Archive of Our Own

Pedri sat on the edge of the king bed in their hotel room, elbows on his knees, scrolling through nothing on his phone. The screen’s glow was the only light besides the thin strip leaking in from the hallway. Ferran was in the bathroom again, not showering, just… standing there. Pedri could hear the occasional shift of bare feet on tile, the tap running for a second and then stopping, like Ferran kept forgetting why he’d turned it on. 

He’d been like this for days, since that group stage match against Cape Verde. Ferran had missed two sitters. The cameras had lingered on him, the commentators had been kind at first, then clinical, but social media and the fans had not been kind at all. 

Pedri hated how much he noticed every micro-expression on Ferran’s face: the way his boyfriend’s shoulders curved inward when he thought no one was looking; the polite, empty smile he gave the staff sometimes; the way he laughed at Gavi’s jokes but the smile never reached his eyes. 

The bathroom door clicked open. Ferran stepped out in a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, hair still damp. He looked good. He always looked good, even when he was unraveling. 

“Hey, baby,” Pedri said softly, setting his phone aside. “Come here?” 

Ferran’s gaze flicked toward him, then away. “I’m tired.” 

“I know. Me too.” Pedri patted the space beside him anyway. “We don’t have to talk. Just… lie down with me?” 

A beat of silence. Ferran crossed the room but still didn’t sit on the bed. He went to the small desk instead, picking up his own phone and staring at it like it might give him answers. 

Pedri swallowed the sting in his throat. “You know what I was thinking about earlier? That ridiculous penalty we took in training last week, the one where you tried to Panenka me and it went straight into my chest.” He let out a small laugh, forcing warmth into it. “I still have the bruise, look—” 

He tugged up his shirt, exposing the faint yellowing mark just below his ribs. It was a lie, though, there was no bruise anymore, but maybe Ferran would come closer, tease him and roll his eyes in that fond way he used to. 

Ferran glanced over. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Yeah. Funny.” Then he looked back at his phone. 

The silence stretched too tight. 

Pedri tried again, gentler. “We could watch something maybe, like that cooking show you mentioned where they burn everything? Or that documentary about the 2010 World Cup. You always quote the commentator lines with me.” 

“I’m not in the mood today, if I’m honest.” Ferran’s voice was polite, so fucking polite it hurt, like he was talking to a journalist who’d asked one question too many. “Think I’ll head down for a bit. Some of the guys are in the lounge.” 

Pedri’s chest tightened. “Which guys?” 

“Marc, Marcos, maybe a couple others.” Ferran shrugged, already moving toward the door. “Won’t be long.” 

He didn’t ask if Pedri wanted to come. He never did lately. 

Pedri stood up anyway and crossed the small distance between them. He reached out, fingers brushing Ferran’s wrist. The skin there was warm, familiar. He could feel the faint flutter of pulse beneath his thumb, too fast. 

“Ferri,” he said quietly, not pushing, but still trying. “I’m right here, yeah? Whatever it is.” 

For a second, something cracked in Ferran’s expression. His eyes met Pedri’s, really met them, and there was all that familiar warmth, the love that still lived there underneath everything. That was the boy who used to tackle him in celebration after training, who let him steal his hoodies and left little love notes in his kit bag, who whispered te quiero against his neck like it was the easiest truth in the world. 

Then the shutters came down again. Ferran gave him that same small, careful smile. “I know, love,” he said. “I’m okay. Just need to clear my head.” 

He leaned in and kissed Pedri’s lips, quick and dry. It was the kind of kiss you give someone when you’re already halfway out the door. 

Then he was gone. 

The door clicked shut with a soft finality that echoed louder than it should have. 

Pedri stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where Ferran had been. His mouth still tingled from the ghost of the kiss. He pressed two fingers on the spot like he could trap the feeling there. 

He wanted to fix everything for him, God, he wanted it so badly it made his ribs ache. Their relationship had always been the bright spot, a secret they guarded fiercely amid the chaos of Barcelona, the pressure, injuries and expectations. It was late nights in Pedri’s house where Ferran would cook terrible pasta and they’d laugh until their stomachs hurt, and mornings where Ferran traced lazy patterns on Pedri’s back and talked about nothing and everything.

But Pedri had started to realize he wasn’t magic. He couldn’t erase the voices in Ferran’s head, couldn’t score the goals for him, couldn’t stop the internet from calling his boyfriend overrated, finished, a waste of talent. Every missed chance in this tournament seemed to carve another piece out of Ferran, and Pedri could only watch it happen.

He sank back onto the bed, pulling his knees up. The room felt bigger without Ferran in it, colder. 

Downstairs, the players’ lounge was dimly lit, a few lamps casting warm pools of light over leather couches and low tables scattered with water bottles and half-eaten protein bars. Marc was sprawled across one couch, legs dangling over the armrest, laughing at something on his phone. Marcos sat nearby, his expression calm like someone who’d seen too many tournaments. 

Ferran slipped in quietly, hands in his pockets. He nodded at them both. 

“Alright?” Marc asked, shifting to make space. 

“Yeah.” Ferran sat, leaning back. The cushions swallowed him a little and he looked smaller than usual. 

Marcos studied him for a second but didn’t push. That was the thing about these guys sometimes, they knew when to leave space. “Marc was just showing me that video of the  keeper from the last match. The guy’s reflexes are insane.” 

Marc grinned, already queuing it up. “Watch this. He saves it with his fucking face basically.” 

Ferran watched the clip. He laughed at the right moments and it sounded almost real. He made the appropriate comments: “No way,” “That’s mad”, and leaned in when Marc showed him another stupid meme about the group standings. 

But inside, his mind kept looping. 

The ball was right there. Right there. Foot planted, angle perfect, and he fucking skied it like a minor league kid. 

He could still feel the ghost of the grass under his studs, the way the stadium had held its breath and then exhaled in disappointment. There weren’t even boos, just that heavy, pitying silence before the cameras cut away. 

Pedri had been on the bench for that one. He’d come over after the whistle, hand on Ferran’s shoulder, squeezing once, solid and warm. And he said nothing because what was there to say? Would he dare to call his boyfriend a fucking failure of a player?

Ferran hated how much he needed that touch, and how much he resented needing it. Pedri deserved better than this version of him, this hollowed out, distant man who pretended everything was fine while his brain screamed that he was letting everyone down. Not only the team and the country, but Pedri most of all. 

Pedri looked at him like he was still worth something, like the missed goals didn’t rewrite who he was. And Ferran didn’t know how to live inside that faith when he felt like a fraud wearing his own skin. There was nothing in the world he wished for stronger than the feeling of being enough for Pedri. But of course, he knew he wasn’t. Not only was he not good enough, but Pedri’s love had lately started to feel like a mere band-aid trying to silence his poisonous head. 

Marc nudged him with a foot. “You zoning out again, Ferri?” 

Ferran blinked, forcing the smile back on. “Just tired. Long tournament.” 

Marcos nodded sympathetically. “We all are. You played well, though. That run in the second half created space. Not everything shows up on the result.” 

The words were kind, but they landed like stones in Ferran’s stomach anyway. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.” 

They talked about other things after that, training tomorrow, the heat, stupid rumors about transfers that would never happen. Ferran participated enough to not raise alarms. He laughed when he was supposed to, but every few minutes his mind drifted upstairs, to the room where Pedri was probably still waiting as always. His patient, loving boyfriend who was too good for him. 

He wondered what Pedri was doing right now. Probably curled up with his headphones on, listening to the music he liked when he couldn’t sleep? Texting his brother? Staring at the ceiling thinking about how his boyfriend was slowly slipping away? 

The thought made Ferran’s chest hurt. He wanted to go back, crawl into bed, tuck his face into Pedri’s neck, let those steady hands card through his hair until the noise stopped, and let himself be held. But he stayed on the couch because going back meant facing the way Pedri would look at him, with all that quiet worry and endless patience, and Ferran didn’t think he could survive being loved so gently when he felt this broken. 

Eventually Marc yawned. “I’m heading up. Early session tomorrow.” 

“Same,” Marcos said, standing and stretching. He clapped Ferran on the shoulder. “Don’t stay up too late, bro.” 

Ferran nodded. “Night.” 

He sat there alone after they left, the lounge quieter now. A staff member dimmed another light. 

His phone buzzed. A message from Pedri. 

Pedri : i’ll leave the door unlocked. te quiero. 

Ferran stared at the words until they blurred. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He typed I love you too and deleted it, typed Coming up soon and deleted that too. Instead he sent a thumbs up emoji. 

Then he locked the phone and leaned his head back against the couch, eyes closed. He was such an asshole to Pedri. Pedri, who was the most understanding person in the world, the one who loved him like he had always dreamed of, and Ferran was letting him down not only on the pitch.

In his mind, the ball sailed over the bar again and again. The crowd sighed. Pedri’s hand was on his shoulder. The weight of it felt like both anchor and accusation. 

He stayed downstairs longer than he meant to. 

Upstairs, Pedri eventually turned off the last light and lay in the dark, listening for footsteps that didn’t come. His hand rested on the empty side of the bed, fingers curled into the cool sheet. 

He whispered into the quiet room, voice cracking just a little, “Come back to me, please.” But no one answered. 

The next day on the training pitch, Pedri wiped sweat from his brow with the hem of his training top, squinting against the glare. His legs already felt heavy from the session, but he pushed through it, eyes drifting repeatedly toward Ferran. 

Ferran looked better in the daylight, or at least he was trying. He moved with purpose during the drills, sharp passes, decent movement off the ball, but Pedri could see the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his smile didn’t feel genuine when the coach or the team praised a good sequence. 

They were doing a small-sided game, five versus five, nothing too intense. Pedri found himself on the opposite team from Ferran. Perfect. 

He waited for his moment. 

Ferran received the ball near the edge of the box, body feinting one way before cutting inside. Pedri timed his approach, sliding in dramatically, too dramatically, and caught Ferran’s ankle just enough to send him tumbling onto the grass without any real harm. It was pure theatre. 

“Never a penalty!” Pedri yelled immediately, throwing his arms up in mock outrage as he stood over his boyfriend. “Clear dive, ref! Book him!” 

Ferran lay on his back for a second, blinking up at the sky. Then the laugh came, real, surprised, bubbling up from somewhere Pedri hadn’t heard in days. It was that bright, slightly raspy sound that always made Pedri’s chest feel too full. 

“You absolute idiot,” Ferran said, still laughing as he accepted Pedri’s hand and let himself be pulled up. Their palms lingered together a beat longer than necessary. “That was the worst tackle I’ve ever seen. You fell over more than I did.” 

Pedri grinned, wide and genuine. “Had to make it believable. Can’t have people thinking I go easy on you just because you’re hot.” 

Ferran shoved him lightly, cheeks a little flushed under the sun. For a moment, he was there, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief, the version of Ferran who would’ve tackled him right back and turned it into a wrestling match on the grass until the coach yelled at them. 

“Hot, huh?” Ferran muttered, stealing the ball from under Pedri’s foot with a quick flick. “Flattery won’t save you next time.” 

They jogged back into position, but the energy shifted. For the next ten minutes, Ferran was lighter. He nutmegged Pedri once, clean and humiliating, and celebrated with an exaggerated bow that had Gavi cackling from the sidelines. Pedri retaliated by messing up a simple pass on purpose, sending it rolling straight to Ferran’s feet with a sheepish shrug. 

“Oops. Guess I’m the one who needs extra laps.” 

Ferran’s laugh came again, softer but still real. He jogged over during a water break, bumping their shoulders together. 

“You’re such a menace,” he said quietly, just for Pedri. His hand brushed Pedri’s lower back for a second, hidden from the others, warm and intentional. 

Pedri’s heart clenched with hope. There you are. My love.

“I missed that sound,” Pedri murmured, so only Ferran could hear. “Missed you messing with me.” 

Ferran’s expression flickered, something soft and guilty crossing his face. He opened his mouth like he might say more, but the coach’s whistle cut through the moment. 

They finished training on a decent note. Ferran scored in the final drill, a composed finish into the bottom corner. The squad cheered. Pedri cheered loudest, running over to ruffle his hair even though Ferran tried to bat him away, laughing again. 

For a little while, the weight lifted. 

The bus ride back to the hotel was rowdy. Music played from someone’s speaker. Gavi and a few others were arguing over whose playlist was worse. Pedri sat next to Ferran near the back, their thighs pressed together and hands touching. His world had narrowed to the warmth of Ferran’s hand under his own, and he didn’t pull away once. Small victories. 

Pedri turned his head slightly, studying his boyfriend’s profile. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks. Without thinking, he lifted their joined hands and pressed a slow kiss to the inside of Ferran’s wrist, letting his lips linger, tongue brushing lightly over the sensitive skin. Ferran’s breath hitched. He glanced over, a small, surprised smile tugging at his lips, the real one, soft around the edges.

“You’re dangerous today,” he murmured, voice low enough that only Pedri could hear.

“Can’t help it,” Pedri whispered back. “Been dying to taste you all afternoon.”

Ferran’s eyes flicked toward the front of the bus, checking that no one was paying them any attention. Pedri barely had time to smirk before Ferran leaned in. This time the kiss wasn’t soft or careful. Ferran’s free hand slid to the back of Pedri’s neck, pulling him closer as their mouths met, hot, hungry, and a little desperate. His lips parted, tongue teasing Pedri’s with just enough pressure to make heat pool low in his stomach. Pedri kissed him back just as fiercely, biting gently at Ferran’s lower lip before soothing it with his tongue.

It was risky and stupid, but it felt perfect. Their teammates knew something was going on between them, only their closest ones had seen them actually kissing or touching, but they still wore a shield in front of anyone else even when there were no cameras around. 

When they broke apart, both slightly breathless, Ferran’s eyes were half-lidded and his cheeks carried a faint flush. He rested his forehead against Pedri’s for a second, thumb stroking the side of his neck.

“Later,” he breathed against Pedri’s mouth, voice promising. “When we’re alone.”

Pedri squeezed his hand tighter, heart racing.

As they pulled up to the hotel entrance, a small crowd gathered behind the barriers. Not too many, maybe thirty fans, mostly locals and some Spanish supporters who’d made the trip. Phones were already out. Shouts of names filled the air as the players started filing off the bus. Pedri stuck close to Ferran and brushed their shoulders as they walked toward the entrance. He kept his head up, waving politely, but his focus stayed on the man beside him. 

“Ferran! Pedri! Over here!” 

They both turned and smiled for a few photos. A kid yelled something excited in broken Spanish about Pedri’s last goal for Barça. Pedri gave him a thumbs up. 

Then a voice cut through the others, male, loud, edged with frustration. “Ferran! What’s wrong with you, man? Two misses yesterday! You gonna show up for the next one or keep wasting the shirt?” 

The words landed like a slap. 

Pedri felt Ferran tense instantly beside him. The easy line of his shoulders snapped tight again. The small, genuine smile he’d been wearing since training vanished, replaced by that careful, blank mask. 

Ferran didn’t respond, didn’t even look toward the voice. He just kept walking, head slightly lowered, jaw clenched so hard Pedri could see the muscle jump. 

Pedri’s blood heated. He turned sharply toward the crowd and scanned for the guy, but Ferran’s hand caught his wrist, gentle but firm. 

“Don’t,” Ferran said under his breath. “It’s fine.” 

It wasn’t fine. 

They made it inside the lobby, the automatic doors sliding shut behind them and muffling the noise. The cool air conditioning washed over them, but it did nothing to ease the sudden chill between them. Ferran pulled his hand back, shoving both into his pockets as they headed toward the elevators. 

“Ferran…” Pedri started. 

“I said it’s fine.” The politeness was back. That distant, hollow tone. “Just some idiot. Happens to everyone.” 

But Pedri could see it, the retreat. The light that had sparked during training was flickering out again, buried under layers of self-doubt and shame. Ferran’s eyes had that faraway look, like he was already replaying every missed chance, every headline, every comment that confirmed what he feared about himself. 

They rode the elevator up in silence. A couple of other players were with them, chatting casually, oblivious. When they reached their floor, Pedri followed Ferran down the hallway to their room. 

Inside, Ferran kicked off his trainers and immediately headed for the bathroom, muttering something about needing a shower. The door clicked shut, not slammed, never slammed, because Ferran was too controlled for that, but the sound still felt final. 

Pedri stood in the middle of the room, kit bag still slung over his shoulder. He wanted to punch something, not the fan, though the urge was there, but the invisible thing that was eating away at the person he loved most. 

He dropped his bag and sat on the bed, listening to the shower run. Water hitting tile, no humming this time, no off-key singing like Ferran sometimes did when he thought Pedri couldn’t hear. 

After twenty minutes, Pedri couldn’t take it anymore. He knocked softly on the bathroom door. “Ferran? You okay in there?” 

The water stopped. There was a pause. “Yeah. Out in a minute.” 

When Ferran emerged, towel around his waist, hair dripping, he looked composed, maybe too composed. He dressed in silence, fresh shorts and a soft t-shirt Pedri recognized as one of his own. The sight should have warmed him, but instead it twisted something painful in his chest. 

Pedri tried anyway. “That goal at the end today was class. The way you shifted your body reminded me of that volley you scored against Betis last season.” 

Ferran offered a small smile, polite and empty. “Thanks.” 

“I’m serious.” Pedri reached out, catching his hand and tugging him closer until Ferran stood between his knees. “You looked like yourself out there for a bit, laughing, messing around... I missed that.” 

Ferran’s fingers flexed in his grip, but he didn’t pull away. His free hand came up to rest lightly on Pedri’s face, thumb brushing his cheek. For a second, his eyes softened. 

“You always know how to get me out of my head,” Ferran said quietly. “Even when I don’t deserve it.” 

“You do deserve it,” Pedri insisted, squeezing his hand. “All of it. The good days and the shit ones. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Ferran leaned down and kissed him, slow, gentle. It was real. Pedri could feel the affection in it, the way Ferran’s lips lingered, the soft exhale against his mouth. But when they parted, the shutters were already lowering again. 

“I think I’m gonna lie down for a bit,” Ferran said, pulling back. “Catch up on some rest before the meeting later.” 

Pedri nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Okay. I’ll be here.” 

Ferran crawled onto the bed, curling up on his side facing the window. Pedri changed into comfortable clothes and joined him, pressing himself against Ferran’s back, arm draped over his waist. He felt Ferran relax fractionally into the hold, one hand coming up to lace their fingers together. 

But Pedri knew he wasn’t really there, not fully. His boyfriend’s mind was somewhere else, trapped in a loop of criticisms, of the crushing fear that he wasn’t enough. 

Pedri pressed a kiss to the back of Ferran’s neck, breathing him in. “I love you,” he whispered against warm skin. “So much.” 

Ferran’s grip on his hand tightened. “Love you too.” 

The words were sincere. Pedri believed them. But love wasn’t a cure. It wasn’t a spotlight that could erase the shadows Ferran carried alone. All Pedri could do was hold on tighter and hope the glimpses he’d seen today, the real laughs, the easy touches, meant the light was still fighting to get through. 

Ferran’s breathing eventually evened out into something resembling sleep, but Pedri stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how many more training laughs it would take before Ferran believed he was still worth loving. 

Two days later, after the third match, the stadium crowd kept buzzing in his ears long after the final whistle. 

Spain had scraped a 1-0 win, but it felt hollow. Ferran had come on in the 76th minute with instructions to stretch the attack, make something happen. Ten minutes plus stoppage time, that was all he got. 

He’d done okay, a couple of decent runs and one clever link-up with Lamine. Then, in the 87th minute, the chance. Ferran found himself inside the box, one touch to set himself, the keeper rushing out. It was screaming shoot. Instead, he’d slipped it sideways to Pedri. 

Pedri, marked but dangerous, had tried to make something of it, but the shot was blocked. The chance died. 

Now, back in the hotel room, the silence was thicker than the humidity outside. 

Ferran sat on the edge of the bed, still in his Spain tracksuit, elbows on his knees. He stared at the carpet like it might explain why his brain had chosen the safe pass over the shot he’d been dreaming about since the start of the group stage. Pedri paced near the window, jaw tight, still buzzing from the match. 

“You had it,” Pedri said finally. His voice was low, but the frustration bled through. “Clear as day. Why pass it to me?” 

Ferran didn’t look up. “You were better placed.” 

“Bullshit.” Pedri stopped pacing. “I had two players on me. You had the perfect goal, the kind you’ve been killing yourself over missing.” 

Ferran’s hands curled into fists on his thighs. “It wasn’t that clear.” 

“It was.” Pedri ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling sharply. “I saw your face after. You knew it too. So why?” 

The question hung there. 

Ferran finally lifted his head. His eyes were tired, rimmed with an exhaustion that had nothing to do with seventy minutes on the bench. “Because if I shoot and sky it again, or hit the keeper, or whatever, I might fuck it up… at least if I pass it to you, we might still score. You’re you, Pedri. You’re reliable.” 

Pedri stared at him. “So you gave it to me because you don’t trust yourself?” 

“Maybe.” The word came out flat.

Something in Pedri snapped. 

“That’s not how this works, Ferran!” He gestured sharply, voice rising. “You can’t keep passing up your moments because you’re scared of fucking up. That’s not football. That’s not… that’s not you. The Ferran I know shoots those in his sleep.” 

“The Ferran you know has been missing everything for two weeks,” Ferran shot back, standing up now. His voice cracked but stayed controlled, dangerously so. “Or haven’t you noticed? Because the whole world has.” 

Pedri stepped closer. “So your solution is to pass it to me and hope I fix it? Like I’m some safety net?” 

“You are my safety net!” Ferran’s control frayed. “You always have been. But I’m not dragging you down with me, not when you’re actually playing well.” 

Pedri laughed, but there was no humour in it. It sounded bitter. “Dragging me down? That’s what you think this is? Jesus Christ, Ferran. I’m not frustrated because you passed. I’m frustrated because you’re disappearing on me, not just on the pitch, everywhere.” 

Ferran flinched like he’d been hit. 

“I’m right here,” he said quietly. 

“Are you?” Pedri’s voice softened for a second, then hardened again. The words he’d been holding back for days spilled out. “You laugh during training when I mess around, then shut down the second we’re alone. You kiss me like you’re apologizing for existing. You go downstairs with Pubill and Llorente instead of talking with me, your boyfriend. And now this? You had a chance to prove to yourself that you still belong out there and you gave it away to me, like I’m your fucking crutch instead of your partner.” 

Ferran’s breathing grew ragged. “You don’t get it.” 

“Then make me get it!” Pedri threw his hands up. “Talk to me. Yell. Cry. I don’t care. Just stop acting like you’re already broken and I’m too stupid to see it.” 

The room felt too small, the air too thick. 

Ferran’s eyes glistened, but he blinked it away angrily. “You think I don’t want to? Every night I lie there next to you and I feel like I’m drowning. I’m sick of hearing my own thoughts and what others say, that I don’t deserve the call-up, that I’m finished at twenty six. And you—” His voice broke properly this time. “You look at me like I’m still the same person, like all of this is just temporary. What if it’s not, Pedri? What if this is me now?” 

Pedri’s frustration cracked into something rawer. He stepped forward, reaching out, but Ferran took a half-step back. 

“I look at you like that because I love you,” Pedri said, voice thick. “Not because I’m blind. I see how much it’s killing you, but you won’t let me in. You won’t even let yourself try. Passing the ball today wasn’t about the team, it was about fear. And I’m scared too, scared that one day you’ll walk away completely.” 

Ferran’s shoulders trembled. “Maybe I should. After all, you deserve someone who isn’t carrying all this shit in his head, someone who can actually perform when it matters instead of freezing.” 

“Don’t you dare.” Pedri’s voice dropped dangerously low. “Don’t you fucking dare decide what I deserve. You’ve been there for me when I went through the worst and I’m not gonna disappear on you now. I chose you. I chose the guy who bothers me at training and makes me feel like the luckiest person alive, not the version of you that scores every week or not. Just you.” 

Ferran shook his head, tears spilling over now. “Then maybe you chose wrong.” The words landed between them like broken glass. 

Pedri recoiled. For a second, the fight drained out of him, replaced by pure hurt. “Is that what you think?” 

“I don’t know anymore.” Ferran’s voice was barely above a whisper. He wiped at his face roughly. “I just know that every time I look at you, I feel guilty because you’re carrying me and the team and your own pressure and I’m… I’m nothing right now. A passenger.” 

“You’re not a passenger.” Pedri’s hands clenched at his sides. “But you’re sure as hell pushing me away like one. I can’t keep doing this, tiptoeing around you, pretending everything’s okay when it’s not. I miss my boyfriend. I miss the person who would’ve shot that chance today and laughed if it went wrong because at least he tried.” 

Ferran stared at him, chest heaving. The silence stretched, ugly and heavy. 

“I can’t be that person right now,” he said eventually. “I’m sorry.” 

Pedri swallowed hard. His eyes burned. “Then what are we doing here, Ferran?” Another long, terrible pause. 

Ferran looked away. “I don’t know.” 

The words hung in the air like smoke after an explosion. Pedri stood there, heart hammering, feeling the distance between them widen into something vast and terrifying. Ferran turned toward the window, arms wrapped around himself, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear. 

Pedri wanted to reach for him, pull him close and apologize for pushing. But the hurt and frustration still simmered too hot. 

“I’m going out for a walk,” Pedri said quietly. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. “I need… air.” 

Ferran didn’t respond. Didn’t turn around. 

Pedri grabbed a hoodie, Ferran’s, and left the room. The door clicked shut behind him with devastating softness. 

In the empty corridor, he leaned against the wall, eyes closed, and breathed through the ache in his chest. He could still hear Ferran’s broken voice. Maybe you chose wrong. 

Back in the room, Ferran finally let the sob escape. He slid down the wall by the window, knees drawn up, face buried in his arms. The tears came hard and ugly, the kind he’d been holding back since the first missed chance. Everything hurt. The missed chance, the argument, the look on Pedri’s face when he’d said those awful words. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, maybe long enough for the sky outside to darken and for his legs to go numb. 

He missed Pedri already. Missed the steady warmth of him. Missed being loved so fiercely even when he couldn’t love himself sometimes. But the voices in his head were louder tonight. They told him he’d finally done it. He’d pushed away the one person who made all of this bearable. And maybe that was for the best. 

Pedri didn’t go far. He ended up on the hotel rooftop terrace, empty at this hour, staring out at the city lights. His phone burned a hole in his pocket. No messages. No calls. 

He typed and deleted three different texts before giving up. 

The fight replayed on loop: every word, every flinch, the way Ferran had looked at him like he genuinely believed he was worthless. 

Pedri pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw stars. I love him so much, he thought into the night. I wish I knew what to do.

He stayed on the rooftop for nearly an hour, the night in Guadalajara wrapping around him like a damp blanket. The anger eventually drained away and left only a deep, bone-aching fear. He couldn’t lose Ferran, not like this, not over missed chances and silenced pain. 

He’s breaking, Pedri thought, staring at the city lights. And I’ve been trying to hold him together with tape and kisses. Maybe he needed to fight harder, really fight. 

He took the elevator down with purpose in his steps. When he opened the door to their room, the lights were still on. Ferran sat on the floor by the window exactly where Pedri had left him, knees drawn to his chest, eyes red and swollen. He looked up when the door clicked shut, and something raw flashed across his face, relief mixed with fresh pain. 

“You came back,” Ferran said hoarsely. 

“Of course I did.” Pedri dropped to his knees in front of him, close but not touching. “I’m not walking away. I’m here. I’m choosing you, Ferri. Even when things get hard, especially when things get hard.” 

Ferran let out a shaky breath, like he’d been holding it since Pedri left. For a moment, Pedri thought maybe they could pull back from the edge, but then Ferran spoke. 

“I don’t know if I can stand it anymore, Pedri.” 

Pedri’s stomach twisted. “The scrutiny?” 

“All of it.” Ferran’s voice was quiet, but every word carried weight. “The cameras on me when I miss, the comments, the way people look at me like I’m supposed to be grateful just to be here. I don’t feel important anymore, Pedri. Not to the team. Not to the fans. I feel like… like dead weight, a mistake they keep giving chances to.” 

“You’re not.” Pedri reached out, cupping Ferran’s face with both hands, thumbs brushing away fresh tears. “You are important. To the squad, to the coaches, and to me. God, to me you’re everything, Ferri. You’re the person I want to text after anything happens, the only one who makes hotel rooms feel like home. I love you. That’s not going anywhere.” 

Ferran leaned into the touch for a second, eyes closing. Then he gently pulled Pedri’s hands away, holding them between them instead. 

“I know you love me,” he whispered. “And I love you too, so much it hurts, but that’s not enough right now.” 

The words hit Pedri like a tackle from behind. 

“What?” 

Ferran looked at him, really looked, and his expression was the most honest it had been in weeks. It was exhausted and defeated, but clear. 

“Your love is beautiful. It’s the best thing in my life, but I can’t keep using it as a bandage for everything that’s broken inside me. Every time I miss a chance or see those comments, I tell myself ‘at least Pedri still sees me.’ Every night I crawl into bed with you and let you hold me and pretend it shuts down the noise in my head… it doesn't. It just makes me feel guiltier for not being better, for not being fixed already.” 

Pedri’s throat tightened. “I never asked you to be fixed. I just want to be with you through it.” 

“I know.” Ferran’s grip on his hands trembled. “But I’m not okay, Pedri. I’m spiraling. And I’m dragging you down with me. You’re frustrated on the pitch because of me. You’re walking on eggshells off it. That’s not fair to you. I can’t keep trying to fix everything with our relationship because it's not working for neither of us.” 

Pedri felt tears burning behind his eyes. “So what? You’re giving up on us?” 

“I’m trying not to.” Ferran’s voice cracked. “That’s why I think… I think we need a break.”

The word landed heavily between them. 

“A break,” Pedri repeated dully. 

“Just for a bit, while the tournament’s still going, while I try to sort my head out without using you as my only anchor.” Ferran swallowed hard. “I need to figure out if I can stand in front of the goal again without hearing all the voices, without wondering if I deserve to be there. I need to focus on myself right now. And you… you need to focus on playing without worrying about me every second.” 

Pedri shook his head, panic rising. “I don’t care about that. I want to worry about you. That’s what being together means.” 

Ferran gave him a small, sad smile. “But it’s consuming you. I see it. And it’s consuming me too. I love you too much to keep hurting you like this.” 

Silence stretched. Pedri searched Ferran’s face for any crack in his resolve. He found none, just quiet determination mixed with devastation. 

“So that’s it?” Pedri asked, voice breaking. “We just… stop?” 

“We take space,” Ferran corrected softly. “No more sharing a room, no more sneaking around like we used to. I’ll ask to switch with someone. We focus on the team. And when this is over… if you still want me, we talk.” 

Pedri wanted to argue, wanted to pull Ferran into his arms and kiss him until he took it all back. Instead, he sat back on his heels, feeling hollow. 

“I hate this,” he whispered. 

“I know.” Ferran reached out, hesitating, then brushed a stray curl from Pedri’s forehead. His touch lingered. “I hate it too, more than anything. But I seriously think we need it.” 

They stayed like that for a long time, on the floor, close but already pulling apart. Eventually Pedri stood, moving mechanically to pack a few things into his bag. Ferran watched him, eyes tracking every movement like he was memorizing it. 

Before Pedri left for the night, he paused at the door. 

“You’re important to me,” he said one last time. “Not because of goals. Because you’re Ferran. My Ferri.” 

Ferran nodded, fresh tears slipping down his cheeks. “I hope one day I can believe that again.” 

Pedri stepped into the hallway, the door closing behind him with a quiet click that sounded louder than any stadium roar. He leaned against the wall, bag heavy on his shoulder, and let himself cry properly for the first time in weeks. 

Down the hall, he could hear muffled voices, his teammates laughing in someone’s room, oblivious. The tournament went on. Life went on. 

But in that room, Ferran curled up alone on the big bed, pressing his face into the pillow that still smelled like Pedri, and the silence was deafening. He had asked for space. Now he had to learn how to live inside it without falling apart completely. 

Pedri found an empty room on another floor after a quiet word with one of the staff. He lay on the unfamiliar bed staring at the ceiling, phone in his hand. No messages. He didn’t send any either. 

Just for now, he told himself. He’ll come back. We’ll be okay. 

But the bed felt too big. The night felt too long. And somewhere deep down, a small voice whispered the same fear that had been eating at Ferran for weeks: 

What if love really isn’t enough this time? 

ONE MONTH LATER

The sun of Tenerife felt different now, somehow softer. He sat on the rocky edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean, legs dangling over the water far below, while Fer and a couple of their cousins laughed further down the path.

It had been one month since the World Cup ended, since he and Ferran had last properly spoken, only communicating through a few polite nods in the dressing room. A single text from Ferran two days after they’d returned home read: Take care of yourself, amor. Pedri had replied with you too, love you and then forced himself to stop checking his phone every five minutes. 

He was respecting the break they both needed. God, it was killing him, but he was doing it. 

“Pedri! You coming in?” his brother shouted, waving from the water’s edge. 

“In a bit!” he called back, offering a smile that felt mostly real these days. 

The family trip had been planned long before everything fell apart. His parents had insisted he come anyway. “You need the sun and your people,” his mother had said, pulling him into one of those hugs that made the world feel smaller and safer. They didn’t know the full story. Pedri had only said they were “figuring things out.” His family knew enough not to push. 

Still, Ferran lingered in every quiet moment. Pedri would usually catch himself smiling at something funny his cousins said and immediately think Ferri would love this, or he’d wake up from a nap on the terrace and reach instinctively for the bigger warm body that wasn’t there. At night, when the house was quiet, he replayed their last fight on loop, not the anger, but the pain in Ferran’s voice when he’d said love wasn’t enough anymore. 

He needed this, Pedri reminded himself for the thousandth time, skipping a stone across the water. Space to heal without him hovering, without feeling like he had to be okay only for Pedri’s sake. 

He hoped Ferran was doing better. He uploaded occasional clips while training that showed he was moving well, with that familiar focused expression. Pedri never watched for long, though. It hurt too much. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. For one stupid second his heart jumped, but it was just Eric sending a meme. He replied with a laughing emoji and tucked the phone away again. 

The truth was, Pedri still loved him, deeply and achingly. The break hadn’t changed that. If anything, the distance had clarified that Ferran wasn’t just a boyfriend. He was woven into Pedri’s life in ways that felt permanent, in the way he pronounced certain words when he was tired, in the little hum he made when food tasted good, in how safe Pedri felt when those arms wrapped around him from behind. 

But love alone, although beautiful, wasn't enough at that moment. Pedri understood that now, even if it still stung. 

“Alright, enough moping,” he muttered to himself. He brushed the dust off his shorts, and jogged down to join his family in the water. The cold shock of the ocean made him gasp, then laugh as his brother splashed him mercilessly. For a while, he let himself be present, just a guy from Tenerife enjoying the summer with the people who loved him unconditionally. 

Later that afternoon, Pedri drove the familiar winding roads back toward the family home in his old car, windows down and music playing low. His hair was still damp from the sea, skin warm from the sun. He felt lighter than he had in weeks.

Their house came into view, and then his heart stopped. 

A sleek black car was parked in front, not one of the family’s. 

Because leaning against it, hands in the pockets of his pants, was Ferran. 

He looked so good. Sunlight caught in his hair, which had grown out a little. He wore a simple white t-shirt and shorts, sunglasses pushed up on his head. There was a nervousness in the way he shifted his weight, in the way his eyes tracked Pedri’s car as it slowed to a stop a few metres away. 

Pedri killed the engine. For a moment, he just sat there, gripping the steering wheel and staring. His pulse thundered in his ears. One month of radio silence, of respecting space, of telling himself he’d wait as long as it took, and here he was. At his family home, unannounced like a miracle.

He finally stepped out and closed the door with a soft thud. The distance between them felt electric. 

“Ferri,” Pedri said, voice quieter than he intended. “What are you…?” 

Ferran straightened up, pulling his hands from his pockets. He looked unsure in a way Pedri rarely saw, vulnerable, almost shy. 

“I know I should’ve texted first,” Ferran said. He offered a small, tentative smile. “But I was scared you’d tell me not to come. Or that you weren’t ready. So I just came.” 

Pedri took a few steps closer, close enough to see the faint freckles the summer sun had brought out across Ferran’s nose, close enough to smell the familiar cologne mixed with sea air. 

“You’re here,” Pedri said, almost disbelieving. “In my home.” 

“Yeah.” Ferran rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a lot, showing up like this. But I’ve been thinking about you every day, about us, and I… I needed to see you, badly.” 

Pedri’s chest tightened with a mix of hope and fear. He wanted to pull him into his arms. He wanted to kiss him crazy and ask a hundred questions, but instead, he said the only thing that felt safe. 

“Do you want to come inside?” 

Ferran’s eyes softened. “Only if that’s okay. I don’t want to interrupt your time with your family. I can wait, or we can talk out here. Whatever you need.” 

Pedri glanced toward the house. His mother’s car was gone, she’d mentioned going into town. His brother was still at the beach with their cousins. So they had time, a little at least. 

“It’s okay,” Pedri said. “They’re out for a while.” 

The relief on Ferran’s face was palpable. He followed Pedri up the short path, their shoulders nearly brushing. Neither of them spoke as they stepped inside the cool, tiled entryway. 

Pedri led them to the kitchen, gesturing awkwardly to a chair. “Do you want water? Or… something else?” 

“Water’s fine.” Ferran sat, watching him move around the familiar space. “Your house is nice. It feels like you.” 

Pedri filled two glasses, hands only slightly unsteady. He set one in front of Ferran and took the seat across from him. Their eyes met properly for the first time in a month. 

“You look fine,” Pedri said softly. “Less tired.” 

“I’ve been working on it,” Ferran admitted. “With therapy, and more honest talks with the coaches, trying to quiet the noise a bit.” He paused, tracing the rim of his glass with one finger. “It’s not perfect. I still spiral, but I’m learning how to sit with it instead of running or faking it... or pushing people away.” 

Pedri’s heart ached at the quiet honesty. This was what he’d wanted, for Ferran to heal, even if it meant doing it without him. 

“I’m glad,” he said. “Really.” 

Ferran looked down at his hands. “I meant what I said in Mexico. Our love wasn’t enough to fix me. That’s a weight I can’t put on you and it’s not fair to any of us. But, in a way, it was enough to remind me I’m worth fixing. That someone sees me as more than the guy who misses sometimes.” 

The silence that followed was gentler than the ones they’d shared in the hotel. Hopeful, almost. 

Pedri leaned forward slightly. “So what now? Why come here?” 

Ferran met his gaze again, eyes steady despite the nervousness. 

“Because I miss you so much,” he said. “And I think I’m ready to try again. Not to use you as glue… but as someone who’s starting to stand on his own. If you’ll still have me.” 

Pedri’s breath caught. The words he’d been waiting a month to hear. He opened his mouth to respond when the sound of a car pulling up outside made them both freeze. 

His family was home. 

Ferran’s eyes widened. “Shit. I can go—” 

“No,” Pedri said quickly, a small smile breaking through for the first time. “Stay, please. They’ve always liked you anyway.” 

As doors slammed outside and voices carried in, Pedri reached across the table and brushed his fingers against Ferran’s, just once, a promise. They still had a lot to talk about, but for the first time in a month, the future didn’t feel quite so empty. 

Ferran stood up quickly when the front door opened, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Pedri’s mother was the first inside, carrying bags from the market. She stopped mid-step, eyes widening. 

“Ferran?” Her face broke into a bright, genuine smile. “Oh, what a surprise! Come here, son.” 

She pulled him into a hug before he could even respond. Ferran melted into it a little, the tension in his shoulders easing. Pedri’s father followed, clapping Ferran on the back with contentment. 

“Good to see you, Ferran. You staying for dinner?” 

“I— uh, I don’t want to impose,” Ferran started, but Pedri’s father was already grinning. 

“Impose? You’re part of our family, boy.” 

Pedri watched the scene unfold with a warmth blooming in his chest he hadn’t felt in weeks. His family didn’t ask questions. They didn’t need to. The subtle glances they sent his way said everything: We’re glad he’s here. We’re glad you two found your way back. His mother’s eyes lingered on them both a second longer than necessary, soft and knowing.  

The afternoon slipped into evening with surprising ease. They ate outside on the long wooden table under string lights. Ferran sat beside Pedri, their knees brushing occasionally under the table, and very time it happened, a small spark traveled up Pedri’s leg. 

His cousins teased Ferran about that goal he scored in el Clásico in front of Olivia Rodrigo, and his brother asked for stories from the World Cup camp. Ferran answered them all with that quiet charm Pedri had fallen for years ago, humble, a little shy, but present. When his mother asked how he was doing, Ferran glanced at Pedri for half a second before answering honestly. 

“Better,” he said. “Taking it one day at a time.” 

Pedri’s father gave a slow nod of approval. His mother reached over and squeezed Ferran’s hand once. The glances kept coming, soft, happy ones. Finally, they seemed to say. You two were always better together. 

By the time the plates were cleared and goodnights exchanged, Pedri felt lighter than he had in months. 

The house grew quiet after everyone went to bed. Pedri led Ferran upstairs to the wide balcony overlooking the beach. A small fireplace crackled in the corner, more for ambiance than heat on this warm summer night. They had brought blankets anyway, old habit. Two mugs of herbal tea steamed gently on the low table between their chairs. 

Ferran wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and stared out at the dark water, the distant lights of boats blinking like stars. 

“I missed this,” he said quietly. “Being with you like this under no pressure.” 

Pedri shifted closer until their shoulders touched. The fireplace painted warm flickers across Ferran’s face. 

“I missed you every single day,” Pedri admitted. “I tried to give you space, I really did. But there were so many moments where I wanted to text you stupid things or call just to hear your voice. I kept wondering if you still wanted me… or if I’d lost you for good.” 

Ferran turned to look at him, eyes shining in the firelight. 

“You didn’t lose me, ever. I was scared I’d lost myself. After our fight… I felt so broken, like I was failing everyone, especially you. The break hurt, but it helped me. I started seeing my therapist more, talking about the pressure, the expectations, the voices that tell me I’m not enough no matter how many goals I score.” He reached over, lacing their fingers together. “I’m not fixed, Pedri. I still have bad days, but I’m learning how to carry this better. And I want to carry it with you by my side, if you’ll let me.” 

Pedri squeezed his hand, throat tight with emotion. “I never wanted you to be fixed. I just wanted you to let me in, to stop pushing me away because you thought you were protecting me. I love all of you, with the goals or the misses, I don't care. I love you, Ferri.” 

Ferran’s eyes filled. 

“I know that now,” he breathed, voice cracking with emotion. “God, baby… I missed you so much, every single day. Every night I’d lie there thinking about you, about how safe I feel when you’re next to me. I love you so much. I never stopped, not for a second.”

He squeezed Pedri’s hand tighter, leaning in until their foreheads almost touched. Pedri cupped Ferran’s face with his free hand. His thumb brushed gently across a cheekbone. 

“We both messed up,” he whispered. “I pushed too hard because I was scared of losing you. But we’re here now. That’s what matters.” 

Ferran leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When he opened them again, they were full of quiet certainty. 

“I don’t want to be apart anymore,” he said. “I want my boyfriend with me, every day. If you still want that too.” 

Pedri smiled, the kind that reached all the way to his eyes. “I’ve wanted that since the moment you showed up today, and since before that. Always.” 

The fire crackled softly as they leaned in. The first kiss was hesitant, gentle and slow, like rediscovering something precious. His hand came up to rest at the nape of Pedri’s neck, fingers threading through his hair. Pedri sighed into it, months of missing him poured out in the press of lips. 

They parted just enough to breathe, foreheads resting together. 

“I love you,” Ferran whispered against his mouth. “So much.” 

“I love you too, Ferri,” Pedri answered. “We’re going to be okay.” 

They kissed again, deeper this time. Sweeter. Ferran’s hand slid into Pedri’s hair as he tilted his head, kissing him like he was trying to make up for every silent night they’d spent apart. Pedri smiled into it, then laughed softly when Ferran nipped at his bottom lip.

“Missed this mouth,” Ferran mumbled against him, stealing another kiss, then another, growing playfully greedy.

“Yeah?” Pedri teased, pulling back just enough to grin. “I missed all of you. A month is way too long, Ferri. I was going insane.”

Ferran laughed, bright and warm, and cupped Pedris’s face with both hands, kissing him slowly and thoroughly until they were both a little breathless and smiling like idiots. When they finally broke apart, Pedri let out a happy little sigh and tucked himself against Ferran’s side, head resting on his shoulder.

Ferran wrapped an arm around him, pulling the blanket tighter around them both. He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of Pedri’s head, then another to his temple, unable to stop.

“You’re so clingy tonight,” Pedri murmured fondly, lips brushing his hair.

“Shut up. I earned this,” Ferran retorted. He tilted his head up and stole one more soft kiss, lazy and content. “Too long without you. I’m allowed to be clingy.”

They stayed like that for a long while, trading gentle kisses between quiet words, the fire crackling softly beside them. At one point Ferran shifted and accidentally knocked over his mug. The little clatter made them both freeze, then dissolve into hushed laughter like teenagers afraid of getting caught.

“Smooth, Shark,” Pedri whispered, still chuckling as he nuzzled into Ferran’s neck. “Very romantic.”

“Oh, I’m trying to be emotionally vulnerable here and you’re bullying me,” Ferran complained, though he was smiling so wide it reached his eyes. He turned and kissed Pedri again, slow and sweet, tasting like tea and happiness.

Pedri wrapped both arms around him fully, holding him close under the blanket as they watched the dark ocean glitter under the stars. The night air was warm and for the first time in a long time everything felt right. This was more than enough. Ferran was here, warm, real, his. And this time, they would do it better.