fly all the way from Spain just to meet Gavi. He needs to control the situation.

Gavi tightens his grip around the gun, but Pedri doesn’t let go from underneath, won’t give this asshole the taste of victory. Instead, he gathers all strength he can and pushes Gavi with his forearm. Gavi fights back. But Pedri leaves them no time; for his own self to think properly about what he's going to do, for Gavi to react.

Pedri passes the gun from one hand to another with a swift motion. He presses the barrel of it against Gavi’s stomach and pulls the trigger.

Gavi screams. When Pedri realizes what he’s done, he almost screams, too. Something inside himself shifts.

“Okay, you fucking shot me,” Gavi pants. “That’s fucking news,” he lets go of Pedri’s wrist, struggling to breathe and to find balance, almost falling to the ground. 

But Pedri doesn’t let him go. Pedri lets the gun fall and holds him closer, one hand on his waist, the other over Gavi’s hand against the wound.

He walks him to the bed and lays him beside Jude, who’s still passed out; Pedri removes the pillowcase from one of the pillows.

“Here,” he leans towards Gavi, crumples the pillowcase near his wound and holds it there. “Don’t lose too much blood.”

Gavi rolls his eyes, still struggling to speak. “Alright, thanks, fucking Sherlock. Didn’t think of that.”

“Sorry, I’m–what the fuck, why am I apologizing?”

“You fucking shot me!”

“Did you give me a choice?”

“Fuck,” he whimpers in pain. “You need to get us out of here or we’re both fucked. They must’ve heard us.”

“I’m not leaving with you.”

“Fine, leave me here for your colleagues at the Interpol, if you can even call them that. Then they'll find me and kill me right away. Then in two seconds they’ll find out about your illegal involvement with this. And I don’t think that’s good for either of us.”

Reality hits Pedri like a tsunami. Damn.

“Alright. I just-I need somewhere to take us to.”

“Let me guess,” he bites his lips, trying to repress the pain. “As a part of your brilliant plan, you also did not think about how the hell you would get out of here, right?”

“Can you stop being a pain in the ass for a milisecond while I try to think?”

“I know someone, just drag us out of here through the back door and she’ll be able to help us.”

“How can I trust you?”

“Fucking hell, Pedri, you literally shot me and you’re asking me that shit?”

“Did you forget you’re still a literal serial killer, Gavi?”

“I’m a hitman, and the job I do is almost as dirty as the one you people do. I’m just a little less of a coward,” he drags his arm to Pedri. “Help me stand up.”

“Goddamn, Gavi,” he holds the pillowcase in place and helps Gavi up with his spare hand.

“There’s a freaking bullet in my guts, what do you expect? Me to get up like I’m a fairy and, I don’t know, dance tango for you right away?”

“Okay, just shut the fuck up,” Pedri says, crossing Gavi’s arm across his shoulders; Pedri keeps him by his side like a drunk friend who’s on the verge of passing out in the middle of the dance floor. “Let’s get out of here.”

Jude’s still passed out on the bed when Pedri and Gavi leave; good for him. He didn’t have to witness any of this insanity.

“Does it hurt?” The woman asks, stitching Gavi’s wound; the bullet, covered in blood, is placed on a tray on the coffee table.

“Like hell,” Gavi groans on the sofa, contorting himself. 

The cottage is small and quiet, located at the edge of a foggy village in a rural area of England. Inside, it smells faintly of olive oil and old wood. The walls are pale, the windows narrow, but the warmth is unmistakable; soft blankets over worn-out chairs, terracotta pots of rosemary and thyme on the windowsill, a cracked ceramic plate painted with the flag of Catalunya hung above the fireplace. Catalan poetry books are stacked on the shelf like anchors. The house feels like a glitch in time and space; if Pedri trips on one of the old and broken wooden slats, maybe he’ll fall back in Barcelona.

It’s been an hour or so since Pedri shot Gavi, but it feels like eons ago. Pedri’s hands and clothes are covered in damped blood, and there’s a small cut in his upper lip, he has no idea how he got it. He walks in circles in the living room and watches impatiently as the blonde woman sits on a chair taking care of Gavi, who’s half lying, half sitting on the sofa, giving her space.

Gavi’s bowtie is slung around his neck. His white shirt, stained in blood and with a hole where the bullet cut through, is splayed open, his tanned, well defined chest exposed. He looks calmer now, if that’s even possible. At least he’s not whining in pain anymore. 

“What rendezvous did you get yourself into this time, Pablo?” She asks.

“This asshole right here,” he points with his head to Pedri.

She looks over her shoulder, analyzing Pedri. Her glare is scary, it’s like she can see truth through Pedri’s eyes. “Well, my apologies, we didn’t have time to introduce ourselves,” she smiles, and it makes her a little less intimidating. “I’m Alexia. And you?”

“Uh–Pedri. I’m Pedri. Nice to meet you,” he smiles shyly. 

She leans back to continue her stitches. “How do you two know each other?”

“Long story,” Pedri says.

Gavi’s eyes find Pedri again. “Let’s just say he had the nerve to shoot me, now we’re here.”

“I don’t know what happened between you two, but I’m sure you deserved it, Pablo.”

“Thank you!” Pedri raises his hands in the air. “So, Alexia. How did you have the displeasure to meet this guy?” He asks. Gavi shows him his tongue. 

“I worked in The Six as a doctor for a couple of years. Pablo was always into trouble, he’d have appointments with me constantly. So, we became good friends. Then I decided that life wasn’t for me and came to start out a new one here in England, but, as you can see, I’m not exactly free from my duties,” she chuckles, standing up. “Don’t move, Pablito. I’ll go get some other supplies.”

The silence that fills the room when Alexia leaves is more agonizing than having a knife being stuck into one’s stomach slowly. Pedri looks back and forth from his surroundings to Gavi.

“So?” Gavi asks after a while. “What’s the deal after here? Is this, like, a little game? Do you go back to your stupid office and keep tracking me down like nothing’s happened?”

“I’m out of the case.”

“I know. Yet, look at you now.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I just–I don’t get it.”

“I don’t get it, either. Look at what you're doing. You followed me into a club and stabbed Dean Huijsen–”

“You knew I was there?” His eyes widen. “I thought–”

“Why did you stab him?”

“He was annoying.”

“No.” Pedri shakes his head. “Okay, you might a little too fucked up in the head, but you wouldn’t commit a crime so obvious unless you wanted to make it obvious. This is not just Dean Huijsen being annoying, this is your ass trying to prove a point to someone.”

“What do you know about me? Nothing. Yeah. Nothing.”

“Wrong. If there’s someone in the world I know about, it’s you.” 

“For God’s sake–”

“I’m being so serious, Gavi. I bet I know you better than the people who see you every other day. I’ve overanalyzed every move you made in the past two months. I have an entire archive on you, and notes worth making a senior thesis presentation out of. And I know that you might kill because you’re paid to do so, but I know it’s more than that for you. It’s–”

“It’s art. Yeah. I fucking know that you know it, I’ve watched that boring and stupid speech you gave about the psychology of killing a couple years back.”

Pedri stares at him in disbelief. “Why did you–”

“It’s not just about violence. That's his own twisted form of art,” Gavi says, mocking Pedri’s voice. “This been stuck in my mind for weeks. Do you know how fucked up it is when the only person that understands you is the one you most want to kill?”

Pedri takes a deep breath. “You could’ve killed me. Multiple times. You literally know where I live.”

“You could’ve killed me, too. You had the gun pointed to my head. Goddamn, Pedri. You should’ve shot me.”

“And you should’ve stabbed me instead of Dean Huijsen.”

“Would’ve been much easier than whatever this is, wouldn’t it?”

When Alexia walks into the living room again, Pedri hopes her presence is going to make the tension between him and Gavi fade away.

But it’s there, poking at Pedri's sides like it’s a joke. Because, really, this whole situation looks like one.

Pedri and Gavi sit at a comfortable distance from each other—Gavi on one end of the sofa, Pedri on the armchair that’s the most further away from it—while a weird sitcom plays on TV. Gavi falls asleep; Pedri follows Alexia into the kitchen while she’s preparing something that smells really good. A kettle hums in the background; there’s a Barça scarf folded beside a dusty espresso machine.

“Hey,” she smiles, taking plates and cutlery out of her cupboards. “How’s Pablo doing?”

“He’s doing fine, he fell asleep on the sofa.”

“Good,” she smiles. “Do you want something to eat? It’s been sometime, I bet you’re both starving.”

“I’m good for now, thanks.”

“You two look like you’ve been through a lot today. It’s pretty late, are you sure you don’t want to spend the night?”

Pedri smiles. “No, I don’t want to bother–”

“C’mon, that guest room hasn’t seen anyone in ages. Let me do this favor for you both.”

It’s an offer that’s inescapable; Pedri doesn’t have anywhere else to go, and sleeping over would help ease the pain in his tense upper back muscles. Alexia’s cottage is cozy, almost detached from the world outside that Pedri’s not ready to face. He hasn’t even dared to check his phone, which has probably died by now.

“Alright,” he surrenders. “Thank you, Alexia. That’s really sweet of you.”

“Of course,” she smiles. “Now, excuse me for being nosy. But what really happened between you and Pablo? I know he can be really difficult, so, if you need to talk, I’m here.”

“Yeah,” Pedri scratches his nape. “I’m actually spiraling about it.”

“I’m all ears, buddy. I’ve seen everything in this industry. And I mean it.”

“So, uh, first of all. I’m a... CNI agent.”

“You’re… What? Damn. Pablo, out of all people, hanging out with one of you guys? That I didn’t expect.”

“Yeah, well, it’s much more complicated than you think. A little over a month ago I got recruited to track Gavi down. I’ve done this before, multiple times. I can profile all types of serial killers. But… As you can see, it got really far. I–we couldn’t stop anymore. He tracked down my apartment, sent me stuff through the mail. A polaroid, a dinosaur plushie. Then, earlier today, we got to the point where I finally got face to face with him and had a gun pointed to his head. And I couldn’t–I couldn’t do it. I realized at the edge of the moment that I wasn’t prepared to kill a person.”

Alexia pays attention and nods. “Were you not prepared to kill a person, or were you not prepared to kill Gavi?”

“I–I don’t know.”

“I’ve seen people inside The Six almost lose their careers and lives, literally, because of this guy. And maybe that’s what you’re doing now.”

“But, why?”

“I don’t know, buddy. Some say it’s because he shakes their ego, some say he’s got irresistible charm, sometimes it’s both. Each person has their own answer to that question, and you should figure out yours. But, if you’ve reached this point, I fear to tell you that you aren’t a regular CNI agent anymore. Now, it’s up to you to decide what you want to do. You can run away and go back to your job and let Pablo out of your life, a hundred percent. Leave zero trace and don't look back. Or, keep doing what you’re doing, this little cat-and-mouse thing. Until one of you is hanging by the neck. Whatever’s more exciting to you.”

Pedri looks at Alexia like she’s just thrown an entire sun at him; he’s burning with agony, but that’s given him a sense of clarity.

“Here, drink it,” she says, handing him a cup of water. “Now, go take a shower and wipe all this blood away from your body. I keep some old clothes from my dad in the guest room, you can look through it and find something to wear for the night.”

“Thanks, Alexia,” he drinks the cup of water; it’s refreshing, exactly what he needed.

When he walks through the living room, he sees Gavi again, sound asleep.

You can run away and go back to your job and let Pablo out of your life, Alexia’s words are really fresh in Pedri’s mind. He has his gun in his pocket; he could shoot Gavi in the head and run away for good, like he should’ve done at Jude’s house.

He doesn’t. He heads for the guest room, finds clothing to wear and gets into the shower.

Before heading to bed, Alexia tells them to make themselves at home but reminds them not to kill each other; she gives Pedri a glare when she does so. Pedri isn’t sure what it’s supposed to mean.

Gavi sits in the couch with a small pot of strawberry yogurt that has made a tiny pink moustache over his upper lip. He licks it away. He’s wrapped in a very oversized white t-shirt and loose cargo pants, whereas Pedri picked a faded navy t-shirt with the Barça crest half-peeled off and a pair of soft grey sweatpants that are slightly too long at the legs.

“You can take the bed, since you’re injured,” Pedri says, holding a pillow and a blanket.

“Where are you going to sleep, then?”

“Duh, in the couch.”

Gavi looks at him for a little too long, a moment that’s silent and that doesn’t feel like it belongs to them; it almost gets lost into the shadows of the night outside.

“Okay,” Gavi gets up and heads for the guest room. Before closing the door, he looks back. “You’re a Barcelona fan, too?”

Pedri nods.

“Cool,” he says. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The door’s closed with a click; it doesn’t take long for Pedri to drift off in the sofa. There’s a lot to think about, but he doesn’t have the energy to. It’s been a long, rough day.

Chapter Text

Gavi wakes up later than he expected to; the sun rays are strong, slipping through the pores of the beige curtains, stinging his eyes once they’re open. 

He rolls on the bed to cover his face on the pillow and accidentally shifts his weight to where his injury is; the pain starts as a needle pinch that grows bigger with every millisecond and spreads through his muscles. He grunts. 

He sits up on the bed and palps the wound. It’s left a small garnet stain on the bandage, but other than that it’s not bleeding anymore. Alexia’s made a good job, careful like she’s always been—she used to get him Barcelona stickers and give him lollipops after their appointments. She’s never treated him as a pile of shattered glass or a piece of a broken toy; instead, she looks him right into the eyes and he remembers there’s a human being beneath the flesh that is always silently cracking, behind the eyes that burn from repressed tears. Alexia is one of the few people that’s ever seen Gavi cry.

And Gavi’s been in her cottage before; but, today, he doesn’t feel safe like he usually does. Pedri will pay for what he’s done, sooner or later. 

Gavi falters to breathe when he leaves the guest room and doesn’t find Pedri on the sofa with the blanket and pillow he’s left behind.

At first, Gavi thinks he’s hiding; because that’s just who he is, a cop with a costume that fails to make him look less like the wimp he is. But then Gavi’s mind replays the moment he was in Pedri’s arms, suffocating in the blood spilling from his own guts, letting Pedri handle him like he didn’t just shoot him. Gavi thinks he is the coward, in the end.

So, Gavi reconsiders and wonders if Pedri left for good, instead. Which is absurd—he wouldn’t leave Gavi behind like this, not when the thing that originated this madness, to begin with, was his irrational wish to catch him even if it meant that heads would roll. Well, they didn’t, but Gavi’s mind feels so heavy that it might as well do so at any moment.

His train of thought stops on the tracks when he hears soft laughter coming from the kitchen. Alexia and Pedri are having breakfast, and Pedri’s smile fades when he notices Gavi is standing near the door. 

“Morning,” Pedro says, taking a slow sip of his black tea while staring at Gavi with the eyes of a deer who’s two seconds away from being hit by a car on a dark road.

“Stop looking at me like I’m going to kill you,” he replies dryly. “It’s not like I have the energy right now.”

“Pablo,” Alexia reprimands. “Sit down and grab some food, you haven’t eaten in a long time.”

Gavi looks at the small window above the sink and considers hopping through it and running away until he’s out of breath. However, facing the wrath of The Six is scarier than having breakfast with Pedri. And he shivers, not because he might die anytime soon, but because near his wound there’s an empty stomach and his gastric acid is already eating up its foundations.

It’s not like he has a choice right now, so he just sits down and grabs a mug of tea and a slice of omelet.

The couch let Pedri and Gavi pretend they didn’t share space—the small, round wooden breakfast table doesn’t offer that luxury. They don’t stop with the silent glares. And the fact that their knees keep bumping into each other is driving Gavi nuts, he wonders if Pedri’s doing it just to piss him off.

He wants to drop Pedri to the floor and punch him until he needs facial reconstruction, but Alexia looks between them like her patient hazel eyes are what’s preventing them from breaking apart. Gavi can't do something of the kind in front of her. So he just chews his omelet in silence. 

Once breakfast is over, Pedri helps Alexia with the dishes while Gavi sneaks to the back of the house for some fresh air. The backyard is small and quiet, with overgrown grass, a few forgotten pots of herbs, and a sagging clothesline. Gavi leans against the cottage’s wall, staring into the nothingness beyond the fence. Yards of grass and a few trees here and there, all leading down to a river near a couple of hills, merging with the clouds in the grey sky up above.

He lights up a cigarette he stole from Alexia's box the previous night and wonders what’s next of his day, of his life. He thinks of Jude and his failed mission, pictures Lewandowski’s face of disapproval, the gun in his hands that might be loaded this time.

“Hey,” Pedri says, all of a sudden. He hesitates by the back door, but steps outside and leans against the wall, always at a safe distance from Gavi when they can. 

“I don’t wanna talk to you.”

“Well.” He points to the cigarette. “Can I just have a drag, at least?” 

“I’m sure Alexia has more.”

“C’mon, Gavi.”

Gavi rolls his eyes and snorts, but lets Pedri have a drag. The wind carries the smoke back to Gavi.

“Thanks,” Pedri says, passing the cigarette back. “I thought I would wake up this morning and you’d be gone.”

“Would’ve. If I didn’t oversleep.” He shrugs.

He doesn’t feel like keeping this conversation going will be any productive. But it’s puzzling how far Pedri’s come, risking everything, including his life, for a few drops of Gavi’s blood. Against his own pride, Gavi wants to understand that piece of shit who sounds just as insane as he is.

“And you?” He asks. “Why are you here?”

Pedri contemplates the horizon in silence. Gavi also does so. Not that he’s any religious, but a miracle wouldn’t hurt right now; even though the sacred gates would probably close at the simple mention of Pedri and Gavi’s names.

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” Pedri admits.

“You have an apartment. And a boring job. And your friends.”

“Do you think I’ll still have a job after this? Or friends? Do you think people will trust me after what we’ve– well, what I’ve done?”

“I don’t know. But, I have to admit, what a fucking great plan you had. Totally worth it.”

Pedri frowns. “You think?”

“I was already on thin ice with The Six. Once they find out I didn’t kill Jude, well, you can consider your search over.”

“You’re saying that they will… No. They won’t kill you.”

“You really, really, really don’t know what they’re capable of,” Gavi lowers his voice, as if they could hear him from miles away.

“I’m not questioning what they’re capable of doing. I’m saying, they won’t kill you because they wouldn’t want to do so. It’s stupidity. Listen–”

“Do you even know what you’re talking about, Pedri–”

“Gavi, don’t you realize? You’ve been tricking cops and detectives and countries for years. And you do it like it’s part of you, you’re a natural at this. They might be scaring you into thinking it’s the last straw for you, but, really, they need you. You and your art.”

“This doesn’t mean anything anymore.” Gavi lowers his gaze. “They can find a youngster to replace me.”

“No. They can’t. Think about it. If The Six eliminate you, who will they put in your place? Someone with the same skills at you? Who even is that?” Gavi ponders for a bit, but not a single name comes to his mind. “Exactly. They can get one kid or another from La Masia again, but it won’t be you . Trust me, I’ve studied killers for years. You’re the most talented one I’ve ever seen.”

Gavi tilts his head to look at Pedri, and he’s already looking at him. He can’t tear his gaze away. He glances up and down and finds Pedri’s eyes with his. He’s praying, begging the heavens silently like a hopeless widow that Pedri’s telling him the truth. 

“You don’t mean it.”

“Goddamn, Gavi. Are you even listening to me? Do you ever look around? Look what you did to these people. Kylian, Karim, Toni, even poor Héctor.”

“How do you know I killed–” Gavi swallows. “Whatever. What happened to Héctor is your fault.” 

“Screw that. That’s not the point and you know it. You could kill me right now if you wanted to and not even Alexia would know what happened. You’re smart as fuck.”

“Yet, you managed to catch me.”

Pedri chuckles as if Gavi’s words are as absurd as saying the Earth is flat. “I didn’t catch you.”

“Well, I didn’t escape from you, either,” he tilts his head lightly. “Did I?”

The wind blows stronger through the tension that simmers between them; there’s a filthy shadow full of wrath and secrets that hovers between their eyes, which have long not shimmered. Yet Gavi has never seen more clarity in his life than he does right now.

“No,” Pedri licks his lips. “You didn’t.”

“Be honest. You didn’t come here to put me in jail, did you?”

“No,” he says simply. “I know I can’t. Not alone. But I thought if I could stop you from killing just a person, I’d feel better about myself.”

“And do you?”

“Well. No, of course not, but,” he sighs. “It’s not… It’s not just that. I think. I just–I just wanted to understand you. I thought seeing you, knowing you’re a real person and not just a bunch of notes on something that looks like a scrapbook at this point, would help. But, God. You just made me realize I actually don’t know you at all.”

“I don’t think anyone does. Neither do I,” he says, taking a deep drag of the cigarette. “I don’t ever know what I want, what I really like. It fucking sucks. All I know about me is that I like killing people, and I’d do it even if I wasn’t being paid to do so. Because seeing a dead body drop to the ground is the only time when I ever feel anything.”

“You didn’t feel anything with Héctor?”

“No.”

“And what about the…” Pedri hesitates. “The guy before him?”

Gavi’s eyes warm up, vision blurring with the ocean forming between his eyelids. The memory hits him in the same never-healing spots like the very first time. 

“Fucking hell. Good thing Héctor’s dead, did he ever know how to keep his freaking mouth shut? He was the one who told you, wasn’t he?” Pedri nods.

Gavi’s an arsonist fueled by rage right now, but Pedri looks at him with calm, big brown eyes that could tame a forest fire. He can hear the crack of thick air, leaving room for a different breeze between them, icy yet soft, akin to vulnerability.

“His name was Carlos, I met him in Poland during training. We got really close. Went on a few missions together,” he tells Pedri, the words stinging like a bitter-tasting bruise at the tip of his tongue that keeps getting deeper. “He took my virginity the night before one of those. We were in Belgium, the job was an old guy, very rich, a former associate of The Six. It was supposed to be clean. We were in and out before sunrise.” Gavi’s jaw tightens. “Next morning, I got arrested at the border.”

Pedri frowns, confused. “You left something behind?”

Gavi shakes his head slowly. “Carlos left something behind. The fucking asshole left behind one of my fake IDs and my prints on a wine glass.”

“Why would he–”

“Because he was a greedy, stupid, fucking bitch. I found out later that The Six were deciding on who to promote, and we were the best contenders. And he knew it, he fucking knew it, so he wanted to get me out of sight. After that fiasco, I stayed in jail for a month before my mentor took me out. Meanwhile, Carlos got the promotion. He… It’s so insane. It’s all so insane. He told me he loved me the night he fucked me,” Gavi mutters. “Then he fed me to the wolves and didn’t even look back.”

Pedri doesn’t say anything. Gavi notices just now that a tear has slipped down his own cheek.

Recompose yourself, stupid, he thinks. Don’t be vulnerable.

“So, is he still in The Six?”

“He didn’t last six months after that,” he cleans away his tears and pretends they’ve never been on his face. “Was killed by a cop. I got the promotion later, after The Six found out that he had incriminated me. But he died knowing he had made my life much more miserable. And I won’t ever let someone have the same pleasure again. Won't let someone get to know me like that again.”

Pedri stays quiet for a while.

“What made Carlos different, to begin with? What made you fall for him?”

“He didn’t make me bored,” he shrugs. “But it doesn’t matter anymore, he’s dead and I’m not.”

“I’m… Sorry you went through this.”

“Don’t be so fucking performative.”

“I’m not.” Gavi wants to argue, but he’s not emotionally armored enough. So his eyes dart back to hills and clouds beyond him, hoping that nature will bring him back to his own body. Pedri doesn’t stop looking at him. He sighs. “We should get going. There’s… There’s still a life outside waiting for us.” A life Gavi doesn’t want to face, and he bets Pedri doesn’t, either.

“Yeah. Whatever."

“I’ll leave first,” Pedri suggests, heading to the door. “Need to get back on track with my job and make sure I don’t lose it. And that my friends don’t think I’m dead.”

“Yeah,” Gavi swallows.

He looks at a group of sheep down the river, pays attention to how they walk and lean towards the grass, counts how many babies there are, anything to avoid the weird twinge in his lower belly, something sharp, akin to skin being poked and pinched with pliers. And it’s not because of the bullet wound.

Pedri reenters the cottage. Gavi, for his own good, hopes they won’t see each other again.

“Okay, once you get home, check the stitches. If anything happens to your wound, please call me. And don’t forget to wash it.”

“Okay, I won’t forget.”

“Properly, Pablo. You know you can’t do that with any kind of soap. Please don’t get an infection.”

“I won’t,” Gavi rolls his eyes, but chuckles. “Thanks, Alexia. For everything.”

“Don’t say it like it’s a goodbye,” Alexia smiles back softly, ruffling Gavi’s hair. “You know you’ll always have a place to crash at, if you need.”

For the fifth time, Gavi skims around the living room to make sure he isn’t forgetting anything. In fact, he’s just hesitant to step his feet outside and smell the winds of the outer world that waits him with a knife pointed at his neck.

“Do you think Pedri will come after me again?”

Alexia raises an eyebrow. “You’re not afraid of him, are you?”

“No, of course not. I just… I just want him to stay away from me. Once I’m healed, he won’t want to be the unlucky one to cross my path.”

“Well. You two seemed to be having a nice conversation outside–”

“We did not,” he shoots. “We did not have a nice conversation. He just… Wanted a drag of cigarette. That’s all.”

“Whatever you say,” she shrugs. “Well, you need to move on from this. Your job’s waiting for you.”

Gavi sighs. “This time they’ll kick me out. For good.”

“C’mon, just give Lewandowski a pout and you’ll get it done with.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“For you, it is, sweetheart,” she giggles. “Trust me, you’ll figure it out.”

“Well.” He gives Alexia a restrained side smile. “Thanks again, Alexia. I’ll see you.”

“I’ll see you, Pablito. Don’t forget to send me some of those Catalan postcards you told me about.”

He chuckles. “I won’t.”

Walking down the streets of Barcelona, Gavi lets the gentle, late night rainfall wash him over, one thin drop at once. It’s soothing, but not enough. He takes small sips of a wine bottle that’s already lukewarm and barely does anything to him; he’s been through so much pain these days that the scorching alcohol doesn't get remotely close to triggering him to the edge like life has been doing. 

He’s like a torn apart cardboard box floating on the sea; empty, wrecked open, sinking over time.

He lazily knocks at Lewandowski’s apartment, knuckles barely touching the wooden door, but close enough to make a faint noise that reverbs at the walls of the empty corridor. When Lewy opens the door, he’s wearing his nightrobe, like when Gavi crashed at his place late at night on his birthday a month or so ago. It's been so little and so long at the same time.

Gavi expects everything from this moment—questions, answers, shouts, knives, guns, blood, an assertive you’re finally fired before his life flashes through his eyes and his body falls to the ground without it.

But Lewandowski doesn’t even move; his blue eyes settle quietly on the boy beyond him.

“You bleached your hair, too,” is everything Gavi can articulate.

“I did.”

“Cool,” he bites his lips trying to figure out how to proceed. “I failed the mission.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t kill Jude.”

Lewandowski nods. “I know.”

“And I–”

“I killed Jude.”

“I think that I–” Gavi stops; his jaw drops. “You what?”

“I traveled to England shortly after you did, The Six sent me there in secret to supervise you. When I sneaked into Jude’s room, he was waking up. And, with all that blood on the floor that was clearly not his, I was sure something had happened to you,” he sighs. “To avoid the worst case scenario, I shot Jude. Three times. To make sure.”

“What… What does The Six think happened to me?”

“They don’t know you’re missing. I didn’t report it to them.”

“So. They don’t know I failed?”

“No.”

Call Gavi a psycho, but knowing about a guy’s passing is the thing that has most filled him with relief in his entire life.

He throws himself to Lewandowski and hugs him; it’s a little startling, Lewy hesitates to reciprocate it. It’s understandable, they’ve never been this close. But this proximity is much nicer, now that they’re not separated by the barrel of a gun or the edge of a knife. 

The weight of the last days has been spilling on Gavi’s back at once, wrapped around his neck like a rusty chain that keeps tightening its grip. But, just like the silence he and Lewy have fallen into, it gets softer. It crumples itself into a bubble that gets smaller and lighter until it floats away and disappears. 

Gavi’s tears don’t leave scars on his face anymore. They don’t feel as repulsive, not when Lewy doesn’t reprimand him. Pulls him closer like Gavi’s the child he could never have. Lets Gavi sob in a way he’s never allowed himself to do before.

“Sorry,” Gavi pulls away and falls back into himself; the instinctive pull in his heart makes him clean away those wet evidences of weakness from his face. It’s the most he’s cried in years. “It’s been a weird couple of days.”

“You look wrecked.” And he really does. Disheveled hair, sticking onto his wet forehead, humid and crumpled clothes that aren’t even his, dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t slept since the last great war, dry blood under his nails. “Come on in. Tell me what happened.”

Gavi nods, not sure of how he’s going to explain the past forty-eight hours that he still hasn’t made full sense of.

When Pedri is finally able to charge his phone, he lets everyone at work and back home know he’s alive. He limits himself to a couple of messages saying I’m fine, had to deal with an emergency, will explain it later.

He spends more than five minutes in the shower, trying to scrub off the blood phantoms from him. It’s all gone, but he still feels it like an itch under his skin that he can’t scratch. It’s agonizing, thinking there’s molecules of Gavi stuck to his skin until they’re carried away by the universe of particles around Pedri, God knows when, if there’s ever a time.

Once he’s clean, physically, although not spiritually, he falls into his bed at night and it’s the most bittersweet sensation he’s ever felt. A mix of the relief of being safe within his walls, tangled in his own sheets, with the fear of facing the outcomes of his actions once the morning comes.

Pedri is exhausted, but his mind won’t allow him some rest.

He keeps drifting back to the key moments of the past two days; Gavi’s eyes when he saw him at Jude’s for the first time, the fear in them manifesting itself as a poisonous sarcasm dripping off his tongue. Gavi’s grip on his arm, how close they were before Pedri struck him with a bullet in the blink of an eye, the desperation that hit him when he realized Gavi wasn’t a concept anymore, he was a person. A human being bleeding in his arms, body begging for help.

It all happened so overwhelmingly fast that Pedri questions if they were able to transcend time and space. He still feels like he isn’t back to the reality he’s supposed to be in.

Because, in a proper world, he would’ve arrested Gavi. Would’ve dragged him into a cell with the highest of security levels and let the law decide what to do with him. Or, Gavi would’ve stabbed Pedri until his organs choke in blood. Would’ve put an end to the consciousness, the guilt, the euphoria, the fear, and all the other things that have been plagging Pedri. 

But this isn’t a proper world. Pedri knows he isn’t the typical good guy, and that Gavi isn’t the average serial killer, either. The perfect solutions they have on paper would never be enough to ease whatever this high is that they have going on.

Pedri goes to smoke a cigarette in the balcony of his apartment. The street below is quiet, dimly lit, with only the hum of a passing moped and the soft clatter of glass from a bar cleaning up. Barcelona’s half-asleep; Pedri envies it.

Since he can’t sleep, he opens his laptop and looks through the newest reports on Mercurio Azul case to get back on track with the work he hasn’t been able to do in the past few days. With the current state of affairs, Pedri can’t risk losing his job more than he’s already been.

But it feels illegal to investigate a different case when Gavi’s all he can think about. 

It’s physically draining to be so obsessed with a person like this. The feeling of having a book left open by his side, begging to be read, thousands of pages where Gavi’s name is written all over like stadium chants. A name that consumes him, crawls into his skin and infects each of his cells, settles inside his brain and has a feast out of his grey matter.

Pedri is so rotten. While dealing with all the recent mess, he’s even forgotten he still has Gavi’s knife. 

He places it on his nightstand, right beside Raddish, who’s been smiling all along.

Chapter Text

While Gavi walks beneath the dim yellow lights, the air around him smells faintly of roasted chestnuts from a cart two streets away, merging with the distant hum of traffic on the Bosphorus bridge. The cold night wind sneaks underneath his sleeves, making him shiver; he hopes the countless street cats have found shelters for the time being. 

Cats are brilliant; clever and crafty, chaotic at the right times, and, above all, astonishingly classy. He loves them, and here they're everywhere, from parks to train stations to restaurants. Maybe that’s why, for all the blood Gavi’s split, Istanbul is one of the few cities in the world he can’t bring himself to hate.

Tonight, Gavi’s wearing a black tuxedo and holding a briefcase to blend in at the fancy hotel he’s heading to. His next victim is Arda Güler, a very low-key data analyst who’s stumbled upon a money-laundering network that funnels funds to The Six. He’s compiled a quiet, well-documented report meant for an internal audit, but it’s only a matter of time before it’s flagged to law enforcement. 

It’s past midnight; according to Arda’s schedule, he should be asleep now because his audit is going to happen early tomorrow. Too bad. His five seconds of wannabe world savior ends tonight. His accomplishment doesn’t make him any smarter; he’s still a fucker who thinks he’s doing something useful to society beyond his boring life of pretending he enjoys looking at numbers on a screen from nine to five. 

Gavi walks past the revolving doors of the hotel. He paces through the lobby calmly, the strong scents of the freshly polished marble floor and the expensive colognes merging together in a nauseating mix. In the elevator, he taps his fake hotel card against the keycard reader and automatically starts heading to the fourteenth floor. Thank God the card works, at least the tech guys at The Six aren’t so incompetent like some of the newest recruits.

The corridor is eerily silent, with just low noises of a person talking through the phone inside one of the rooms. Room 1411, Gavi thinks, and is quick to find it. He inserts the card inside the digital lock and, once it turns green, he enters the room. Arda’s sound asleep, which makes things a lot easier. Gavi doesn’t turn on the lights.

He drops the briefcase on the floor silently and pulls a small folded cloth from his pocket, the faint chemical tang of chloroform sharply poisoning the air in an instant, and presses it over Arda’s nose. The younger man wakes up with a jolt, gasps, thrashes once, twice, then slumps on the bed like a marionette with cut strings.

With the flashlight of his phone, he sees at least five different blister packs with pills on the nightstand. Some depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder or whatever-the-fuck meds. He seems like a troubled guy. If anything, Gavi is doing him a favor.

Arda’s not dead yet, so Gavi goes to the bathroom and lets the bathtub faucet run, the constant sound of the flowing water soothing his ears. While he waits, he looks in the mirror and gives his hair a few light taps. He’s got to make sure it’s perfect.

Once the bathtub is filled, he brings Arda’s passed out body and lets it sink in it. He’ll drown before he even gets back to himself and realizes what has happened to him. It shouldn’t take long. 

Gavi takes another look in the mirror. There’s still a stubborn strand of hair that won’t align itself with the others; he adjusts it with a little bit of water from the sink before leaving.

As the elevator patiently descends to the ground floor, Gavi rests against the cold metal wall behind him and takes a deep breath. There’s something missing. There’s no rapture flowing through his veins, just an itch at his gut that gets smaller, yet sharper with every floor that passes. There’s no joy, no thrill. It just feels like clocking out for the day in an office job.

Did he do something wrong this time? Or did killing really become this boring?

Surely, there must be something different with this assignment that makes Gavi feel like that. He blames Arda for being so stupid and sound sleeping like a prince the night before the audit that was minutes away from causing his death, literally. C’mon, he didn’t even wake up when Gavi opened the door, it’s like he’d been waiting for the bait like a shoal of brainless fish. Gavi didn’t have to fight or draw any blood. That must be it, this was an easy one.

This bothers him. It bothers him that this death was nowhere close to blatant. It really bothers him that it’ll feel like he wasn’t even here, and that he won’t get any attention out of this.

Now that he's thinking about it, the itch in his heart gets deeper, its roots being fed with his emotional stupidity. Irrationally, it bothers him that he won’t get caught. That there’s no one chasing him right now.

He palps his bullet wound; it is nothing but a scar now. Sometimes, in fractions of seconds when Gavi thinks he’s finally got over it, he doesn’t even remember it’s there. But that forgetfulness doesn’t last long enough to ease the fever that’s been haunting him. 

He remembers the wound when he wakes up and tries to scratch that one spot right below it that never ceases to itch. When he changes his clothes and it’s there, its reflection on the closet mirror staring right back at him. When he showers and he has to face it because, sadly, it isn’t going to wash itself.

It’s been months and there’s not a single day that goes by that he doesn’t think about it. The recollection of the bullet reaching his guts is insistent and unexplainably, dangerously nostalgic. It's a bacteria in his brain that takes and gives, eats his flesh and fills him with chemicals that make him feel high. It's something with the shape of five very specific letters. 

The memory of Pedri is never-ending, laced along where Gavi’s stitches used to be.

Whatever, in the end it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter at all. At all. Gavi has more important things to do, more relevant lives to end.

“I want to kill Pedri.”

Lewy looks at him, eyebrows frowned. “What?”

“Don’t you think he deserves it?” Gavi takes a sip of his strawberry milkshake while he and Lewandowski walk around Parc de la Ciutadella. They stop in the middle of the bridge by the pond, it’s a chilly afternoon. “I mean, c’mon. He tried to ruin me and he deserves to die, it's as simple as that. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”

Lewy chuckles. “Gavi, it’s been– how much time has it been, even? Six months?”

“Yeah, six months since he almost fucking killed me. You think that’s the type of thing that’s easy to forgive and forget?” 

“Your timing is awful. You had your chance to wipe him off the map. Now, let it go.”

“What choice did I have? I was fucking bleeding and dying.”

“Don’t play dumb,” he cleans a drop of milkshake from the corner of Gavi’s mouth with his sleeve. “You could be lacking a leg and you’d still explode a building and manage to get away with it. You didn’t kill Pedri because you didn’t want to.”

Gavi laughs sarcastically. “That’s ridiculous–”

“Ridiculous is whatever the fuck getting back at Pedri means to you. I don’t know what it is, but it’s more than just revenge.”

“Yeah. It’s way more than revenge. It’s justice.”

“Justice is a very delicate word to use when we do what we do, don’t you think?”

Gavi grunts and throws his head back. “Don’t throw this uncle philosophy at me again–”

“Listen to me. It’s been ages. You’ve been doing so well for the past six months, you know you’re on the right track to get that promotion and finally boss someone around like you've wanted to for ages. But any minor slip up you have right now can change everything. And killing a CNI agent that’s totally out of your case is not just a minor slip up. It’s a huge mistake. I can't keep cleaning the messes you make, Gavi. It's not safe for either of us.” He sighs. “You have to let it go. He’s not after you anymore.”

He’s not after you anymore. Gavi tries to ignore how uneasy that combination of words makes him feel.

“Alright,” he snorts, taking a sip of his milkshake before tossing the cup away at the nearest trash can. Lewy picks up a cigarette and hands another one to Gavi. He covers his with his hand to block the wind while he lights it up, Gavi does the same as they lean against the bridge.

The watercolor blues and greens of the pond beyond them shimmer with the setting sun. The small trees and bushes nearby remind Gavi of the landscape behind Alexia’s cottage, and, for a brief moment that quickly escapes in time and space, he can see Pedri at the corner of his eye when he takes a drag of his cigarette. 

He thinks about being shot, about how almost dying in Pedri’s hands was the closest of being alive he’s ever been. About how everything changed after this different type of high was introduced to his life, about how killing now feels like buying food at the local bakery before Saturday morning breakfast. Simple. Stupid. Routine. Boring.

“Did you ever think about stopping?” Gavi asks.

“Stopping with what?”

“Killing.”

Lewy doesn’t answer right away, staring into the horizon.

“No.”

"But..."

"We're not gonna talk about this."

It’s a dry and authoritarian answer, and, above all, very fake. Lewy jumped out of the boat like everyone always does, and now Gavi is alone, sinking and overflowing with feelings he, yet again, doesn’t comprehend. Gavi wants to punch Lewy and then himself.

It’s a feeling deeper than that, though, something his wrath of years and years has wrapped itself around, something scratching his insides wanting to blow up to the surface—like an ignored toddler lost from his parents at the supermarket, he just wants answers.

“C’mon.” Gavi insists, biting his lower lip and staring at a leaf silently falling on the pond as if it could provide him with what he needs. He lets out a harsh breath that staggers through his mouth. “Please. I’m bored. I’m insufferably bored. I’m bored and I’m so miserable because the only thing that’s ever given me joy lost its meaning.” His voice cracks as he starts crying. “All I ever needed was for people to come clear to me about things. About why the fuck my parents were gone for good. About what’s wrong with me. No one’s bothered to explain shit to me. No one ever does. Please, Lewy. Tell me why I feel so fucking weak right now like I’m some stupid piece of freaking shit. Tell me why I wish there could be a button I could press to make it all stop.”

Lewy stares back at him, acknowledges his existence again after what feels like a century of oblivion. Gavi’s not sure of what to expect from the blue in his eyes, heavy yet borderline empty. But he feels lighter; he’s never thrown his true self up like this.

“I did.” Lewy says. “I did think about it. A long time ago. But, even if I did, what would I do? Get a normal job, settle down with someone?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? I don’t know, what if? Well. Fuck that. That’s also boring.” Gavi sniffs. His cheeks are still cold with leftover tears. “To me. It’s boring to me.” He sniffs again, taking a deeper drag of the cigarette. “But you wanted that life, didn’t you?”

Lewandowski shrugs and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You actually wanted it, didn’t you? A nine to five and a boring life?”

“A calm life.” Lewy says firmly. “Yes, I wanted it, Gavi. You see, I’d never had a problem with killing. Until I realized I could do much more. Get a bigger house. One or two children and a few dogs. Watching football matches with the family. You know, the dumbest shit ever.” He stares back at the pond like he’s waiting for the water to give him answers. “But at some point I realized how much this matters, how much I wanted this stupidity. And I felt brave admitting it to myself. You know, it takes courage to recognize you want to be boring sometimes.”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you quit?”

“It’s not that easy. One day you’ll understand,” he says, grabbing a tiny grey envelope from his pocket. “For now, here’s your next assignment.”

Gavi hesitates, thinking about lighting the envelope up then setting the entire park on fire with it. But he despises the idea of a life where Sunday barbecues are the most exciting thing he has to look forward to. Lewandowski is right; this is stupidity. So Gavi picks the envelope and shoves it inside his pocket.

“So? Still thinking about quitting?”

“No.” He says plainly, shrugging, hoping his eyes aren’t red. The last thing he wants is people on the streets to think he’s a crying baby.

“I thought you were bored.”

“I’ll just get a new hobby.”

“Yeah. Good idea.”

Pedri’s not a gigantic fan of having people over, if anything, he tries to avoid it as much as he can. But life can get lonely sometimes, especially when the people you most see are deranged killers gathered in files, clues and databases. And today’s a special day, so he doesn’t mind hosting this tiny gathering with his closest friends, Fernando and his parents, who traveled all the way from Tenerife. In fact, he really appreciates they’re all here tonight.

“I’m so proud of you, mijo,” his mom, María, enters the kitchen with a smile, squeezing his cheek while he grabs another bottle of champagne from his fridge. “Another milestone for you, isn’t that right?”

“Thanks, mamá,” He smiles shyly and hugs her. More than twenty years have passed and he still doesn’t know how to take compliments and praise overall.

Fernando enters the kitchen, taking a sip of his glass of champagne. “So, is the Ibiza thing still happening this summer? I bet you’re fucking rich now,” their mom glares at him because of the bad word, but doesn’t say anything. Pedri and his brother look at each other and giggle. “Just kidding, congrats again, Pepi. What you’ve done is huge.”

It’s definitely a big thing. He’s helped uncover a whole human trafficking scheme involving Spain, Germany, Russia and other seven Latin American countries, and now he’s being promoted to a senior field agent in the special crimes department. It’s a huge step. Especially because last year Pedri thought everything was lost; but he moved on, worked his ass off and it paid off. 

“It’s so good to see you two together again,” María smiles, eyes shimmering, darting from one son to another. “Pepi, do you still have that photo of you two at the beach on your eighth birthday?”

“Yeah, I bet it’s in my memory box,” he says. “I’ll go upstairs to take a look, then I’ll show it to you.”

“Perfect,” she smiles.

There’s a shelf on the top of his closet where all his boxes go—his old boxes full of the useless crap he keeps, the cardboard ones where most of his tools are stored, and his memory box, a wooden one he bought to keep those things that are very important to him. Photos with family, plane tickets, his seventh grade journal, a pair of old shoelaces. 

He gets on his toes, tries to get the box from the shelf and ends up bumping into the one next to it, which drops open to the floor. Sue him for being clumsy and, well, not very tall. 

It’s a shoe box with some junk. A few crumpled sheets of paper, some paper clips, old cutlery, a pocket knife, a tiny key he doesn’t remember what’s for, a dinosaur plushie, a set of pens that probably doesn’t work anymore.

Wait.

Oh fuck.

His heart jumps and he takes an abrupt step back that makes him trip on the edge of the bed, almost falling back onto the mattress. No. That can’t be. 

Pedri thinks he might be going crazy and his mind is just making stuff up. But, with shaking hands, he bends over and touches the knife and Raddish; it’s real, they’re real. He grabs them like they’re sacred. They’re both just like Pedri remembers; the knife is cold and firm like a block of ice, Raddish is soft and fluffy like a cloud. 

Pedri was sure he got rid of Gavi’s crap a long time ago, but they’re still here. The memories are feverish, he can feel the headache already; months and months of mental growth, tossed away into the trash.

He hears steps coming from downstairs. “Pedri? Is everything okay?” 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. He gathers the junk inside the box quickly, kicks it into the closet and closes it, throwing his back against it like there's an ancient beast jailed inside. He inhales and exhales deeply.

“Pedri?”

“Y-yeah?” 

“Ah, there you are,” Ferran says, entering the room. “I heard a noise of something dropping, so I just wanted to check in.”

“Yeah, uh, I was just gathering some junk from the closet. Then I dropped a box. That was it.”

“Oh, okay,” Ferran chuckles. “Old habits die hard.”

“That's true, I'm very clumsy, what can I say,” he forces a smile. “Hey, I think Fernando and Fermín said something about playing FIFA later. Can you help them set up my console?”

“Bet.” He grins. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

“Alright, I’ll be there in a second.”

Once Ferran leaves the room, the muscles in Pedri’s lungs relax again, although they get tense as he reopens the closet. He swiftly closes it again and goes back downstairs. A few more glasses of champagne will be needed.

He can't concentrate for the rest of the evening. He loses two FIFA matches in a row and can't even be bothered when his friends mock him; their voices barely make it to his head, undistinguishable from each other, fading out into muffled noise. They're tipsy enough to not notice how out of it Pedri is. Well, props to him as well, he's a nice actor when it comes to hiding his crashouts.

But he's tired of doing so. So fucking tired. And his mom's noticed everything, of course she did, she's amazing. She bombards him with a bunch of are you okay and you look pale and did you eat well today. He limits himself to saying he's tired, job's exhausting and all of that. He's not sure if she's really buying the lie, she never does, not when it comes to the man she literally birthed and knows better than he knows himself. 

It's exhausting to lie to someone that knows him so well. He's not sure of how much he can keep saying I'm fine, just tired before his blood erupts like a volcano.

After everyone's left and his parents and Fernando are sleeping in the living and guest rooms, Pedri stops by the door of his bedroom and hesitates to enter. Once he does, he's confronted with the reality deep-rooted in his head like a migraine.

It's like Gavi is there, too. In the thin space between the walls and the paint that covers them, under the mattress, peeking out from inside the closet, in the faint smell of cologne Raddish still has. 

A few hours ago, it was like Gavi had never stepped on Earth ever. Now he exists again, and he’s hovering above Pedri’s head like a devil.

Pedri opens the closet again and picks up the box. His brain starts to trick him into thinking the knife will have any use so he should keep it. Raddish stares into his soul, begs for mercy, saying please don't leave me. Probably why Pedri didn't throw it all away last time. Really, he's a coward. He brought this upon himself; who stores trauma in old shoe boxes inside one of the most exposed parts of the closet? 

Pedri shoves everything inside the closet again, hoping the box inside will magically disappear if he thinks about it hard enough. He sighs. There's work tomorrow; Flick expects to go through some bureaucracy with him since he's getting promoted.

But tonight he's not a decorated agent. It's like he’s back in Tenerife, that one time in 2010 when he and Fernando secretly watched a horror movie together and he couldn’t sleep the entire night. He thinks about going to his mom downstairs like he used to do, but that’d be stupid. He's stupid. He’s a grown man who’s scared of a plushie and a knife with no one to hold it. It’s just a fucking knife; it’s not like it’s going to come alive and stab him in his sleep.

But it might as well; Pedri doesn’t know anymore. With Gavi, he’s learned to question every little convention he’s ever known. It’s ridiculous to admit it, but Gavi could turn Pedri into a monk if he ever made a religion about himself. Which, realistically, isn't impossible. All Gavi cares about is attention, anyway. The little fucker is basking in it inside Pedri’s mind right now.

Pedri rolls over in the bed again and again and again until his eyes find Gavi, laying on the other side of the bed. 

There’s nothing but the shy strips of moonlight between the curtains to give exposure to his silhouette, but Pedri could draw it from memory even ten years from this moment. Gavi’s wrapped under the cluttered sheets, his eyes have nothing light in them; just pure darkness and filth. No wonder why Pedri sees himself in them. 

“You're thinking about me again,” Gavi mutters.

“Go away.”

“It’s been sometime. I bet you miss me.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Forget me, then.”

“I've done it before, I can do it again.”

“Do it. I'm waiting.”

Pedri blinks, once, twice, pressing his eyelids against one another until they hurt. Gavi's still there; he hasn't moved a muscle.

“See? You can't.” 

“You're not even real.”

He chuckles. “Isn't that what scares you? You can't kill me. I'm just a figment of your imagination and that's the one thing you can't control.”

Pedri's talking to a fucking pillow.

What's wrong with him? 

“Get the hell out of my head,” he screams.

Pedri’s hyperventilating, his muscles tightening, his bones trembling underneath the skin that keeps getting weaker and weaker and weaker and might tear itself apart at any given minute. 

He runs to the bathroom and holds the edges of the sink because his body might collapse. At least he sees his own self in the mirror; Pedri and only Pedri, eyes and lips and nose and hair and cheeks he can recognize. He throws cold water at his face repeatedly to wipe away the toxins of his own imagination; feeling his own skin is comforting. He’s a real person. This is real. He's real, and there's no one else here.

When he goes back to his room, Gavi's gone. His side on the bed is cold. There was no one here. Gavi wasn't here, has never been, will never be.

When Pedri finally falls asleep, there's a hint of Bleu de Chanel and Marlboro at the tip of his nose. 

Chapter Text

Everything about the day Pedri spent with Gavi is imprinted in his mind like a tattoo he regrets getting but can’t cover. So Pedri doesn’t even need GPS or Google Maps to find Alexia’s cottage; he just tells the directions to the Taxi driver with absurd precision. He remembers every corner turned, every tree, every street sign, every door he passes by. Except this time his hands feel a lot cleaner; the only blood in them is warm, safely caged underneath his skin.

He can barely clench his hands to knock on the door. He looks back to the taxi driver taking a turn and accelerating and thinks about running after him and asking to be taken back to the airport. He doesn’t; he’s here, he knows why, and he needs to get done with this.

“Pedri?” Alexia widens her eyes as she opens the door, her confusion quickly replaced by a wide grin. “What a surprise. It’s been a long time. What brings you here?”

“Hey Alexia,” he says, breath faltering, even though he wasn’t running or anything. “I really need your help.”

Alexia analyzes his face for a bit. “I can only guess what this is about. Or who.” She chuckles. “Come on in.”

She serves him some black tea just like the last time; they sit on the backyard and stare into the horizon. Spring has just started and the sun’s still shy, but, unlike last time, the clouds leave more room for it to shine. The landscape beyond Pedri hasn’t changed, not even a tree or tiny bush. Even the sheeps near the river look like the ones he saw last time when he was here with Gavi.

“How are you doing, Alexia? Feels like I’ve last seen you a few lifetimes ago.”

“You’re right. Time’s a weird thing. You think about it, then you forget it, and, when you remember it again, it’s already slipped through your fingers,” she sighs. “I’m doing alright. Just doing my thing like always. I work at the town’s hospital, and I also help with the harvest when I can. And I go for walks, read a few books, and play football with the younger kids.”

“That sounds great.” 

“It is great. It’s peaceful. It might sound like I don’t have much important going on. But sometimes you just need nothing to happen so everything can happen.”

Alexia doesn’t look old, on the contrary, Pedri really doubts she’s a lot older than he is. But the cleverness of her words show she’s been plagged with wisdom beyond her years. Maybe she was born with it, maybe it’s acquired. Pedri has plenty of questions about how she ended up in the world of mafia.

“So, how’s your job going? Still doing the agent thing?”

“Yeah. I got back on track after everything. Uncovered a whole human trafficking scheme a while back.”

“Good for you. That’s impressive. Congratulations,” she smiles, and, even though she’s been a part of a corrupted world before, the gesture seems genuine. 

“Thank you. I’m really proud.”

“You should be,” she gives him a fist bump on his shoulder. “It’s funny. You do the exact opposite of everyone I’ve worked with in the past. Including, uh… You-know-who.”

“Yeah,” he feels a twitch on his stomach that almost sends all the tea he’s drank back. “He’s the reason why I’m here today.”

“I could tell from the moment I saw you. What happened between you two this time?”

Nothing. Everything.

“I don’t know,” he takes a sip of his mug of tea, a little less sugary than last time. He’s been on a diet. “In theory, nothing. Haven’t heard from him every since I left your house. But two days ago I found Gavi’s knife in my closet.” She frowns her eyebrows lightly. “I really don’t know why I kept it. I also found this,” he picks Raddish up from his backpack and hands it to Alexia. 

“Interesting,” she lets her hands toy with it for a bit, as if trying to make sense of what that object is. “Is that the plushie you told me about?”

“Yeah.”

“Wait here for a second,” she leaves Raddish in her chair and goes inside again.

When she comes back, she has a small pile of photos. “Pablo sends me Catalan postcards from time to time. And some polaroids, too. He has a sense of art,” she says. 

Alexia hands him the polaroids; Pedri hasn’t seen one like these in so long, and he shivers when his fingers touch the cold plastic that covers the photos. 

He skims through the small pile of photos, everything about it all is so Gavi. In one of them, there’s a stray black cat curled up on a windowsill at night, half its body blurred because it moved when the shutter clicked. The message on the back says “ kedi dostum ”. It’s in Turkish, but Pedri doesn’t really know what it means. There’s another picture of an empty wine glass tipped over on a marble table, red liquid dripping down the edge and pooling onto a white rug. Is that wine or blood? On the back, it simply says “dinner was great”.

They get more unsettling as Pedri goes on. There’s a blurry photo of Gavi’s reflection in a bathroom mirror, face half-hidden under his hood. The mirror is cracked in one corner. It looks like it was taken on a rush. There’s no message written on it.

It’s a somewhat spooky picture, and it doesn’t look like it belongs with the others in the collection. But it isn’t the one that scares Pedri the most. He finds one of a dark room lit up by the camera’s flashlight, a wooden chair with a dinosaur plushie in the frame. The picture has “happy new year” written on its back.

The plushie is just like Raddish, except this one is blue. 

“What the fuck,” Pedri mutters under his breath.

“Yeah. He sent me a card with a New Year’s Catalan poem alongside this picture. And in the beginning it didn’t made much sense, but then I remembered you saying he had sent you a dinosaur plushie,” she hands Raddish to Pedri again. “So I think he sent the photo to me on accident.”

“Do you think he meant to send it to me?”

“I do, yeah.”

Pedri shivers, one hand holding Raddish, the other holding the polaroid, eyes darting from one to the other. “I don’t–I don’t understand. He gave me a plushie that looks almost exactly like one he already had?”

Alexia ponders for a bit, letting the breeze play with her blonde hair. 

“Do you know why I ask Pablo to send me postcards and polaroids?”

“Because… You miss home?”

“No. I mean, I do, I really do. But those photos aren’t for me. They’re for Pablo. It’s a way I found to keep me in his life. Because he truly, genuinely needs to feel like there’s someone waiting for him, someone looking after him, someone that cares about him to some extent.”

Pedri looks at Raddish and the unsent polaroid again. “Is this… Was this… Him trying to keep me in his life?”

“I guess so.”

“This makes no sense. If he wants to keep me in his life, why does he want to kill me?”

“I don’t think he does,” she says. “For Pablo, what you gave him is worth more than gold and diamonds. He wouldn’t want to lose it. What he wants is someone to see him, and somehow you’ve become that someone.”

“I can’t believe this. I just need this madness to stop,” he admits.

“If you can’t cut him off completely, at least be honest with yourself about what this really is.”

“I don’t–” he sighs. “I don’t know what this is.”

“You gotta figure it out, buddy. And I know you will,” she smiles and stands up. “You can stay for dinner, then we can talk more about this, if you want. Make yourself at home. I’ll be inside, if you need.”

“Thank you, Alexia.” He smiles. 

Be honest with yourself about what this really is.

The words keep circling inside his skull as he stares at the photo of the blue dinosaur, fragile in his hands, threatening to disappear if he looks away. When the smell of food drifts from inside, Pedri realizes how long he’s been sitting alone. He slips the polaroid into his pocket. He doesn’t give it back to Alexia.

Gavi knows everything about Pedri.

He knows that Pedri leaves his apartment on weekdays between 8:54 and 9:02 in the morning, not earlier, not later than that. Two times a week, he stops by a coffee shop two streets away from where he works, and gets either a medium cup of espresso or a cappuccino with half sugar. Sometimes, he gets a croissant. 

He knows that Pedri shops at the same supermarket every Saturday and that he always gets bananas and pistachios. And he has got to be some type of hypochondriac because he buys meds at a pharmacy near his house every two days. And he’s stopped by a sports store to buy a Barcelona jersey once, and has been to two Barcelona games in the past months. 

He knows that Pedri doesn’t hang out with a lot of people, but Gavi’s seen these two guys around, the same ones from the party. One of them looks very similar to Pedri, probably his brother. He’s boarded on a flight to Tenerife with him once, so Gavi assumes they’re from there.

He knows that Pedri isn’t really the going out type, but dines out at low-key restaurants once or twice a week. Sometimes by himself, sometimes with two or three friends. He knows that Pedri doesn’t have a girlfriend or boyfriend, and he probably doesn’t get laid very often. Which makes him a complete loser.

The only thing Gavi doesn’t know is how to make Pedri notice him. It’s been a couple of months and he’s been blissfully unaware he’s being watched the entire time. 

Before this, Gavi tried everything. He went clothes shopping multiple times. He got new plushies. He started to go for runs at the park. He began journaling. He stayed at the beach for a couple of days to enjoy the warm weather. He bought an unholy amount of coloring books. He got a new PlayStation. He started going to Barcelona matches more often. He bought a new car, a dark blue Ford Mustang S650. He read those stupid self-help books. 

But nothing’s eased his boredom on the long run; at the end of the day, it was always him and the empty shell he called his soul. 

Until he decided to drive by Pedri’s house on a random Thursday in the middle of summer; a while after Gavi parked, he saw Pedri again for the first time in almost a year. He was getting home with a few bags in his hands, and stopped by the doorway to his building to type something on his phone. So relaxed, bathing under the warm streetlights, so vulnerable, the only human being to dare to expose himself to Gavi in the shadows of that night.

Perfect. He looks perfect like this.

When Gavi’s eyes landed on him again, he felt this eagerness to live that he’d completely forgot about. And he didn’t stop chasing it. He’d travel every once in a while to finish his assignments, but other than that he’d stay in Barcelona and watch Pedri from dawn until dusk. Every single day.

It was exciting to get to know every single aspect about Pedri, from the way he sits on chairs on establishments to how often he laughs when picking up calls. But, soon enough, Gavi realized this is nothing more than distance disguised as extreme closure; it’s like Pedri is a celebrity and Gavi is a thirteen year old with a fanpage and a gigantically problematic parasocial relationship, nothing more.

If Pedri doesn’t see him back, it’s all meaningless.

Tonight, Gavi doesn’t wait inside the car for Pedri to arrive from work in his BMW. He parks his Mustang and leaves, the heat of the night sticking to his skin. Or maybe it’s the adrenaline, one which not even cracking necks or blowing heads or stabbing hearts have been offering him.

Gavi doesn’t head for the main door right away; that’d be a rookie mistake. He’s spent months watching, memorizing, tracing every blind spot and shortcut this place has to offer. He knows the guard downstairs takes his smoke break at around 6:10 every evening. He knows that if he lingers by the mailbox corridor, he looks like just another neighbor waiting for his package. And he knows that if he times it right, he can slip in behind a resident without anyone so much as looking twice.

Tonight, the timing’s perfect. A young couple steps through the revolving doors, laughing, distracted. Gavi follows at their heels, his shoulders loose, his expression bored, face on the phone to avoid the cameras, backpack hanging on one of his shoulders like an ordinary student coming home from college. He’s a master in the art of invisibility. The lobby’s polished floor reflects him back in fleeting fragments, but nobody sees him when he sneaks inside Pedri’s building.

By the time the elevator doors shut, he’s already holding the cloned keycard he lifted weeks ago. He taps it against the reader. Green light, access granted. He presses number nine and it doesn’t take long for him to arrive at Pedri’s floor.

With his lockpicking tool, Gavi twists the lock and, after two clicks, one louder than the other, the doors open. The air carries the faint mix of old cologne and the lingering aroma of burnt toast that clings stubbornly to the walls. The place isn’t spotless, but it shows his busy—although no less boring—life, and everything’s unmistakably his: a jacket tossed carelessly over a chair, an empty mug abandoned on the counter, and the hum of the fridge filling the silence. Between the framed photos, the half-read books left open on the coffee table and the unmade bed upstairs, the whole apartment feels like Pedri left in a hurry.

Gavi knows Pedri will take an hour or so to arrive from work, so he decides to play around in the kitchen for a bit. He’s aiming for an omelet; he makes a mess, dropping an egg to the floor and spreading pepper and salt all over the place; just to end up burning the omelet in the end.

Which is fine. Cooking has never been his type of thing, anyway. It must be Pedri’s, though. Gavi found a bunch of sticky notes around the kitchen with recipes he’s been meaning to try. Definitely not disastrously burnt omelets. But, again, it’s fine; putting ingredients in a pan is trivial. The art Gavi curates is much more exciting than this.

He grabs a wine bottle from the fridge and takes a few sips of it, sitting on the counter with his legs crossed. He takes lazy bites of the omelet, pretending it’s good. It’s lacking something. Perhaps it’s salt. How does one even know how much salt to put in things? He never does. He should ask Pedri once he arrives. No, what the fuck? Just to scratch his gigantic ego on the back? Google is right there. 

Gavi stays there on the counter for a good half of an hour; he’s already getting bored, considering cooking a dessert when he hears the door opening.

As Pedri enters the kitchen, he’s got his face on his phone. It’s always these goddamn phones that keep dritfing people’s attention away from what really matters.

When he sees Gavi, his eyes widen, but he doesn’t move. Gavi doesn’t, either, and it’s like they’re waiting for each other to decide what to do next.

Finally, Pedri drops his bags to the floor and rushes out of the kitchen and upstairs. Gavi runs after him; he trips on the edge of one of the stairs and falls to the front, hands grasping on the railway firmly before he drops entirely.

This gives Pedri some time to get distance, but Gavi doesn’t give up, stumbling his way up. The second floor of the apartment is quiet, but he hears the creak of the bedroom door as the wind makes its way into the dark corridor. 

“Pedri?”

Silence.

“I know you’re here.”

Pedri still doesn’t respond. Gavi walks towards the door, touching the handle.

“You can’t hide from me forever.”

He silently enters the room. The wind makes the curtains dance, bringing the moonlight inside. It lands on the open door of the closet; there’s an open shoe box right outside it, with lots of junk scattered around it. 

The red dinosaur Gavi got at that build-a-bear store last year is there, alongside the New Year’s polaroid he thought he’d lost instead of sending it to Pedri. 

“Step back,” Pedri jumps out of the bathroom, a knife in his hand. Gavi’s knife. 

Gavi laughs, taking a step closer. “Nice knife, Pedri. I wonder where you got it,” he says, a sharpness in his voice as if he’s throwing the words up.

“Step the fuck back,” Pedri raises the knife at him, glancing down at his stomach. “I’ve done this before. I’m not afraid of doing so again.”

Gavi doesn't remember the last time his heart screamed so loudly. His skin burns with a passion he hasn’t felt in so long. 

Pedri doesn’t say a word; his hand is frozen in the air with the knife. Gavi steps closer, slow and deliberate, and reaches for his arm. He doesn’t snatch the blade away; instead, he presses the knife shut with care, then curls Pedri’s fingers around it. His own hand firmly closes itself over them.

“You think I’m here to kill you?”

Pedri hesitates, something about his glare is inherently powerful, Gavi could take it like a pill.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says, swallowing.

Gavi wants to say Pedri’s wrong, because he is. He should be. He has to be. 

Despite the fact that chasing Pedri has a long and special foreplay to it, he is just another one of Gavi’s victims. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Is it not?

He gives Pedri too much time to think and he punches him in the stomach, right near where he shot him last year. But Gavi doesn’t let go; if he’s crumbling, Pedri will certainly burn down to ashes with him.

Pedri tries to push him away and Gavi tightens his grip around his hand, so they both end up being dragged around the room, forcing themselves against each other until one of them breaks. At some point, Pedri’s legs hit the edge of the bed and he falls back onto the mattress with Gavi on top of him. 

When Gavi finds Pedri’s eyes, he feels something akin to an electric shock. He struggles to look away.

Fighting Pedri’s fingers, Gavi manages to pass the knife to his own hand, unfolding it. Finally, he thinks. The moment he’s been yearning for. He’s here to carve that knife into his neck and leave him to dry out, like he deserves. He is here to kill Pedri and he’ll do it. 

“Say goodbye to your boring life,” he slides the edge of the blade along Pedri’s neck, far enough so it doesn’t cut him deep, close enough so he can feel it. 

Gavi wants to do it. 

He just has to do it.

Pedri doesn’t even grimace at the slight cutting of the knife. He chuckles.

Is he not afraid?

“If my life’s so boring,” he mutters, holding Gavi’s hand and moving it away from his neck, “then why have you been watching me for months?”

Gavi falters to breathe again. Without stopping to look at Pedri, he folds the knife with a click and it drops to the mattress right beside their bodies.

“W-what did you say?” 

“You thought I didn’t see you, didn’t you?”

“Why the fuck didn’t you do anything about it?”

He smirks. “I was letting you have fun.”

At this point, if Gavi’s ever had a coherent train of thought, he doesn’t remember it. His mind is filled with fog and smoke and embers and fire, making a lot of noise.

But the moment is quiet, and he slowly gives in to it. He and Pedri breathe into each other now, chests contracting and expanding in a close dance that’s messy, although deep down it feels coordinated. It seems like their whole pursuit has been drawn preparing them to this very moment.

When Gavi’s hand tries to find the knife again, it touches Pedri’s face. And when his mouth tries to tell Pedri to fuck off, it finds his lips instead.

Gavi’s mind screams for Pedri to pull him back, to bring him back to himself, to give him the opportunity to realize this is all insane; but his heart craves something entirely different, something that crawls under his skin when Pedri holds his waist and thrusts up to capture his mouth between his own lips.

Gavi pulls Pedri’s face closer to him, even though they’re already challenging every possible notion of space and time with how transcendental their proximity feels. Their kiss tastes like desperation with drops of a poisonous yearning that has been lingering in silence within their hearts, now spilling all over the place. 

They should stop, but now Pedri’s hand is on Gavi’s nape, sliding up to his hair to hold its strands. And now Gavi is kissing the faint knife scratch on Pedri’s neck, sucking the leftover specks of blood like he’s a vampire. And now they’re taking each other’s shirts off on a rush. And they’re both hard even though they’ve barely touched each other.

They shouldn’t do this. But it’s hard to distinguish a mistake from a miracle right now.

They switch positions, laying side by side. Gavi’s the first to touch Pedri’s erection; the airy moan he lets out makes Gavi want to remember this moment for the next thousands of moons. He finds Pedri’s cock under the cloth and lets his hands play with it, rubbing it until he finds a pace that makes Pedri’s words clash into each other in a mess of pleasure to come out of his throat.

"Fuck. Feels so good," Pedri groans. “What the fuck are we even doing?”

“Stop fucking talking,” Gavi says fiercely, shutting Pedri up with a kiss that feels more like swallowing a bullet. He’ll do anything to keep all of this physical, he can’t face what he’s feeling right now. Like a band-aid snapped away from an injury, Gavi needs to get done with this quickly so it hurts less.

Pedri finds him just as swiftly, and the way he touches Gavi’s cock even though he’s struggling to breathe is completely lethal. Now wrapped around each other’s hands, they’re on the way to hell together. Pedri’s a sin to look at, and, even though he’s being triggered to the edge, almost entirely out of his senses, he maintains an eagerness to please that shines bright in his eyes. It’s the light in the darkness Gavi would look for anywhere.

While touching each other, they moan their names together. Their orgasms approach and it’s an intoxicating symphony, borderline life-threatening, the type of drug that makes one forget and remember everything at the same time. 

After they both come, Gavi cups Pedri’s face and kisses him slowly, savoring even the weakest undertones his lips can offer him, while Pedri traces along his spine like he’s reading through holy scriptures. Gavi pays attention to how Pedri’s arm and chest muscles move under his hands, tries to save the memory of them in his fingerprints. 

Slowly, dangerously, their fast-paced and heavy obsession metamorphoses itself into an admiration that could easily get carried away by the breeze. 

“I don’t want… I can't want you like this,” Pedri whispers, and it's a confession that hits Gavi with a strong pang of realization.

They stare at each other for a while, but don't say anything. Gavi doesn’t reply to what Pedri's told him. He can’t. Stuck beneath his tongue are all the words he’ll regret saying. 

The tension is still palpable when Pedri gets up, grabs a towel from the bathroom and cleans the come from their bodies. It’s not delicate, caring, sweet, anything or the kind. It’s like wiping away the evidences of what they’ve done and what they’ve deliberately been victims off; somehow, they manage to be both the criminals and the corpses that have fallen to the ground.

As their breaths fall into a normal pace again, they both roll onto their backs and stare at the ceiling silently, not daring to break a silence whose smithereens could tear their skins apart. Pedri is the first to fall asleep, breathing deeply. Gavi observes his chest as it goes up and down calmly.

He grabs his knife, which has been witnessing them all this time. This could be an easy crime. Pedri’s unconcious, vulnerable, a blade to his heart would just hurt for a millisecond before his breath faded away into the plane of non-existence. And then the final page of a story that should’ve never started would be sealed.

But Gavi remembers how Pedri looks at him, properly does so, like only he can. Notices how Pedri trusted him enough to fall asleep by his side, just like he did with Carlos. Realizes that, for the first time since Carlos, he found someone that doesn’t make him bored.

He grabs his polaroid camera from his backpack upstairs and takes a photo of Pedri sleeping, the open window on the background of the frame showing the night outside giving it a haunting, yet comforting aspect. 

Gavi makes a tiny cut on his finger and signs a tiny “sorry” on the back of the polaroid with his own blood. He places it on the nightstand and leaves with the shadows of the night.

Chapter Text

At night, the city of Barcelona’s got her eyes half closed. Not fully awake, not sound sleeping either. 

Pedri’s been trying to let the wind that whispers through the half-closed windows carry away his consciousness and keep it safe until dawn. But even the slightest sounds surrounding him are too much noise. Cars humming here and there, drunk men laughing on the street, a dog barking, every echo that’s an itch even after fading away in the distance. He can’t drift off like this. Not when his existence is a crack that keeps bleeding and he’s overly aware of everything else that surrounds it.

On the other end of the city, someone has been feeling the same. 

Gavi slumps on his couch and turns on the TV, there’s a stupid reality show being aired. The people on it argue about such trivialities—who ate the last yogurt on the fridge, who’s secretly hooking up with who, or who snores too loud at night—as if any of it matters in the grand scheme of things. It pisses him off more than it helps him ease the boredom that haunts him. The one that's been a part of his core for longer than he can remember.

He goes to his balcony and smokes one, two, three cigarettes. He’d stopped smoking months ago, but there are some restlessnesses that only warm tobacco breaths can cure.

Meanwhile, Pedri stares at the slowly spinning ceiling fan. If his brain was a computer, it’d be heating up from the excess of activity right now, almost combusting. Gavi, from his balcony, watches the half-asleep streets, trying to find something in them to focus on so he can empty up his busy mind.

It’s been weeks since their last encounter but there’s nothing in their minds that doesn’t scream for each other in a very twisted way. Pedri thinks about the scar on his neck; it is mostly gone, but there’s a ghost in it that possesses him when he looks at the polaroid of himself that’s been on his nightstand. Gavi fidgets with his knife, wondering why he let everything happen as it happened.

He feels like there’s still a bullet inside of him. And he bleeds, dries out to the point there isn’t a single drop of sanity in his veins. He’s so fucking stupid. And he hates that this stupidity makes him vulnerable to all sorts of emotions that shuffle his thoughts and make a mess of his actions. It’s what happened when he was there, knife tracing along Pedri’s neck, and all he needed to do was carve it a little further. But, in the blink of an eye, his mind ceased to make any sense. Once he was back to himself, it was too late; his lips were already on Pedri’s.

Why the fuck?

When Gavi feels like this, disgusted about his own self, lost like a puppy in the wild, there’s only one person he trusts to give him support. He searches for Lewy’s number among his contacts and taps the call button. It rings and he doesn't pick up. 

Gavi tries again. This time, he hears a grumpy groan on the other side of the line.

“Hey. I need to ask you something.”

“Gavi. Do you even know what time it is right now?”

“It's, uh, urgent.”

Lewy sighs. “Whatever it is, be quick. Before I fall asleep and leave you talking to the walls in my room.”

Gavi hesitates, wonders if he really means to say it all. Once he vocalizes what he's feeling, no matter how poorly, there's no going back. It'll be out there in the wild and he'll have to face it. 

He sighs. “Was there ever a time where something, like, turned your whole life upside down?”

“A time when something… What?” Gavi hears the noise of shuffling fabric. “What the hell did you get yourself into this time?”

“No, it's… It's nothing like that. I'm not talking about getting in trouble with the police or anything. I'm talking… I'm just… Have you ever… Have you ever met someone that turned your life upside down? Made you question everything?”

“Gavi. Are you fucking around with someone again? Did you not learn your lesson last time–”

“No. I'm not… I'm not  fucking around with anyone,” he says. It's a truth but it tastes like a lie. “It’s just… I just wanted to know. I've just been thinking, you know. About… About life.” 

“Just go to bed, Gavi.”

“Lewy, this is not an insomnia thought. Genuinely. You're one of the few people in the world I'd trust to ask this question to. Maybe the only,” he swallows. “I mean it. Have you ever met that someone?”

“Gavi–”

“It's just a yes or no question, c’mon. You don't have to say anything else, I'll just hang up and go to bed. Please. Just tell me.”

Gavi begs the heavens that Lewandowski doesn't hang up; he has no one else to talk to. Alexia sleeps too early. Pedri, well. It'd be insane to talk about his worries with him, since he's what causes most of them. It’d be insane for many reasons, actually. But Gavi doesn't have much time to think about them because he hears a sigh on the phone.

“The things I do for you. Bet I’ve earned myself a spot in heaven already because of you, kid,” he sighs again. “I'm going to tell you something that I meant to tell you after you got with Carlos. But I never did. I've never told this to anyone. And if you do talk about this with anyone, and I mean literally anyone, I'll personally tear your ribs apart and kick your head around like a football. Don’t play with me. Okay?”

“Okay. I won't. Promise.”

“Okay. Fine.” He sighs. “Good.” He pauses. “I met someone, more than ten years ago. In a way, turned my life upside down. Completely.”

“ Oh,” Gavi says. Lewy never opens up about his past. Never. This is completely new, and Gavi doesn’t know what to make of it, how to proceed. “So, was… Was he like Carlos?”

“No. He was nothing like Carlos. He wasn’t part of this life, not even close. His name was Marco, he was a nice guy. He made me feel like the world could actually be normal for once. I was young and naive, and fell in love with him before I even realized what was happening. And, inevitably, I had to choose between him or my career. I couldn’t destroy everything I’d built, so I left him because I thought that was the only way to keep him safe. But, because of me, he’d already got around the wrong people at the wrong time.”

Gavi frowns his eyebrows. “What happened to him?”

The call falls silent for a couple of seconds, Gavi can almost hear the crack of the air around him. Or maybe it’s the sound of heart re-breaking. 

“Oh.” Gavi swallows. “Fuck.”

“Listen to me, Gavi. If you feel like you’re getting along with someone, no matter how it makes you feel, leave. Leave as quickly as possible and don’t look back. Once you blink, it’ll be too late. In the world we chose, loving is becoming a liability. And someone’s gotta pay for that, either you… Or the other person.”

“Got it,” Gavi bites his lip. “‘M sorry. About Marco.”

“It’s been so long. It doesn’t matter anymore. Just promise you’re not going to make the same mistake as I did.”

“I… Won’t.”

“Great. That's great. Remember you have an assignment next month. Enjoy your break, meanwhile.”

“Thanks. You too.”

“And stop calling me at the most inconvenient hours with the most inconvenient questions.”

Gavi chuckles. “You still picked up, though.”

“Goodnight, Gavi.”

“Goodnight.”

Once he hangs up, Gavi goes to bed. Liability. The word stays with him, roots itself deep between the wrinkles of his brain. Liability. He’s a fucking liability. Time’s ticking. He can either run or embrace the insane.

The unfolded knife on the nightstand is the last thing he sees before his eyelids drop and he falls asleep.

“I’m done with the forensics report,” Fermín says, dropping a pile of files on the table. “The cargo crates tested positive for trace amounts of fentanyl. Not enough to sell, but enough to prove they were stored inside. Whoever’s running this ring is moving serious weight through the port.”

“And hiding it in containers labeled as… Kids’ toys.” Eric grimaces. “Thousands of them. I spent three hours today watching customs tape of teddy bears being gutted open. That was even worse than seeing that dude’s head inside the engine bay of his car a couple months ago. I mean it. Creepiest shift I’ve had all year, and I bet I’ll beat you all on that matter.”

“Speak for yourself, browsing on the dark web isn’t exactly my idea of family friendly fun,” Ferran shoots back without looking up from his laptop. “Me and Rapha traced a few accounts on hidden forums boasting about ‘the Barcelona route’ being safe again. Which means if we don’t move fast, they’re going to take over very quickly.”

Pedri leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So, some genius is advertising the route online. That’s really… Bold.”

“The smugglers I chased last month in Valencia weren’t half this cocky,” Eric says. “Whoever’s running Barcelona this time thinks they’re untouchable.”

“Well,” Ferran shrugs, “unless we get names tied to accounts, they are really untouchable. Right now, there’s not much we can work with.”

“Alright. Let’s leave it for today, but tomorrow we’ll be up early. We’ll start connecting the accounts to bank transfers, the crates to the shipping company, and the company to whoever’s running it,” Pedri says firmly, gathering his stuff inside his bag and watching as his coworkers do the same. Once they’re all done, they head to the elevators together. 

Outside, the moon greets them from up high. They talk about football, family gatherings, what they plan to do once the holidays come around and other daily life stuff—like they weren’t just discussing fentanyl and dark web criminals. It’s good that they manage to switch to and fro topics like this, with ease. It’s the best they can do not to go crazy. 

At the beginning, Pedri struggled with mentally separating and balancing the obscurity of his job and the life he has outside of it. But he learned that if he lets this consume him, he won’t ever sleep. Well, now, to be fair, he finds it really thrilling when he has to stay up late because the demands are high and different from what he usually does. That’s the type of rush he doesn’t always get. 

As much as he loves his job, over the years it has become less and less exciting. It used to be about putting dauntless killers in jail and getting a ‘saving the world’ sort of sense, but now he’s just a profiler of people who think they’re two steps ahead of him when, in fact, they’re three behind. It’s like replaying a game with levels he's already mastered—when one is so good at something, it can get really boring after a while. Pedri hates to admit, but, now that Spain is slowly getting poisoned by fentanyl, he’s been having a lot more fun. 

It’s a disgusting thought, but that’s fine. Everyone has wicked things about themselves that they’d never share with anyone.

Pedri says goodbye to Fermín, Ferran and Eric, and drives home by himself. His neighbourhood is empty and silent as always at this time of the night. Once he arrives at his building, he hums Beethoven’s Für Elise as he walks down the hallway towards his apartment’s door. He’s welcomed with the peaceful, although no less lonely, dead quietness of his place. He wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, but some noise wouldn’t hurt sometimes. He’s been postponing getting a dog, but maybe it’s finally time. 

Pedri tosses his jacket and shoes away and grabs a banana from the fridge as his night snack, since it’s too late for dinner. He’s too tired to shower, so he’ll do it tomorrow morning; he climbs the stairs up to his room, totally concentrated in his task of falling in his bed and only getting up the next day.

His room’s door is open. Which is weird. He thought he’d closed it this morning, blames on his carelessness. But the air is thick with a smell that doesn’t belong to him, warm cheese and oregano. His blood runs cold. His concern regarding his own forgetfulness is quickly replaced with a well-known fear that stains his skin red.

“Oh, hi there. I was already starting to think you were dead,” Gavi chuckles, sitting on the bed with a box of pepperoni pizza open. 

Pedri doesn’t say anything. There are quite no things in his life that leave him at a loss of words as much as he is when Gavi is around.

“C’mon,” he smiles. “Are you just going to stand there and stare at me like I’m weird? Don’t do that. I get upset pretty easily. And you don’t want to see me upset, do you?” He pouts, and for a second Pedri forgets he’s being threatened.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, his heart shaking between his ribs. 

“I don’t know. I was just around.”

“You were… Around. At…” Pedri glances at the clock on his nightstand. “At one AM?” He says in disbelief.

“Yeah, I’m not exactly a morning person. But, whatever. Come sit.”

It’s absurd of Gavi to think Pedri will sit by his side. It’s even more absurd of Pedri to do so. 

“Grab some,” Gavi points to the pizza box.

 “Not hungry. And you might’ve poisoned it.”

Gavi cackles. “Okay, Mr. Detective, don’t you think I could’ve thought of smarter ways of killing you instead of poisoning the food I am eating myself?”

“With you, you never know.”

Gavi shrugs. While he eats in silence, Pedri stares at his own hands, pinching his nails. They don’t look at each other directly and sit at a safe yet uncomfortable distance, the type that’s like water in a pan right under the boiling temperature. Pedri knows they have things to talk about, and he’s sure Gavi is aware of that, too. 

Pedri thinks about that night pretty often. When he sees normal, happy couples holding hands on the streets. When he’s in bed laying on his usual spot and the smell of Gavi suddenly hits his nostrils. When he’s jerking off in the shower and he shamefully pictures Gavi pressed against him from behind, lips on his ear, one hand with a knife on his neck and the other wrapped around his cock.

It’s absurd, he knows it. But he can blame it on his repressed lust and the weird need for adventure and danger he’s always had; however, sitting side by side with Gavi, somewhat peacefully like a war ceasefire, has no excuses to it. Yet he can’t bring himself to move, or do anything to change whatever’s happening right now.

“So. I’ve heard about your promotion,” Gavi says.

“Yeah? Well. It’s no biggie,” Pedri shrugs.

“Oh, shut up, Pedri. Shove that fake modesty right up your ass.”

Pedri rolls his eyes. “Why are you even here?” He asks sincerely. 

“That’s none of your business.”

“You're in my apartment.”

Gavi snorts. “Whatever. I was just kind of bored.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Pedri chuckles. “You literally kill people for a living. I don’t think that falls exactly under the definition of boring.”

“See. You don’t get it.”

“Okay, my apologies, maybe I really don’t,” he sighs. “If that comforts you, my job is also quite boring sometimes.”

“Oh, I know it.” Gavi states, matter-of-factly. “I would shoot myself in the head if I had to do what you do.”

“Is your preferred work tool annoying the hell out of your victims until they kill themselves?”

“No, that’s just with you.”

Pedri doesn't know why, but there's a warm feeling pinching him down in the guts. 

Finally, he gets the courage to look at Gavi. “If you’re that much better than me, tell me. Why did you invade my place in the middle of the night and order pizza by yourself like a loser?”

“Oh, fuck off. This isn’t about you. Or me being a loser because, guess what, that role is already taken. I just… I just needed to do something different from what I already do.”

“You’re not really helping your case. I’m pretty sure you can think of more exciting things to do.”

“You know what? Just shut the fuck up and eat the pizza I got you.”

Pedri sighs, but can’t contain a tiny smile. He leaves it at the corner of his lip.

“You’re such a gentleman. That almost makes me forget you’ve actually stormed into my apartment twice,” Pedri provokes, grabbing a slice. “Well, thank you, I guess. I didn’t know you knew pepperoni was my favorite.”

“I know a lot of things about you, Pedri González.”

“Woah.” He chuckles. “Should I feel flattered?”

“Oh, be for real. I also knew a lot about the guy whose body I ended up dumping at the sea a couple months ago.”

“Did you also eat pizza with him at his place before?”

Gavi stares at him for a second, then frowns. “Shut up.”

Pedri snickers. He finishes eating his slice in silence before getting another one, and another one. Pizza is his guilty pleasure, sue him. 

When he looks at Gavi, making a mess out of his food, swearing at himself for accidentally dropping pepperoni on the bed while having sauce, cheese and oregano all over his face, Pedri thinks he has other guilty pleasures, too.

“This is stupid.” Gavi crosses his arms. “I kind of don’t want to cook ever again.”

“Well, you can’t survive on pizza and strawberry milkshakes forever. It’s not that bad, Gavi. Crack it, gently.”

Gavi clenches his hands around the egg and it shatters. “It exploded.”

“That’s because you smashed it. Softer, here, like this. ” He whispers, as if a voice too loud could make the shell of the egg collapse. He breaks it gently, and it falls into the bowl.

“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes, sitting on the balcony. “Now what?”

“Whisk.” Gavi grabs the bowl and spins the fork inside it aggressively. “No, not like you’re trying to kill it, Gavi. Just… Mix until it’s smooth.”

Gavi slows down his pace. He snorts. “This is humiliating.”

“C’mon, it’s fun. Once you learn it, you’ll understand. Heat the pan with some oil. Not too much,” Pedri says. Gavi walks to the oven and spills a little bit of oil on it. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“And salt?”

“Pinch it with your fingers. See? Like this. You feel the grains, you control how much goes in. If you just pour, you’ll ruin it entirely. Once you get the gist of it, you’ll do it much more naturally. You won’t even think about it.”

“Why do you sound like you’ve been waiting your whole life to explain salt?”

Pedri rolls his eyes. “Just sprinkle the rest of the damn salt.”

“Fine. But I’m not doing this again. Next time, we’ll get take out. Oh, my God, McDonalds.” Gavi smiles, his face shining bright. “I love McDonalds. Can we get McDonalds?”

“I think there’s a greater chance you’ll die from food poisoning than in a failed mission involved an exploding boat, or some shit like that.”

Gavi chuckles, eating from a box of corn flakes he stole from Pedri’s cabinet. “You’re right. I’d never fail in a mission like that.”

“You’re so sly for someone who doesn’t even know how to crack an egg open.”

“Fuck off, Pedri. I can crack a skull open, which has helped me a lot more in life.”

“Right,” Pedri says sarcastically, giggling. Gavi glares at him and flips him the bird.

Pedri’s one of the best agents the CNI has, turning wicked crimes around the world into puzzles of five pieces, yet he’s been hanging out with Europe’s most wanted serial killer like he’s just a neighbor that occasionally gets around. Not occasionally. More like always. Pedri sees Gavi almost as frequently as he sees his coworkers.

Gavi doesn’t have a key to Pedri’s apartment, but it’s not like Pedri has ever stopped him from entering it every time he wants. Every now and then, they meet like this. Gavi’s there when Pedri gets home, they do something trivial like cooking a simple meal or watching a movie both hate. Gavi takes the armchair, and Pedri always falls asleep on the couch. Every time he wakes up, Gavi’s gone. And life goes back to normal until he comes back whenever he decides to, it’s as simple as that. They’re a whisper that dies once it slips through the balcony doors and meets the city, a secret hidden within the colors of dusk. 

Ferran or Eric don’t know anything about this, let alone Flick. Pedri’s assuming Gavi’s boss also doesn’t have a clue. And, even though Pedri’s right the epicenter of this chaos, he couldn’t explain it to save his life. But it’s not like he needs answers. He likes what he has in his hands; trying to understand it would just break things apart.

When Pedri realizes he’s been staring at Gavi for too long, he blushes and tears his gaze down to the hot pan with eggs. He hears Gavi chuckling, but he’s not sure why.

The first time they cooked something, they—and with ‘they’ Pedri means he did ninety seven percent of the work and Gavi helped with some of the seasoning, sitting through the rest of it and complaining about everything—made some spaghetti with meatballs when Pedri was feeling like eating Italian food, he had put his gun on the coffee table. A message to Gavi and his own self saying he still had control of the situation. If everything went wrong, a bullet could still save him. Simple and, if struck through the very right spot, painless.

But weeks passed and the gun, untouched, gathered dust. Tonight, Pedri’s locked it inside his safe upstairs. He’s basically unarmed. And he doesn’t care. 

“Okay, Gav,” he sighs, washing his hands. “We’re halfway through. Now, pass me the spatula, please.”

“So, why Barcelona?” Pedri asks, laying in bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling fan. 

“That’s an easy one, be more creative,” Gavi laughs, puffing out the smoke from his cigarette, also laying down as he speaks. “Every kid in my foster home wanted to be Messi or Ronaldo. And I was one of the cooler ones. My sister bought me a Messi shirt with her first salary once, it was the best day of my life,” he smiles, but hides it away quickly. “Well. I kind of just grew up with it, you know.”

“Me too,” Pedri says. “My family have always been great fans. Well, we support our local club, but our heart has always been blaugrana.”

“That’s so stupid and emo,” Gavi clears his throat and looks at Pedri. “Must’ve been nice. You must like your family a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“You want a drag?” He asks.

“Sure, why not,” Pedri replies, taking a drag.

He forgets he has more cigarettes in the box right on his nightstand. That doesn’t matter; they finish that one together.

“Pedri?”

“Yeah?”

“Why… Why didn’t you shoot me that day?”

Pedri squints. “What?”

“I mean. That day, when I was supposed to kill Jude.”

“Well, I did shoot you.”

Gavi rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“You mean… Why did I not kill you?”

“Bingo,” he says.

“I have a better question.”

“This is not trivia, Pedri.”

“Gavi–”

“Answer me first,” he insists. 

“Okay, fine. I… I don’t know. I just… Didn’t want to kill you. Yeah. Happy?”

“Okay. You’re weird. Literally everyone wants to kill me.” 

“Like my mom’s always said, I’m not everyone.”

Gavi shrugs, closing his eyes.

“To my question, now,” Pedri insists.

Gavi snorts. “Fine.”

“Do I… Do I make you bored?”

“You are very boring, yes.”

Pedri chuckles. “Then why do you come here every night?”

“Okay, fine, maybe I am the loser who has nothing better to do.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Pedri swallows, he can feel his veins pulsing beneath his skin. “And, like… I mean, also like... Why did... Why did you kiss me and–”

“That was nothing,” he opens his eyes suddenly, shaking his head.

“Be for real. It wasn’t even just… That. You know it. What even… What even was that?”

“C’mon, Pedri. Have you never been horny? I was horny, you probably were, too, which is normal. I just did you a favor, and you returned it to me. That’s it.”

“You had a knife on my neck, why the hell would we be horny?”

“I don’t know!” Gavi screams, sitting up on the bed. His hand goes to his pocket, where Pedri supposes his knife is. But he’s not afraid. Not anymore. “I don’t know, okay? It just happened. Let it go. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Gavi. Look at me.”

He looks at Pedri again. There’s something in his gaze. It’s far, almost unreachable, but there’s a sparkle within it that makes Pedri want it so badly. It calls him like it’s easy to chase; like it already belongs to him.

“Was that really just us being horny?” Pedri asks.

Gavi squints and blinks repeatedly, shaking his head. “You’re messing with me, Pedri.”

“It’s a mutual feeling, then.”

“Okay, maybe…” He snorts. His hand shies away from his pocket as he lays down on the bed; his eyes don’t look away from Pedri, not for a millisecond. “I don’t know. I just… I think... Sometimes I’m alone and I picture you there with me doing something stupid. Like, cooking pasta or laughing at a terrible joke from your even more irritating friends. But… That’s the thing. I’d let you kill me with your insufferably trivial remarks about going to the supermarket or spending the weekend playing games with your brother. I really, really wouldn’t mind. Because, even when you’re talking or doing stuff I hate… You don’t make me bored.”

Pedri lets himself process the words being thrown at him, they’re too much and his brain is running laps and doing twists. 

He wants Gavi; he really does, and he’s mad at himself for needing him so badly, more than his veins need the blood that runs through them every second. The blood he wouldn’t mind losing if it meant that he’ll always have be bathed by moonlight alongside that cocky boy, wrapped in sheets that aren’t really his, but could definitely be.

And so Pedri kisses him, and it’s slower than before. It allows him to savor bits he couldn’t reach before when their tongues and lips first collapsed in a rush; tonight, they have all the time in the world. Maybe they always do, because they’ve mastered how to make small hours, pressed between their—not so—mundane days, seem like infinity. 

Their clothes don’t take long to get scattered around the room, and Pedri is left skin to skin with Gavi; but nothing is more intimate than the way their eyes find each other, irises shimmering sharply, writing out a story to be never told to anyone.

It’s all scary. But Gavi’s knife, alongside his pants, has fallen to the floor, and Pedri doesn’t even remember it’s there; although the way Gavi touches every piece of Pedri’s skin that he can find is much sharper than any blade. Pedri’s never done this, not with a guy, and he’s never expected to be in this situation with Gavi, out of all people. But he likes it, and he’s never felt so strongly about something in his entire life. 

When Gavi gets inside him, nothing is clear anymore and, yet, everything is so bright. So he lets Gavi have him. Consume him. Fuck him to oblivion with his legs around Gavi’s waist while he’s kissed down as if that’d ease the lust and the pain that come with it all. It doesn’t. But it makes Pedri want to be hurt more, and to desire more. He moans Gavi’s name as if he’s one of his desperate victims, except he is begging to be killed.

It’s too much, and Pedri’s starting to regret it; but Gavi fucks him raw and it’s so objectifying and humanizing to the same extent. He does him so well, hits all of the right spots and leaves him open to whatever’s next. He comes untouched, making a mess out of all the pleasure he’s given. He can't believe his eyes when he sees the sly smile Gavi’s got on, and he bets Gavi can't believe how wrecked he's left him. 

But Gavi doesn't leave, at least not right away. He kisses Pedri hard and deeply like this is supposed to mean anything. It probably doesn’t, but Gavi’s mouth tastes like strawberry bubble gum, cigarettes and sincerity; Pedri can’t help it but think there’s a sweet and sour promise stuck between Gavi’s lips.

The night is still young outside by the time they’re done. Pedri breathes in, and he can feel each muscle in his lungs. It’s all heavy and he’s still learning how to make his vision steady, but he doubts he’s ever felt this free. There’s nothing in the world he cares more about than this moment, and how Gavi’s presence gets him stuck to it.

Gavi cleans them up and, this time, he’s the first to fall asleep. There’s still an invisible barrier that avoids them from touching each other beyond lust, but Pedri watches from his side of the bed as Gavi’s chest goes up and down, so defenseless, so relaxed, and it’s a frame he wants to keep in his mind forever. Something so intimate, handmade by heavens or even hell. It’s addictive and soothing. Pedri doesn’t take long to drift off after that.

When he wakes up, Gavi is gone. A part of him breaks, considering how vulnerable last night felt; he’d hoped for something more than just late night encounters that vanish with the first traces of sunlight like a vampire.

But there’s something new on his nightstand. It’s a polaroid, of course. A photo of Pedri in the kitchen from the back while he was cooking a couple days ago, he didn’t even notice when Gavi took it. There’s a message on the back.

You still owe me that salmon recipe. 

I’ll be back soon to learn it

Gav :)

Pedri smiles, and adds salmon to his shopping list.

Chapter Text

The first sun rays of the morning shyly peek out as the clouds hesitantly allow them through in small, almost unintentional cracks, as if the arrival of the Saturday morning is a taboo. 

Gavi’s arm is sore, tingling with the uncomfortable position it’s stretched in, the prolonged lack of movement and the head that makes a pillow of it. Pedri’s back is pressed against Gavi’s chest, arms relaxed, sprawled on the bed. One of this hands is resting dangerously close to Gavi’s, knuckles slightly brushing against his palm. Gavi, meanwhile has his spare arm involving Pedri, holding him close.

Being skin on skin like this is making Gavi's chest drench in sweat. Yet, he doesn’t want to move.

There’s something about the newfound quietness of the first few hours of his days that makes him feel like being reborn; like his life before and after them isn’t real. He usually doesn’t cherish this for long, though. Pedri hasn’t woken up yet, is inhaling and exhaling deeply, and this is usually when Gavi leaves and everything becomes tangible and emotionless again.

Today, though, he throws his leg across Pedri and pulls him closer, a low hum of satisfaction emerging from his throat while he sleeps. Today, Gavi’s drawn to Pedri’s scent like an animal in the wild. Today, for the first time in a lifetime, he doesn’t fight the heaviness of his eyelids.

When he wakes up again, he’s alone. He sighs in disapproval, scooching a little to the side and nuzzling his nose against the silky cotton of Pedri’s pillow; it smells faintly of mint and wood, his shampoo. His side on the bed is like a cup of coffee that has stayed on a table for just a little bit more than it should’ve; warm but empty.

Under Gavi’s morning breath, stuck to his tongue, lies a bitter taste. It reminds him of early mornings in his foster home when he wished the sun would take longer to rise just so he wouldn’t have to wake up and exist in a place where he didn’t belong, with people whose company was just like being alone, worse, even. People he never wanted to see, unlike a certain someone that’s managed to crawl under his grumpiness and access his core, which has always secretly longed for affection and touch. 

It’s irrational to think Pedri’s gone for good, since this is his apartment, to begin with. And Gavi despises how strongly he feels about waking up alone. After all, this has been his doom since the early days, he should be used to it. 

Apparently, he’s not. It sucks that he wishes Pedri was here right now. It sucks even more that he didn’t have the guts to leave the apartment earlier; everything about his presence here is inherently bad. 

Gavi stumbles out of bed and the blanket falls to the floor, but he doesn’t really bother to pick it up. He makes his way down the stairs slowly, cautiously, doesn’t let his left foot catch up until his right foot is entirely touching the next step. As if the floor beneath him could crumble at any moment because he’s here; he’s a component that doesn’t belong in this system, an unalignment in Pedri’s universe. 

It’s not that Pedri deserves his mercy, or anything. On the contrary, this is mostly his fault. Or at least that’s what Gavi’s trying to convince himself of. 

Usually, Gavi’s mornings smell like burnt toast, spilt alcohol from the night before and the tingling smell of fresh blood that somehow never leaves his nostrils. But Pedri’s apartment has soft aromas of bread, butter and freshly brewed coffee, all mixing together in a fragrance with undertones of something Gavi’s never had. What’s it called? Relief? Sympathy? Amenity? Satisfaction? Regardless of what it is, he can’t be drawn to it, for he doesn’t need to find comfort in things that mean putting his guards down.

He still follows the scents into the kitchen, though.

Pedri’s shirtless, leaning towards the counter, mindlessly pouring coffee into his white mug with bananas drawn on it. There’s an empty blue mug beside it.

“That mug is so ugly,” Gavi says, almost instinctively. It definitely is a funny looking mug. Pedri is such a peculiar guy. 

Pedri is startled by Gavi’s voice, turning back to him abruptly. He frowns in fear at first, but his wide eyes relax and he smiles hesitantly. “Good morning to you, too,” he says.

Gavi assumes the blue mug is for him, so he goes for it, raising it in the air so that Pedri can pour coffee into it as well. 

Pedri rolls his eyes. “Do you not have hands?”

“Yes. You also do, and, oh, how funny, one of them is holding the coffee machine right now.” He brings his spare hand to his chest and sighs exaggeratedly, faking surprise. “Convenient, don’t you think?"

Pedri snorts and opens his mouth to protest once more, but gives up. The sound of the warm coffee pouring onto porcelain is soothing, the smell of it addicting. Once that’s done, Gavi takes the spot on the balcony that, at this point, is basically his. He lets his legs down, kicking the air with his feet.

“So.” Pedri goes back and forth in the kitchen, checking if the bread is done toasting, placing used dishes into the sink, wiping the balcony. He doesn’t look at Gavi directly. “I’m… Surprised.”

“Uh… Okay.” He shrugs. “Should I ask why?”

“I’m just… I didn't expect you to be here now," he stops by the balcony and hesitates before sitting beside Gavi, eyes on the mug in his hands. God, what an ugly mug. It’s actually so funny. “You know. You’re usually not here when I wake up.”

“I was kind of tired, so. Needed to sleep some more.” He shrugs, taking a sip from his mug. It’s warm, but not the kind that burns; the kind that’s just right, that makes him feel and savor every little drop of coffee that slides down his throat. “Also. Free coffee.”

“Fair.” Pedri chuckles. 

Gavi’s never seen himself as someone with a well defined type; finding someone minimally pleasant to the eye is all he needs for his flesh to feel hungry. But Pedri is, somehow, the epitome of something Gavi’s never cared enough to define. At least not until now. 

Back home, Gavi has an archive with polaroids of Pedri, some of which he knows about, some that he’s taken in secret. It’s the collection he’s most proud of. Something in Pedri is so artsy, all the details in him having been made by design way before he was born, way before life was even a thing. He’s worth every picture taken.

He has the eyes as eager as a starved lion, as vivid as summer solstice daylight. His bone structure, nose and jaw worth destroying entire realms for, is the masterpiece Michelangelo and Donatello spent their entire lives trying to come up with; and the paintings of Da Vinci or Botticelli could never compare with the mesmerizing traces of his face, perfectly measured from his puffy eyebrows to the lines on the inner parts of his cheeks when he smiles.

His hair, strands falling perfectly in a borderline between waves and curls, has grown a lot over the past days. His stubble, too, rough under Gavi’s palms last night, more than the last times he was around. But Gavi is okay with him not shaving. Likes that he hasn’t in a while, even.

Gavi shouldn’t be noticing those things, details so frivolous that he now has whole sections in his memories dedicated to. He’s definitely reached a line which he isn’t sure what to call. A finish line, a barricade tape line, a borderline. Should he cross it? Find his way around it? Leave it and never look back?

He looks at the open door-to-ceiling windows of the balcony, the ones he usually leaves through when the night is done. Now the curtains dance softly, the wind whispering as if reminding him in secret that his exit is way overdue. 

Unconsciously, as if he biologically needs to undo the heavy knot in his chest, Gavi takes a deep breath.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Gavi says. “I have an assignment this week.”

“Oh. Are you scared of it?” 

“What? No,” he says like it’s obvious, suddenly disgusted—and a little upset, to be honest—by the idea that Pedri thinks he’s weak like this. “I told you. It’s gonna be… Nothing different. Nothing exciting. Like, c’mon, another fancy event where I will have to make small talk with some land and business owning fuckers that don’t care about anything else other than the stock market. Then I’ll make one of them, a married and homophobic prick on the outside, mind you, think he’s got a chance to fuck me. And it will be too late when he realizes I’ve spiked his drink. And then… Well. You know. I’ll do my thing.”

Gavi stops, wondering how insane Pedri finds all of this. He’s staring at Gavi, wide brown eyes flaring at him like headlights. His lower lip is frozen just below his upper one as he hesitates to say anything.

“What’s that face?” He bumps Pedri with his shoulder. “Are you going to put me in jail for this?”

It’s a joke, but it doesn’t really land like one. Pedri chuckles, but his amusement fades just as quickly as Gavi realizes there are topics they can’t bring up; after all, they’re not like any other ‘pairing’, for the lack of a better term, that’s out there. The fact that they’ve been ‘together’, if one can even say that, for months now doesn’t make their ‘relationship’ any less unnatural. Gavi smiles, half real, half fake, trying to push away the unpleasant sourness in his stomach that’s making him dizzy. 

“Well,” he sighs, slipping down from the balcony. “Are you going to stay for lunch, at least?”

“It depends. Are you going to make me cook?”

“No, you don’t need to,” Pedri giggles, and his laughter fills the room like fog, the type that makes late winter nights way more mysterious and mesmerizing. Gavi feels lighter now; he thinks it’s something in the coffee, but, no, caffeine has never left him this giddy. Maybe it’s something else.

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

“Alright.”

Pedri touches Gavi’s knee briefly and quickly pulls away. It is enough to, for a quick second, make Gavi’s breath falter. He’s not using to closure when they’re not fucking, fueled by irrational lust, nor asleep, simply unconscious to care. Touch for the sake of it; it twists his stomach in knots.

“Make yourself at home,” Pedri says softly.

Before he disappears into the stairs, he lingers in the kitchen in silence, hands in his pockets. He makes eye contact with Gavi briefly. The brown in his eyes is deep, darker than the blood Gavi used to be so thirsty for.

They’re watching a Barcelona match, sitting side by side in the sofa. Occasionally, one of them has complaints to make about fouls or missed goals. Other than that, they don’t talk. Their thighs brush and there’s so much tension compressed between the small space that separate their bodies. Gavi doesn’t know where it’s coming from. But he feels it like a drug that hits him weirdly, something like when the high goes the wrong way and he’s just trying to brush it off, get back to reality in any way he can.

But Pedri’s hand reaches for his thigh and it all starts to make sense, somewhat. He reaches his lower belly under the hem of his shirt; then his finger traces along where the bullet wound is.

Pedri mutters, “does it hurt, still?” 

“No,” Gavi shrugs, but he’s shivering. It’s not pain; he’s definitely got an ache, though, somewhere in his heart.

Pedri’s hand leaves him and he instantly feels cold. Maybe the AC is just too strong all of a sudden.

Gavi rests his hand on Pedri’s thigh, too. Lets it there to warm himself up. Pedri, at some point, covers it with his, intertwining their fingers.

Barcelona scores. They don’t say anything.

“I kind of miss Aurora,” Gavi throws into the air randomly, motivated by an irrational instinct. He hopes Pedri’s already asleep and the confession will fade into the breeze of the night without further conversation.

Pedri twitches, his cheek still crashed against Gavi’s chest. After a deep breath that makes Gavi think he’s actually just moving in his sleep, he anchors himself on his left arm and lifts his body up. Now looking at Gavi, Pedri has his face centimeters apart from the younger’s.

“You should talk to her,” he murmurs. “You know she misses you, too.”

“I can’t just… Do that.”

“You don’t need to tell her the truth.”

“What truth? That I’m hooking up with a CNI agent?”

Pedri rolls his eyes. “I mean… That too, but… You know. You don’t have to tell her everything about your job. They’re not going to come after her if she doesn’t know any compromising information.”

Gavi nods shyly, pondering. “You should come with me.”

“Are you…” Pedri widens his eyes. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah. You already know her, anyway. She used to be such a nerd, you two will get along,” he chuckles. “Also… I… I don’t know. Just… Whatever. Just come with me.”

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Something in Pedri makes Gavi comfortable to bring up topics that usually make his heart ache, like his days at the foster home, his sister, or even his parents. It all still hurts, but he doesn’t feel like dying whenever those come up. Not around Pedri, who’s fearlessly seen and fought the worst in him, only faltering when it meant losing Gavi for good.

Pedri smooches him on the lips gently, so swiftly that if Gavi blinked he’d have missed it. An act so foreign yet so familiar; it’s peaceful, soft winds after a thunderstorm. Gavi remembers falling asleep to the drops of rain against the window when he was young and it felt like he was the only person awake in the world, a place that, for a minute, was solely his.

For a long time, after the irrational childhood bliss in his eyes faded, he wondered if he could, perhaps for just a second, conquer it all again. Maybe not. But he has to admit; he doesn’t need anything else other than what Pedri gives him.

Aurora doesn’t seem to believe his eyes when she opens the door and sees Gavi. She’s paralyzed. When she’s back to herself, something strikes right through her and she pulls Gavi into a tight hug while she sobs. 

“Pablo,” she stutters. “I’ve missed you.”

He pulls her closer. “I’ve missed you, too, hermana. So much.”

When they pull apart, Aurora wipes away her tears looks at Pedri, standing at the corner. She frowns her eyebrows in confusion. 

“What’s he…?”

“It’s a long story,” Gavi interrupts. “You don’t wanna know. It’s not worth it. I’m just here to see you.”

Aurora’s eyes dart from Pedri to Gavi and back at Pedri again. “Okay.”

“Are you not going to invite us in?” Gavi chuckles. “Rude.” That earns him a punch in the chest from his sister. “Ouch.”

She sniffs and smiles. “Alright, come in.”

A silent agreement seems to have been made; Aurora doesn’t ask where Gavi’s living, what he’s doing, doesn’t even dare to bring up the fact that Pedri is here and everything is just very odd. 

Instead, the day is filled with wine, chips, card games, crappy movies and memories that Gavi and Aurora bring up. Running down the creaking, old wooden stairs from the kids’ bedroom to the kitchen to eat breakfast before the best food runs out. Stealing each other’s stuff just to bother. Asking each other about their parents to try and form a joint recollection of them. Squabbling over meaningless things. Sneaking out the window to watch the stars on the roof and hold onto the hope that, written in them, there was a future worth waiting for both of them.

Regret takes Gavi over at some point. He wishes he’d been around more; yet he’s not sure if that would’ve been an altruist or selfish decision. But the right now is what matters, and it’s bittersweet, warm, close to home. Everything’s so simple, Aurora’s laugh echoes, makes Gavi time travel and he’s small again. 

He likes it; he’s been learning that vulnerability isn’t just about being weak. When he looks at Pedri, gazing fondly at the two from the armchair beside him, he remembers exactly what vulnerability is, and how good it can feel like. It feels great right now. When Pedri and Aurora are laughing mindlessly at a joke she made which barely even makes sense, Gavi wishes this piece of his life isn't just a temporary thing.

They now watch a rom-com picked by Aurora; Gavi hates it and complains about every single character and their poor, script-driven life choices. At some point, Pedri just laughs at his remarks. Aurora throws cushions at Gavi for him to shut up and let them watch the stupid movie. 

Pedri excuses himself to go to the bathroom and Aurora finally gets the courage to ask, “what’s the deal with him? Do you just happen to have a personal cop now?”

“I’m going to jail soon,” he says, eyes focused on the TV. “I didn’t really know when I could ever see you again, so. I’m here. And he’s, like, supervising me.”

“Pablo,” she insists, looking at him from the other end of the sofa. The glare she gives him is sharp, reminding him of when he tried to get away with stealing candies from other kids at the foster home. And, of course, she knew everything, because she always did. It’s infuriating; all of those years being a professional performer in the arts of killing and Gavi still can’t simply lie to his sister.

“I can’t tell you much,” he says, voice lowered as if secrets might unwantedly slip out if he talks too loud. “You know that’s why I never visited.”

Aurora sighs deeply, scooches closer to Gavi in the couch. “You know, sometimes I blamed myself for this.”

Gavi looks at her again. “Blamed yourself for what?”

“I thought that I could’ve just worked harder to take us out of that foster home more quickly. If I did, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten in trouble with that guy. And they wouldn’t have sent you away. And you wouldn’t have had to get into what you do now. And things would be okay.”

“You know I’d end up in this life one way or another,” he states, leaning forward on the sofa and placing his glass of wine on the coffee table. “I was never like you. I never intended to go to college or anything. I don’t think… I don’t think I was built for anything else other than this.”

“Because you weren’t given a chance to be anything else. That’s where the problem lies. And I’m part of it.”

“Aurora, for fuck’s sake, you were grieving our parents just as much as I was. None of this is remotely your fault.”

She opens her mouth daring to say more, but Pedri walks into the living room. The tense atmosphere takes him over quickly, and he hesitates, takes a look at Gavi and his sister before fully entering the room and reclaiming his spot on the armchair.

The afternoon dims out as the evening covers the sky in dark blue, and, because the clock is always a time bomb to Gavi, he figures he and Pedri should leave.

After one last hug at the door, Gavi and Aurora bid each other farewells. “You have to visit more,” she says, and it sounds less like an ask; more like she’s begging. “Love you, Pablo.”

“I… Love you, too,” he says with some difficulty. Nonetheless, it’s genuine. He feels it deeply in his chest.

Rain is pouring outside as Aurora watches Pedri and Gavi walk to the older’s car. Gavi grins at her, she waves and smiles back. 

In secret, Gavi’s left two thousands of euros for her on the kitchen balcony; she wouldn’t accept it if he gave it to her directly, so he just left the money behind. He wants her to make good use of it, wishes she runs after the long forgotten dreams they shared when they were two kids who, despite everything, hadn’t lost hope yet.

Even if he doesn’t ever win it back, if Aurora does it’s enough. More than enough. And he knows she will.

The night drive back to Barcelona is silent. Gavi’s relaxed, resting on the passenger seat and tapping his fingers against his thigh to the song that hums low on the radio. 

They’re crossing a rural area now, there’s not a single building around them. There’s just nothing. Not even other cars humming on the distance, not even wide-eyed animals staring at the headlights from afar. It’s just Pedri, Gavi and the sound of rain.

Gavi doesn’t say anything, just lets the quietness be. Maybe it’ll be better if he and Pedri don’t talk tonight. Even though they’ve been hanging out since Friday night, tomorrow is a Monday. Pedri’s off to work, Gavi’s traveling all the way to Uruguay for his next assignment. And life once again will carry on as it should until Gavi’s ever-present, ever-growing itch wakes up again and he needs to touch Pedri or else he’ll lack oxygen.

It sounds toxic and convoluted, but it’s a system that works, Gavi thinks. The bubble they’ve created is not part of the real world, it’s the deep breath Gavi takes once he’s fed up with it. That’s all he needs; anything less or anything more than that would just make things more complicated.

Pedri’s phone rings near Gavi’s thigh and brings his attention back to reality. 

Hansi Flick is the caller’s name. It’s familiar, Gavi thinks he’s seen it before. Hansi Flick. Flick. His mind plays with the words and tries to make synapses until his eureka moment finally pops in. It’s a really unpleasant realization.

“Is that…”

“My boss, yeah,” Pedri interrupts quickly. “I… Kind of have to pick that up.”

“Oh.” Oh. Yes. Because that’s not just one of Gavi’s uninteresting hook-ups that work in finance or whatever, that’s one of CNI’s most important agents. He sometimes forgets that very important fact. “Okay. You should pick it up,” he says, handing the phone to Pedri.

“Hi, Flick,” he starts, eyes focused on the road. “I’m, uh, driving back to Barcelona. Do you need me in the office tonight?” He pauses. “Oh.” Another pause. “Oh. That’s… Can we… Can we talk tomorrow? Flick, I’m driving–” Another one. “Okay. Seven AM sharp tomorrow. I will not be late. Promise. Flick, I just–” Pedri stops, and then pulls his phone away with a sigh.

“What’s… What’s the matter?” Gavi asks.

Pedri brakes the car aggressively in the middle of the dimly lit road, miles of nothing beyond their sights. 

“Flick knows.”

Gavi blinks repeatedly.

“He… Knows… What?”

“He knows about you.”

Oh. Oh. Oh, fuck.

Outside, the rain still pours. Inside, the car gets too small. Too small to keep two giant, corrupted, bleeding, imploding hearts.

Chapter Text

Pedri’s ride to the office is never this quiet. The elevator at where he works doesn’t usually take this long to go up, and neither is the ring that accompanies the crescent of numbers on the display this haunting. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. So close to fourteen, so far from reaching it. It’s torture. And Pedri deserves it.

When he walks into the office, it’s like he’s already wearing handcuffs. Everyone glares knowingly at him, even though he doesn’t really know what’s next. It’s like being sent to the principal’s office in middle school, which is something that has never happened to him. Ever. The worst he’s ever done was helping a friend cheat in an exam back in college—the guy was a lost cause, really, no studying would get him through the class, anyway—all because he didn’t him to fail. Pedri is a nice person.

Or, at least, he used to be.

Pedri doesn’t even knock; he knows Flick is waiting for him. The dim lightbulb flickers, the blinds are all the way down, covering the windows entirely. There are many open documents scattered open on the table. His passport picture is attached to the top corner of one of them. 

Flick’s sitting on his chair, elbows on the table, face resting on his intertwined hands. It seems like he’s got a lot to say, but avoids looking at Pedri like he can’t verbalize a thing. Pedri can’t, either. 

“Flick, I– I’m… Terrible. I know it. I’m just so–”

“Do you know what your problem is, Pedri?” He lifts up his head. Pedri doesn’t take a seat, doesn’t move.

“I’m a criminal,” he spits out.

“It’s unbelievable,” Flick says firmly, shaking his head while he signs one of the open documents. “You’re like Jekyll and Hyde, Pedri. And, the thing is,” he leans back on the chair. “I’m not even surprised.” 

“You’re… Not surprised?”

He drops his pen to the table and stands up, face to face with Pedri now. “I’m just… I’m… I’m just really disappointed.”

Pedri’s mouth tastes like vomit, the type that comes out after hours and hours of making one feel sick. 

“I’m sorry–”

“I’m really disappointed on myself,” he points at himself, “for letting it go this far. For letting you lose yourself like this. I’ve always known this job wasn’t enough for you. You’re overqualified. I knew you would inevitably seek something else. And I should’ve stopped you before it came to that point.”

“You have nothing on this. I should’ve… I should’ve stopped myself.”

“What were you thinking?” Flick continues, shaking his head. His tone is louder now, more urgent. “Did you really think being friends with Gavi would give you the excitement being an analyst never gave you?”

“How… Do you… How do you know about… Him?”

“You don’t have the right to know about that kind of thing anymore, Pedri,” he says firmly. He takes a step closer to Pedri, arms crossed, and his expression falls serious again. “You, better than anyone, should know that this is not the type of information that stays in secret for long.”

Pedri’s mouth goes dry. Flick’s right. Maybe, then, The Six know about that, too. And the consequences of that will be much more severe.

“Flick, I… I just–” 

“Tell me,” he demands, not daring to look at Pedri in the eye. “Why did you do this?”

Pedri can barely gather two molecules of oxygen right now, how can he put together a whole explanation to what the past year was about? How can he give Flick an answer that he doesn’t even have for himself?

“I– I don’t know,” he admits. It’s the most accurate thing he can say. It’s embarrassingly, carnally real. 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Flick frowns and glares at him. Then, his expression softens. “Pedri.” His eyes narrow. He takes another step closer, looking at Pedri with that fatherly glance that announces he’s figured out everything, each of the younger’s wrongdoings. “Don’t tell me that–”

“I can’t explain it,” it’s also a true statement. “But… Yeah. I just… It went too far.”

“I should’ve thought your involvement with this guy was much more complicated than it was reported,” Flick exhales, rubbing his temple. “Pedri, listen, I’m going to go straight to it. I can’t pretend this is simply paperwork. You’re exposed, criminally and administratively. You could be prosecuted for obstruction, evidence tampering, and aiding a known criminal, you know that, right?”

Pedri swallows. “Yes. I’m aware.” 

“For this reason, I’m taking you off duty. Your clearance is revoked, badge and weapon stay here, and you’re suspended. Effective immediately. I’ll call legal and contact my counterpart at the prosecutor’s office. I’ll try to get you an interview window, and you won’t be taken into custody tonight. I’m doing that because I don’t want to watch you fight for your life, but I can’t keep you at the office. You’ve gone too far. Consider this your last day as an agent.”

Pedri doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He feels uneasy, floating above his body like he doesn’t even own it. Maybe he doesn’t know himself that well anymore. Maybe he never did.

“Okay. Thank you, Flick,” he says with waver. “For everything.”

Flick doesn’t reply. He just moves his head slightly in what Pedri hopes is a nod.

“Just… Gather your stuff. And leave.”

It’s a cruel statement, and it slices Pedri apart. But he isn’t in pain, he’s just numb; he’s accepted the fate he built with his own self-destructive hands.

He doesn’t look at any of his coworkers in the eye, his friends, the ones who’ve always trusted him, they ones he so cruelly betrayed, on his way out. Ferran calls him five times after he leaves. He doesn’t pick up any of them. Fernando texts him randomly about this new arcade they opened back home, blissfully unaware of how his brother’s soul has just been torn apart. 

The ride back home is painfully silent. There’s a lot Pedri wishes he could hear; Flick saying that he doesn’t hate him, that there is a feasible way to fix this, to get him back on track. His mom telling him everything will be just fine, like she always does. Fernando or Ferran yapping, teasing him about whatever it is this time. As annoying as they can be, it’d cheer him up.

But, deep inside, he knows he just needs to hear Gavi’s voice.

The air’s been dry. The sun hasn’t been showing its face, hidden among the dark, daring-to-rain clouds. Eerily silent evenings that merge into late nights and early mornings, which Pedri barely even notices. Even the groceries at his favorite market have lost color.

Picking bananas used to be the highlight of his day but now it’s just another thing he’s doing to survive, because bedrotting his days away isn’t going to make him starve any less. Within his week, a year worth of endless yearning could fit easily. He hasn’t seen a familiar face in days, barely has the energy to reply to Fernando and his family. Other than that, he just ignores his messages and calls, hoping sometime he’ll get the energy to reply to any of them.

And no signal of Gavi. He misses him, even though he was Pedri’s ruin. And maybe even his own; did The Six do anything to him? Is he even alive? Pedri does wish to kill the little fucker with his own hands, but the idea of seeing his dead body greatly haunts him. 

He wishes to know what Gavi is doing. Wonders if he misses him just as much. 

Pedri stops by the seasonings section of the supermarket for some salt and black pepper, knowing cooking himself an omelette won’t ever feel the same again.

For the first time in forever, Pedri finally decides to open his chat with Ferran.

Hey man

I hope you’re okay 

Mon 9:05 PM

For the record

We don’t hate you

Wed 12:54 AM

Well

I really wanted to punch you when I found out but

None of us hate you

Wed 12:56 AM

Everyone is worried about you bro

Flick asked about you again

Fri 6:39 PM

Really unethical to ask

But what really happened between you and Gavi?

Sat 5:39 AM

Hi

Sat 11:20 AM

I’m okay

Thanks

Tell them not to worry

Sat 11:21 AM

Seen

Pedri doesn’t reply to any of the other messages.

Ice on skin burns worse than fire. Gavi is well aware of it.

Over the past weeks, he’s done only one assignment—a grocery store owner in a tiny town of Andalusia, who knew about The Six by association. She wasn’t a threat, not really. This was just preventive action to avoid her from becoming one. Killing her was laughably easy. Her body must still be floating around the river that crosses the area, and when she’s found it’ll be too late for the police to even give a fuck.

Nothing exciting ever happens in Gavi’s life. He’s tired of being a mere piece of gear in this entire system. He needs to be looked at. Deep inside, he hoped that his major fuck-up would’ve been of any use; like a revolted older sibling that’d been wronged his entire life, he actually wished to face the wrath of The Six this time.

But Gavi’s days roll over like waves against the shore of an empty beach, and no one, not even Lewandowski, seem to know about what happened between him and Pedri. 

Heavy on happened. Gavi hasn’t seen Pedri in days.

Whatever. It’s fine. He can live without him. And Pedri’s at blame for all of this, really, because he is really stupid. How did he let his boss find out about them? It’s infuriating, and it’s better for both of them if Gavi gives him a cold stance like he’s been doing. 

He just doesn’t like the fact that Pedri hasn’t tried to reach out like a dog with his tail between his legs to apologize, or for whatever other reason. Maybe he didn’t even think of it.

Gavi keeps burning every meal he tries to make. Tonight, he orders pizza instead, like he hasn’t in a long time.

He doesn’t eat more than half a piece. 

There are times when Gavi feels somewhat happy; killing still manages to hit him with some doses of dopamine. There are times when he’s consumed by hatred; days when he wishes everyone should merge together and suffer in silence as the world dies out slowly.

But what’s worse is that, most of the time, he just doesn’t feel a single thing. Right now he’s rotting on his couch, staring at the TV without paying mind to what’s on screen, smoking one cigarette after the other, sipping on pure vodka. It’s making him feel more airy and loose, yet no less empty inside. 

Gavi has got Pedri’s number a while back, even though he doesn’t know it. He wants to text him. Something in the lines of you’re a fucking bastard and I want your head on a plate and I’m going to pull up and drop crumbs of chips all over your couch just to annoy you. Or, maybe something like I want to pin you to your bed and spank you while I fuck you breathless and I’ll smell your cologne out of your neck until I get high and pass out.

He opens his phone, and all of those thoughts merge into three simple words.

i miss you

Mon 02:45 AM

Seen

Pedri doesn’t know why he’s been rolling in bed for hours, unable to sleep. Maybe he’s just unused to the fact that he doesn’t do anything all day. But it all make sense once his phone rings with the incoming notification; it’s like his body had been anticipating it. 

He shivers, his heart making his ribcage shake once he sees the message. It’s from an unknown number, but he knows exactly who it is.

Pedri types something in, stops midway, deletes it. Types it in again, rethinks, lingers on it before hitting send.

Come over

02:49 AM

no

02:52 AM

???

02:53 AM

ur so stupid 

how did u become an agent

02:53 AM

📍Location

meet me here

02:55 AM

That’s far

02:56 AM

you have a car

just fucking come 

02:56 AM

Now?

02:57 AM

no 

when i die maybe?

are you a fan of funerals?

pull up

02:57 AM

but take ur time surely

it’s definitely a luxury we have

02:58 AM

Fuck you

I’m otw

02:59 AM

⤷ replying to Fuck you

come do it

03:00 AM

Cracked asphalt stretches wide and empty, weeds split through faded white lines. A single rusted lamppost leans over the lot, its bulb long dead. Gavi’s probably the only one that ever bothers about this abandoned parking lot; he usually comes here when he needs to scream the hell out of his lungs. 

As sunrise softly starts to paint the sky, the thunders are roaring; Gavi, leaning against the hood of his car, finishes his cigarette while the blowing winds announce the upcoming tragedy. It never rains that much in Barcelona, but, when it does, the city breaks down into proper rainfalls. In a way, it reminds Gavi of himself. 

As he feels the first few heavy drops of water, he sees a light that splits into two, coming from the distance in the empty street. Rain starts to pour, pretty much like the last time he and Pedri saw each other. He lets the water consume him, his impermeable skin, his clothes, his hair, everything it can reach.

Pedri drives into the lot in a rush and brakes abruptly, parking on the farthest spot from Gavi as he could’ve possibly picked. He exits the car, and Gavi can barely distinguish his silhouette among the blur of water surrounding him, all lit up by just the first sun rays of the upcoming day. Pedri’s got no umbrella, nothing to cover him, not even a hoodie or a jacket. He’s given in to the rain, just like Gavi. 

Pedri shuts the door and just stops there, feet on the ground, unmoving, staring at Gavi like they’re both ghosts. Is he scared to do anything? It’s almost laughable. 

Then, it clicks. Gavi hasn’t moved, either.

When Pedri takes the first step towards Gavi, the waters on the ground around him carry his energy through, right to where the younger is. So, Gavi walks to Pedri. With every muscle in his legs, taking large steps over the the puddles. Pedri moves towards him, too, both fighting the pouring rain.

But it’s not like the rainfall could ever stop them; not when they’re part of it.

When they meet in the middle of the parking lot, an invisible barrier of force prevents them from going further as thunders roar. But every nuance of this moment makes every inch underneath Gavi’s skin itch as if Pedri’s crawling under it.

And, even though the lights are dim and the rain is heavy, Gavi sees Pedri perfectly well.

Pedri’s voice is low, almost swallowed by the storm. “You shouldn’t have texted me.”

“Are we really talking shoulds and should nots?” Gavi chuckles. “Well. You shouldn’t have replied, then, if that’s the problem.”

“You can’t drop a bomb like that and expect me not to show up.”

“It’s not my fault you’re easy like that. What were you even doing, awake at this time?”

“What were you doing?”

Pedri stares at Gavi with his soul, unmoving, as if the water is freezing him in time.

 “You know this is messed up,” Pedri insists.

“Well. Welcome to my world, where everything I touch fucking rots eventually. This is your life, too. You either accept it or rot to death yourself.”

“What do you even want from me, Pablo?”

When he crashes his lips against Pedri’s, Pedri kisses him back like this is their own twisted form of revenge; he’s fierce, demanding to conquer the shared space inside each other’s mouths that they shouldn’t ever have explored. 

The kiss is explosive, because Pedri’s water and he is sodium. It’s unreal, because when they’re apart it’s a nightmare, and when they’re together it’s a fever dream. It’s bittersweet, because Pedri tastes like vanilla ice cream and poison. It’s dangerous, because there’s always a borderline that separates them but they’ve never been afraid of crossing it. 

But Gavi doesn’t come remotely close to satisfaction; if anything, he gets hungrier with each second their mouths fight. He needs more, but he knows he can’t have it. At least not right now, not like this.

Gavi ceases the kiss and looks at the horizon, takes in the image of the sun that insists to rise even among the storm clouds. It gives him a meaning, or at least reminds him of whatever made him come here in the first place.

“Come with me,” he throws into the air that separates them.

“What?” Pedri stares at him with confusion. “To where, Gavi?”

“Anywhere. Let’s just run away from here. We don’t need anything else. This world is just too stupid for both of us and you know it. I love you, Pedri. I fucking love you. And you love me, too. We belong together. It’s factual. We can’t change that.”

And Pedri throws himself against Gavi’s mouth, like it’s the only thing holding him together. 

Gavi can’t stop now; he licks the rain from Pedri’s lips, bites because he can and everyone else should suck it up because they can’t. And if that was a lie Pedri wouldn’t be here. A puppet to Gavi’s maneuver, waiting to have his deepest, filthiest desires being indulged into like no one else could do. Because Gavi just knows them that well. Because Gavi is who Pedri belongs to.

“No,” Pedri says as he stops the kiss abruptly, taking a large step back that almost makes Gavi fall to the ground by inertia. “I can’t.”

“What?” Gavi’s heart races. “What do you mean you can’t?”

“I’m not like you,” he states, matter-of-factly. “I’ve been thinking, I don’t think I was ever meant to have this job at all. To be in this world. I need a normal life. To get married and be with my family living by the shore. That’s what I want.”

“I can do that,” Gavi states, a pang in his heart that feels too much like desperation. “I can be your boring husband. We can have even more boring kids that will make my life even more insufferable. But, if that’s what you want, I’ll do it.”

“It’s…” Pedri sighs. “It’s not that simple.”

“What do you mean it’s not that simple?” Gavi clenches his fists at his sides. “I just gave you a perfect solution and you’re denying it? Am I not–”

“You were not meant for this, Pablo, and you know it,” he raises his voice, stepping closer to Gavi. “No matter how much you fool yourself, this could never happen. We could never happen. We don’t belong together.”

He almost whispers it when he fires, “I said I love you,” Gavi’s lips tremble. “At least say it back, goddamnit.”

“No, Pablo. I can’t.”

Gavi hesitates, staring at a puddle on the ground that shows both of their reflections.

“Alright,” he swallows harshly, walking back to his car. “But the only one being a fool is you,” Gavi looks back at Pedri, putting his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants.

Pedri starts following him. “I’m sorry, Gavi–”

Before he can finish his sentence, the sound of Gavi’s gun breaks through the rain, and the bullet hits Pedri in the stomach.

Pedri drops to the ground and the puddle he once stood on gets tinted with dark red. Gavi shoots him again for good measure; but, when he checks, Pedri’s still breathing. 

He aims for a third one in his chest, but then realizes that exploding Pedri’s heart won’t fix his own. So he leaves him laying there, unconscious, and runs to his car. 

Gavi drives away without a specific location in mind. He’s still soaking wet. He feels a drop of water roll down his cheek; he doesn't think it’s rain.