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Chapter Text

1. Sleepless

When Ferran was eight years old, his father took him to see a football match. It was at a local bar, where he went after work. All of his colleagues were there, and some friends. They drank beer, ate some food and smoked cigarettes incessantly. They spoke too quickly for Ferran to ever understand what they were saying, speaking as if they were experts on TV. The game began and Ferran could feel his father tense up, light a cigarette and watch the brand-new television the bar had installed. At the local fair, about a month earlier, his dad had bought Ferran a Spain jersey, which he wore almost non-stop ever since, driving his mother insane. Half an hour into the game, Fernando Torres scored a goal. He saw his father hug a colleague, he knew for a fact his dad hated, due to him being a Real Madrid fan, as well as a pain in his ass. Some other punter spilled beer on Ferran as he jumped with joy. Ferran laughed at the mad scene, he loved it. After the goal, it was a tense affair. He saw people who never went to mass, praying, he saw people he’d never seen smoking, smoke. He saw people who didn’t have a bad bone in them, curse and shout at the small television. He himself felt a pit in his stomach he had never felt before. Tension, nerves.

“We scored too soon, should never score a goal this soon” his father said, punching the table and throwing some olives off their saucer.

“When is it ever bad to score a goal?” his friend Manu retorted.

His father threw his hand in the air and claimed Manu understood nothing of the game, and that he was an idiot. Ferran just watched in glee, learning a few swearwords in between. The full-time whistle was begged for, from about the 83-minute mark, and when it finally came, the relief and joy, and ecstasy was released throughout the bar and everyone yelled, and threw what they had in their hands up in the air. Spain was the champion of Europe. His father held him, crying. Ferran wondered if this was the first time he’d ever seen his father cry. The pride in his father’s eyes as he hoisted up his son on his shoulders. A mass of people flooded the streets in their red and yellow jerseys. And as he held on to his father’s shoulders, in his David Villa shirt, his father in an old Pichi Alonso shirt, he had never felt happier.

Two days later he was glued to his television, watching the massive reception to the players held in Madrid. He had begged his father to go, not really knowing quite how far it was, but he had to settle for watching on the television, sitting on the floor, legs crossed, way too close to the set. He looked back at his father sitting on the couch, watching the players parade the trophy. He was so proud. He watched the players, received in the capital like heroes, more loved than the king himself. He wanted that. They shared a bond with each other unlike any other. He wanted that too. He made the decision then and there, to dedicate his life to football, to dedicate his life to winning trophies for Spain, by any means necessary. He announced his decision to his father, who held him proud, and Ferran wanted to live in that feeling forever. 

16 years on, as he sat on the stage, a gold medal around his neck, confetti spread on the used grass, adrenaline still going through his veins, he thought back to that bar in his home town. He thought of his dad’s friends and colleagues, the people praying, cursing, begging for the final whistle, the beer spilt, the people on the street, crying, carrying their young sons on their shoulders. He was so lost in his beautiful thoughts, he hardly noticed Pedri hobbling towards him. Gold medal around his neck. His knee was still bandaged up after his injury early on in the match against Germany. Despite this, he had a glint in his eye, so happy and proud, matching Ferran’s feelings perfectly. Just like the heroes of 08, they now shared a bond unlike any other, a feeling exclusive to them.

“Does it hurt?” Ferran asked, helping Pedri sit next to him.

“It’s fine,” he replied, meaning it. “I don’t care.”

So selfless. He wondered what Pedri was doing during the 08 final. Was his dedication to football also born on that day? Was it rooted in something as selfish as Ferran’s? Was he also looking forward to the reception in Madrid? Ferran now wondered, was this Pedri’s dream too? Surely it must be. All those years of hard work, and missteps, injuries and disappointments, nobody goes through that for the pure fun of it. But then again, if anyone would, it would probably be Pedri. His best friend, and roommate, partner in crime, who made football fun. Ferran thanked everything and everyone, Pedri was beside him, that Pedri shared this feeling with him. There was nobody he would rather have next to him.

Families were now being allowed on the pitch, and Pedri’s expression changed from happy to happier when he saw his father. Ferran helped him off the stage. He watched the scene, a father embracing his son. So enthralled he was, he didn’t notice his own dad coming towards him. He let himself be held by his family, basking in the wave of love and pride that washed over him. His dad looked at him the same way he looked way back in 08, and Ferran wanted to live in this feeling forever.

Two days later there was a reception in Madrid, and this time Ferran was definitely going. They were received like national heroes, more loved than the king himself. Now that Ferran was on the stage, a dream realized, he looked back at Pedri, sitting down, owing to his knee injury. He didn’t even think twice and went to sit next to him. They sat together, joining in Rodri’s chants about how Gibraltar is actually Spain, laughing at their drunk teammates, singing, celebrating, drinking, engaged in idle chatter. Ferran wanted to live in this feeling forever.

The party threatened to continue at the hotel. Some players who lived in Madrid or near enough, had made the wise decision to return home, but the rest of them didn’t, they wanted to continue enjoying each other’s company, before holidays and then returning to their clubs. On the bus to the hotel some of them were lamenting having to go back to England, where the weather was bad and the food worse, some were bragging that they would continue in Spain. They shared holiday plans, promising to meet up in Ibiza or the Maldives. They were worked up like children after a birthday party.

Back at the hotel, they were deciding which room to go to. One or two, decided they had had enough and announced their decision to turn in, met with boos and jeers. Standing with the aid of crutches beside Ferran, Pedri considered doing the same:

“I need to ice my knee, guys.” He said by way of justification. “Not the best idea continuing to dance around. The physios would kill me”

“We’ll just party in your room” suggested Mikel.

“Great idea!” said Ferran. He was completely wired and wanted the night to rage on. The room was his too. He looked over at Pedri, who seemed apprehensive. He put his arm around him. “Come on Pedro! When’s the next time we will get to do this?!”

“Fine” Pedri looked at his watch. “At 4 am I want to go to sleep, though.”

The squad cheered, probably waking the entire hotel. But nobody dared reprimand them. They were the heroes of the hour.

Pedri sat happily on his bed, ice on his knee, watching his friends dance around in his small room, knocking into chairs or into Ferran’s bed. Ferran danced towards him. He took the ice pack and put it on the back of Pedri’s neck.

“Ah, you bastard!” Pedri faked annoyance, his laughter betraying him.

Ferran laughed, but then placed the ice pack back on his friend’s knee, slowly, with care. He kissed Pedri on the forehead and ruffled his hair. He so desperately wanted Pedri to be ok; to stand up and dance around, he wanted to share in this feeling.

Before it was even 4 am, most had already left, but Ferran couldn’t keep still. He was engaged in conversation with Dani on the balcony, Dani sharing that he would likely soon go to Barça, his reps were in conversations. He didn’t notice the last of the party leaving, and was startled when he heard a hard knock in the window. He and Dani turned at the same time.

“Oi! I want to switch off the lights!” Pedri scolded.

Ferran opened the sliding doors still smiling “You better go Dani, don’t want to piss him off before you join the club, he’ll never pass you the ball.”

Dani said his goodnights and see you in the mornings and left for his room. Ferran was still wired. He put the music slightly louder as Pedri hobbled around the bathroom getting himself ready for bed. “Turn that off!” he yelled over the music as he left the bathroom.

“No!” Ferran danced lazily to the rhythm of the music. “Who’s going to tell us off?”

“I am. Come on, switch it off”

Ferran was laughing, drunk on alcohol and mostly this feeling of being a winner, of being the pride of his family and home town. He pulled on Pedri’s arm. “Come on man, dance a bit”

“Ay Ferran, I want to go to sleep”

“I never want to go to sleep, ever in my life.” And he meant it. He was bursting with feeling. He pulled Pedri again who gave up and let Ferran put a hand around his waist. They swayed to the rhythm, laughing. They looked at each other. Proud in themselves, proud in each other. They had made it, together, against all odds. Ferran was feeling so giddy, singing along to the lyrics almost in a whisper to Pedri, as the younger one laughed at him. The feeling overcame him, he didn’t really know why, he placed his two hands on the side of Pedri’s face and planted a small kiss on his lips. He laughed, but Pedri took a beat. Ferran was unbothered by what he’d just done, he continued to mouth along to the lyrics, his eyes closed, but was shut up by Pedri planting a kiss on him. Exactly the same. Chaste, small, a peck really. Ferran opened his eyes and stopped laughing. Simultaneously they crashed their mouths together, this time properly, a release of something unknown. Ferran’s hands continued on Pedri’s face, as Pedri’s wandered up to his hair, sweaty from the day and all the jumping around. He embraced Pedri, pulling him closer, he wanted to be as close as humanly possible to him. He needed some air, but was afraid if he stopped, this would stop forever. Pedri did the honors and gasped, but Ferran made sure there was no time to think twice and immediately closed the gap between them.

Pedri suddenly lost his balance and Ferran grabbed him by the waist. He realized they had been like that for a while, and Pedri was uncomfortable on his bad leg. Ferran guided them both to his bed, continuing to kiss him. He had no plans beyond this, but he didn’t want to stop it. Pedri lay down on the bed pulling Ferran to lie on top of him, Ferran could do this all night. He suddenly felt Pedri’s fingers wander down to the waistband of his national team tracksuit, but didn’t do anything, just a graze of fingers. The mere suggestion of it though, drove Ferran crazy, he trailed his hand down under Pedri’s body and put it beneath his t-shirt, feeling his body. Where was this going? Kneading Pedri’s back under his t-shirt, he felt Pedri’s hand moving from his own back, to his front. It trailed down and cupped him. Ferran didn’t even realize he was hard, let alone that Pedri was the same way, he moaned at the touch and was considering copying the move when a sharp ringtone rang through the room. It startled the both of them, it was so loud. Ferran suddenly realized the sound was coming through the speakers, he had forgotten music was blaring out a while ago. It was probably bothering the whole floor. It was Pedri’s phone that was connected to it. Ferran was still on top of him, when Pedri pushed him back softly to look at his bedside table. His father was calling. He looked up at Ferran who took the initiative of getting off him and sitting on the side of the bed. Pedri looked at him apologetic, but Ferran waved off any of his worries.

“I should answer,” Pedri said sheepishly. “Could be something serious, calling at this hour.” He got his phone, and Ferran only faintly heard a “Hi, papa” as Pedri left the room with his phone, closing the door behind him.

Ferran was suddenly alone in silence. He hadn’t been in silence since the night before the final. He had been nervous and couldn’t sleep, he sat awake, listening to Pedri faintly snore in the bed beside him in that hotel in Germany. Pedri his best friend, his roommate, his partner in crime. What on earth had he just done? He suddenly felt so embarrassed. He couldn’t take it, he had no idea what to do, he didn’t want to process it, and that feeling he had all day, of never wanting to go to sleep, vanished completely. He wanted to hide from the world. He switched off the lights, got into bed, under the covers, despite being boiling hot, and shut his eyes tight, hoping sleep would come soon. He had a quick glance of the bedside clock. It was 5:30 am. He suddenly felt exhausted.

He heard Pedri walking in 5 minutes later. He felt so ashamed, his friend was walking into their shared room, greeted by darkness and a useless man, pretending to sleep to avoid confrontation. What if there was actually something wrong with his dad? Instead of a kind ear, he was greeted by the back of his best friend’s head. Pathetic. Pedri didn’t say anything. He got under his own covers and slept too. Though it was Ferran’s suspicion that just like him, it was all pretend.

_

Ferran must have eventually drifted off to an uneasy sleep, because he did wake up the next day, still clearly tired, body heavy. The season, and the euros and the night before, fell over him quite suddenly, and he felt absolutely exhausted. He heard the bathroom tap and knew Pedri was awake already, and still in the room. He considered going back under the covers and continue to pretend he was sleeping. While he considered it, he checked his phone. It was only 10 am, but he had a few texts warning him breakfast would be over by 9:30, and to get a move on. As he was reading, the bathroom lock unlatched and there was no going back. Pedri exited, fully dressed, like he’d been up for hours, his wash bag already packed and ready to put in his suitcase. He looked at Ferran startled, like he wasn’t expecting him to be awake.

“Morning” Pedri greeted sheepishly, walking to his bed and putting his washbag atop some neatly folded t-shirts in his bag. 

“Good morning” A horrible awkward silence filled the room. Ferran just watched as Pedri put his stuff in his bag. He didn’t know what to say. “I got a text saying breakfast was until 9:30, these damn hotels, expect you to wake up at the crack of dawn. I’ll have to eat something later.” He finally managed. A bit of small talk, the type he would have with Rodri or Mikel, not his best friend, but Ferran was convinced he had done a good job of completely obliterating his closest friendship in about 90 minutes, the previous night.

Just then, Pedri produced a sandwich and a juice and gave them to Ferran. “If you want a coffee, I think they’re serving them in the bar all day, but I didn’t know what time you were going to wake up, so I decided not to bring one up.”

Ferran was surprised. He didn’t know what to say, that was becoming a theme this morning. This person he’d professionally and coldly ignored, in the harshest and cruelest way possible, had gone through the trouble of thinking of him. Of making sure he ate. The absolute bastard. Ferran felt like nothing next to Pedri, he felt so intensely flawed next to someone so perfect. He resented that. “Thanks.” He unwrapped the sandwich and began eating. “So, was everything alright with your father?” Ferran made the conscious decision to ask a kind and concerned question, to make him seem like a better man than what he actually was.

“What?” Pedri was confused.

“He called last night… at an odd hour” even asking kind questions, Ferran was an idiot, he had inadvertently called attention to what they were doing at said odd hour.

“Oh right, yes. Uhm, yes, he was just calling to say they landed alright, he knows I worry”

“Good, good. I’m glad.” More horrible silence. “When are you going down there?” More awkward small talk.

“Oh, in a few days, I’ll fly out from Barcelona, maybe on the 20th” Pedri continued to pack, avoiding eye contact. “You? When are you going home?”

“I’m going today. I’ll fly straight to Manises from here”

Pedri suddenly looked up “Since when?” The tone in his voice broke the awkward and polite small talk they had going on. He was right to be surprised though; the plan had always been to fly to Barcelona and then make the drive home in a few days. He and Pedri had even made loose plans to go to the beach tomorrow, relax a bit in the city and then go home to the family. Ferran had been looking forward to it, but it certainly wasn’t going to happen now. He had made his plan to go to Valencia straight away as he pretended to sleep last night.

“I spoke to my father last night. He wants me home, and I really want to spend time with him” Ferran wasn’t telling a complete lie, but he was certainly not telling the truth.

“Oh, right. So what time is your flight?”

Now that was a good question. Ferran had booked nothing, he felt suddenly caught in a lie. “Uhm- I don’t know, let me check my ticket”. He picked up his phone and quickly googled the flight times. He found a flight for that night going to Manises that would set him back an eye-watering amount, given it was so last minute. “It’s only at 10 at night”. The trouble with lying to someone who knows you well, is that you can tell they know you’re lying. Ferran felt so ashamed.

Pedri didn’t call him out on it though. “Right. Well, mine is at half past three, so I better get a move on.”

Pedri seemed angry, and rightfully so. But Ferran felt trapped. He couldn’t talk about what happened last night, not yet anyway, and he certainly couldn’t go to Barcelona with him. A part of Ferran was wishing he would be sold in the summer, to some far away club, so he’d never have to see Pedri again. But at the same time, he would die of grief if he never saw Pedri again. He wanted to scream. “I’m going to get that coffee now.” He simply said, and left the room.

When he returned, Pedri was gone.

Chapter Text

His father had been shocked to have to pick up his son from the airport that late at night. Ferran had no explanation for it. He had planned to drive to Valencia from Barcelona, now he was in his home town, no car, feeling like shit, confused, and in a tense car ride home with his father. It was like he was 14 again.

His dad didn’t believe in preserving things in his house, so Ferran’s bedroom was more like a hotel room, rather than a comforting museum of childhood memories. His father had done it up more like a guest bedroom. He did sleep well though, that’s a plus. In the morning, he walked in the kitchen, where his dad had some bread, milky coffee, chorizo, cheese and biscuits laid out on the kitchen table. His father was sitting cutting some chorizo to put on his bread.

“Sorry, that's all I have in the house. Didn’t go shopping. Wasn’t expecting you home” it was clear his father was trying to get Ferran to justify his early homecoming, but Ferran merely waved this off.

“This will do me just fine. I can go to Mercadona after breakfast. Get some things for you” Ferran made it seem like he didn’t understand what his father was getting at, and pretended to take his father’s words literally and responded accordingly, making himself useful.

“Ah, nonsense, I’ll go after work. What do you want for dinner?” his dad knew he was getting nothing out of Ferran.

“I’m not picky.”

“Since when?” his father looked over his glasses and they both laughed. “I’ll get some cod at the market, make it with some rice.”

That sounded like heaven to Ferran. He had made the correct choice in coming home. The small tv in the kitchen was on with the morning news. Ferran realized he knew nothing that was going on in the country or in the world. Nothing of politics, or the weather, knew no films that were on in the cinema. He lives exclusively in his own little bubble. There was a debate going on in parliament which his father was particularly interested in. “What’s this about?” Ferran asked.

“Immigration” his father answered simply. “So, what are you doing today?”

That was a good question. Ferran had no idea what he was going to do all day. He was supposed to go to the beach in Barcelona, now he had no plans, but knew in about an hour or two he was going to become incredibly bored.

“Text your friends, most of them are in town. Go have a drink” his father switched off the tv and got up. “Clean this up, will you? I’ll be back by 6, but you take your time.”

At around 4 o’clock in the afternoon, Ferran left the house. He didn’t have his car, so he walked to the center of his small town, reminiscing about a childhood spent there. Everything was just as it was.

He met up with his friends at the local bar. The same bar his father took him to watch the football in 08. He had spent most of his teenage years in that bar, and had seen it change, but every time he thought of it, he thought of the way it was in 08, and every time he walked in, he was surprised about how much it had changed. His friends were already there, giving only half of their attention to a futsal game on the TV, now a flatscreen, instead of the small one they had back in 2008. They greeted him happily when he walked in.

This is exactly what Ferran needed, simple chatter, about a simple life, catching up on what was going on in the lives of people he once considered to be the most important in the world to him. But he soon grew a bit bored of them. He realized he had built himself a new life in Barcelona, and felt distant from the reality of these men. They worked, had girlfriends, some even had children already, they spoke of parents’ meetings at the local pre-school, prepared baptisms, complained about Valencia’s football team, planned beers and tapas after work, played football on Sunday afternoon. There was nothing about this life that was near Ferran’s. He felt like a snob, and resented them for making him feel like that. He was once one of them, but now he had money, fame, lived in a big city and was a European champion. They managed to make him feel beneath them anyway, like he had to apologize for being different. 

He listened as his friend Miguel complained about his ex-girlfriend. Miguel had been the protagonist of a local scandal about a year ago, he had cheated on his pregnant girlfriend and now was being misally about his son’s child support. What a bastard. Miguel was Ferran’s oldest friend; they knew each other since primary school. They took their first communion together, both promising themselves to God, and repenting sin.

Next to Miguel, was Fran. Worked as a fisherman in the early mornings, took over his father’s business. He had committed the grave sin of marrying an English girl outside the church in a registry office. When Miguel asked Fran to be his son’s godfather, Fran’s wife was made to stand outside the church during the baptism, as their marriage wasn’t recognized by God. Fran made no effort in defending his wife. Ferran had been in attendance as well, he too kicked up no fuss. That’s just the way things were.

Each and everyone one of his friends were cheats and liars, and hard workers, and good men, forgiven by the community, and forgiven by God. He looked around and wondered how he was perceived, was he a good man? Did God know what he did two nights ago? Did his friends know? Could they feel it? That he was different. He did not cheat, he didn’t steal, or offend, or kill, or maim. He was involved in no fights, unlike Nico, sitting next to him, who had a horrible violent streak when he drank. He kissed his best friend in a frenzy of adrenaline and alcohol. That’s all. Though he was aware that they were in the 21st century and the outlook on certain things had changed, he knew that if this got out, this would be a more serious offence, that God would never forgive, and his community would shun him. He was sure of it.

At around 6:15, Ferran’s father walked in. Never did kick the habit of having a few beers after work.

“Ah, Torres!” the barman yelled out. “You must be proud of your boy over there, European champion”

His father looked back and saw Ferran sitting with his friends, previously unaware his son was even in the bar. Ferran looked at his father. He himself was a sinner. Years ago, he and Ferran’s mother got a divorce, his father got to stay, forgiven, his mother had to move a few villages over to avoid prying eyes. It was all very unfair, but it was just the way these things were. “Yes, we’re very proud, of course!” his father replied, still looking at his son. Ferran loved the way his dad was looking at him. He wondered if he would still look at him that way if he knew what he had done two nights ago. 

“Ferran, you need to get us a signed shirt you wore in the final, so we can hang it up on the wall” the barman said excitedly.

“What shirt? He didn’t even play in the final!” Miguel replied laughing. A prophet is without honor in his home town, Ferran supposed. Still, he felt the jab regardless.

“I have it in my bag, I’ll bring it to you tomorrow” Ferran said, sheepishly. 

“And what about that kid Lamine! What a player” the barman said, more to Ferran’s father, than to Ferran.

“He’s a good kid” Ferran said before spacing out of all the football chat. The punters continued to talk about the team, who they liked, who they didn’t, as Ferran drank quietly, ignoring, until his name coaxed him out of his trance.

“Shame about Pedri, the injury and all, he was doing good” it was Nico who had said it. It startled Ferran.

“Yes, Ferran is close with him, aren’t you son?” his father suddenly looked at him.

“Uhm” Ferran didn’t know what to say. “I guess, he’s a good teammate.”

“Ah nonsense! He’s like your best friend! How’s he doing?” everyone was looking at Ferran. He wanted to run away.

“He’s fine. Not too serious, should be back by the beginning of the season.” 

“That’s too bad for our Valencia” Miguel said and everyone laughed.

That’s how he spent the rest of his days at home. At the bar, at the café, played some football on Sunday afternoon, tried to keep fit. He visited his mother a few times. He had received an e-mail from the club, congratulating him on his euros win, and dispensing him from a pre-season tour in the US. He would only have to report back in Barcelona two weeks later. Thank God!

Towards the end of his stay, there was a wedding. It was Martín García’s wedding. Martín had been Ferran’s closest friend at school. He had moved to the city of Valencia for university and was now doing his master’s. Miguel often spoke of Martín, complaining how Martín thinks he’s better than everyone else, now he’s a university graduate. The truth of the matter was, that in Ferran’s opinion Martín was better than them all. Smarter, kinder, selfless and noble. Always had been. Martín had arrived two days before his wedding and immediately asked Ferran to be his best man. Ferran agreed, happily. The night before the wedding, the group went out drinking. They broke into the local sports center and played a game of futsal, laughing and giggling like school boys. The game ended when none of them had a single ounce of coordination on the ball. Everyone was suddenly divided into groups, having their own private drunken chats. Ferran didn’t really like what Nico and Miguel were saying so he went to look for Martín. Martín was outside, smoking and drinking beer from a can.

“Nervous?” Ferran asked him, grabbing a can for himself.

“Not really. Seems like the logical next step.” Martín replied. He offered Ferran a cigarette, but it was refused.

Ferran hated that reply. Here he was, Martín García, the best of them all, the one with the brightest future, returning to his village to marry a nice Valencian girl in his local church. The same church where he was baptized in, where he took his first communion and confirmation. He was a good catholic boy, making his mother proud. Ferran resented this. He wanted to be a good catholic boy too, but he felt like a heretic. Years ago, they were so close, that Ferran could probably have told him to not go through with it, if that wasn’t what he wanted, he could even tell him what he did in that hotel in Madrid. But they no longer were close. Ferran shook his hand and wished him luck, and felt the grief of losing a friend.

At home, in his bed, he thought back on his friendship with Martín, he knew now, in hindsight, he had once been in love with Martín, or as in love a 15 year-old can be. He always knew what he felt for Martín was different from what he felt for his other friends. But was sure he’d grown out of it. He was no longer sure. He saw a lot of Martín in Pedri: kind, selfless, clever and noble. At the age of 24 he wondered if he could still chalk it all up to teenage confusion, or was this just who he was.

The next day, he kneeled at the altar, next to Martín, in front of the priest. He took his communion, said the prayers, made the speech, congratulated his friend, and the day after, he got on the first flight to Barcelona, he could no longer stand so many good catholic boys.

-

Back in Barcelona, he felt incredibly lonely the first two days. He cleaned his flat, watched movies, used his gym, kept up with the training regiment the club had sent him, but he was bored. He decided he wasn’t lonely and that Pedri was not his only friend in the city. He called up Eric, asking him to come over to play some FIFA. Eric was a close friend, having gone with him to England years back, and he had felt his absence when he went to Girona, but he was back in the city, and spending time with him made him feel back to normal again.

They were mid game when Eric asked, what Ferran really didn’t want him to ask:

“Where’s Pedri?”

Ferran was quiet for a beat. Trying to think of a lie. “Don’t know” he finally replied, technically not lying. He really didn’t know.

“He isn’t back in town?” Eric didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

“I don’t know,” Ferran said again.

“Is he ok?” Eric insisted.

“Jesus, Eric, I really don’t know. Can you drop it?” Ferran snapped.

“Fucking hell, Ferran!” Eric paused the game. “Did you two break up or something? Christ!”

Ferran didn’t like how that was phrased, did you break up or something? Implying something he really didn’t want implied. “What the fuck do you mean?”

“Jesus, Ferran! Nothing, just that I haven’t heard from him, and was asking if you had.”

“No!” Ferran yelled and un-paused the game.

“Fine! I’ll text him later, fucking hell man!” Eric just continued on with the game, but Ferran was lost in thought. He really had to play it cooler, otherwise it was going to become suspicious, especially because they were back for pre-season training in a few days, and he would have to see Pedri in the flesh for the first time since Madrid.

Chapter Text

The night before he was due back, Ferran had an uneasy sleep. It felt almost like it was the night before the first day of school. Excitement mixed with nerves. New teammates, new manager, new awkward type of relationship with best friend. It was all new.

He sat in his car parked at the training center and took a beat before walking in. He was really dreading this; any excitement he felt the night before had given way to heavy dread. There definitely was a conversation to be had, which he really did not want to have. There were things to be made clear, which weren’t yet and explanations to be given which he didn’t have. He could picture the questions now: Why did you kiss me? Fuck knows. Why didn’t you speak to me all summer? I’m a huge asshole. Would you have slept with me if my father didn’t call? Probably. Do you still want to sleep with me? I don’t know, are you offering?

He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. He had enough of all this pondering and decided to man up and walk in. He was already in his training kit, so he only needed to go to the dressing room to drop off his stuff and quickly go for his breakfast at the dining hall. No sign of Pedri so far. Must be running late. He didn’t allow himself to rationalize how ridiculous that was, Pedri was never late, but he didn’t care. He was happy to live in delusion.

He walked on the training pitch, said a small prayer before walking on with his right foot, like he always did, and then looked around. The worry of seeing Pedri was suddenly replaced with the worry of not seeing Pedri. “Where’s Pedri?” It was a first instinct question, but nobody found it weird that he asked it, why would they?

“He’s in the recovery ward, seeing if he’s match-fit since his summer injury,” said one of the new assistant managers. He spoke Spanish fluently, but with a noticeable German accent.

Ferran suddenly felt awful. He had been so up his ass all summer, he never thought to even text his mate about his injury. When Pedri had done his knee in at the Germany match, he had been sick with worry, angry at the German player and his carelessness. At half time he ran to the infirmary, he had found Pedri, having a small cry. He comforted him, stayed with him, only leaving his side for the second half of the match, and only because he had to. He was such a good friend, before he fucked it up.

It was a slow training day, these first few days of a pre-season usually were, some players already knew the manager, as they had gone on the pre-season tour with him. Others, like Ferran, were getting to know him. It was a lot of new information to take in, which helped Ferran take his mind off everything. He was laughing and joking around as he entered the dressing room, and was in such a good mood, that suddenly seeing Pedri, standing there, taking things out of his bag, was a sucker punch he was not ready for. Pedri was embraced by his teammates, giving Ferran time to recover from the initial shock. Pedri looked healthy and well, Ferran was glad of that. In the team dressing room, they always sat side by side, it was an obvious choice of placing then, it made for a very awkward situation now. Ferran sat down as if nothing was the matter and began to take off his boots. He wondered suddenly what the new policy was in regard to taking clothes off in front of Pedri. Weird thing to think about, but it crossed his mind, nonetheless.

“You alright?” he heard a voice beside him say. He had been so wrapped up in stupid thoughts that it startled him. Why on earth was Pedri even speaking to him, after the way he treated him all summer.

“Yep. You?” was all he managed to say.

“I’m good. Good time at home?”

“Yes, yes. There was a wedding. How was time on the island?”

“Aah, that’s nice. It was good. Back to full fitness.” Pedri said, smiling awkwardly.

How had a years-long friendship dissolved into this? Small talk, like you would have with a colleague you didn’t like in the lift. When would things go back to the way they were? Would they ever? Ferran remembered a girl he was friends with back home. They had kissed, made out, nothing further, they were young and drunk. It was all in good fun and they decided to stay friends. Ferran hasn’t spoken to her in ten years. He was just going to have to accept this. He had ruined a friendship doing something stupid. He and Pedri didn’t have to be friends, he wasn’t close to every single person he worked with. This was just the way things were now.

The way things were now, was pretty fucking dismal. Ferran hated how awkward it was, and he desperately missed his friend, despite seeing him nearly every day. They would glare at each other in training. Twitch uncomfortably when paired together. Avoid being in the dressing room at the same time. Definitely avoid showering together. They did nothing together outside of work, they were like strangers. Ferran had settled a new group of friends with Eric and Dani, who did eventually move to the club. Eric would suggest Pedri tag along, but Pedri would politely decline to Ferran’s relief and sorrow. They did occasionally speak though, they even made each other laugh once, which almost tricked them into thinking it was the good old days. They certainly weren’t.

On a warm September morning with the season already underway, Ferran and Robert were asked to stay behind for extra training. After they walked to the dressing room, only Pedri was there. “Where’s Eric?” asked Ferran desperately.

Pedri looked around, to make sure it was him Ferran was speaking to. “He left, about 10 minutes ago”.

“What!?” Ferran was angry because that morning his car decided to not start. He had called Eric in a frenzy asking to be picked up. It didn’t occur to Eric that he might need a lift back. He immediately got his phone from his bag. “Oi!” he yelled down the line. “Weren’t you giving me a lift? … What do you mean it didn’t occur to you? Oh, great Eric, thanks a bunch!” he switched the call off, annoyed, though it was his fault he didn’t say anything to his friend before, but never mind that, he was feeling hard done by anyway. He sat on the bench and sighed heavily.

“Need a lift?” came a voice next to him.

“Oh, no, it’s ok, I’ll get an Uber.”

“It’s fine, I can drive you, it’s on the way,” Pedri insisted.

Ferran knew where Pedri lived and also knew that it wasn’t on the way. “Honestly, Pedri, I’m calling the Uber now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ferran, get your stuff.” Pedri had said this so sternly, Ferran thought he was getting a telling off, and picked up his bag and walked behind him to the car park.

They were driving about the city in almost complete silence, just the radio blaring out at a low volume. Suddenly Pedri’s hand reached out, and Ferran twitched as a reflex. Pedri was only turning the sound dial on the radio. “I love this guy, he’s so funny.” He said justifying why he was putting the radio at a higher volume. It was a comedian’s program on the radio which he did every day. Pedri’s laugh filled the car. He looked at Ferran. “I leave training a little later, so I can catch this guy on the drive home.”

“I think they release this as podcast now, just listen to it at home,” Ferran said, laughing slightly at how absurd Pedri sounded.

“No! I like this routine”. Pedri continued to laugh out loud at the program. If Ferran was to be honest, he had never found this guy all that funny, but Pedri’s laugh was infectious and before they knew it, they were both laughing out loud. The program ended and they continued to chat, making each other laugh. Pedri told a story about his mother that happened during the summer that had them both in stitches. He stopped the car and Ferran realized they were outside his apartment building. And suddenly it was awkward again. “Ferran…” Ferran looked up at the mention of his name. “Can we talk?” And there it was, what he had been avoiding all these months.

“Now?” he asked innocently enough, like he didn’t know what it was all about.

“Not if you don’t want to.” Pedri was so kind, he really was.

“It’s just, I still have stuff to do today” Ferran lied, clearly.

“That’s fine, I’ll see you tomorrow” Pedri didn’t care to unpick that lie, though he definitely knew Ferran was lying. Ferran opened the car door but was interrupted by Pedri asking, “Do you need picking up tomorrow?” It surprised Ferran, so he didn’t reply right away. “I promise I won’t forget about you after training.” Pedri smiled.

“Yep, ok.” Ferran agreed, he didn’t know why. “8 o’clock?”

“That’s fine, see you tomorrow, Ferran.” He drove off, leaving Ferran confused. He wanted his friendship with Pedri back, but he really wasn’t ready to talk about everything.

But Pedri didn’t mention the talk the next day, in fact, they carpooled every day for the next week and there was no mention of talks to be had. What did happen was they seemed to get their groove back. They spoke of everything, except the obvious. Ferran genuinely looked forward to spending time with Pedri every morning. After training they always stayed back, having lunch, talking, until Pedri calmly drove Ferran home. On Thursday, the day after a home champions league match, they had a soft training day, focused on recovery. As usual Pedri and Ferran had lunch together, joined by Eric and Dani. Eric was happy that whatever blip the two had had, seemed resolved. Eric left to go home, and Dani followed soon after. There was practically only Pedri and Ferran left in the dining hall.

“Do you want to come over to mine?” Pedri asked suddenly.

Ferran didn’t quite want to analyze why that question excited him. One thing Ferran didn’t care to admit was how much he thought about Pedri these last few months. How much he thought about that kiss. He thought of it on his flight to Valencia, he thought of it at night in his old bedroom, he thought of it when he was in church for Martín’s wedding. He thought of it when he spaced out talking to his friends from school. He thought about it every time he looked over at Pedri during a match or in training. It would pop up at random times. How good it felt. And there wasn’t a single day when he exited Pedri’s car without thinking about kissing him goodbye. But if there was anything the summer had taught him, it was that the fallout wasn’t worth it. He didn’t want to feel that lonely ever again. But here was Pedri asking him to go back to his place, and reason just flew out the window.

They were in the lift of Pedri’s building and Ferran kept looking over at Pedri, trying to read him. He couldn’t though. Pedri opened his door, and Ferran was half expecting, half hoping, that he was going to be kissed right there and then, but a voice from inside the flat greeted Pedri, startling Ferran. It was Pedri’s brother, who of course, lived there. How had he forgotten that? Fer seemed surprised to see him but greeted Ferran happily. Once Ferran got over the initial disappointment, he was relieved that nothing happened. The three of them happily played videogames for the rest of the afternoon, ate something and hung out. Just like the good old days.

Ferran got up from the sofa and gave his intention to leave, taking his phone out to call an Uber. “Don’t be absurd, I’ll drive you” Pedri got up from the sofa and quickly got his car keys. Ferran was not going to complain about a free lift, so he happily followed him to the garage. They spoke idly during the drive to Ferran’s place, and everything seemed alright, until Pedri parked the car and switched it off. He suddenly looked very serious. “Ferran, can we please talk?”

Oh, for crying out loud, Ferran thought. He really did believe he had dodged this. That he had gotten his friend back, while avoiding The Chat. “Now?” he asked, again attempting to get out of it, God he was a bastard sometimes.

“Please, this doesn’t have to take long, I just want to clear some things up” Pedri begged him.

“I don’t see what needs clearing up.” Liar.

“For fuck’s sake Ferran, we almost slept together”. It was a shock to Ferran’s ears to hear it, said out loud in that way. The truth.

“Yes, but we didn't,” Ferran insisted.

“Because my dad called! Look, if everything was fine, then you wouldn’t have avoided me for so long! I don’t want an admission of love from you; I just want an admission that it happened!” Hearing Pedri so exasperated, made Ferran feel awful.

“It happened.” Ferran admitted.

“Finally! God! It was driving me insane!” Pedri threw his hands in the air. “I just wanted to ask you if you were alright the next morning, but you looked so scared and full of regrets, I didn’t dare remind you of it. Were you ok, you know, about it?”

It was definitely unfair for Pedri to be asking Ferran if he was ok, given that he was the one who switched off the lights and got under the covers like a rat. “I didn’t know how to feel about it” Ferran finally admitted “And I don’t know how to feel about it now.” It felt good to be this candid.

“That’s fine, really, it is” And Ferran knew Pedri meant it. He was always so kind. Ferran looked over at him, he had a thousand questions he could probably conjure up, but Ferran didn’t really know what to say. There was nothing to be angry about, but Ferran felt a sharp surge of anger. Pedri looked so calm about it. He didn’t like how resolved Pedri was with himself, why wasn’t he confused? Where was his guilt? Why wasn’t he trying to be a good catholic boy? He only saw sympathy in Pedri’s eyes, like he had been through all this and came out the other side.

 _______________________________________________________________

Ever since Pedri met Ferran, he was attracted to him. They had met when the age gap between them seemed bigger. Ferran felt to Pedri like an older brother’s best friend or a friend’s older brother, who you can’t seem to help having a crush on. He was so handsome, charming and outgoing, everything Pedri felt like he lacked in himself. Though when Pedri was younger he definitely thought he was in love with Ferran, he knew later it was a mere crush mixed with a heavy dose of admiration. What did come from it was a deep and long-lasting friendship, which Pedri would never trade for anything. He had come to feel somewhat guilty through the years. Like he and Ferran’s friendship had started out on a lie. He had come close to telling him the truth about himself, closer than he’s ever had to coming clean to anyone, but he was scared the truth would lead to questions. About how their initial proximity was forced by Pedri due to some ridiculous school-boy crush. 

That night in Madrid, when Ferran kissed him, it brought it all back. How handsome he found him, how charming and funny and he couldn’t help himself. His phone ringing had stopped him from taking things any further. He spoke to his father that night outside his room. If his father only knew what he had stopped his son from doing. He would die of shame on the spot if he was to ever know. He walked in the room and everything was dark. Probably for the best, he thought.

He didn’t sleep that night, just racked with guilt and confusion. He had known men like Ferran for his entire adult life, men who were straight, until they weren’t, men who had girlfriends, or careers in professional sports or both, who would never speak a word about anything that happened at night, in their bed. They were the safest men to be with; they would never blab. Pedri supposed he was one of these men, though, in his head he made a clear distinction, these men didn’t know who they were, he did. But he wasn’t naïve, he knew what his career implied, knew the sacrifices to be made. It’s just the way things were. The morning after he recognized the look on Ferran’s face, the oh God, what have I done?, the Please, never tell anyone, look. He has probably had that look on his own face on occasion.

He never thought he would see it on Ferran. He was so convinced of who Ferran was, his straight friend, who he would eventually, maybe when retirement comes, tell everything to, and just hope he didn’t ask why he didn’t have a girlfriend until then. But the day to confess had come sooner than he expected. He and Ferran just sat in his car, outside Ferran’s building.

“Does anyone know?” Ferran asked after another long pause. “About you…”

Pedri had to think about that, he knew what Ferran was asking, does anybody know you’re gay and the truth of the matter was nobody of relevance in his life knew, but there were about 4 or 5 complete strangers, and one old friend who he’d lost touch with, who definitely did. Wasn’t that ironic? Pedri had convinced himself years ago that it wasn’t a relevant aspect of himself. He was a son, a brother, a friend and a teammate before he was anything else. He cared not to admit how growing up gay on an island, playing sports had actually shaped him into who he was. So now there were a couple of men out there in the world with a piece of him, a piece of information Pedri knew they would never reveal, lest they reveal something about themselves. A piece of his soul, a piece of who he was. “No.” he finally said, deciding it was easier that way.

A part of him was glad Ferran knew, he deserved to know all of him, but hated he had gotten to know exactly like the others knew. Fumbling in the night, and regretting it in the morning. He didn’t want Ferran to become just like the men he slept with before, and of course he wasn’t. He knew Ferran well, he was a good man, kind and strong, always trying to do the right thing, it was why he liked him so much and why they were so close in the first place. When they went back to work, he could see how much the whole situation was eating at Ferran, how he wanted to take it back, because he missed how things were before. And Pedri missed it too. He had wanted to talk because he needed it to be spoken out loud, rationalized and forgotten about so they could recover their friendship. But Ferran didn’t want to talk, so Pedri thought it best to skip the conversation, never again call attention to it and move on.

That day at lunchtime, Pedri had invited Ferran over to his place. It was an innocent enough invitation, just like the old days, but Pedri had seen the look on Ferran’s face. The part of him that still wanted Ferran, like he did when he was younger, like he did in that hotel room in Madrid, came back. He could feel Ferran’s eyes on him in the lift, there was nothing about what happened in Madrid that was dead and buried, in fact it was completely unresolved, and though Pedri believed that the only way to resolve it was by having a chat, he was suddenly considering a new way to close the matter down, or at least releasing some of this tension. He wasn’t actually expecting Fer to be home, and when he looked over at Ferran he seemed disappointed as well as relieved. Or maybe he was projecting his own feelings onto him. As the three played videogames, laughing like old times, he knew he had to resolve the matter then and there, so as he parked the car next to Ferran’s building, he decided not to leave until the matter was buried.

He hated how confused Ferran was during the whole conversation. How quiet he was. What Ferran probably needed right now, was a kind word, about how things get better, but what he and Pedri decided to dedicate their lives to, was unkind to men like them. It was easier if nobody knew. Not easy on the soul, but easier in general. Pedri had learnt to live with it, now it was Ferran’s turn. But he hated seeing Ferran like this. He desperately wanted to help him, but because he’d never been helped himself, he had no idea how. There was no guide to this. There probably was, for normal people, but not professional footballers. Just like Ferran now knew a part of himself, for the first time he saw, he now knew a part of Ferran he had never known before. He wondered about Ferran’s childhood. Was it anything like his? From what Ferran had told him through the years, it seemed like a happy one, but conservative. Like many childhoods in Spain: a mix of modern mindsets mixed with a heavy dose of unaware conservativism born from their connection to the church. Parents throughout Spain, were unknowingly filling their children with traditions and values that were both well intentioned and damaging. Why had Ferran never told him, was it the same reasons Pedri had never said anything? In a way he didn’t want that to be true, he saw Ferran as someone so much better than himself, he had an idealized version of Ferran in his head: honest, good, strong, loyal. He didn’t want to think of him feeling as weak as he felt some days. Feeling like a liar.

The silence in the car was getting at Pedri. He had never minded being in silence next to Ferran before, but their relationship wasn’t the same as it was before. He considered the matter done and dusted, even though it certainly was not, and didn’t want to prolong Ferran’s suffering any longer. “Can we just forget about all this, Ferran? Move on.” he finally said.

Ferran looked at him, still deep in thought. He opened his mouth to say something but retracted. He looked at the glove box for a bit, before actually saying something. “Sure, Pedri”. He opened the car door and then looked back at Pedri. “We’re still friends, right?”

Pedri really felt those words, of course they were friends, this whole conversation was had in an attempt to salvage a friendship, Pedri’s most important friendship, deeper now after this conversation, Ferran knew all of him, and still desperately wanted to be his friend, it touched Pedri, a lot. “Of course.” he simply said, but made sure his tone conveyed all he was thinking.

Ferran got out of the car but turned back again “I won’t forget it. Ever.” He closed the car door before he could develop the thought any further leaving Pedri to wonder what exactly he had meant by that. Pedri supposed it was true, he wouldn’t forget it either, he didn’t want to. He had never felt closer to someone than when he did to Ferran that night. It was a beautiful feeling, mixed with all the complications that were around it. But that feeling, in that room, on a summer night in Madrid, music blaring, the streets still and Ferran’s body so close to his, that was a beautiful feeling.

Chapter Text

Christmas rolled around quicker than it usually did and Pedri was on a flight home with Fer to see their family. The evening before he had been with Ferran and Eric, bragging how he was going somewhere warm and that he would take pictures of the beach to make them jealous. Their homecoming was as joyous as ever, and though his mother, as always complained that he couldn’t spend king’s day together, he simply reminded her they had a good Christmas break and they should enjoy the time they did have.

Breakfast was a big affair whenever he was home, his mother would go shopping for three days straight preparing for her sons, always remembering something they liked and she didn’t get. She was filling her husband’s coffee cup when she suddenly remembered. “Oh, you know who’s home?”

“Me?” Fer joked as he took a bite of his toast.

“Ay, as well, but no. Marco is back, remember Marco?” his mother was smiling like she had another piece of information she was holding back. Marco was a boy Pedri’s age who had grown up on the Island, he was the son of a communist politician and a primary school teacher. At 18 he had moved to Madrid to pursue a degree in Ancient History and he and Pedri had lost touch “And you will never guess!” she continued gleefully, “he’s here, with a boyfriend.” In truth Pedri was not surprised, Marco had been Pedri’s first love. Before he knew what love and sex were, he knew Marco, and through Marco he had discovered what those things were. They were in the same class all through school and played football together at the academy. For Marco though, there was more to life than football, and in the end, he wasn’t prepared to make the sacrifices Pedri was, and when Pedri left for Barcelona, he left Marco behind, cutting him out of his life, like he was cutting out a piece of information about himself. They lost touch because Pedri made sure they lost touch. Now hearing his name again made him feel like shit. “Why don’t you go meet up with him today, mi hijo?” his mother looked at him. “I saw him yesterday, he said he would be really happy to see you”.

Pedri really didn’t want to see Marco, and he especially didn’t want to see Marco’s boyfriend, but the island is small, and that evening, as he sat in a seaside café with his old friends, soaking up the sun, who should appear in front of him but Marco. “Pedro!” Pedri had forgotten Marco always called him Pedro. “Your mother told me you were coming for Christmas”.

Pedri stood up and hugged Marco uncomfortably, he looked at the stranger that was behind him, who he assumed was the boyfriend “How are you, Marco?”

“I’m good, you? This is Gabri, he’d never been to the island, so we thought we’d spend the break here this year”

Pedri looked at Gabri, he hated how established the relationship sounded, how grown up. There was Marco deciding where to spend the break together with his partner, and there was Pedri, the last time he’s been close to anything like this, was an almost handjob with his best friend in the summer, which he kept secret, like a teenage boy at camp. One of Pedri’s friends invited Marco and Gabri to sit at the table and drink with them. The beers helped conversation flow better, and in the end Pedri was enjoying talking to Marco again, he’d once been the most important person in his life, those feelings don’t simply vanish, as much as he willed them to. Evening quickly became night and the group was slightly tipsy and laughing at old school stories, leaving Gabri out of the loop. A side of Pedri, felt a bit of glee at this, like he had won a small battle that Gabri was completely unaware he was in. They expanded their little party to the beach and as Pedri was drinking a can of beer, he noticed Marco sitting alone beneath the peer, so he decided to join him.

Marco smiled as he sat down. “I forgot how beautiful it was here, how calm.”

Pedri laughed “Calm? That’s because it’s off-season, you’re forgetting how the beach looks full of guiris. Nightmare”

“I do miss it when I’m on the mainland though. All of it” Marco looked out at the ocean, contemplating it. “Do you miss it?”

“I suppose, I try to come when I can,” Pedri looked out at the ocean too. “How’s life in Madrid?” Pedri was genuinely curious.

“Oh Pedro!” Marco looked at him now. “I am my father’s disappointment.” Something in Pedri’s stomach tightened, was he talking about Gabri? “Living in Madrid you know, he hates the stink of the place” he laughed. It became obvious to Pedri he was making a joke and laughed with him.

“Do you hate the stink of the place?” Marco had grown up with his father’s ideals, always so revolutionary and values stuck in stone.

“No” Marco answered smiling “I love it” he laughed again “I feel so free there. My father was convinced that if I went to Madrid, I would come back as a Francoist. He’d probably be happier if I followed you to Barcelona.”

Pedri looked down at the sand, and started picking it up and running it through his fingers “There are ancient history courses in Barcelona” he simply said.

“Ay Pedro, you obviously didn’t want to be followed.” Why must Marco always be so honest? Always say what was on his mind, why must he make Pedri feel so guilty? He continued playing with the sand. “Are you happy at least?” Marco asked.

Pedri didn’t know what to say to that, he never really thought about it “Yes.” He answered, that’s what you should always answer, but then he took a second to think about it, and added “As happy as I can be, at least.” God, that sounded so sad. “Are you happy?”

“Yes!” Marco answered resolutely. Pedri hated how sure he was of that answer, how honest it was, not a grain of doubt. It made him angrier than he cared to admit. “I try to watch all your games, but Gabri hates football, so…” Finally, a flaw in the famous Gabri. Pedri remembered how he and Marco loved football, they loved football before they loved anything else, they loved football before they loved each other.

“That’s too bad.” Pedri smiled, recouping some petty satisfaction from this conversation, even if it was rooted in meanness, he was taking what he could get.

“Do you have someone, Pedro? I hate to think of you alone.”

Did Pedri have someone? He didn’t know how to begin answering. Truth was, in the last few months he felt like he did have someone. He and Ferran had dissolved into old ways, but always with something else between them. A memory of closeness, added to a platonic love. A few looks stolen here and there, a few flirtatious words. A kiss on the cheek charged with something else, a touch on the arm saying goodbye. Long glances, and awkward smiles. Like two teenagers slowly figuring out they like each other, a kind of arrested development of two people who never got the full experience when they were younger. It made Pedri somewhat content with his life, but he had no way of putting into words that didn’t make it sound so depressing. “I have really good friends” he ended up answering, it wasn’t a lie.

“That’s nice, but is there someone you love?” Pedri looked at Marco. He was aware he looked sad. “I know it’s difficult, given who you are, but I would hate to think of you not enjoying life. All of life.”

Pedri resented that Marco felt sorry for him. He was living their dream. When they watched Barcelona on the tv, when they watched the Spanish players lifting the world cup, this was their dream. When had Marco given it all up for a boy? In that moment he thought of Marco as weak, undisciplined. He felt like he didn’t know him. He suddenly felt like a liability. “You’ve never said anything about me, have you?” he asked, suddenly unsure if he could trust Marco.

“I would never do that to you” Marco answered simply, and all of Pedri’s sudden negative feelings for Marco dissolved again. This is who Marco really was, a good man, strong and loyal, he knew why he loved him as a young man, and would have chosen no other to share a first love with, even if he wasn’t the love of Marco’s life, nobody is at 17.

“Oi! You two!” Pedri heard in the distance, it was one of their friends calling them over, no idea what on earth they were talking about. He got up and felt the wet sand clinging to his trousers. His mother was going to kill him.

 —--

Ferran was sitting at midnight mass on an uncomfortable pew, in an uncomfortable tie, with uncomfortable shoes. He listened to the priest giving the same sermon he gave every Christmas. He looked around at the congregation, the church was full and he recognized most of them. He focused on a small boy who looked as uncomfortable as he did. When he was a child, his mother had always made him nap on the afternoon of the 24th, but he’d never been one to nap. He would be at church, way past his bedtime, fidgety and so tired he could cry. He suddenly saw himself as that small boy. The boy’s mother, a local girl he knew from school who was a few years above him, was quietly telling him to stop fidgeting. Why do they put children through this? Ferran thought to himself. He got up to take communion, glad that it was coming to an end. At the end, when everyone was supposed to shake hands, and wish peace, his father hugged him. “Merry Christmas, mi hijo”. He knew then what this meant to his father. 

Outside, Ferran shook hands with the priest. He was a young man, he’d come to his village about three years ago. “If you ever need to talk, I’m always available,” he said, as all priests say. Ferran wondered what would have to possess him to speak to a priest. He hadn’t confessed to anything since he was 10 years old and had stolen some Panini stickers from Señor Hernandez’s news shop with some friends. But Ferran always felt there was a sort of kinship with him and this priest. These local men always wanted their sons to be either priests or footballers. Look at us, we made it, he thought to himself. They weren’t too different from each other, both chose public facing professions that asked too many questions of their love lives. The idea of talking to someone who couldn’t say anything suddenly appealed to Ferran. He was having the desire to get some advice on things, saying things out loud always did put everything in perspective. But if he didn’t confess to a priest for watching gay pornography those few times when he was a teenager, he certainly wasn’t going to confess to any sexual fantasies he was having about his best friend. He would have to figure those out on his own. 

____________

Lisbon. 

In Ferran's head, this was probably going to be one of the easier European games away. The commute was short, the opposition good, but nowhere near better than them, and he wasn't even sure he would end up playing. So it was definitely a surprise when he was subbed on, and as his team was 3-2 down. It was dismal weather. Unusual for their part of the world. The rain was thick and relentless. He was completely soaked within minutes of stepping on the field. They had clawed their way back to a 4-4 and the game was minutes away from ending. 

A week ago, they were tearing Real Madrid apart, in Jeddah, to win their first piece of silverware of the season. Now they were being run around by Benfica. There was commotion in their penalty area, and before the ref could decide if he was going to award Benfica a penalty, Ferran quickly got the ball and passed it to Raphinha, who ran all the way across the field and scored a goal. They had no idea if it was getting validated or not, but hearing the ball hit the back of the net, made everyone in a Barcelona shirt overwhelmed with adrenaline. They ran to the touchline and hugged Rapha, who was giving it to the home fans. He'd once played for Benfica's hometown rivals, and he had been extra pumped about this game all week. The goal was validated and after the whistle Rapha almost got into a fight in the tunnel with a fellow Brazilian who played for Benfica. They had to claw them apart and everyone was in incredibly high spirits. 

Ferran felt so alive. He played football for games like these, he loved football for games like these. Mad games, with multiple narratives going on at the same time. Games that told a story, games he would tell as an exaggerated tale to his grandchildren. He felt every atom in his body vibrate. 

When they got back to their hotel, the physios were begging them to use the night to unwind. But that was looking unlikely. Ferran invited anyone who wanted to go back to his room. Rapha got his speaker out and put on some Brazilian music. Nobody was drinking, but they definitely felt buzzed. The small party didn't last long. The music was ordered to be switched off almost as soon as it was switched on. Someone argued with Raphinha that the locals wouldn't take it too kindly to them rubbing the victory in their faces. Raphinha argued back, asking why any locals would be staying in this hotel, but complied anyway. People began to feel the long game in their legs and were turning in. Eric and Ferran decided to have a game of Fifa, and Pedri watched, lying on the bed coaching Ferran on how to beat Eric. Ferran scored a goal in the dying minutes and both he and Pedri stood up celebrating. 

“Yes!!!” He went to high five Pedri, grabbed his hand and pulled him into a hug. 

“Yeah alright man. We got Messi and Guardiola in the room over here” joked Eric, getting up and switching off the playstation. “I’ll get you tomorrow”.

“No you won't! I’m just too good” Ferran gloated. 

Eric just laughed. “I was tired, you know, after scoring a real goal. Instead of you two, only getting the assists.” 

“Yeah yeah, night loser.” Pedri joined in. 

“Fuck you” Eric opened the door “Sleep well, see you two in the morning”

“Night, Eric” Ferran was still laughing as he was closing the door for his friend when Pedri interrupted quickly. 

“Don't close it, I'm going too.” He put his team jacket on and started making his way to the door, but before he could reach it, Ferran closed it, this time with some intention. Pedri frowned at him. “What's up Ferran?...” 

“It's early yet,” Ferran explained. 

“No it's not, it's nearly two a.m., I'll see you in the morning” but just as Pedri was reaching for the handle, Ferran blocked the door, stepping right in front of Pedri, they were very close. “What are you doing Ferran?” 

“I'm not tired” He looked at Pedri intently. Pedri didn’t even take a step back. Ferran knew that Pedri knew what this was all about. The last time was similar to this. Ferran was wired, couldn't sleep. Pedri was weak, couldn't stop himself. Ferran reached his hand out and lightly lifted Pedri's hand with the tip of his fingers and lightly stroked it. He then closed the gap between them, lightly kissed Pedri on the cheek. Only one kiss, but he kept his face there. 

“I don't think this is a good idea, Ferran.” 

“I think it's a great idea.” Ferran's lips were so close to Pedri's ear that he made a conscious decision to whisper the words as to not startle the man. It definitely caused a positive reaction.

Pedri looked at him, Ferran knew he was close to giving in. “You only seem to want me when you’re like this.” Pedri told him, as they both remembered the night in Madrid. 

“That’s not true…” Ferran admitted, still keeping his voice down. And it really wasn’t. “Please just kiss me, Pedri” He felt a bit like he was begging, and in a lot of ways he was. He had been holding back for months in the name of friendship, but they both knew in the past few months there was an inevitability about this, like all the tension would have to come out eventually, there was only so much they could hold back. Pedri didn't leave him to beg for much longer, he grabbed Ferran by the neck and crashed their lips together. 

Things moved a lot faster tonight than they had in Madrid. They felt a lot more desperate. There was no music this time, only the rain that was still pouring outside, and soft moans filled the room. Pedri had Ferran against the door, hands up his t-shirt, teeth crashing, tongue exploring. Ferran then grabbed him by the waist and practically hoisted Pedri to his bed. They were back into the position they left things in Madrid: Pedri lying beneath Ferran, hands all over the place. Ferran almost made a joke, asking Pedri if he had turned off his phone, but decided against it. Just like in Madrid, Pedri's fingers teased the waistband of Ferran's tracksuit. 

“You can take them off.” Ferran suddenly said, breathless against Pedri’s mouth.  

“What?” 

“The trousers, take them off.” 

“You sure?” 

Was he sure? Well he had thought about it everyday for nearly half a year. “Jesus, Pedri, do I have to do everything?” 

Pedri laughed, but obeyed. He put his hands below the waistband, but above Ferran's underpants and pulled them down. Ferran grabbed the zip of Pedri’s jacket and made quick work of taking it off as well as the t-shirt. He had seen Pedri’s body many times, but never in this light. The context of it all was overwhelming to Ferran. He had one of Pedri’s hands in his hair, the other on his lower back. Through the night he would have Pedri’s hands everywhere, and his own would never forget where they had been. Ferran couldn't quite believe he was in this situation. The heat of the moment asked no questions of friendship, or sexuality or God. They were just two bodies, working each other up. Thinking of ways to please. Getting to know what felt good and what felt even better. As he grabbed him, Ferran watched Pedri closely. He had never done this before to another man, only to himself. He tried copying what Pedri was doing to him, tried things he liked on himself which Pedri also mirrored. There was something that Ferran suddenly did which made Pedri’s breath hitch, he continued to do it until it sent Pedri over the edge, moaning in his ear, grabbing him by his hair. He was so pleased with himself he didn't notice Pedri suddenly switch positions. Getting on his knees on the bed, making his way down, kissing Ferran's chest. Ferran couldn't believe what he was seeing, it was driving him insane. By the time Pedri actually got his mouth on him, he was already half gone. Pedri clearly knew what he was doing and Ferran lasted no time at all. 

It took him a minute to regulate his breathing, and by the time he opened his eyes, Pedri had gotten a towel to clean them up. Ferran laughed when Pedri lay back down next to him. He put his arm around Pedri and pulled him in for a kiss on the cheek. His breathing was still heavy. 

“You alright?” Pedri asked. 

“Yeah.” Ferran answered immediately. He suddenly laughed, not at anyone, or about anything, he just felt giddy. 

“Is this going to make things weird again?” 

Ferran looked up, surprised at what Pedri had just asked. “I hope not. We hardly did anything last time and didn't speak for 6 weeks, I can only imagine the time it would take to get over all that.”. Ferran decided to answer the question lightly. Truth be told, he didn't really know how he would proceed from here. 

“Well good.” Pedri said, suddenly getting up and getting dressed. 

“Are you going anywhere?” Ferran asked. 

“Yeah man, I'm going to bed” Pedri put his t-shirt on, and sat on the bed to put his socks and trainers on, his back to Ferran. He got up, yawning. “I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?” 

Ferran didn't really know what to say. He wasn't exactly expecting Pedri to stay the night with him, but he wasn't expecting him to leave suddenly. It was an odd situation. Pedri seemed to be very apt at it, while Ferran was a complete novice. Ferran supposed Pedri had done this before, of course he had. You didn't get to where Pedri was in professional sports, being the way he was, without learning a few rules along the way. But did rules apply to them though? They weren’t strangers. They were friends. 

-------------------------------------------

Pedri could see how his leaving was affecting Ferran. In a way he was leaving before he could see any regret dawning on Ferran’s face, though it didn’t seem like it, he knew through his experience that it was a matter of time. But above all, he needed Ferran to get real, quick. What was he supposed to do? Stay and sleep there until someone catches them in the morning? Ferran wasn't thinking this through. He was being naïve. He looked at Ferran who looked like he was about to say something, and knowing Ferran, it was probably going to be a joke. 

“So we kissed in Madrid, gave each other handjobs in Lisbon, I wonder what would happen if we actually left the Iberian Peninsula” it was a joke, and Pedri didn't find it funny. He was annoyed at Ferran for making him feel guilty. All Pedri was doing was protecting them both. 

“Before that, you should tell me how long it will be until you speak to me again.” Pedri retorted. 

Ferran looked so guilty all of a sudden, he looked so small and vulnerable. “I thought we got past that…”

“Yeah, well, you brought it up.” Pedri argued. He sounded angrier than he actually was. 

“Ok. Well, then stay a bit, we can talk about it.”

“No, I need to go to sleep, I’ll see you in the morning." 

“Yeah, whatever, Pedri, I'll see you in the morning.” Ferran got up from the bed, went to the bathroom and shut the door. When Pedri heard the shower he knew there was no more conversation to be had and went to his own room which was right next door. 

Pedri slept very well. A mix of being tired from the game and sexually satisfied, led to a night very well slept. But as he took a minute to think, he maybe handled things poorly last night. Brought things up he shouldn’t, because nothing was truly forgotten. Before they spent another 6 weeks avoiding each other, Pedri needed to nip it in the bud. Especially because there was no summer break ahead. They had to be in each other's company almost 24/7, so this needed resolving. Now. 

He quickly got dressed and packed his bag ready to grab it after breakfast. He knocked on the door of the room next to his, and got no response. Ferran was probably still asleep, and Pedri tried to open the door but it was locked. He tried again, more forcibly, and heard a voice inside. “Alright, I'm going, don't break the damn door.” Ferran opened the door, half dressed. He was shirtless, and Pedri took a barely noticeable second to allow his eyes to wander. Ferran really was a beautiful man. Pedri had no idea what he saw in him, Ferran could have anyone he wanted. God bless the convenience of proximity, he supposed. Ferran did notice Pedri looking, which caused a smug smile to appear on his lips. Pedri rolled his eyes and walked in. “So tell me Pedri, what exactly is the difference between you spending the night here, or you creeping into my bedroom first thing in the morning, like a weirdo?” No sign of regret on his face, in fact Ferran was in a good mood. 

“You’re up early” Pedri said, ignoring the previous question. 

“Well, I slept like an angel” another smug smile. “You? How did you sleep?” 

Best sleep I've had in years, thought Pedri. “Slept alright, thanks.” 

“Uh-huh” Ferran could read Pedri like a book. This is exactly why you don't get into bed with friends. “Do you need anything, Pedri? I mean, I'm not kicking you out, it's just, in about 4 or 5 years of friendship, I don't think I've ever seen you before 8 o'clock.” 

“I wanted to talk to you.” 

“Oh God” Ferran rolled his eyes. “Another talk. Is this going to happen every time we do anything beyond a handshake?” 

Pedri leaned his body against the dresser. Arms folded. “I wanted to talk, because you seemed a bit hurt last night.” Ferran then gestured for him to move out of the way to get something he left in the drawer of the dresser. Pedri knew he was doing it to inconvenience him, make him pay somehow. 

Ferran scoffed. “Don't flatter yourself."

“I'm being serious here, Ferran.” 

“Alright, ok!” Ferran admitted “but it's not what you think. I wasn't asking you to spend the night or anything, but Jesus Pedri, you just bolted. Like, as soon as we finished. It was weird.” 

“I was…” 

“I know what you were doing. But come on. I've had hookups with strangers with more amicable endings! And then you brought up all that about the last time and…”

“I just didn't want to make it awkward.” 

“You made it more awkward! Pedri! Look, I know I did wrong the last time, believe me, I felt like shit. I made myself lonely, and I hate to think that you were feeling the same way. But we’re friends, right? You got an issue, you talk to me, alright? And I’ll talk to you, always. That’s who we are. Right?”

To Pedri's annoyance, Ferran was right. He had left far too abruptly, changed the dynamics of their relationship from one second to the next. This wasn't who they were. Though he could’ve gone off on one, explaining to Ferran that things weren’t that simple, and also they ought to be very careful, he decided the best right now was to apologise. “I'm sorry.” 

“Right! And I’m really sorry too, ok?” Ferran zipped up his bag, and then zipped up his team jumper. “We go through that door, and it all goes back to normal.” Ferran said, smiling. He was in a good mood, which brightened Pedri’s mood too. They started walking towards the door but Ferran stopped him suddenly with the palm of his hand. “I just want to say though, before we forget about this…” he looked deeply into Pedri’s eyes, and then down to his lips, he looked like he was about to say something very serious, like he was about to admit something that was weighing heavily on his soul. Pedri looked back at him waiting attentively for the words that were about to come from his mouth “...that you are very good in bed, Pedrito. I mean, wow.” 

Pedri rolled his eyes but laughed. “Don't ever call me Pedrito, ever again.” 

Ferran laughed and put his arm around Pedri, he pulled Pedri close and kissed that corner of his mouth. They went through the threshold of the door, a symbol of restart and Pedri pulled Ferran’s arm off his shoulder. 

As Pedri sat eating his breakfast in the hotel, he thought about how stupid that concept actually was. In life you don’t get a restart, you don’t get to just erase things, or tuck things away neatly in hotel rooms. They were employing the logic of What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, an idiotic saying, which meant basically nothing. Ferran was sitting opposite him, smiling, still in a good mood, and Pedri just smiled back apprehensively. They were now navigating new waters, and he had never been put in this position before. They had opened a door in Madrid that could never be closed. Even when they recovered their friendship, there was always an undertone that last night made overt. Pedri had no idea what the rules were anymore. What did it mean to go back to normal? Back to flirting and skirting around each other? Something more than that? He didn’t want to lead Ferran into a situation that had no future. If they lead normal lives, they would have hooked up a few times, found that they enjoyed it, maybe 2 months later they would make things exclusive. They would start to tell friends and parents, he would parade Ferran around the island like Marco did with his boyfriend. They would move in together, and then either get married or break-up. That’s what normal people did. But nothing about their lives was normal, they would always be looking over their shoulders. When Pedri left home for Barcelona he believed that that was it, he would just play football, love and sex were to be left back home. Though he did have moments of weakness these last few years, none of them was testing him like this one. Either Ferran was being sent to him as a temptation, a test from the Gods of football to see where his loyalties truly lied. Or he was being sent to reward him for his patience, someone close and safe, someone trustworthy, with whom he could simulate normality. He couldn’t quite figure it out.

Chapter Text

2 days later, on a rainy afternoon, they had each other exactly where they wanted. Alone, in Pedri’s flat, in Pedri’s bed. Kissing, licking, biting, exploring, feeling, learning. They had gone through a complex song and dance just to get into this position. Though they had gone back to Pedri's house hundreds of times after training, this time, they had come up with convoluted excuses to do so. First it was Pedri, saying he had a new update on his Fifa game. Then it was Ferran saying he didn't want to bother Pedri's brother. Then it was Pedri saying his brother wouldn't be home in the afternoon, then it was Ferran asking if he was sure. Then it was Pedri saying he absolutely was sure. When they arrived at the flat, both acutely aware of what they were there to do, the excuses persisted. Pedri wanted to show Ferran some new boots his sponsor had sent him, but they were in his bedroom. Ferran faked interest in his new boots. It was all excuses until finally, Ferran kissed Pedri, and without saying anything, their real afternoon plans were laid out before them. And they made the most of the time they had. Took things slow, they were in no hurry, they just wanted to have fun and explore new things. It wasn’t as rushed as it was in Lisbon, or as confusing as it was in Madrid. It was all about feeling good, about small touches and grazes, release of secret fantasies. Pedri was very aware that for Ferran this was all very new, and when Ferran had him in his mouth, his inexperience was noticeable, but so was his enthusiasm and his eagerness, it drove Pedri crazy. When he was feeling close to the edge he tapped the back of Ferran's head, and Ferran stopped what he was doing immediately. He quickly leveled his body with Pedri’s. 

“What is it? Did I do something wrong?” Ferran asked, hovering over him, looking slightly panicked. 

Pedri laughed “No, no. Absolutely not” he kissed Ferran, first tenderly and then not so much. He changed their positions round so he was straddling Ferran. Pedri leaned back so his back was upright and Ferran followed him, continuing to kiss him. Pedri interrupted the kiss to lean over to his bedside table but Ferran continued to put his mouth wherever he could reach, on Pedri's chest, his neck, the side of his jaw. Pedri opened the top drawer and took out two condoms and a bottle of lube. Ferran interrupted what he was doing to look at them, somewhat surprised. Pedri studied his expression. “We don't have to do anything if you don't want to.” 

Ferran continued to look at the items, and then looked at Pedri. He suddenly smiled. “So you just had those in there?” 

Pedri also smiled back at him “Can never be too prepared.” 

“Two? We're feeling confident.” Ferran kissed him again, putting his arms around Pedri's neck and pulled him down.

“Well, I believe in you,” Pedri said, against his mouth, and then continued to kiss him. Just as Pedri was reaching and blindly fumbling for the lube, they heard the front door being slammed shut. They froze and looked at each other. 

“Shit!” Pedri quickly got off him and reached for his clothes that were scattered on the floor “That’s probably Fer.” 

“Hello!” The loud voice that rang throughout the flat confirmed Pedri's suspicions. “Pedri, are you home?” Fer’s voice was getting closer and closer to his bedroom. Pedri and Ferran scrambled to get dressed as they heard the steps were nearing the bedroom. There was a sudden knock on the door and Ferran tripped putting his trousers on. “Pedri, are you there?” 

“Yes, gimme a second.” Pedri shouted through his t-shirt. Fer suddenly opened the door, finding Pedri and Ferran dressed, looking around for something to do, so as to not look suspicious, it made them look more suspicious. Pedri looked over at the bed, the covers were messy from two people being on it, but he had safely stored the condoms and lube back in the top drawer of his dresser. “Hey, what’s up Fer?” Pedri asked, trying to sound casual. “Wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“What are you talking about? It’s 7 pm” Fer stated. “Are you two alright?”

“Yes, just showing Ferran some new boots.”

“Ok. You staying for dinner, Ferran?” Fer asked, looking strangely at Ferran’s hair, that was sticking out at the back. 

“Uhm… I should probably get going, give me a lift home, Pedri?” Ferran turned to Pedri, giving him a look that said If you want, we can carry on at mine. Pedri was about to accept, but Fer intervened. 

“Ah nonsense.” he said, he was being friendly, but inadvertently was being a massive inconvenience. “Stay, I bought enough for the three of us. You’re around so much, you’re basically part of the furniture.”

Ferran smiled awkwardly, he had no choice but to stay now. Fer left the room, and the two men looked at each other and smiled relieved. “Your family has some serious bad timing, pequeño.” Ferran laughed nervously and adjusted his hair in the mirror, when it refused to stop looking like bedhead he put his cap on backwards and left the room, leaving Pedri to look apprehensive. They had almost got caught out, and though their scrambling had made Pedri laugh at first, he was now nervous. These couple of times with Ferran, these stolen moments in Madrid, Lisbon and now in his bed, he had never felt anything like it, had never felt so close to someone. He also never felt so exposed, so at risk. They had been careless and lost track of time. It was scaring Pedri that he might never close what they had opened up in Madrid, that he didn’t want to close it. He wanted to yell at Fer for interrupting them, he wanted to yell out the truth. He wanted to say things plainly, wanted to tell Ferran that he wanted to go to his tomorrow, after training, that he wanted him, but for now, everything needed to be spoken in code, meetings arranged under other pretences, they couldn’t even be honest with each other, lest it leak out to other people, lest they make it real. 

After dinner, the three of them sat watching youtube videos on the TV, Pedri sitting with Fer on the couch, Ferran sitting at a safe distance on a chair. He kept looking over at Ferran, he wanted to apologise, though there really was nothing to apologise for. Ferran suddenly caught him looking. He stood up and that made Pedri nervous. What the hell was he going to say? 

“I’m gonna go.” was what Ferran actually said. Normal. Expected. Why wouldn’t it be? This whole ordeal was making Pedri paranoid. 

“Alright” Fer said, not taking his eyes off the TV. Pedri didn’t say anything. Fer looked at him strangely. What the fuck was he looking at? “Aren’t you giving him a lift, bro?”

Pedri was still silent, he looked up at Ferran. “No need, I have my car,” Ferran explained. 

Fer paused the video. “Didn’t you ask him for a lift earlier?” he looked at Ferran confused and then at Pedri. 

“Did I?” Ferran asked, trying to look innocent, but obviously remembering that he did in fact ask Pedri for a lift, and why he did that. “Must have been a force of habit. I’m just going to get my jacket, I left it in Pedri’s room.” He quickly made his way across the living room towards the corridor. Pedri got up from the couch and followed him. 

In Pedri’s bedroom away from Fer’s questions they just looked at each other. Another lucky escape. They knew this whole thing would throw a wrench in future plans. They couldn’t allow themselves to be this careless. Ferran picked up his jacket, still on Pedri’s floor and dusted it down. “I’m sorry.” Pedri said, finally. 

“What for?” Ferran asked, zipping up his jacket. 

“I don’t know… Just, Fer and-”

“Hey, hey.” Ferran stepped towards him, brushing his hair through his fingers, so affectionate and gentle. Pedri was overwhelmed by how much he wanted him, like he’s never wanted anyone in his life. Ferran kissed him gently. “Don’t worry about it.”

Even though they were behind closed doors, far away from the living room, Pedri felt observed. Like someone was watching, collecting evidence of his wrongdoing. He took a step back from Ferran. He could tell Ferran took the hint. 

______________________________

On a chilly February morning Ferran found himself next to Pedri, on a bus hurtling towards Valencia. It was for an away cup game, in which he would almost certainly start in. No more was spoken between them about the close call they had the previous week, but Ferran stopped going to Pedri’s after training and they stayed away from situations which could start something up. Both knew it would be difficult to resist. 

The bus parked at the training center they had reserved for a late morning session and Ferran got off the bus and breathed in. He knew he was in his home country, it smelled and felt of familiarity. Pedri was looking at him smiling. “Good to be home?” he asked. 

“We’ll see,” Ferran answered. 

Training went as normal, and after lunch Ferran approached the coaching team about the possibility of going to his father’s for the night. The game was only the next day at 8 pm, and Flick had told the players that from lunchtime until 4 pm the next day, time was for them to do as they pleased. The coaching staff approved of Ferran’s trip telling him that as long as he didn’t return drunk or injured, it should be ok. 

“So you’re going home?” Pedri asked, as Ferran came back to the hotel room where the players were hanging out. 

Ferran sat on a big chair next to him. “Yep.” he got his phone out to try and get a car to drive over there. “You wanna tag along?”

Pedri was struck by his question. “To your dad’s?” 

“Yeah, why not? Beats staying here playing ping pong and staring at the walls.” 

A half hour later they hit the road, excited to do something different. They arrived in Ferran’s village at around 5 pm and went straight to his father’s home. He knocked on the door but there was no answer. He took his key and opened the door of an empty house and started looking around. “Papa!?” Ferran yelled out, but got no response. 

Pedri walked around too, looking more attentively at the family pictures and decorations than actually looking for Ferran’s dad. “Maybe he’s at work.” Pedri offered. 

“No” Ferran waved this off immediately “His office building got destroyed during the floods, he’s been home the past month.” Ferran continued to look around despite knowing his father wasn’t home. He found it awkward having a guest, and nobody was home to greet them, give them some food, it was like his homelife was lacking in love and attention. It wasn’t the image Ferran intended to portray of his family, of his village. “I think I know where he is.”

They walked to the town center, to the local bar, Ferran knew so well. He was once again struck by how it changed since the Euros final in 08. His friends were sitting at the same table he’d left them when he last went home. All in the same chairs, probably still drinking the same beer and having the same conversation. Martín García was with them. Ferran felt disappointed in him. Back home for good, his new wife probably cooking him dinner, living a life she didn’t expect or want. “Ey Ferran!” Fran called out, being the first to notice him. “We were just talking about you. You must be the devil, ey!” Ferran laughed nervously, if they only knew. 

“Yeah, we were talking about the game tomorrow. It’s a cup game, so you’ll probably start, no?” Miguel said, looking at him, obnoxiously. Ferran didn’t say anything, he was waiting for the punchline. “It’s good for our Valencia, you starting!” and there it was. The group laughed, even Martín García. Ferran just looked down and forced himself to smile. 

“You good, Miguel?” Ferran asked uncomfortably, he went around the table distributing handshakes and greetings. Pedri just stood back, he obviously didn’t like the joke, and made no effort in hiding it. 

“Oh you brought a friend.” Miguel looked at Pedri, like he was an outsider, like he didn’t particularly enjoy the fact that he hadn’t got a laugh out of him. 

“Yep, you guys recognize Pedri.” Ferran introduced him sheepishly. He hadn’t really wanted Pedri to meet these friends. 

“Of course. El mago, ey? You guys sit down, have a beer.” Miguel gestured to an empty seat. 

“Oh no, it’s alright” Ferran immediately tried to wriggle out of having to spend the rest of the afternoon with them. “I’m just looking for my dad.” 

“He’s over there,” Martín García pointed to the far corner of the bar, where Ferran’s father was nursing a beer. 

“Best leave him be, Ferran, he’s drunk” Miguel scoffed. Ferran became suddenly very aware of Pedri’s presence. He felt embarrassed, and sorry he dragged him to this shitshow. He took the empty seat at the table and Pedri dragged a nearby chair and sat next to him. “He has been like that since he broke up with that teacher.” Miguel added, he didn’t sound particularly bothered by the situation. The young men all looked at each other knowingly. 

“What teacher?” were the first words out of Pedri’s mouth after a few pleased to meet yous he had said a minute ago. 

Though nothing was spoken aloud, everyone knew Ferran’s father had a relationship with a local teacher, and this relationship had likely broken up Ferran’s parents’ marriage. The teacher had relocated to a new school, south of Valencia, at the start of the last school year. This information got to Ferran via a few friends, but he didn’t think to ask his father about it. Nobody really spoke about it, but everyone knew: an entire relationship lived in secret. 10 years. His father had preferred the misery of it, before admitting to his shame. Though Ferran had felt incredibly angry in the past, blaming his father for the implosion of his family, he was no longer a kid. He knew relationships were complex, and as he watched his father slumped in the corner, preferring to drown his sorrows instead of facing up to them, he felt his grief. In fact, these last few months, he had understood his father in a way he hadn't before. He looked over at Pedri subtly. 

“Poor bastard.” Fran added, after Miguel had given the gist of the situation to Pedri. Ferran didn’t particularly enjoy Miguel airing his family’s dirty laundry to his friend, but he also didn’t mind Pedri knowing. He didn’t mind Pedri knowing anything about him. 

“And rightfully so!” Miguel yelled, interrupting the sad ponderings of his friends, who all felt very sorry for Ferran’s father. Ferran was very aware that Pedri was growing increasingly tired of Miguel, he could feel it radiating from him, as he sat beside him, listening. “What he did was shameful. I would have knocked his lights out if I was his son.” Miguel looked directly at Ferran. 

“Don’t be like that” Fran tried to calm an already drunk Miguel. It didn’t dawn on Miguel that he had cheated on his own girlfriend, and that he’d broken up his family. Or maybe it did and that’s why he was acting this way. 

Just as Miguel was about to answer, the barman brought over more drinks, including for Ferran and Pedri. “Oh no, Señor Suarez, not for us,” Ferran quickly said. 

“What’s the matter? Can’t have a drink with us?” Miguel asked, he really was on one of his bad days, and Ferran could feel Pedri’s eyes on him. Wondering why on earth he was even friends with this person. 

“We have a game tomorrow,” Pedri explained. Ferran would rather he kept quiet. 

“So? You can have a fucking beer. Ey Ferran? Tell him. You can have a beer.” Miguel insisted. 

“No, he’s right, Miguel, best not,” Ferran said. 

“Hmm. Footballers these days, you’re all nanny coddled. In the olden days they used to drink just before they got on the pitch. Now it’s all soft lads. It’s probably why you made it, ey Ferran? You’ve always been a bit soft.” He hurled the insult at Ferran, who knew it wasn’t only about the beer. It was about the beer, his father, his playing and something else Miguel could probably sense about him, in a way that only childhood friends can. Ferran had nothing to say, he just took it. 

“That’s not fair!” Pedri scolded him. Ferran really wished he’d shut up. 

“What’s the matter Ferran? You’ve got little boys fighting your fights now?” Miguel was making the entire table uncomfortable. 

“It’s alright Pedri, he’s just making a joke” Ferran explained, deescalating the situation. He got up from the table. “I’m gonna go. I’m taking my father home. Let’s go Pedri.” 

Back home he was standing over a stove cooking some fish soup. His father sat on the living room couch nursing a cup of black coffee. Ferran was relieved that his dad was less drunk than what he initially thought. He had greeted his son with a warm hug and a tear dropping down his cheek, which he had tried very hard to hide, Ferran saw it though. He had greeted Pedri enthusiastically, happy to see him again. His dad liked Pedri, liked that his son had good friends, different from the people from here. If only he knew. Ferran was staring at the pot, slowly stirring it, Pedri was sat at the kitchen table, half watching Ferran, half watching the television, with the sound on low. Though his back was turned to him, he could feel Pedri watching him. “I'm sorry.” he suddenly said, turning around to look at Pedri.

“What?” Pedri was surprised by the apology “No need to say sorry. I'm fine.” 

“It’s just… Probably not what you expected. Spot of home cooking and chilling out in a quiet village, and now I'm making you eat my cooking.” 

Pedri looked at him sympathetically, “I only came to see your baby pictures.” 

Ferran laughed. Though he might have rather left Pedri behind if he knew, he was glad of his company.  

“Hijo!” his father’s voice came through from the living room. “Do you want me to cook you boys some dinner?” 

Ferran rolled his eyes “No papa! I'm cooking. It will be ready in ten.” 

“Are you going to talk to him?” Pedri asked quietly. 

“I will,” Ferran promised. “Not today though.” 

They sat around the table with the pot in the middle, eating the soup with some slices of bread. Ferran watched his father attentively, wanting a reaction to his cooking. 

“Did you use the fish that was in the freezer?” his father suddenly asked. 

“Yes, why?” 

“I was saving it for Friday, that's all” that was his father all over, Ferran thought. Cheat on your wife, why don't you, but God forbid you eat meat on Friday. Ferran bit the inside of his cheek so as to not say anything, but could hardly conceal his irritation. 

“We can get you some fish tomorrow morning before we leave, Señor Torres,” Pedri offered. Ferran was so glad Pedri was there. 

“Oh you're leaving tomorrow?” Ferran's father asked, confused. 

“Papa, we have a game tomorrow” Ferran rolled his eyes again. 

“Of course, of course. I have tickets.” His father pointed at a drawer in the kitchen where Ferran assumes the tickets were. “I'm going with Manu.” 

“Ay papa, i've told you, if you want tickets, just call me!” 

“No, no need” his father kept eating in silence. “This is very good, mi hijo” he turned to Pedri “You should have seen him when he went to England. Couldn't even boil rice.” Pedri laughed and looked at Ferran fondly. The three of them continued to eat in silence, a more comfortable silence after his dad's joke. “Are you seeing your mother?” 

“She's coming to the game tomorrow, papa.” Ferran didn’t really want to speak about his mother to his father. 

“Of course. That's good. I hope you call her everyday” 

“I do, papa.” 

“Good. She worries about you.” Ferran was surprised that his parents were on speaking terms. He'd never really noticed this. He was glad of it though. His father turned in early, and Pedri and Ferran thought it best to do the same. 

“You can sleep in my sister's room,” Ferran said to Pedri. He got the linens from the hallway cupboard, and began to make up the bed. Pedri wanted to help him, but Ferran insisted he was a guest. So Pedri just watched him make the bed. Part of him wanted to stop, ask Pedri to just spend the night in his bed. To hell with what his father might see in the morning, he wanted to be held, he wanted to feel comforted. 

“I can stay in your room, if you want,” it was like Pedri read his mind. He was offering exactly what Ferran wanted. 

“No, you'll be alright here.” There was what Ferran wanted, and then there was reality. They shouldn't be taking any risks. He also hated the idea that Pedri felt sorry for him. Hated that he was someone to pity. So he held back. 

—--

The next morning Ferran woke up in his bed. He felt a lot better than he did last night, well rested and sharp of mind. As he slowly opened his eyes, he was startled to see Pedri in his room, his back turned to him looking at the pictures that were hanging on his wall, football stickers forever glued on to his old wardrobe and old childhood trophies collecting dust on the shelf. He realized Pedri hadn’t noticed him waking up. “Help! I’m being robbed by a very small man!” he yelled out. 

Pedri jumped at this and Ferran laughed. “Asshole.” Pedri said, recovering from the shock. 

Ferran sat up in his bed, but quickly lifted the covers again, he had forgotten how cold this house was. He noticed Pedri was carrying a mug. “Is that coffee? Cause I can really use some.” 

“It’s my coffee. Your dad made it for me, you can get some yourself.” Ferran rolled his eyes, but Pedri laughed and gave him the mug. “Your dad left for the day, had some stuff to do in the city, but told me to tell you he’ll see you at the game tonight.”

“What time is it?” Ferran asked, still sleepy, he knew by the way the light hit his bedroom that it couldn’t be late. He grabbed his phone that was charging on his nightstand. 

“It’s only 8:30, plenty of time.” Pedri sat down on his bed and Ferran moved his legs to give him room. “So what do you want to do?”

“Oh. Come on Pedri, don’t sit on my bed, looking like that, and ask me what I want to do, it’s positively suggestive.” Ferran smiled at him. 

Pedri blushed slightly. He smiled and leaned forward, he stroked Ferran’s hair back into place and then cupped his face and kissed him. It was the first kiss they shared since they were alone in Pedri’s bedroom. It surprised Ferran but it also excited him. He looked at Pedri longingly, begging him to keep going, but Pedri pulled away. “I’m not having sex with you in your childhood bedroom, you freak. Now go get ready. We’re going for a walk, it’s game day, we need to keep active.” He got up from the bed, and made his way out the door of the bedroom. 

Ferran was still in bed, and sipped his coffee. “You know, there are other ways to be active, pequeño!” he yelled out so Pedri could hear him from the corridor. 

“Keep it in your pants, Torres!” Pedri yelled back, and Ferran just smiled, sipped his coffee slowly as he delayed getting up as much as possible. 

–

After their walk, they decided it would be best to hit the road earlier rather than later as it would be best just to eat lunch with the team. As Ferran was driving them out of the village he stopped at the local café. “You want a coffee before we go, pequeño? The stuff at my dad's is too weak”  he asked Pedri. Pedri said yes and they went in, greeted by Ferran's friends, all having their mid-morning coffee as usual. 

“Ah! Morning Ferran, we thought you had left without saying goodbye” Fran said, taking a bite from the small cake he was eating. 

“Just a quick coffee and then we'll hit the road” Ferran explained. 

Miguel stood up from the table and moved towards the counter where Ferran and Pedri had installed themselves so as not to sit down with the group. “Well I wanted to say sorry for yesterday, I was a bit drunk, you know” Miguel said it loud enough for the group to hear, someone had definitely had a word. Miguel and Ferran never had the type of relationship where they'd apologise for anything. There was an inevitability about their friendship, like they would completely outgrow each other, allow resentments and harsh comments to fester, but they would always be each other's oldest friend. They could never change that. “Now, don't you dare score against Valencia!” Miguel laughed and Ferran forced a smile. 

“He scored against Valencia like last week” Pedri said, he still really did not like Miguel. 

“Yes, I remember” Miguel looked at Pedri, he didn't like him either. “See, there was a time when Ferran would’ve rather died before scoring against Valencia.” he turned to stare at Ferran. He was speaking in a heavy Valencian dialect, trying to leave Pedri out, but Pedri understood it just fine. “Now look at him. They've made him into a Catalan.” There was disdain in his voice. 

“And we're better off for it” Pedri insisted, he was hellbent on annoying Miguel. 

“Ah, but he's a Valencian at heart, aren't you Ferran?” Miguel was still staring at him. 

“Oh course.” Ferran smiled at Miguel and his group of friends. This place would always be where he's from. And these would always be his childhood friends. “Should we go, Pedri?” 

As they were getting in the car, Martín García also left the café. He had his car parked right next to Ferran’s.

“Hold up, Ferran!” he yelled out. 

Ferran looked back at Martín, and then at Pedri. He gestured to Pedri to hold up. “What’s up, man?” he asked as Martín got closer to them. 

“Ah, not much. Just feel like we haven’t really spoken since the summer.” Martín told him.

“Oh well, we’ve all been a bit busy.” 

“I get it.” Martín looked around awkwardly. “You know it’s not the same around here, without you.”

Ferran forced a smile. “That’s not true. This place doesn’t change.” 

Martín suddenly looked quite sad. “Yeah, that’s true.” he nodded. “Can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.” 

Ferran hit him softly on the arm. “You’ve always been smarter than the rest of us, if anyone can figure it out, it’s you.” Ferran said jokingly. 

Martín didn’t laugh. “You know, you shouldn’t listen to Miguel…”

Ferran waved this off immediately. “I can handle Miguel.”

“I know you can. You shouldn’t have to, though.”

Ferran nodded. A way to thank him for his words, without actually admitting he was hurt by anything Miguel said to him. Ferran looked back at Pedri, who had given the two men space to talk, but he was close enough to hear everything. Ferran wondered how much of it he actually understood, in between their Valencian and what was left unspoken, it must have sounded like a disjointed conversation. “We really need to go, Martín.”

“Right, of course. Good luck for tonight,” he said, stretching out his hand for Ferran to shake. 

“You don’t mean that.” Ferran laughed as he accepted the handshake. “Amunt València, no?”

Martín smiled slightly. “That’s not important. I’ll always be on your side.” he admitted. “We all are.” 

Ferran gave him a wordless thank you, but knew Martín wasn’t being completely honest. He had a feeling of what was spoken about him behind his back in this village. That he wasn’t a good player, that he betrayed his club, that he was soft. He gestured to Pedri to get in the car and waved Martín goodbye. 

“He’s nice.” Pedri said as they were alone in the car, already on the road. 

“Yeah. He’s the best. He was my best friend.” He took his eyes off the road for a second to look at Pedri, smiling. “Before you came along.” 

“He’s good looking as well.” Pedri pondered, looking at the small houses in the village.

Ferran frowned at Pedri. He knew what Pedri was getting at. “Don’t be jealous, I’m over him.” Ferran joked, by way of admitting, that yes, he did once have feelings for Martín, though he has never quite figured out what those feelings were, teenage crush was the more likely option, he had previously believed it was a phase. 

Pedri scoffed. “I’m not jealous”. They passed an old school. Pedri was staring at it attentively. 

“Did you go to school there?” he asked. 

Ferran looked out the window. “Yes, that's my primary school. On the first day, I was so shy, I was begging my mother to stay home. I met Miguel that day. He really helped me out.” Ferran stared at the road ahead as he was talking about a childhood spent here. He was in a way justifying to Pedri why he put up with that asshole. 

Pedri sighed. “Christ. Fuck this place, Ferran!” he said. Ferran looked at him surprised. It came out of nowhere. “I mean it, Fuck this place!” 

“What are you talking about?” Ferran was genuinely confused. 

“Fuck this place! I mean look at you, you're miserable! And fuck them for making you feel like that. It's like the old times never ended here! He didn’t help you out, he’s a bully.” 

“It’s just the way things are here.” Ferran justified. “It doesn't make it any worse than anywhere else. People here are hard working, we would be lucky to -”  

“Oh come on Ferran! Just because this is where you're from, it doesn't mean it's where you belong.” Pedri knew he'd spoken a truth Ferran wasn't ready to hear, but felt like he needed to hear it anyway.

Ferran fell silent, he didn't know what to say to that. He had always tied his identity to this place. Had left with promises not to change and then felt guilty for changing. He always looked up to the men in his town. Hard working, good catholics. But as his friends became just like the men in his town, he was growing increasingly resentful of them. Because they weren’t as good as he thought the men around here were, and because he felt different from them. A town where everyone knew each other, but everyone was a stranger, really. Nothing was spoken aloud, but everything was known. Resentments were left to build, and everyone was only tied together by the randomness of where they were born. There was a time when he would rather die than score a goal against Valencia. 

30 minutes into the game that evening he had scored a hattrick against his beloved club. Pedri was right. Fuck this place!