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Berlin, 14th July 2024
“I don’t think they walked all the way down here. You sure you saw them?” Fermin asks while trying not to trip on the rocky trail. The cocktails he drank back at the club seemed to finally catch up with him and make his head swim a bit. He sends a silent prayer to any god that is willing to listen to him that he won’t trip and injure himself. Probably not the best first impression for their new coach. If Hansi Flick is only a bit like Xavi he would kill him. Or Ferran. Probably Ferran. It’s his fault after all.
“Of course I’m sure,” the latter says, considerably more motivated to walk than his friend. “Are you doubting my ability to identify my best friend?”
“I’m doubting your ability to accept the boundaries of that so-called best friend.” The younger grumbles. He tries to close his light jacket; nightly Berlin is not exactly warm even in the mid of July. A frustrated groan leaves his mouth when he doesn’t manage to shut the zipper at the third attempt.
“Ferran we should really return to the club instead of wandering through Berlin at the asscrack of dawn,” he tries again. “Also I’m pretty sure Pedri will kill you if he catches you stalking them.”
“Us,” Ferran answers with a shrug. “At this point you are involved just as much as me kid.”
Fermin snorts. He has no clue where Ferran got the idea to call him (and Gavi) kid when he is the one that acts like a child all the time. The audacity. The five year age gap means literally nothing.
“Also,” the Valencian adds. “Pedri loves me. He’s my best friend, he won’t kill me. I just want to make sure he is safe that’s why we are following him. Safety first, you know?”
“Yeah, we are definitely not following him because you are a nosy little shit,” Fermin says. “And of course Pedri will believe you you’re acting solely on his wellbeing.”
Ferran chuckles and wipes an imaginary tear from his eyes. “I’m so proud of you for finally committing to sarcasm. Kids these days grow up so fast.”
Fermin just rolls his eyes before returning to his previous task: closing his jacket. This time he’s lucky; with a triumphant noise he tugs the zipper completely close. Fourth times luck or something. He really shouldn’t have drunk so much Beer… or the Tequila Shots or the Long Island Iced Tea, while he’s at it. His head still spins a bit even though they’ve been walking for at least half an hour. Probably. He lost track of time somewhere between Olympia Stadium and the Club their coach rented.
“I’ll be so hangover tomorrow,” he complains to his friend. “Why’d you make me drink Tequila-“ he walks straight into Ferrans back. A muffled curse escapes his lips when he steps back to see why the striker stopped so suddenly. They just walked out of a small alley and now are able to have a view of Berlins River. Fermin quietly takes in the gleaming lights beautifully mirrored by the surface of the Spree.
His fuzzy brain somehow contributes the name of the river. ‘Strange,’ he thinks. ‘Where did that come from?’ His old geography teacher would be proud. He shakes his head to get the picture of Mrs Alvaro Gonzales out of it. If someone told his younger self that that woman was a witch, he probably would have believed it with her crooked nose and strange clothes. He shakes his head again. Stupid tequila. Stupid foggy brain. Strangely he feels more drunk now than when they left the club, he hates feeling drunk. Especially the sickness that will almost certainly follow the next morning. Why was he here again? Right, Ferran.
Said man still stands in front of him and stares at a point somewhere near the riverbank. Fermin angles his head a bit to look past the taller boy’s shoulder. Just a few meters away two boys are sat on one of the benches strewn all around the area. A streetlamp illuminates their features. Fermin is not able to suppress the soft smile spreading on his face when he spots how exactly they are sitting. Gavi is facing the river with his legs propped up on something in front of him, his left arm tightly slung around Pedris shoulders. He isn’t exactly able to see, but Fermin is sure his right hand softly draws vague shapes on the Canarians injury prone thigh, where it’s placed in Gavis lap. Fermin has seen them like this often enough to imagine the gentle movements of his best friends hands. Pedris crutches leaning on the side of the bench. They are quietly talking, even though Fermin is not able to understand what they are saying over the city noises.
In moments like this he remembers why it’s always PedriandGavi and never Pedri and Gavi. With Gavi being out of the team for most of the season because of his torn ACL he almost forgot how close these two are. Pedri is not the most tactile person of their team, sure he ruffles their youngsters hair and returns hugs enthusiastically but seldom initiates them. But he frequently seems to touch Gavi, small kisses on his neck or cheeks, flicking his ears, draping himself all over the younger boys back and always bumping shoulders.
And Gavi… Fermin has never seen him at peace like he is when he is with Pedri. Because Gavi is (and he says this with the outmost love and respect for the boy he calls his brother from another mother) the most restless and anxious person he’s ever met. Fermin gets tired from just looking at him. On the pitch he runs and he fights and he screams. And even off the pitch he always fidgets, his legs bounce, he fumbles with his clothes and he picks at his fingers. One touch from Pedri is all it takes for him to calm down. On the pitch and off the pitch. Fermin’s pretty sure there are a lot compilations on TikTok where Pedri steers an angry Gavi away from the referee or players of the opposite team.
A sudden movement snaps Fermin out of his thoughts. Ferran apparently stared long enough to get bored by the view in front of them and now fumbles for something in the pockets of his trackpants. He made a small triumphant noise when he finally pulls out his phone.
“Busted!” He murmurs while snapping a quick picture of the pair. “Gonna print it out for them at their wedding.” Fermin doubts that there is enough light for it to be a decent picture. He also is very glad that Ferran turned off the flash.
“You think they are…” Fermin asks quietly. Suddenly he feels sober as he watches Pedri hide his face in Gavis neck. Queer footballers are still a tense topic in the male football world. It’ll be very difficult for them.
Ferran just shrugs, doesn’t seem to sense the change in Fermins mood. “They’ve always been pretty dense. They’ll work it out eventually.”
That’s a thing the two can actually agree on.
“We’ll have to help them.” Now Ferran seems to realize what Fermin is trying to say. He turns to his friend, throws an arm around his shoulders and starts walking away from the river.
“Let’s go back to the others, we’re Champeones we shouldn’t be sober today,” Ferran tells him with his crooked smile. “We’ll be nice friends today and leave the lovebirds alone.”
“Thought you wanted to discover them dramatically on camera to tell the others you won the bet,” he teases. He knew Ferran wouldn’t actually do it. Well at least that’s what he hoped. It’s still Ferran, he is a bit unpredictable sometimes.
“Pedri’s my best friend, he’ll tell me when they finally get their shit together,” Ferran says. And then, with a very soft smile he adds: “They’ll be fine kid. We won’t let them get hurt. Half of the league is terribly afraid of Lewy, you really think they would be that mean?”
Suddenly a wave of fondness for Ferran hits Fermin. He even lets the nickname slip when he drops his hand on Ferrans hip to drag him in a side hug.
“Marc told me to get a Döner when in Berlin, you hungry?” Fermin asks.
“You know I’m always hungry,” The Valencian smirks. “It’s probably a good idea to get a good base. You know for the tequila we’ll definitely drink.”
Fermin fakes a gag at the word tequila. “Tomorrow will be hell.”