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Pedri will admit, his heart chipped a little when he squinted down for glimpses of Gavi between plays on the pitch. 90 minutes of play, 60 minutes of fighting, 30 minutes of hell. Shout after shout tore from his throat, trying to will himself back into shape so he could run himself into the ground.
Ilkay’s early goal saved them from a madridista clean sheet and an extra-embarrassing loss in front of the home fans. They were up by one goal and clearly deserving of the win for the first half… then a goal conceded had them tied. Then Jude Bellingham, Pedri’s fellow adidas-sponsored young talent, put his second goal into the back of Ter Stegen’s net just before full time.
Pedri couldn’t even find it in himself to be annoyed with Jude—he scraped those goals in, but one of them was spectacular. The player is clearly talented, but his stats for the rest of the game show his performance much more clearly than those two goals. But he can’t manage to focus on that, despite having specifically searched up Gavi’s duels and dribbles for the match in comparison to Bellingham’s. As if that would prove something to himself that he doesn’t know already, didn’t witness first-hand.
All he could do from the moment the match ended was chew his lip in worry, wrapped up in a hoodie and thick jacket. He goes home before the players—he doesn’t think he counts as one right now. Xavi might have seen him, might not have minded watching him slip out of the stadium before the team could even get their routine talking-to after the game.
Watching Gavi's post-match interview on his phone is bittersweet. Pedri’s fingers are cold as he sits on the couch, blanket tossed over his lap, eyes burning when they refuse to blink, refuse to miss a second of the clip. If Gavi were with him, he would slap Pedri’s back and tell him to fix his posture, quiet amusement comfortable in their proximity.
Pedri observes, eyes darting almost methodically. The tears from the end of the match had faded, but Gavi’s eyes shone and his brows were slanted like everything he lived for had been destroyed.
Perhaps that statement isn’t untrue. Gavi bleeds blaugrana colours, it’s terrifyingly beautiful. Pedri would do anything for the club, but Gavi would die for it. He has already shown how proficiently he can try.
As Pedri waited for the match to end, for the time to pass after the heartbroken atmosphere that he’s sure is filling the locker room, he’s grateful Fer is out. Fernando would have liked to watch the match, but surprisingly his brother has upgraded. He now has better company to go around with than sitting at home with Pedri, apparently.
It has turned out better for Pedri, because he’s scared. His stomach fills with nerves, fingers drumming on the arm of the couch. He's been stationary, staring at his phone since the match ended. No messages in the group chat—no one wants to talk about it. Only when Frenkie has sent in a message of support and he can see typing bubbles from Félix does he click on the phone app.
As he finds the number he’s looking for, he gets a call. Ferran. Of course.
“Hello?”
“You left?”
“Yeah. Only when xavi called you all in, though. You were good.” Ferran was fine, but Pedri has to say it. He wasn't bad, and his best friend knows him well enough to see through him no matter what he says.
“Hm.'' Ferran pauses, and Pedri hears shuffling before the sound of a car starting up. Suddenly, the audio quality changes slightly. He's driving home. “You saw Gavi at the end?”
Pedri swallows. Unfortunately, the answer is yes. “Yeah. Is he okay? Did he really cry?”
“Dunno. I didn't see the tears, they weren’t there in the locker room, but… his face on the field at the end was not great.”
“I know,” Pedri sighs, running a hand through his hair. He'd love to hang up and call who he’d meant to call, but Ferran couldn’t have called for no reason or just to discuss Pedri’s boyfriend. “You good?”
“Yeah, I'm alright,” Ferran responds, but the tone comes out artificial compared to his previous sentences. Pedri frowns. Ferran must feel it in the silence over the line because he coughs and averts the subject. “Anyways. Call Gavi.” The words I’ll text you go unspoken, and Pedri nods in relief.
“Okay, bye,” he replies, voice softer than before. The quiet white noise of the room makes him heavily aware of his situation. Pedri stares at Gavi’s contact for an unreasonably, confusingly long time before pressing the dial. He's nervous. Why do his eyes flit around the room as he waits for the inevitable sound of Gavi’s greeting? Gavi means safety, doesn’t he?
Gavi’s hollow “Hello?” almost gets him to jump. Pedri looks at the black tv screen in front of him, not seeing it at all.
“Gavi?” he tries. His fingers clutch the phone like it could be Gavi’s skin. It’s the closest thing he’s got.
“Pedri.” A statement, not a question, and a heavy one filled with pain, a sort of underlying anger, and relief.
“Hi.” And after all of that confusing worry, he doesn’t know what to say. The strip of peeling skin on his bottom lip—one that Gavi can’t see—keeps him busy enough not to respond with some jumbled together words. Gavi doesn’t try to say anything. Doesn’t hang up, either. Pedri is alone in this house, but he curls to one side on the couch with the phone against the leather and murmurs as if guarding a secret, “I watched the match. You were good. Really good.”
The silence from Gavi’s side is heavy, exhausted, weighs in on Pedri’s bones without letting him prepare. He waits. Gavi delivers… kind of. “Maybe,” Gavi mumbles, but it’s loud against Pedri’s ear, like Gavi has his phone pressed against his face with the mic only millimetres from his mouth.
“Not maybe, you were,” Pedri insists. It’s not enough, but what is he expected to say? Nothing will satisfy the ache in the boy on the other side of the phone right now.
“I don’t know,” Gavi responds dully, and Pedri hears a car door slam shut. The engine stays off. “I tried, but we lost. So. I was alright.”
Pedri opens his mouth to protest, closes it so as not to provoke him in a vulnerable moment, and then opens it again, but no sound comes out. He gives a long exhale, just to let Gavi know he’s not giving in by choice. “Okay, well. But you’ll come?” It’s the same request as always, never needs to be asked but is always sent in a text or spoken on the phone after a game gone sour. But it’s never like this. He’s never seen Gavi publicly in tears after a match—hasn’t seen him in tears in a long time, period.
The silence that follows this time is confusing. Gavi waits, so Pedri waits. He doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for, barely remembers what he just asked. Gavi blows air through puffed up cheeks, makes an odd grumbling noise, then answers with forced gruffness, “I don’t know. maybe later. I’ll see.”
After a beat to process, Pedri blinks. A frown comes to his face slowly. “What?” Then, before Gavi can reaffirm his words in what is going to be a much more defensive way, Pedri pushes on, “Yeah, okay. Whatever you wanna do. Um, are you okay, though?”
“Yeah. Fine.” There’s a gentle thunk. Pedri can imagine Gavi hitting his forehead against the wheel of his car. If Pedri was fit right now, if he could have been on the pitch with the rest of the team… even if they still lost, Gavi wouldn’t have cried. He knows it.
“Okay.” What can Pedri say now? He just sighs again and tries to pretend like Gavi’s rejection didn’t just rock his world off its axis. “Alright, then just text me if you need, yeah?”
“Yup. Bye, Pedri,” Gavi says, and his voice wavers for a moment when it says his name. Pedri’s heart aches.
“Bye.” The list of contacts on his screen goes unseen now, phone face down on the armrest of the couch until the screen goes dim, then black.
The humming noise coming from some appliance or other in the kitchen is background music for Pedri’s thoughts. He hasn’t ever had to contemplate not being Gavi’s safe space. It’s not to say they’re that dependent on each other’s presence—they’ve survived just fine with Pedri off the pitch, with Pedri out of training for months. He's become used to it though, the easy gravitational pull between them.
Bad game—Gavi comes over. Good game—they all go out. Boring day—Pedri gives him a call. They text. They comment on each other's posts. They talk about each other. They talk to each other.
So without a voice coming from the speaker of his phone, without a buzzing text notification, without a promise for later, Pedri is confused. “Maybe later, I'll see.” What will Gavi see about? He’s never had to ask that question.
Pedri is the extrovert between them, the one who flutters about with different friends, different people, gives smiles and hugs like it’s all he’s ever known. Gavi is the one who pulls his friends closer in unknown situations and latches on to specific people. He's sure Gavi has felt blown off by him. Is this what it’s like?
His plans for the day, from the moment he saw that last goal from Madrid, had been subconsciously making room for Gavi. He doesn’t have much to do. Pedri eats, sleeps, hangs out with his brother or friends, and plays video games on the couch. Now the prospect of spending the next few hours of the evening on his own feels cold. Desolate. Uncomfortable.
Pedri frowns and stands up, tossing the blanket to one side. He paces the living room with his phone in hand, typing and deleting and retyping a simple message. Come over. Too forward, too strong. You can come, if you want. He can’t deal with another nonchalant rejection. Gavi shouldn’t be nonchalant right now. He should be angry and disappointed and frustrated.
He settles on a quick wish you’d come and hits send before he can think the better of it. He tosses his phone onto the couch cushions, watching it land conveniently face up, and gives himself a few seconds to glare at it, embarrassingly desperate, as if he can will a reply from Gavi. The screen stays determinedly dark.
He sighs, shoulders slumped, and goes to get a snack. Oh, wait, the nutritionists want him to eat fish for dinner. He's sick of salmon.
It takes two hours for him to get a response. He’s on his phone in his room, which is convenient, but doesn’t click on the notification when Instagram tells him that Gavi liked his message. He waits, eyes trained on the top of the screen where he knows a second message will pop up.
It doesn't. He frowns. That's it? Gavi just… doesn’t care? It’s not like him to leave his message on liked without a reply. Pedri’s hand, phone clutched in it, lands somewhere beside his pillow as he stares at his ceiling.
10 minutes later, his phone buzzes again. He checks it lazily in the case that it’s important, not planning to respond until his eyes catch the username.
I'm outside.
It takes all of 3 seconds for Pedri to catch up and he bolts up into a sitting position, staring out his window. a car pulls into the driveway. He squints at it through the blinds before hurrying down the stairs to the front door. He waits until Gavi’s car door shuts outside to open the entrance door, before Gavi is even within feet of it so he can watch him trudge closer.
Gavi, sporting a hoodie and striped pajama pants, hurries to the front door and pushes past Pedri immediately.
Pedri’s hopefully raised eyebrows are knocked down immediately, confused. They lower, then furrow. He watches Gavi shut the front door for him and shuffle to the side to pull his shoes off. “Hey,” he greets tentatively, copying Gavi and keeping his hands in his pockets.
Gavi’s eyes flick up at him before he looks back down at his shoes. “Hi.” He invites himself into Pedri’s kitchen to grab a bottle of water, then into the living room. Gavi looks at the couch contemplatively. Pedri trails behind him, feeling lost in his own home, so he waits. For what? He doesn’t know. He feels like he’s approaching a bear with a stick. Dangerous.
Gavi seems to make a decision and hurries away, up the stairs towards Pedri’s room. Pedri forces his shoulders to relax. He's always been far calmer than Gavi, far more regulated with his emotions. He repeats to himself in his head that Gavi’s just coming home, then pads up the stairs after the younger and into his room.
Pedri stands in the doorway to watch as Gavi shuffles himself into the space where the older had been laying in bed, tucking his head into the imprint of Pedri’s head on the pillow and pressing his cheek there.
It's a tentative approach that gets Pedri to his bed and under the sheets beside Gavi. His fingers find Gavi’s sleeve, but he can’t find Gavi’s eyes. The familiar hazel stays stubbornly hidden. Pedri doesn’t try coaxing them open.
Finding Gavi through it all is the hardest thing, through the layers of sheets and clothing and clouded thoughts. The younger man’s skin is so uncharacteristically cold to the touch—any other time Pedri would laugh and ask if Gavi’s trying to take Pedri’s role. The thought rings true in Pedri’s mind when he pulls himself to Gavi’s level and coaxes a hand out of its hardened position at Gavi’s side. He unfurls Gavi’s fingers one by one, patient, to press his own in line against them.
Gavi’s eyes open, curious and achingly vulnerable. Pedri meets him. Silence. With bated breath, Pedri waits. Has been waiting for hours, knows he can handle a few more seconds.
Gavi breaks first, as Pedri knew he would, and lowers his head to butt against Pedri’s collarbone, letting out an incoherent mumble.
“Yeah,” Pedri sighs. It pretty much sums up the day. Taking it as an invitation—which is what he hopes it is—Pedri pulls the younger man closer and closes his eyes against the feeling of gentle breaths on his skin. Never has this grown, rapidly bulking person in his arms felt so small to hold. “You were good today,” Pedri promises into Gavi’s hair.
Gavi’s arm loops over his waist and pulls him even closer. as close as physically possible. He pushes the fingers of his hand under the weight of Pedri’s body like a lock, a fail-safe in the case that Pedri disappears and leaves him to cry alone like he did on the pitch.
With an audibly harsh swallow, Gavi mutters, “Not good enough. Did so much, none of us were enough.”
Pedri blinks at the wall across from him, fingers carding habitually through Gavi’s hair. He wonders briefly whether he’s holding Gavi, football sensation, or Pablo, the boy from Seville. “You deserved the win today,” he says carefully, trying so hard not to spew empty words. “It's just one of those games. You know you were MVP worthy. You know better than anyone else.”
“I don't know anything,” Pablo sighs, sounding frustrated again.
immediately, Pedri’s fingers start massaging his scalp instead of running through his hair–defensive measures. “Hm?”
“You know what I mean.”
Pedri hesitates and calculates his response. “Yeah, and you know what I mean. Don’t you?”
“I guess.'' There's annoyance in Gavi’s tone, muffled only by the fabric of Pedri’s hoodie—one of the few borrowed from Gavi that reside permanently in his closet. He's not even sure Gavi will recognize that it’s his. Pedri chews his lower lip for lack of anything better to do, anything better to say to steady Gavi’s state of shifting anger.
“I love you,” Pedri says tentatively, keeping Gavi close to him so he can pretend nothing happened if it’s not reciprocated. Being cool, calm, and collected suddenly lacks the advantage it has on the pitch. He doesn’t speak the same language that Gavi does.
It's silent for a few moments after Pedri’s cautious admission. He can feel Gavi swallow again and begin to shape a response for him before it’s pushed to the side for a quickly and clumsily muttered, “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”
Pedri’s heart stutters, sputters like the last sparks of a dying flame, then sinks. “It’s okay,” he whispers to save himself the embarrassment, “You played well today. I know you deserved the win, I know it sucked, I know you tried.”
The arm Gavi has over his waist tightens briefly, tenses against him. What did Pedri say wrong now? Gavi’s arm slips away from his back to rest solely on his hip. It stays there, hot and heavy on Pedri who finds himself hyper-aware of every movement between them, every handprint stamped permanently on his skin through layers of fabric.
“Sure,” Gavi whispers, pulls away just enough to brave Pedri’s soft, lidded eyes. There's still conflict in the younger’s lighter eyes, the only shade of hazel Pedri has known, has studied in his spare time. Pedri’s silent. “You’re biased, though,” he adds.
Pedri looks between both eyes carefully. Left, then right, then left again. He quirks up one corner of his lips. “Maybe a bit.”
Gavi holds back from prodding apart Pedri’s words, picking out an answer from everything that he’s said that’ll satisfy Gavi’s own need for Pedri to agree with him at all times. Instead, his free hand finds its way to Pedri’s chin. Pedri looks down, looks confused, looks fond before he leans forward to press a kiss to Gavi’s forehead.
Doesn’t matter that Gavi didn’t say it back. He knows Gavi loves him, it’s terribly obvious on most days.
Perhaps not today, but that’s understandable. He's got other issues at the moment apart from the love he gives so willingly on any day but this one. This day, Gavi doesn’t have enough love for himself, let alone others.
Pedri pulls his lips away from Gavi’s skin with a struggle, finds Gavi chasing the touch. There’s a gentle furrow to his eyebrows when Pedri looks at him again, a gentle frustration. He shouldn’t smile, he shouldn’t be amused by the expression because the day isn’t going well for Gavi and he’s struggling, but Pedri will never not love him and it’s impossible to try.
With a smile, Pedri guides Gavi’s chin up and meets his lips, the seam of his own lips splitting into a grin when he feels a sigh from Gavi’s nose. One of relief, of exhaustion, maybe of both, Pedri doesn’t know.
It’s the urge of familiarity that brings Gavi closer when Pedri wants breath. He indulges Gavi, as he’s used to doing, pushing all the more closely against the firmness under Gavi’s clothing, gives him everything until he’s got nothing left, and finally tilts his head back.
This time, Gavi doesn’t meet his eyes when he pulls away, just shifts up to fix his hoodie over his head. Pedri breathes a quiet laugh and notices the softened lines of Gavi’s eyes. “Are you cold?” he asks, because it’s unusual for Gavi to be keeping layers on instead of stripping them off as if suffocated.
“No,” Gavi grumbles, and then immediately contradicts, “Kind of.'' He kisses Pedri once more, then twice, then presses his nose harshly into Pedri’s neck and kisses him there, too. Again, Pedri indulges him, toying with his hair and staring at the bumps on the popcorn roof.
He wants to ask, Are you okay? He wants to say many things, many of the thoughts running rampant in his mind. Gavi’s mind, on the other hand, seems to finally be quiet for the first time in hours. His nose is cold in the crook of Pedri’s neck.
Pedri hates the feeling of inhaling warm air, especially someone else’s breath. He often finds himself hiding his head in Gavi’s chest or facing away from him, back turned to Gavi’s chest and fists tucked under his chin. But now, with Gavi pressing him into the mattress and the blanket serving as protection from the cold air attempting to freeze them until they’re fossils of themselves, he can’t complain.
Gavi is breathing in air already warmed by Pedri’s mouth, seems to suck it in greedily like it’s the only thing that’ll save him from drowning in oxygen. He shuffles to the side and shifts his weight off of Pedri. Pedri sighs, takes the newfound opportunity to inhale. Gavi rests a hand on his hip, the other sandwiched between their bodies, and puts his head over Pedri’s heart.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Pedri can feel his own heartbeat—the very reason it’s drumming is touching it right now. Pedri closes his eyes and exhales.
Gavi breathes in.
His tired eyes can only trace patterns over a black canvas for so long, so Pedri lets them fall closed to listen to Gavi’s breathing. In and out, slow and steady. Uncharacteristic of Gavi, but perfect for them. Slow, steady, known, comfortable. Everything.
“What took so long?” Pedri murmurs absently, voice thick with a sort of tired, contemplating hesitance. His fingers stay steady, combing Gavi’s hair forward onto his forehead and then back to one side. It’s soft against his fingertips. He can see it against his eyelids when he closes them in the darkness, can smell it without needing to breathe it in.
Silence, and then Gavi hums. Pedri has always been patient, he learned a special brand of it just for the most impatient boy on the planet. “You know,” Gavi starts slowly, words rasping through a rough, previously overworked now unused throat, “Y’know when you told me about Tenerife?”
Pedri nods, maneuvers his free arm over Gavi’s shoulders and snakes his hand under the hoodie to press his fingers into the heat of his shoulders and the dips of his collarbones. His skin is hot, he notes. Pedri smiles and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. Belatedly, he realizes he’s supposed to answer. “Mhm?”
“You said you used to follow Fer and his buddies around sometimes, even when you weren’t supposed to. And then he’d send you home when he thought it was time for you to go,” Gavi croaks. His mouth opens fruitlessly for a few more seconds, Pedri feels it against his breastbone. He waits. Indecisive as ever with his words, Gavi closes his mouth and opens it again, making a noise of confused frustration. Pedri’s fingers drag along his forehead, feeling a muscle tick by his temple when he clenches his jaw.
Low, soft, and a bit broken, Gavi’s voice is weak. His nails dig into Pedri’s hipbone as he admits, “I just—I don’t know. The match hurt. I didn't wanna have to come home yet.”
Always running, whether it be around a pitch or running away.
If Pedri’s heart cracks a little, then it’s only for him to know, for him to pull from his rib cage and patch together on his own. For now, he tightens the arm around Gavi and pats his cheek gently with the other. It makes him think of another night they were wrapped up like this, one that ended with finger-shaped bruises on Pedri’s waist and Gavi’s playful whispers of matching his trophy record in his ears.
“I didn't used to want to come home either,” Pedri whispers, blinking at the roof that he knows is there but can’t see. “I used to be afraid Mama would yell at me for following Fer even though I was supposed to leave him alone. She did, once or twice because it was late. She was just worried.” He pauses to crane his neck and direct these words at Gavi. “After that, she always understood.”
He pretends not to notice when Gavi brings his hand up from Pedri’s waist to wipe his eyes discreetly. There's no sound from Gavi after that, just a vigorous head nod and a sniffle.
Then he’s being pushed and pulled around the mattress, shaped into a home for Gavi to nestle into as usual. Pedri moves with it, doesn’t mind it as he’s pushed onto his side and molded into a plaster against the open wound in Gavi’s chest. The younger man is careful with him, knows each and every boundary he has tested before.
Behind him, clothing rustles amid some grunts from Gavi. Pedri pushes himself further under the blankets, the absence of his usual boyfriend-sized blanket against his back allowing the cold to seep in. Not for long, only until Gavi presses his front against Pedri’s back and doesn’t bother to tug the comforter properly over himself.
It puts a smile on Pedri’s face once again. Reminds him of every time Gavi has thrown a blanket off of himself with a mutter too tired to sound frustrated. When Gavi’s fingers loop over his torso to grapple for a hold on one of his hands, the heat sizzles against the perpetual cold of his fingers. Sizzles, hisses, and calms—for once, they reach thermal equilibrium.
Pedri expected that Gavi would want to be held, to be shaped back into Barcelona's very own golden boy. He thought Gavi would want Pedri to scoop him back up as he bled tears into the light green sheets. Instead, he feels Gavi’s breath hot against the nape of his neck, arms strong where they keep Pedri flush against him from toe to tip. Without looking, he can see the pout of Gavi’s lips and the furrow in his eyebrows as he presses his forehead to Pedri’s shoulder blade.
“You’re sleepy,” Gavi states, tickling the hairs on the back of Pedri’s neck.
“Mm. A little bit.” Pedri shifts, lacing one hand with Gavi’s and tucking the other under his chin.
“You should sleep.”
Pedri exhales quietly, forces his eyes open to stare towards the desk he knows is a few feet from him but has been swallowed by darkness—just like him if he closes his eyes for a few seconds too long. “Don’t wanna leave you alone,” he whispers.
Gavi gives a sharp exhale of amusement from his nose. “I’m not alone, you’re talking to me right now,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Pedri’s neck and mouthing at it gently.
There's no helping it, Gavi’s smile pulls a chuckle from him that he didn’t know he could muster up. “You know what I mean,” Pedri insists.
Gavi shakes his head. “Just sleep, will you? I can’t be lonely if you’re right here,” he says, much too fond to sound teasing, “and I'm a grown man. I can handle laying down quietly for a little while.”
In lieu of an answer, Pedri sighs, “You’re so weird,” and shuffles further backward against him. Gavi doesn’t complain, doesn’t respond, just noses against the back of his neck until his own neck gets tired and lets his head fall with a soft thump against the pillow.
For all of his problems with sleep, his ongoing battle with healthy nightly rests, Pedri falls asleep within 5 minutes. He knows, even as he slips away, that Gavi is lying awake and unable to move so as not to shift an inch and break Pedri’s light sleep. as if Pedri is the one who needs coddling—the one who deserves it.
Maybe Gavi enjoys being so gentle with him. Pedri’s patience runs much thinner than that, too quick to snap and too awkward to plaster a shaky apology over the cut.
Even though he’s knocked out himself, he feels when Gavi falls asleep, feels when the occasional frustrated huffs against the back of his neck make way for gentle sighs.
It’s early when he falls asleep, so it’s early when he wakes up, too.
Gavi has flopped back, sheets fought off and piled over Pedri’s legs, limbs splayed over the bed. It’s only a twin sized mattress, not meant for two adults. Pedri sits up slowly only to spot Gavi’s arm hanging off the bed and his mouth sitting open while he sleeps. His heart squeezes.
Pedri comes to appreciate Gavi’s deep slumber for once when he leans over to gingerly lift his hand back onto the mattress. Then he sits back and stares. Looks carefully at the birthmarks scattered over Gavi’s skin, the old acne scars on his chin. He remembers how Gavi considered growing out a beard to cover them, remembers laughing and pressing his lips to them messily at night.
Quiet might be Gavi’s thing, but calmness doesn’t come easy. He's gone now, gone to somewhere that will protect him in the turns of his mind. Gone somewhere into the darkness to keep him satiated. Only for so long, only until he opens his eyes and finds what lulled him to sleep to be gone.
But that’s okay. Pedri’s not planning on leaving him just yet.
Nighttime is dark, silent, a blank backdrop for his thoughts to drift across his mind until he can push them into the pile of answers he’ll never get. It’s his only opportunity to escape from the sounds, the voices, from every noun he could name. Pedri thinks. Pedri reflects. Pedri feels light, finally after being weighed down by words coming from every component of his life. Too many texts, conversations, articles, he'll go crazy before he can make sense of them all.
His phone buzzes. He closes his eyes, exhales resignedly through his nose, and leans to the bedside table to power it off before he can spare it another glance. Belatedly, he realizes he meant to check the time.
He hears no cars crawling by the street. It must be early, but he’s up, his mind is full of a person and not of the usual buzz of the city life that keeps him distracted.
There is no sight of tears on Gavi’s face. He looks so at peace. Pedri ghosts feather-like fingers over his smooth, unworried forehead, envious of his ability to tamp down his mind when he needs to.
His heart twangs, suspiciously familiar. Pedri pulls away his hand and rests it heavily, regretfully on his thigh. Thinking has always been his strong suit—perhaps a bit too much. Pedri sighs and hangs his head, lowering it further and further until he’s folded over with his cheek against the flat plane of Gavi’s stomach. Gavi doesn’t stir. Pedri closes his eyes.
Gavi’s voice, steadier than last night and rougher than usual, sounds above him. “Do you have to wake up before the sun?” he grumbles, rubbing his eyes and letting his hand fall heavily onto where Pedri’s head laid just minutes before. Pedri raises his head. His silhouette against the dim light looks ruffled, hair unruly and matted at weird angles. He looks like a dream.
“Didn’t mean to wake you up,” he murmurs, straightening up and rubbing the inner corner of one eye. Spots flash in his vision against his closed eyelid.
Gavi just huffs, turns over onto his stomach, and closes his eyes. “Okay, then come back. And close the blinds properly.” He looks so okay, so unaffected by the events of last night. You would think they never happened from the way he tugs the comforter stubbornly over his head without a care in the world apart from the preservation of his sleep.
Pedri would tease, would ruffle his hair and ask, Should I come back first or close the blinds first, just to get a reaction, but Gavi’s too soft. He's too tired, melting onto Pedri’s sheets like he’s stuck and can’t be peeled away. Pedri would rather die than pull the boy from his bed either way.
Wordlessly, he rearranges his limbs until they’re working—at least enough to fulfill Gavi’s whims—and closes the blinds. The little bit of blue glow rising in the sky is filtered out, and his room is black again. Night time. His safe haven.
He falls back into bed, shuffling under the covers and tossing them partially over Gavi to curl his head under Gavi’s chin. Gavi breathes, a deep inhale with an exhausted sigh of comfort. Pedri forces his eyes shut, tries to ignore the flash of imagery that the treacherous depths of his mind bring up. A boy with messy brown hair and tearful eyes abandoned on a football pitch. Nothing and no one to bring him back to life.
Gavi shifts, a weak grunt emitting from his throat after what must have been a herculean effort to shift to his side just to roll back and pull Pedri onto him. The perfect parallel to hours ago when Pedri tried desperately to scoop him back together again. A hand sneaks up the back of Pedri’s shirt. Gavi sighs again, fingers trailing up and down before they settle at the small of Pedri’s back.
Pedri tries opening his eyes, finds them suddenly heavy. Silently apologizes to Gavi, who must so desperately want to get his well-deserved rest, as he shifts in place with his head resting on the younger man’s chest.
Gavi mumbles something and scratches Pedri’s skin. Pedri can imagine the frown twisting Gavi’s mouth and presses a kiss to the fabric of his shirt. “Sorry.”
After a minute, Gavi swallows. “‘S fine. Come.” And Pedri listens, because he always will, and inches up to bury his face into Gavi’s neck. Gavi’s never one to refuse touch, never one to back away from the opportunity to love and be loved. Pedri supposes he takes it for granted.
His eyes are heavy, and yet his mind is aware—reaches far beyond the limits of his body. He feels like he could go anywhere, do anything with his imagination right now. He feels like Gavi, with everything humming just under the surface, unsatisfiable. It’s a curse, not a blessing.
“You’re trying to be me,” Gavi mumbles, amused.
“Not trying,” Pedri huffs, lifting his head to tear a piece of peeling skin from his lower lip.
Gavi just hums, clearly not having it, and brings a hand to his head to guide him clumsily toward his face. Pedri meets his lips, goes willingly and indulges him. And then indulges him again. And again, until Gavi has had his fill and pushes him back down to lie quietly.
“‘Kay. Now go back to sleep.”
And he doesn’t love like Gavi does, he doesn’t take falls and hits out of pure devotion, wouldn’t have laid there determinedly even if he couldn’t sleep. He would’ve gotten up, tucked himself away in the living room with purple swelling under his eyes in hopes of waiting it out until Gavi woke up. Gavi would stay, no matter what. But Pedri has always been a bit of a coward.
He rests his chest over Gavi’s heartbeat, thanks god that the beat will never stop, and closes his eyes. And as if by magic, his mind has quieted, the buzzing fades to white noise, and his eyes roll instead of miserably blinking at nothing. As if by magic, Gavi’s hand on his head feels like calming weight instead of pressure not to move and disturb the body under him.
He, too, breathes. A deep inhale with an exhausted sigh of comfort.