Archive of Our Own ^beta

Joan is always taller than everyone else in the room.

It’s a standard for all European men his age, Joan figures, and thus Joan doesn’t pride himself in that. Except for occasions when his height comes especially in handy. For example when he helps his mother change the light bulb because he is the only breathing person in his family who does not need a supporting chair, or when he plays as a goalkeeper and he finds it a lot easier to save an in-air ball all thanks to his 6’ 4’’ body. 

“You are so tall.”

“Sorry?”

Flick is doing his routine oral coaching when Pedri—the evergreen Pedri, the midfield maestro of FC Barcelona—who happens to stand beside Joan that morning whispers something Joan is sure he must have misheard, or confused it with a wind. Or something. 

“No—sorry.” Pedri chuckles heartily, his lips turning wide. A genuine smile spreads across  his face. Joan has no idea why he finds himself stealing glances at Pedri from the corner of his eye as though his brain commands him to record every single detail and savor it. What he doesn’t anticipate is when Pedri leans his body closer afterward—moving ever so slowly before he drops his tone to a whisper. Joan shouldn’t find it mesmerising, shouldn’t take it as though they share a secret only they know because it’s such a normal thing to do to your friend. Alas, Joan feels the stupid thud-thud-thud of his heart instead when Pedri continues. “Don’t bother about it. It’s just … something that struck me this morning. I think that’s impressive. You being exceptionally tall.”

Joan doesn’t respond. He can’t; partly because Flick is still speaking and he doesn’t want to be disrespectful by not paying proper attention and partly because his capability to string the fitting words is suddenly nil. 

The lack of response doesn’t seem to bother Pedri either. His straight posture returns, still with both hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on Flick. Joan should follow suit. Should maintain his concentration back to Flick. Should embed every counsel into his mind. Instead, he is busy capturing Pedri’s side profile. Pedri’s wispy eyelashes. Pedri’s defined eyebrows. Pedri’s cheeks that glow red under the golden sun of Catalonia. Joan has never seen them in this close proximity before, nor has he ever wanted to superimpose such a sight into his memory. 

And if a peculiar shade of red slowly begins to glow on Joan’s cheeks as well—the fault, too, must be on the wind.

Later that day, Joan learns that he is the third tallest player in the club.

The first being Tek. Fork found in the kitchen. The second being Marc, as in Marc Bernal. Joan swears on all that is holy. This kid embodies the greediness that has only ever been written in the Bible. Blud’s position is not even at centreback. In what ways does his tall build contribute to his role on the playing field? Most importantly, what do they feed those kids in La Masia?

“Do you think I can get taller and surpass Bernal?” Joan finds it strange to address that wonderkid by his first name. They haven’t interacted much. So Bernal it is.

“What.” Eric, who is about to kick the ball in front of him, pauses, and glares at him with a look that conveys a muted are you deadass?

The collective practice has ended. The YouTube live stream has been turned off as well. Joan and Eric remain on the field regardless. Joan figures he needs someone to practice more blocking techniques with, and Eric is more than willing to be of help. 

“No, scratch that. I can get taller. Do you know that Bernal is 6’ 4” and I’m 6’ 3”? I’m confident I’ll have no problem surpassing that kid anytime soon.” Joan, still has his arms outstretched and his upper body facing the ball rolled under Eric’s feet, continues to babble. “One thing, though. I read from the Internet that men stop experiencing spurts after reaching 21 years. But if I talk to someone from the medical department they might have a solution for that, no?”

Eric’s eyebrow hikes skyward. He takes a few steps backward before approaching the ball and striking its lower part with passion as he bellows, “In case somebody with a sane mind hasn’t let you know today, you don’t make so much sense, Joan!”

Joan deflects the coming ball effortlessly. He flashes a toothy smile, almost too giddy for his own liking. “I know.” 

Joan knows he doesn’t make any sense. He absolutely has zero left of it when he googles Pedri by the time he gets a full time alone. Pedri’s birthday. Pedri’s game stats. Pedri’s height. Joan calculates their height differences and tries his damnedest not to jump for joy when the result states that they are nearly twenty centimeters apart. 

It never dawned on him before. The insane height difference.

To be fair, he’s just the new kid on the block whereas Pedri already settles as the beating heart of FC Barcelona. It’s always Pedri this and Pedri that. Joan is not envious about it. If anything, he admires the way Pedri is like their belle of the ball—endlessly being in the limelight and having somebody by his side. It’s as though he is this personification of tender sun and everyone else is destined to be the planet who orbits around him. When Joan says everyone, he really means everyone. The rest of the team, including Joan, is alternately being pulled toward Pedri on and off the pitch. Although Joan would like to consider himself a mere dust particle rather than a planet—short lived and unnoticed, constantly hovering above the edge of the water, waiting for the sun to shine its tenderness on him.

“Oh, you’re still here.”

And right on cue, Pedri appears.

Joan leaps back, his body rocked from mild startlement. He now realises that the dressing room is empty except for the two of them. Joan doesn’t remember when did everyone leave, but he recalls he purposely distanced himself from the rest of the team when he finally yielded to being bullheaded and embraced his terminal case of Pedri Curiosity. He was neither informed nor held a suspicion that the guy who had piqued his enthrallment was yet to leave.

He also did not calculate that Pedri would spring up in front of him shirtless. 

Joan tries not to gulp, to which he fails. He notices strands of wet hair and a towel draped over Pedri’s shoulder, immediately concluding that Pedri has just finished showering. So Joan supposes he should freshen up himself too before driving back home. His own jersey clings unpleasantly to his skin, heavy and slick, suctioned to his chest and his stomach. Must be the aftermath of catching and clearing the ball for hours straight. How could he miss that? Too caught up in this unquenchable Pedri Curiosity? Embarrassing. 

Joan remembers hearing the sound of running water as he settled into a chair in the dressing room when he arrived, but he was too engrossed in the idea of browsing Pedri’s profile page to wonder who the person behind the curtain might be.

“Well. I was about to go home.” Joan briskly tucks his phone inside his pocket. Change of plan. Perhaps he can leave without showering. It would be awkward to be confined in the same room with Pedri for longer than they already have been; just the two of them with nobody else. It would be bad for the state of his heart too. 

“Yeah?” Pedri doesn’t seem to mind. He shifts his focus onto his locker, opening it seamlessly. One thing that Joan deduces about Pedri: this guy can be so oblivious—borderline innocent—it is almost painful. Well, Joan is glad Pedri’s eagle-like vision seems to only apply on the field. He would be screwed had it also applied off of it. 

“Yeah.” Joan gets up from where he sits. He is about to bid the younger man a civil adieu and have the rest of his day unfold one-hundred-percent unperturbed if only his eyes don’t drift to Pedri for one last time.

Pedri, who for some reason, struggles to reach the top of the standing locker. Pedri, who for some reason, needs to stand on his tiptoe as tall as physically possible in order to brush the tip of his finger against whatever it is he aims for. Pedri, who for some reason, looks like he is one second away from jumping because—Joan would say this in the softest, nonjudging tone possible—with such height and circumstance that seems to be the most convenient way to do but decides not to possibly due to Joan being around. 

Joan releases a sigh rather than chuckling at the sight. The idea of Pedri holding himself back to preserve his last scrap of dignity in front of his own teammate doesn’t particularly entertain him. Joan understands the reasoning, honestly. He, too, would hate being unable to conduct a task as simple as reaching something from the top locker thus leading to him appearing marginally weaker in front of other men (although such a thing never happened before because he always towers over everyone). At the same time, Joan considers himself nothing more than just some ordinary guy who happens to be around. Not worth being performative or putting an act on. 

Really, Joan should have just pretended to be blind. 

Right?

Instinctively, Joan draws closer, positioning himself to stand behind Pedri’s body. Reckless, a voice in the back of Joan’s mind chides. Joan sets his hand on Pedri’s waist as if to pacify him while his other hand extends over the smaller male to clutch onto whatever it is that Pedri is trying to reach. Foolish. The voice adds as Joan discovers a shirt folded there. 

Now what. They are stuck in this awkward position, neither willing to depart first. The damage has already been done with no reverse button. Joan has already toed over the invisible line, has already crossed into forbidden territory that he knows is not meant to be stepped over.

From this angle, Joan gets a clear view of Pedri’s figure. His upper back is on full display, from the shoulder to the column of his spine to the narrow curve of his waist. His skin is as smooth and unblemished as the first snow.

There comes a moment of pure, deafening silence. Total nothingness. Like the earth just freezes over. Joan doesn’t move, afraid that he will discompose Pedri. Afraid that if he does, something within him will sway, will fall victim to his irrational desire. 

“Ferran must have pulled a prank on me again, didn’t he.” Pedri falters, almost as if he says it only to fill the silence between them with something. 

“I wouldn’t know about that,” utters Joan solemnly. “Thought it was my stuff because it looked quite similar. Turns out it wasn’t.”

What a terrible lie. Anyone can see right through him. Joan just wants to save Pedri from potential embarrassment without making the younger assume that Joan is belittling him or something of the kind. 

Joan pulls the shirt down from the locker, but does not hand it to Pedri right away. Now both of his arms stay on either side of Pedri’s much smaller body, as if to cage him. Neither of them move nor speak. That’s when Joan realises the lack of safe distance between them. They are way too close—way too dangerously close. Covered chest to naked back. Pent-up breath against the back of the other’s soft neck.  

The silence is back again. This time it is too heavy, too thick—to the point Joan can familiarise himself with Pedri’s scent, an intimate mixture of clean soap and shampoo. Joan wants to bury his nose against the focal point of that scent, and permeate the scent into his own skin. Wants to be closer. Wants to dizzy himself. Wants to tear down the invisible bricks that formed the barriers between them.

Pedri does not look up at Joan, but Joan can see his eyes widen, his shoulders stiffen, his cheeks redden. Must be the fruit of a hot shower. Joan lets out a sigh he doesn’t realise he’s been holding. He hopes it doesn’t mess up with Pedri as much as this messes up with him. “You—is this shirt yours?” 

It feels illicit, saying Pedri’s name in a circumstance like this. So you it is. You and your pretty complexion. You and your natural blush. You and your not tiny but definitely small enough to have my body wrapped around yours figure. You, you, you. 

“... yes.” There is a strain in Pedri’s voice, a mixture note of wariness and something else that Joan can’t decipher.

“Alright.” Joan hands the shirt over, to which Pedri receives without saying anything. No enquiries. No thank yous. Joan prefers it that way. Any kind of reciprocal movement from the younger man would drive him even crazier. “I’m taking my leave now. See you.”

Joan recedes to the exit door. He wonders if Pedri also shares this ache—this urge to stay impossibly close. 

There will be consequences. Joan isn’t keen to consider them right now.

It’s nasty.

Joan slumps into the driver’s seat of his car. He had seen this coming honestly, but he imagined it happening on the edge of his comforting bed, not in his own car that is still parked in the training camp where any lunatic reporter could easily snap a photo and create a buzz out of it on Twitter however they like. 

What’s happening to me? He asks himself a rhetorical question. He tilts the driver seat, just enough so he can spread his long legs. The smell of Pedri’s shampoo still lingers on his nose and it makes his dick twitch uncomfortably under his slacks it might start cutting off blood soon if he doesn’t do anything to it. Jesus.

Is it gay to unwind yourself to the thoughts of your half-naked teammate? It is. Joan doesn’t need another Google click to find out the answer. He has long accepted that he might not fully belong to the most common sexuality in the world. Nonetheless, Joan has been upfront with girls a couple times. That’s how he disguises whatever shit he hides underneath. He would like to think that he has been doing a wonderful job at it. 

This time, though.

Joan feels almost lightheaded when he slips his hand beneath the fabric of his slacks, pulse rate picking up from the sole anticipation of what is about to come. He lets the palm of his hand cup his cock gently, holds it there for a moment, liking the warmth it gives off before he starts to squeeze his hand around it in pulsing motions. A sharp rush of blood simmers southwards in his veins at the hurried touch.

Joan spirals as he tilts his head back so jerky he chokes on his own spit. There’s a tide rising hot in his gut, in his thighs. He suddenly needs something to hold onto. He imagines it to be Pedri’s damp and freshly-showered hair, but he can only grip on the steering wheel more consciously as his other hand massages his dick harder. Pedri’s rosy cheeks. Pedri’s soft smile. Pedri’s soothing voice. His voice is much less rougher than Joan’s, but Joan thinks it suits him well. With that voice Pedri would sound heavenly moaning his name, Joan surmises.

He relishes himself in the imagination of it all for a moment. He starts moving his fisted hand up and down his shaft in idly movements, making electricity emerge in the pit of his stomach. His hips buck forward in an unsuccessful attempt to make contact with the air that he mentally pictures to be Pedri’s bare ass. Joan bites his lip to prevent any sound from coming out of his throat. No one sees him, but even little noises seem too much in the small space of his car. Or perchance Joan is afraid of his own sound—of the guttural noises that are gonna come out like a predator hungry for his prey.

And then, like a thunderbolt, his subconscious snaps him out of his act of self-pleasure. Come on, you are better than this. 

Joan motions a full stop. He can’t. He shouldn’t. If he loses to his better judgments again this time, he won’t know how he will ever be able to bounce back. 

He can’t do this to himself. But more than anything, he can’t do this to Pedri. To his own teammate. To his friend. To the player whom he put deep regard upon. Joan refuses to continue and risks the likelihood of having to perceive Pedri as a boy whom he would like to bend over and nothing more thereafter should he keep going. He doesn’t want to reduce Pedri to a mere body; a mouthful, a function, a means to an end.

This is not something that Joan’s moral fiber will be able to justify.

Joan admonishes himself for one last time, trying to extinguish the smoke inside his brain as he retreats his hand from his brief. The high hasn’t worn off, but Joan’s headspace is a lot clearer now.

God, grace me strength.

Joan tries his best to play it cool. 

He tries not to overreact when Flick assigns him to the same team as Pedri during dual group practice. He tries to keep his mind on the game, even when the sight of Pedri running after the ball from one fieldside to another, seemingly unaware of his cheeks glowing with the hues of ripe strawberries under the scorching summer sun, makes Joan’s chest tighten with greater admiration than he already harbors. He tries to seem nonchalant when their group wins and it’s a long-standing tradition in FC Barcelona to take a post-match group photo. He tries not to get carried away and break the character when Pedri secures a spot just in front of him before the camera shutter clicks.

Staying between the goal posts makes Joan become accustomed to staring. Long enough, attentive enough to notice that Pedri moves like someone born to everything that he has accomplished until now—simply methodical, precise, and full of hard work. His world reduces to the next necessary pass. You’d think he is chasing applause, but it’s just the ball. He’s always, always after the ball. 

“He’s so good.”

“Who?” Eric mimics confusion. 

“No one.” Blurts a nervous-sounding Joan as he diverts his attention away. 

Eric follows Joan’s gaze. His eyes immediately capture Pedri who is laughing with some other players, sipping on his water bottle occasionally amidst their chat, unaware of the supervision. It doesn’t take long for Eric to put his thinking cap on and dipping into full ackshually moment. “The greatest in the making, I’d say. The football world’s his oyster. But sure. Good would work on him as well.”

It’s nice—to know that Pedri seems to heap admiration in all directions. It’s maddening—because Joan realises what he harbors toward Pedri is not something as simple as a pure admiration, but something more complex—more potent, more blistering, more, more, more, and deep down he refuses to share this—whatever this is—with anyone. It’s too personal. Too invasive. Too encompassing. He is not sure he can give away this exclusivity just yet. 

It’s his and his alone, Joan decides.

Vissel Kobe is a worthy opponent.

Joan concedes them a goal just minutes before the first half ends. It marks the day of his Blaugrana debut as a new goalkeeper, pretty much every Culés tunes in. Joan just wants to prove his worth, wants to parade to them why he deserves the number-one back number even though it’s only for the pre-season, wants to show the RCD Espanyol fans that he is not just a ‘rat’ that they ridicule him to be, wants to show everybody out there why he was the one picked by Flick out of bunch of other goalkeepers available in the transfer market. 

Despite ending the first half with a tie and they still have a chance to claim victory in the second half, a part of Joan still feels uneasy. People are gonna jabber more about his error rather than his saves,  about how he was unable to save that one attack when it should have been easy peasy for ‘the mason of FC Barcelona’. One rotten apple spoils the whole barrel or whatever.

“Good game.” Pedri heartily back pats him when they sit on the bench. Flick rotates the squad for the last half. Tek is the one with goalkeeper’s gloves on the field now. 

“I could have made it great.” Joan admits, trying his best to mask the crack of disappointment in the hole of his chest all while still welcoming Pedri’s approach. 

“Sit back. It’s only a friendly,” Pedri reassures him. “And this is, what, your first game with us?”

Joan hums. If only Pedri knows that right now he is more concerned of accidentally making a fool of himself and turning their conversation sour than ruing what already happened on the pitch. “That dribbling was awesome, by the way.” 

“Thanks.” Pedri smiles with a steadfast confidence that drips from his tone like honey, drawing Joan’s gaze to eye him once more. It burns again. The light shade of strawberry on Pedri’s cheeks burns again. Shut up, Joan thinks, unable to look the other way. Shut up. I’m gonna kiss you. “You see, Joan, that’s how you take a compliment from your teammate who is not gonna turn their back on you so easily in case of anything.” 

That catches Joan off guard. Is the guy before him aware of his apprehension? Of the wave of outrage from certain sections of the fanbase of his previous club that have been bugging him lately? Of the partial reason as to why he restricted his Instagram comments up until now? Of his deeply repressed fear?

Joan resumes the conversation. “Got a lot to learn, haven’t I?”

Pedri titters. It’s infectious. Joan can’t help but put on a wide smile. Not a laugh, just a smile, but definitely as sincere. The kind that can only come up if Pedri is the one pulling the trigger. It's kind of disarming, honestly, how Pedri is not aware of his own charm yet he wears it so naturally. It turns Joan into a more nervous wreck than he already is.

“Want to join me to stroll around the city if we win this later?” the offer comes out of Pedri’s mouth out of nowhere. Joan parts his lips, but nothing comes out. Too perplexed by how their conversation goes. Pedri seems to realise, and therefore he hastens to add. “There will be other guys too.”

So it’s not a date. “I don’t see why not.”

They won against Vissel Kobe.

Pedri means his words, like he always does. The day after the match, they go out together with several other guys. Joan doesn’t exactly have a particular destination in mind, so he just happily tags along. He doesn’t expect a date with Pedri (not that he would be against that idea), but he has to admit that having Ferran, Dani, Inigo, and Eric around clearly helps him to not be on edge for the whole evening. 

The other guys talk freely albeit the awkward air that washes over Joan. Joan can’t exactly jump right in. Oftentimes he just huffs, letting out a sigh that feels almost like laughter. He wants to fit in, he really does, but he is also especially comfortable with silence. He prefers fading into the background most of the time, partly why he enjoys standing between a goalpost rather than joining somewhere more forward and dictating the tempo of the match for ninety minutes straight. He realises that he likes to be an unobtrusive piece of the scene; to just help behind the curtain, to exist as an afterthought—“Joan who? Oh, that Barcelona’s new goalkeeper. He is nice enough, I guess.” 

Nice enough is safe. Nice enough is a comfortable distance between the perception that people build on him and the parts of him that he allows others perceive. 

“So, how do you like Japan?” Joan just finishes what he decides to be his last plate of sushi when Pedri suddenly throws him a question. 

Ah, right. As if everything doesn’t feel enough like a fever dream, the Universe just conspires in his favour and decides that today is the day for Pedri to eat exactly beside him. 

“Ten out of a ten.” Joan answers promptly, eyes focusing on Pedri’s munching mouth. He doesn’t know whether his answer was directed to Pedri’s question or rather Pedri’s lips.

“Better than Catalonia?”

“Now that’s hard.” Joan grins as he nervously scratches the back of his neck. “Home is where the heart is, they say.”

“I agree.” Pedri’s smile is sunshine. “I would say the same thing, except that mine seems to always be splitting. Between Catalonia and Tenerife, I can’t choose.”

Joan hums approvingly. He never pegs Pedri as someone who’s so thoughtful or layered off the pitch. So it’s both surprising and pleasant to unravel this side of him.

The lack of response seems to bother Pedri this time because he quickly adds, “Sorry I speak too much.”

“Not enough, actually.” Joan demurres, the words escaping before he can stop them. “Keep talking. I would love to know more.”

Pedri’s gaze lingers, a silent surprise hovering in the air. He doesn’t reply, neither does Joan. They keep glancing, exploring the eyes of each other, their mystery and their vastness, their dreams and their honesty.

Joan’s glance slowly softens, a mirror to Pedri’s quiet musing, as they lapse into another long beat of silence. This one feels strangely serene.

They head home before the last train to avoid any mishaps. 

The station is so crowded that there’s hardly any room for standing, leaving them with no choice but to split up just to find a comfortable spot for themselves. Olmo reassures them that as long as they know which station they should get off, they’ll be fine. Besides, they’re grown men with experience in commuting with public transportations and surviving Hansi Flick’s Special Force training. Neither the language barrier nor the unfamiliar city should faze them. 

This is not a part of Joan’s to-do list, really, but he naturally stays close to Pedri, keeping him within arm’s reach as they wait for their train to arrive at the platform. It’s no surprise that when the doors open, they end up lining up for the same carriage meanwhile the rest of the guys are scattered God knows where.

Joan wants to ask Pedri should we follow the other guys instead? But Pedri pockets his phone, eyes latched onto the train’s door as he mumbles. “Let’s go.” 

So Joan, again and again, just tags along. 

The train is jam-packed as they try to slide themselves in. They keep bumping onto people—a mix of men in suits and students in uniforms engrossed in their books or smartphones, oblivious to who these two are. The locals seem too busy with their thoughts or too tired to recognise them. Joan doesn’t consider himself famous anyway, so he is particularly grateful for the given privacy. He is unsure on how people can not recognise Pedri easily however. Even if they might not be well-versed in football, his beauty alone should be distracting enough.

Get your shit together. Joan thinks.

The train’s door closes off, and the announcer voices out something in Japanese. Joan can hardly catch the words except for the name of their destination station among other unusual names. 

Joan flicks his attention to Pedri, who stands in front of him, his back meeting others, meanwhile his upfront faces Joan’s. His gaze holds nothingness yet at the same time something about it just mirrors … a glint of vulnerability. The rhythmic cacophony of wheels against metal outside creates a certain disturbance, but Pedri somehow has this ease enveloped around him, this rightness that Joan wonders how this guy can obtain that so easily. 

But then the train suddenly lurches and Pedri almost loses his balance, nearly collapsing down if not for Joan, who instinctively circles one arm around Pedri’s waist, hovering, while grabbing the nearest railing above him with his other hand. Not even tapping the shirt, just close enough to stabilise the younger man in case he stumbles forward. 

“You okay?” Joan queries. His panic slips before he can cache it.

“... yes.” Pedri answers, mouselike. His voice is carefully modulated into his usual professional neutrality though Joan can sense that it, too, carries an odd undertone this time. 

The train’s wheels continue to rumble as it moves at a less jarring speed now, yet Pedri’s fingers still cling onto Joan’s shirt like his life depends on it. Joan’s chin very nearly brushes the ink-black strands of Pedri’s hair. It’s impossible to distinct any particular scent from his hair given the press of worn out bodies around them, but if Joan shuts his eyes, he thinks he can summon the memory of Pedri’s shampoo from that day. 

Rose-scented. Easy. Or was it something sharper, something leaning more minty? Joan remembers it to be something nice, something unmistakably Pedri nonetheless. It was comforting, in a way. 

“Great reflexes.” Pedri finally points out, his voice thoughtfully controlled though his cheeks do not assist him one bit. Joan can see how Pedri’s cheeks go approximately the colour of a fire truck. It’s cute. It’s adorable. It’s not good for his heart. 

“I suppose that’s a widely required skill for a goalkeeper.” Jests Joan, an attempt to blur his nervousness. Joan opens his mouth, is ready to say something, then closes it. He isn’t sure what to say while they are still stuck in this position, to be honest. The closeness is making heat creep up his neck, yes, but it is also … not entirely unpleasant. There is something oddly thrilling about being so dangerously close with your teammate whom you hold with high regard, who also happens to be so freaking angelic, whose cheeks so freakishly pink Joan thinks if he lacks self control he might lean down and do something that will cause him to debut on a certain nasty subreddit tomorrow morning.

“Guess that’s not the same case for a midfielder then.” Pedri chortles softly, an antithesis to Joan’s disorderly state of mind. 

“Yeah.” Joan trails off, swallowing his nerves so hard it can most definitely be heard if not for the noises engulfing them. He thinks he might have to try and pick up the careless words lumping behind his throat, but then that would mean that Joan is too rash, that Joan doesn’t know better, that he signs himself up for the inevitable.

Fuck if Joan is not indulged to the point of danger already.

“You know what a midfielder like you does, Pedri?” Joan presses on. His voice is barely a whisper. Certitude courses through him.  “You do this. You apply pressure. To the opposing player. To me. Until they lose their mind. Until they willingly follow your tempo. Until I do so too. And it works every goddamn time.”

Joan means: You make people gravitate around you and I do gravitate around you, too, and it’s not a skill that anyone can easily grow into—it’s your charm, your bewitchery, your peculiarity. Other people may try but they can’t closely replicate. 

Pedri looks up to him, processing whatever ramble that just escaped out of Joan’s mouth. Joan thinks he can live like this. Just staring at those gleaming eyes all day. Just plunging himself into their beauty, their endless possibilities. He just confessed under one breath. He hopes Pedri would be kind enough to spare him shame. He hopes it came across as romantic-sounding to Pedri instead of some shallow, metaphor-inducing dialogue that was stolen from a soap opera.

Pedri opens his mouth before he snaps his lips shut again. Joan expects a dismissal like what nonsense or, better, a rhetorical question like are you trying to flirt with me? to which Joan is planning to reply with a concise I’d be elated if you take it that way. But instead, Pedri chuckles, lighter than the enormity of the things unspoken in Joan’s chest, and says. “Have I told you that you’re so … tall.”

It sounds more like a vulnerability than a question.

“Twice by now. Don’t mind hearing that a couple of times more, actually.” Where does that confidence surge come from? Joan doesn’t know. One thing for sure: a pang of pride burns in his chest. Just like the first time he heard the same compliment from Pedri. Crazy how the aftereffect is still similar, if not twice as severe. He looks down, eyes meeting Pedri’s round ones. It’s dangerous, this scrutiny, but Joan can’t stop, drawn to Pedri like a moth to flame. “Have I told you that you’re so … something something.”

Something neat. Something lovely. Something warm. Something magnetic.

The younger guy can’t seem to conceal his emotion any longer now. The pink blush deepens to crimson—painting his cheekbones in a way that makes Joan’s chest tighten with further affection—as low laughs bubble up from his throat. Pedri averts his eyes when he does so, and Joan understands why the guy before him is oftentimes the subject of teasing and mischief in the dressing room. He, too, would do anything just to be prized with such a pretty sight.

“What.” That damn laughter has always been contagious. Joan fails to contain a smile. “They call you the best midfielder in the world everywhere yet you’re here flushed over being complimented … so something something?”

“Humour me more on what a midfielder is keen to do, Joan.” Pedri smiles back in lieu of answering. A smile that makes Joan’s heart do cartwheels. “Because my limited knowledge seems to be more familiar with goalkeepers’ jobs than midfielders by now.” 

“Yeah?” Joan leans his face down. One move and their foreheads will be pressed onto each other. One wrong move and their lips will probably be etched too. “Tell me more about it. I’m more curious about what goalkeepers particularly do now according to your understanding.”

“Mmm, buy me some time.” Pedri places a finger under his jaw, feigning seriousness. Joan wishes to graze his fingertips over the line of those cheekbones, wishes to cup that stupidly adorable face. “Aside from being impressively tall and alert, you mean? They are also obligated to be sweet talkers, apparently. At least I know a certain goalkeeper who tries that on me.” 

“You’d be surprised if that certain goalkeeper you referred to said that he knows something that is convincingly sweeter.” Joan opines with perfect solemnity, eyeing Pedri’s lips with tenderness flickering across his features.

The train comes to a halt. The view outside is now a pale coffee-colored brick wall of a station. It’s not the station of their destination yet. A few people get out, leaving one seat near them to be vacant now. Joan wants to motion for Pedri to sit down, wants him to not get sandwiched between some randos. But his unconsciousness certainly knows better than he does because his steady palm firmly settles on Pedri’s waist instead, using it as a leverage to pull him closer and closer; it almost feels like a  futile attempt at something akin to possession, almost feels like a hug, almost leaves a bruise if he wants it to.

“Stay close to me until we reach our station.” Joan’s mouth leans to the shell of Pedri’s ear, leaving his breath tingling over Pedri’s skin. His voice drops into a husky murmur. Not an order, not something domineering, but rather a plea. He doesn’t mind. To hell with ego. He would worship the ground Pedri walks on if the younger wants him to. “Or longer than that. Whichever you prefer.”

Sometimes, very sometimes, Joan thinks this adoration makes him no better than a lovelorn teenager. Sometimes, actually not sometimes, but very often, like right now—he considers himself foolish. He swears he can see a little glimpse of fondness ripples in Pedri’s eyes. Joan will admit it desperately, and very honestly, that he hopes it’s the case.

“Turns out a goalkeeper is required to be demanding, too. Noted.” Pedri’s smile reaches his eyes, like he just discovered something silly—so blissfully silly. One of his palms touches the back of Joan’s hand that stills on atop of his waist. Pedri’s fingertips feel warm against Joan’s skin. Not a single scar or callus on them. He makes himself lean in, gazing up from under his lashes as though his attention was meant to focus on Joan and only Joan. “I don't mind though. Keep doing that.” 

Later, when the train stops and they are on their own again, they will have to deal with the aftermath. Joan knows that. And Joan is going to delight in every second that it may take him. Of that he is certain.