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Ferran knows a secret. One he keeps very dearly, one he knows he has to cherish, because he’s the only person who knows it.
The secret is about his friend. His teammate. The guy who comes over and sleeps in his bed every other day. Except usually there’s not a lot of sleeping involved.
It’s a vulnerable one, quite literally, because it underlines just how vulnerable his little friend actually is.
Because it shows that all the bravado, all the strength and toughness and ‘I don’t give a fuck and no one can hurt me’- attitude, is a facade. Or at least a second skin that slides over said friend whenever he’s on the pitch and surrounded by people. Maybe everywhere, except right there in those dizzy moments between Ferran’s arms, legs, chest and wall or bedsheets.
———
“Ouch!”
Ferran pulls back from the heavenly soft neck he was just kissing — devouring might be a better word — and grins.
“Ouch?”
Gavi’s fiery hazel eyes glare up at him. “Yes, ouch, you bastard! What do you think how much it hurts when you slam me into the wall like that?”
Ferran blinks. He’s confused, he wants to ask how he manages to never feel pain anywhere and then complain about being thoroughly kissed and fondled while slammed against a wall.
“Sorry,” he breathes out instead, because this might be the only chance he ever gets to lay his hands on the beautiful, beautiful man in front of him after eye-fucking him for months, if not years. He does not want to fuck up that opportunity.
Gavi still glares, but nods and pulls Ferran into another searing kiss, relaxes into his hold when Ferran’s hands cup his shoulderblades.
———
“Fuck, don’t do- stop it, stop it.”
Gavi’s high-pitched voice reverberates through the bedroom, and Ferran forces his whole body to freeze, arms holding him up above Gavi’s body.
“You okay?”
Gavi shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut tightly, one hand digging into Ferran’s biceps. “No… no, just don’t move.”
Ferran waits, observes Gavi’s face. To his luck, it hadn’t stayed at that one time. It was almost part of a routine that Gavi called or found his eyes in the locker room, a seductive smirk accompanying the fire in his face, and that Ferran followed like a man obsessed.
Which he probably is.
He knows having sex with a guy is not the least painful activity, knows the way Gavi always tenses up when he first enters. But he also knows it’s usually not as bad as now.
“Are you sure you’re alright, peque?”
Gavi opens his eyes, vulnerability clashing with annoyance, and huffs. “Yes. I’m just sore.”
Ferran really, really doesn’t want to think about the way his stomach just plummeted.
“Ah.” Keep your voice straight, idiota. He forces a playful grin. “Was he bigger than me, or what?”
Gavi’s face contorts. “My sister took me horse riding this weekend, you fucking dumbass. Do I look like I’m letting anyone else do this?”
Ferran also doesn’t want to think about the way his stomach burns now, for completely other reasons.
“Are you doing this with anyone else?” Gavi then asks, voice booming a little. Ferran smirks.
“Do I look like I have the energy to deal with someone else and you?”
A proud smirk paints itself onto Gavi’s face.
“Are you implying that I’m too much for you?”
Ferran smirks back. “I’m implying that you’re just the right amount.”
“You can move now, by the way.”
———
Harsh breaths and panting fills the room, the occasional moan slipping out of Gavi’s lips.
Ferran smiles a little when he feels fingers curling tighter into his hair, thrusts his tongue deeper into Gavi’s hole, tightens his grip on the underside of the midfielder’s soft thigh.
A sharp hiss leaves Gavi’s lips.
Ferran stops. He knows Gavi well enough by now to differentiate between sounds of pain and sounds of pleasure.
Sweaty hair plastering to his forehead and spit dribbling down his chin, he pulls away and looks at Gavi, cheeks all red, lashes resting on his cheeks, brown curls sticking up in every direction and the crease between his brows.
“Gavito?”
Gavi nods.
“Did I hurt you?”
He nods again, opens his eyes, and Ferran almost has to pout at the pure vulnerability oozing from them.
“What did I do, baby?”
Gavi is still catching his breath. “My- my thigh.”
Ferran crawls over him and catches his lips in a slow, soothing kiss.
“Because I grabbed it, did that hurt?”
Gavi nods again, rubs one eye. Ferran slides his hand along his thigh, up and down, observes how a cooped up sigh escapes Gavi’s mouth, how his chest moves.
He knows Gavi came here already kind of tired, knows he always puts his all into everything, even his friendships, or his performance in bed. Seeing the younger one vulnerable is no new sight for the striker. But his sensitivity? The contradiction of Gavi, the fighter on the pitch, and Gavi, the soft body and high-pitched voice asking Ferran to stop and be less rough? That one he hasn’t figured out yet.
“‘m sorry, baby boy.”
Gavi makes a sound, annoyed, even though Ferran is perfectly aware of how much he secretly loves the petname. He kisses his cheek again, notes distantly how obsessed he is with that action, with the plush cheek giving way to his lips like a pillow, with the tiny, content sounds Gavi usually lets out at the action, with the smell of his perfume clouding his senses and the constellation of Gavi’s moles greeting him like an epiphany that the boy is the closest Ferran will ever experience to heaven and the stargates.
He kisses his red cheek again, feels Gavi’s arms lock around his neck.
“How come you knock heads with every player of any height and mass but this right here is where you draw the line?” He doesn’t ask the question with malice, or judgement. In fact, there’s a curious smile playing at his lips.
Gavi tries to glare up at him. “On the pitch I got tunnel vision. It’s like I’m a bull and every player is painted red, blurring out any kind of risks or carefulness.”
Ferran hums, interested.
“And here?”
Gavi tuts. “Here? I’m… safe here. No performing, no risking anything. And you’re no danger.”
The striker is surprised by how much the reply slithers through his insides, how it spreads warmth, how it anchors itself in a corner of his mind. He doesn’t know that he’ll fall asleep tonight repeating the sentence to himself as he hugs the blanket to his chest.
“So you’re not a bull with me, but a… koala.”
Gavi rolls his eyes. “I’m not-”
Ferran cuts him off with a kiss. “You are.”
And a moment later his mouth is back on his favourite place on earth.
———
“Ferri!”
Ferran raises his gaze from where he’s lying on the bed, propped up on one elbow and scrolling through his phone. The bedsheets are tangled between his legs, barely covering his crotch, and a fine layer of sweat shines on his skin.
“Hm?”
“Come here. Don’t play innocent.”
He gets out of bed with a sigh, ruffles his hair and joins Gavi in his adjacent bathroom.
A smirk forms on his face, drinking in the sight of a thoroughly fucked Gavi, cum stains on his cheek and neck — the reason he was standing in the bathroom instead of lying on Ferran’s chest right now, very disappointing — and various hickeys adorning his body.
“Oh, you’re a painting,” Ferran muses, already dying to have the boy under his fingers and lips again. “Who came by, Ferran Monet?”
Gavi doesn’t laugh.
He swivels around, glares up from beneath sweaty curls and hazy eyes.
“I’ll never hear the end of this.”
“You look really pretty, though.”
“Have you ever for a moment stopped and considered that this hurts?”
And now Ferran frowns. “It hurts?”
Gavi softly pokes at one bruise near his hip, and hisses. “Yes, Ferran, it hurts!”
The striker gapes at him. “I’m- you bruise so easily.”
“And. It. Hurts.”
“Come here, baby boy, let me kiss it bet-”
“You’re not touching me.” Gavi pulls away, one eyebrow arched threateningly, and Ferran frowns in frustration.
“Why can’t I touch you? I promise I won’t hurt you.”
“You’re full of cum, idiot.”
He looks down at himself, the white fluid drying on his abdomen. “And? So are you!”
Gavi doesn’t budge. “No, don’t come near me, that’s disgusting. I need to wash myself.”
Later, when Gavi decides he’s too worn-out to drive home and they’re both curled up beneath Ferran’s blanket, he’s finally allowed to wrap his arm around Gavi’s waist.
But suddenly, the midfielder jolts. “Nope. fuck, that hurts. Touch me somewhere else.”
“It’s really that painful?”
Gavi twists his torso around, looking at Ferran with incredulous eyes, his thick eyebrows slanted and the brown in his hazel irises taking over.
“Do you want me to do it to you so you can feel it?”
Ferran bites his lip, skims his finger very gently over his waist. “Is that okay?” he whispers, searching Gavi's eyes.
The midfielder seems to hold his breath, the furious brown giving way to specks of green. “That’s…okay.”
Ferran smiles. He props himself up on one elbow and pulls the sheets down to Gavi’s waist, where a loose under armour boxer short band lies against the soft ridges of his stomach.
Gavi watches him silently, turns onto his back.
The older one leans down, noses along his jaw, places a featherlight kiss on a hickey. Gavi sucks in a breath.
“Is that also okay, bebito?”
Gavi nods faintly.
Ferran kisses another hickey, on his collarbone, just a brush of lips like he's trying to prove how much gentleness he harbours for the fierce midfielder.
Gavi's fingers curl into his hair, the brown strands a little longer and fluffier now, exactly the way Gavi has been secretly wishing them to be for months.
Ferran continues his brief kisses, looks up at the Sevillan every now and then, catches the roundness of his beautiful eyes and the hitch in his chest.
When he pulls the boxer shorts down just a notch and presses a kiss to his lower stomach, Gavi finally speaks up.
“Ferri?”
The older one hums, keeps his mouth above the reddish skin of his stomach, breathing in tact with the sinking and rising of it.
“My lips hurt too.”
And Gavi's voice sounds so small, the look in his eyes so pleading, that Ferran would be a fool not to crawl up and kiss his sweet, angry boy.
His boy?
The striker blushes and prays that Gavi doesn't feel the way his heart rate picked up, or how his lips stuttered against his for a moment.
But the thought now moved into the crevices of Ferran’s brain, and he can't do a thing to throw it out again.
He hears Gavi snore in sleep, feels his breath on the inside of his elbow, smells his shampoo and lets his nose be tickled by the short strands sticking up from the back of his head.
He watches Gavi hug their teammate after receiving a diagnosis no player wants to hear, continues to observe how his face is drawn by pain and compassion when everyone else is already moving on with their day.
He sees Gavi clinging to Hector during one of the team hangouts just after the season ends, feels the green slime poison his veins, until he notices that what Gavi is doing is no different from how he himself acts. The extra tight hugs, the exaggerated teasing to the point where you don't know if your friends really hate you, the aggressive affection and loud jokes because his heart is too big to know how to express itself differently.
Throughout all of these moments, Ferran wonders. Whether Gavi is the perfect counterpart to his heart. Whether he already belongs to the younger man in a way. Whether Gavi’s pulsing organ has enough space for him, or if it's just the right size to fit into Ferran’s hands.
And when all Ferran has is the ghost of Gavi’s voice going soft, his eyes widening and his shoulders slumping in a way he thinks Ferran doesn't see, the secret placed in his lap with no hesitation; when all of this swims through Ferran’s mind, he thinks he might have his answer.
———
The stadium still rumbles with life, twenty minutes after the match ended and the visitors are streaming out into the streets.
The tunnels instead aren't getting less crowded.
Everyone has somewhere to be, the win hovering in the air between clouds of anticipation, of pain.
“Where is he?” Ferran bumps into Lamine, hand gripping his arm so he won't leave in a hurry like everyone else around him.
The young boy furrows his brows and bites his cheek.
“I don't know, I've been searching too, Juan said he's in the preparation room but then he wasn't there and it would make much more sense if he was in the infirmary, right?”
Lamine’s eyes are almost as equally distressed as Ferran's, a rare sight for the confident boy, and the striker lays an arm around him and kisses his temple.
“Let's look for him there. Why would he be in the prep room?”
“I don't know, Juan said it was improvisal because they didn't want him to walk so far,” Lamine answers.
Ferran just nods, heart racing. That's how bad it is.
They find Pedri on the way to the small doctor’s office, already waiting in front of the door, eyes wide and hands fidgeting.
“Is Gavi in here?”
The Canary nods and rubs Ferran's shoulder.
After five minutes that feel more like hours, three more players have gathered, almost breaking into the room when the door opens.
Gavi lies on the stretcher with a bandage wrapped around his head, and Ferran takes a deep, shaky breath.
The doctor advises each of them to be as calm as possible, and Gavi doesn't hesitate before cracking the first joke.
“So did you score in the end?” he asks Lamine, who grins a little.
“Yeah. We won, too.”
“Did you dedicate it to me? Knock a hand against your head for celebration?”
The whole group laughs lowly, Pedri drops a kiss to his hair.
“He fell to the ground but yours looked more artistic.”
“And deadly.”
“Guys, I promise I'm okay.”
Gavi grins weakly, keeps on grinning and talking calmly the whole time, until another physio comes back and shooes the guys out of the room.
“Who can drive you home, Gavi? Is your family here?”
Before Pedri can open his mouth and Gavi shakes his head, Ferran speaks up.
“I'll take him.”
Pedri turns around with a frown, Gavi slightly tilts his head.
“You sure?”
The Valencian nods. “Your car is full already, and I've got time and space. If that's okay, Gavito?”
Ferran thinks he can see Gavi take a breath of relief.
“Yeah, thank you,” he replies, voice almost completely steady.
Pedri says his goodbye, the physio leaves for a moment again and advises them to wait, so Ferran steps closer and deftly grazes Gavi's head.
“Hey,” he whispers.
Gavi smiles at him. “Thank you, Ferri.”
“How badly does it hurt?”
The midfielder hesitates, scrunches his nose up a little. “Not much. I’m-”
“Don't lie,” Ferran intervenes softly. “Come on. You've been fisting the hem of your shirt the whole time, your fingers are almost white, and you keep blinking. You're not okay.”
Silently, Gavi looks at him. It doesn't take long before Ferran notices the first shimmer in his eyes and the slight tremble in his lower lip.
His heart cracks open.
“Oh, baby,” he whispers, hand immediately coming forward to cup his cheek.
Gavi presses his lips together, but to no avail. The motion makes them jut out into a pout, the first crocodile tear sliding down his cheek, landing on Ferran’s thumb.
Ferran leans closer, sits down next to Gavi’s hip and caresses both of his cheeks.
“It's okay, baby,” he whispers again, and Gavi nods despite the small sob that escapes him.
His hands reach up, curl into the fabric of Ferran's jersey and try to pull him closer. Ferran obviously complies. He leans down, hugs Gavi carefully, kisses the soft and now wet flesh of his cheek.
“I'm here, baby boy. I got you.”
Gavi’s chest and arms shake a little harder, his cheek rubbing against Ferran’s as little hitched breaths leave him.
“It hurts, hm?” he caresses the top of his hair, the soft curls tangled up from sweat and the bandage.
“So much,” Gavi cries, holds him a little tighter. Ferran feels the first tears burning in his eyes as well.
“I know,” he cooes, kisses his jaw. “I know.”
“I was so scared for a moment.”
Ferran squeezes his eyes shut, kisses his cheek twice again.
“Like, just- just for a moment,” he repeats, voice cracking as more tears roll from Gavi’s cheek into Ferran’s beard.
“Baby, it's okay to be scared,” he whispers back, gently carding his fingertips through Gavi’s curls, rubbing along his shoulder and upper arm with the other hand. “I was scared too. For longer than just a moment.”
Gavi hiccups, fingernails scratching Ferran's scalp. “You were scared?”
Ferran nuzzles his neck. “Very.”
Gavi pulls Ferran back a little, frowning with worry. “What happened to you, why were you scared?”
It hits Ferran with more clarity than ever before then. That he loves Gavi. That he needs to make a home out of the midfielder, out of his huge, caring eyes, his solid chest, his soft gigantic heart. That he needs to be a home for him.
He smiles a little. “I was scared for you, Pablito. What do you think?”
The Sevillan blinks. “I didn't… I didn't notice,” he whispers.
“No?” Ferran strokes his cheek, their noses nearly touching. “I was trying to keep it in, figured it wouldn't help if you saw me panic.”
Gavi's fingers play with the hair at the back of his head, almost reaching the neck. “You're so calm.”
Ferran smiles. “Is that good?”
Gavi nods, then squeezes his eyes shut and winces.
“Oh fuck,” Ferran curses and cradles his cheek. “Don't move your head, yeah? I have a pillow in my car for traveling that can hold your neck steady. Did they give you any painkillers?”
“Mhm,” Gavi admits. “Thank you, Ferri. For everything.”
“I’m not doing anything, pequeño.”
Gavi grimaces. “Yeah, you are. You're… here and you allow me to be like this.”
Ferran's pulse accelerates. “Any of your friends would do the same,” he whispers, and Gavi tries to not shake his head.
“No, no it's… you handle it differently. Calmer, safer.”
“And Pedri wouldn't?”
Gavi hesitates, looks at Ferran with now half-lidded eyes. The Valencian feels his heart clench.
“If he saw me crying from pain he'd freak out. He fusses, you know? He tries to be calm but there are limits, and then he cares too much and wants to do everything perfectly for me and take away the pain, but of course he can't do that. And that messes with him,” Gavi explains.
Ferran smiles softly, then takes a deep breath. “He cares too much?”
Gavi hums. “Says I'm too important for him to do stupid reckless shit.” He chuckles tiredly.
There's a voice in Ferran's head, chanting, urging him, tightening his throat. His chest heaves once.
“Do you think you're less important to me?” His voice comes out quiet, a bit small.
Gavi watches him. “Well, Pepi’s my best friend ever. So of course.”
Ferran hesitates. “I’m not your best friend,” he mumbles then, his gaze connected to Gavi’s, whose brows slant in the middle. “But I don’t care about you any less than Pedri does.”
The room is silent for a second. Charged with the potential of Ferran’s words, the fear in the striker’s chest, the doubt hovering through Gavi’s mind.
“You don’t?”
Gavi’s eyes are so wide and round, they make him look so young and vulnerable that Ferran fights the urge to kiss him until their lips are numb.
He barely manages to. Leans in a little more, nudges his nose, smells sweat and antiseptics and the trace of his favourite scent underneath.
“Maybe I care more,” he whispers, pulling back to search Gavi’s eyes.
“But you don’t want to be my best friend, do you?” The Sevillan barely manages to keep his voice from cracking.
Ferran’s heart thumps loudly, reverberating in his ears.
“Not quite.” His throat is dry, scorched from fear, held back by hope.
Gavi is the one leaning forward now. Just an inch, just enough to graze his lips against Ferran’s.
“I think I’d like that.”
In all the months they’ve hooked up with each other, kissed, touched, slept together, they’ve never shared a kiss like this. Maybe it’s the almost-confession. Maybe it’s the fact that Gavi is injured. Maybe it’s the way Ferran finally allows his heart to pour out over his tongue, the way he can kiss his little Gavi with as much softness and slowness as he wants. But what probably makes the difference this time is Gavi himself. He’s been soft before, they’ve shared small kisses, lazy ones, tired ones, even soothing ones.
But never a kiss that oozed of love from both mouths.
Gavi captures Ferran’s lips with a gentle urgency, curls his fingers into his hair and loosens them again to caress his nape.
Ferran tilts his head, inviting Gavi’s plush lips to move slowly, almost like he’s savouring the feeling, the moment. His thumb moves over his cheekbone without pause, he makes sure Gavi keeps his head in place, makes sure he himself is the one adjusting to the kiss.
Gavi sighs, a little sound, and Ferran smiles.
“God, you’re so cute,” he blurts out, then kisses him quickly again. “My baby boy.”
And Gavi must have really hit his head badly. Because Ferran doesn’t receive the usual eye roll or scoff. No, there’s a clear flush spreading from Gavi’s cheek to his ears now, a shy smile that plays at his lips as he stares at Ferran with greenish brown eyes.
Ferran feels the urge to squeeze him, throttle him, kiss and eat him. Díos.
“You are, aren’t you?” he asks with a fond grin, stealing another kiss, and then one more.
Gavi snorts, but it’s too soft. “Stop.”
“My baby,” Ferran cooes. “Poor baby with a broken head.”
“My head’s not broken,” he grumbles with a tired chuckle.
“No? You don’t need to be pampered, then? No need to kiss it better?”
“Oh.” Gavi grins, then sighs dramatically and closes his eyes. “It hurts so much, like I think I’m going to die, you see?”
“Mh, we can’t have that,” Ferran muses, and already leans in to kiss his forehead. “Better?”
Gavi lifts his hand and makes a sign with his fingers, leaving a little space between his thumb and pointer finger.
Ferran kisses his nose, his cheek, his lips. “Now?”
“Mhm. For now.”
To their sheer luck, the physio comes back right when Ferran leans away to check the time, and after driving Gavi home, buying six bottles of vanilla milk on the way and tucking him safely into his bed, Ferran sits down at his bed.
“You got everything, baby?”
Gavi smiles tiredly. “Almost.” He pulls the bedsheets next to him away and pats the mattress.
“You want me to stay?” Ferran asks, almost like he can’t believe it.
Gavi frowns. “Do I want my boyfriend to stay the night after I got injured? What kind of question is that.”
It’s stupid, but Ferran’s pulse quickens. “Boyfriend?”
The midfielder grins. “I was waiting until you’d ask but then you took too long.”
Ferran laughs and leans in for a kiss. “How I like my men.”
Gavi places a hand on his chest and pushes him away. “Perdón?”
Ferran frowns, slightly intimidated by the cocked eyebrow. “What?”
“Your men? Who?”
A laugh escapes him. “Hóstia. We’ve been dating for two hours, you’ve got a head trauma and you’re already giving me a headache.”
Gavi doesn’t reply, and Ferran slips out of his pants and shirt, carefully climbs over Gavi and slides in under the covers. When he’s settled in, he drapes an arm over Gavi’s smaller chest and kisses his shoulder, scooting close since Gavi can’t.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re quiet, baby. Does your head hurt again?”
“No,” Gavi simply replies, voice low.
Ferran feels something in his chest stir. He sits up a little, brings his finger to Gavi’s chin and turns it carefully. “Are you okay?”
Gavi’s wide eyes almost look glassy. Ferran supposes that he’s tired, or in pain, or it’s the dim lighting of the room. But then his boyfriend opens his mouth.
“Do I really give you a headache?”
Ferran blinks, and then he pouts. “What? No, sweetie. That was a joke.”
“Oh.”
Gavi takes a deep breath, but his eyes still look like a sad, wet puppy.
“Pablito.” He taps his cheek. “Did that upset you?”
All he gets is a jerky shrug.
“You’re not giving me a headache, baby boy. I didn’t mean that,” Ferran softly explains, once again enamored by the sensitivity of his tough little midfielder’s heart. He kisses his nose, hears Gavi exhale.
“In fact,” he grins a little. “You’re giving my stomach butterflies. And my head cuteness-aggression. My sweet little sensitive boy.”
Gavi’s pout turns into a little grin and he grabs Ferran’s face to kiss him. “And your dick?”
Ferran laughs and pulls away, settles back into the pillow and hugs Gavi carefully.
“Not tonight, Gavito.”
“Ah, no?”
His hand crawls over beneath the covers, toys with the pant-leg of Ferran’s boxer shorts.
“Nope, no. Tonight you’re getting rest and getting pampered.”
Gavi sighs but pulls his hand away, wraps it around Ferran’s arm instead.
“Fine, mister.”
With a grin, Ferran kisses his cheek.
“Hey, Ferri?”
He hums, shifts so he can look at Gavi.
“I love you.”
Ferran’s heart swells, threatens to burst, and he quickly swallows down the beginning of tears.
“And I love you.”
Gavi smiles, a caring, authentic expression, not one for the cameras or people around him. It’s just him letting Ferran see the sunrise in this dimly lit bedroom, a reaction to the phrase they’ve both been secretly waiting to hear.
Ferran surges forward, kisses Gavi’s beautiful and crooked smile, and the midfielder giggles as he allows all of Ferran’s love to flow from one chest to another.
———
“Ah!”
Ferran pulls away from the heavenly soft neck he was just kissing – well, devouring might be a better word – and holds his boyfriend’s waist.
“Shit, did I hurt you, baby?”
Gavi squirms in his lap, squeezes Ferran’s dick inside of him with the motion, grips the striker’s forearm.
“N-no, just…”
Ferran’s mouth ghosts over his shoulder, his hand soothingly rubbing his tense stomach.
“Tell me,” he asks softly, although every muscle in his body is restraining itself from bucking his hips up and touching the beautiful boy further.
Gavi whines and arches his back, his leaking red but smaller cock catching Ferran’s attention.
“What is it?”
“Just- can you-” He cuts himself off as he wraps one arm around Ferran’s neck and adjusts his legs, whining again and pressing down hard on his boyfriend’s dick.
“Gavito.” Ferran kisses the skin behind his ear, the soft brown hair a mix of sweaty strands and fluffy curls. “Does anything hurt?”
Gavi half-shakes his head, and Ferran tries to relax.
“Okay, good, good. Are you okay?”
He shakes his head again, rests its back against Ferran’s shoulder. The Valencian pulls away a little to look at him, his tightly shut eyes and crease between his eyebrows.
“Come on, talk to me, baby.”
Gavi hides his face in his throat now, letting out quiet, high-pitched sounds. He moves his hips up and down twice, the movements rather clumsy, and Ferran places one hand lightly on his neck.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Tell me what you want.”
Gavi chokes out a cry, and suddenly there are tears landing in the hollow of Ferran’s neck.
“Gavi,” he breathes out, worry taking over completely. “Gav, we can stop-”
“No!”
Ferran freezes.
“No, no please,” he whines. “Please, Ferri, please.”
The older one starts racking his brain for possible solutions to his pretty boyfriend’s apparent issue. Is he too tired? Did he forget to pee before? Does he feel embarrassed by something, or uncomfortable? Is he in pain? He’s only ever received this kind of reaction during sex when his boyfriend was hurt, but now Gavi doesn’t want Ferran to leave him in peace, it seems.
“Okay,” he mumbles, trying to sort his brain. “You don’t want to stop?”
“No,” Gavi almost cries. Ferran’s hand rubs across his stomach.
“You feel uncomfortable?”
Gavi arches his back again, doesn’t reply.
“Do you want to change position?”
Finally, Gavi nods. Ferran breathes out in relief.
He helps Gavi get off his lap, winces as he pulls off his dick, then stabilises his waist as Gavi turns around.
“You sure you’re okay?” He tips up Gavi’s chin, looks at his teary eyes and wildly red cheeks, and when Gavi just nods, he kisses him.
Gavi immediately crawls closer again. His arms loop tightly around Ferran’s neck, he sinks back down on his dick and sighs, bites Ferran’s lip.
“Better now, nene?”
Gavi buries his head in Ferran’s neck, his whole body arching and pressing close, like he’s trying to mold into his boyfriend.
“Mhm,” he mumbles, breathing into his neck, his smaller shoulder presses into Ferran’s, whose chin fits perfectly on them, the soft nape of Gavi’s neck again there at his disposal. Ferran kisses it, and then gasps as Gavi rolls his hips again.
“There you go,” he whispers. “Now you got it, eh?”
Gavi hugs him tighter, accelerates his pace and kisses his neck.
“Love you. So much.”
Ferran wraps his arms around Gavi’s back, enveloping him completely, and kisses his shoulder.
“I love you too. You just needed more, didn’t you?”
Gavi nods, bites Ferran’s neck and keeps fucking himself on his lap.
“You were just desperate? My sensitive little boy?”
Gavi’s arms tighten around his neck. “Yeah,” he whines.”Want you closer.”
Ferran smiles and presses him further into him, kisses his neck, jaw, cheek.
“You’re the cutest.”
Gavi scoffs without any real bite behind it, and Ferran kisses the side of his head.
“The absolute cutest.” And he means it.
———
The secret of Gavi’s sensitivity stays closed away behind his ribs, comes out behind closed doors, in the solace of Ferran’s loving arms, on their mattress, between their lips. Ferran carries it proudly, albeit quietly, never once doubts the strength of the love of his life, but catches him without hesitation when the facade falls. And Gavi trusts him, without condition, has trusted him subconsciously ever since that first night in Ferran’s house. He’ll keep his secret safe.