Chapter Text
Ferran sat with his back against the bar, his drink untouched behind him.
They had won La Liga this afternoon with their win against Alaves, and they were out at some club the team had booked for the celebration. With the next match only two days away, Flick had given them one day off to allow for the celebration, but only one. So for tonight, music was blasting, drinks were flowing, and everyone was having a great time.
Everyone except Ferran.
His eyes were on the general direction that he had seen Pedri disappear in. There was some sort of joyous commotion, Raphinha shouting things Ferran couldn’t hear over the music and the guys around him cheering in response. Ferran could make out Pedri’s abashed face through the flashing lights and crowd of teammates.
If you asked Ferran, he’d say Pedri deserved to be celebrated every day, but he especially deserved it today. He’d had an amazing season and helped carry the team to the league title. He had assisted two of the three goals they had scored today and bossed the midfield so well that even the Alaves coach had heaped praise on him in his post-match press conference.
Ferran on the other hand? There would be no praise for Ferran anytime soon. He was having one of the worst slumps of his career. It was like him and the ball just didn’t understand each other anymore. He’d receive a pass, and his mind would just go—blank. And that was when he even managed to get to the ball in the first place.
And while he was forgetting how to do the only thing that had mattered for his entire life, the rest of the forwards continued to excel. Ferran hadn’t played a single minute in the last ten games, Flick preferring to play literally anyone else. And then today, he’d subbed on at the 85th minute, after the game was already settled, the title basically secured. Pity minutes.
The online hate had gotten so bad that he’d had to deactivate all his accounts for a semblance of peace. It was getting difficult not to feel unwanted and incompetent, and it was doubly difficult to feel like he deserved to be a part of tonight’s party, but when he’d said he might head home after the match, Eric and Pedri had pestered him about it so much he’d relented and shown up.
Ferran returned his attention to the scene before him. The guys had hoisted Pedri onto their shoulders and were tossing him into the air.
As he watched, Pedri caught his eye and gave a small smile. Ferran couldn’t help but smile back because it would never not make him happy to see Pedri happy, but he still felt a heaviness in his chest.
“Ferran!” he heard just then from somewhere to his right, barely making the word out over the music.
He looked over to find Dani trying to wave him over. He was holding up a distraught-looking Eric and wrestling a drink out of his hand. Ferran sighed and slid off the barstool he’d been perched on, pushing through the crush of bodies to get to them.
Eric was clinging to Dani, his face buried in his shoulder, and was he…crying?
“What the fuck happened?” Ferran asked.
“You know how he gets when he’s drunk.”
Everyone knew Eric was a sad drunk. Usually, Ferran was in charge of watching his drinking, making sure he stayed just sober enough to stay happy, but he’d gotten lost in his own sorrow and left Eric with Dani, figuring they were probably in the clear tonight anyway. Eric had also had a great game today to cap off a great season, scoring twice, earning himself the MVP award. What would he possibly have to get sad over tonight?
“Can you look after him?” Dani asked. “I don’t want to leave Laura alone.”
Ferran gave a tired nod and took Eric from Dani, who wasted no time disappearing back into the crowd.
“All right, MVP, let’s get you home,” he said, shuffling them slowly towards the door because why was Eric so heavy? “Why are you so upset anyway?”
“Not even a man of the match performance can get him to see me!” Eric sobbed as they walked out, “He’s off talking to some girl, and she’s so pretty, and I’m just me…” He buried his face in his hands.
Ferran was pretty sure “he” was a certain goalkeeper, but they’d never actually talked about it, and he thought it was best not to ask lest he get even more upset.
“Oh, Eric,” Ferran said, as he dragged him towards the car, “He’s blind and stupid if he doesn’t see how amazing you are.” He opened the passenger door, wrestling him into the seat.
By the time Ferran made his way around to the driver’s side, Eric had fallen asleep against the window. He sighed and started the car, pulling out of his parking spot and driving towards Eric’s apartment.
* * * * *
Pedri flushed as Raphinha sang his praises to the teammates gathered around them, the guys applauding and whistling at every opening.
As he looked at the faces around him, Pedri tried to enjoy this moment. He tried not to feel the weight in his chest, somewhere near his heart. Here he was, being lauded by his friends for yet another successful season, but the one person who mattered was missing.
Ferran, who looked at him like he hung the moon. Ferran, whose eyes would sparkle as he told him he was “pure magic.” Ferran, who not even two minutes later would tease him and tell him he needed to sharpen this run or that pass.
Ferran, whose eyes had lost their sparkle in the last few months, and Pedri didn’t know where to find it.
“The best midfielder in the world, Pedri Gonzalez Lopez!” Raphinha yelled, bringing him back to earth.
The guys cheered loudest at that one, and Raphinha grabbed Pedri’s shoulders, shaking him. He did his best to stay upright, holding back a nervous giggle, and then his teammates were lifting him off the ground.
As the guys threw him into the air, chanting his name, Pedri glanced over, and from his higher perch on their shoulders, he saw Ferran through the flashing lights, watching from afar, the traces of melancholy etched into his features. Pedri gave him a small smile when he caught his eye, and Ferran smiled back. The shared moment, even across such distance, spread a warmth through Pedri’s body.
Maybe Ferran would be okay, just for today. He’d just won another trophy after all, like the rest of them. He’d even played a few minutes for the first time in weeks, even if it was just towards the end of the match. Pedri let himself hope things were starting to move in the right direction for Ferran.
The guys finally set him back down on his feet, and Pedri hung around with them just long enough to be polite before pushing through the crowd to where Ferran had been sitting.
He’d rather spend the rest of the night with his best friend, have a more low-key evening—even if Ferran wasn’t in a particularly chatty mood, which happened more often these days. But at least he could keep him company, maybe coax another smile out of him, instead of leaving him totally alone with his thoughts. Remind him that he mattered to him, that he had someone who believed in him.
When Pedri got to the bar, Ferran was gone, though his drink was still there. He tried not to think too much of it and pulled his phone out to text him.
Where are you?
He sat in the seat next to the one Ferran had been sitting in and waited. He was probably in the bathroom, or maybe Eric or Dani had managed to pull him onto the dance floor. Either way, he’d be back soon or see Pedri’s text and tell him where to find him. But as Pedri searched the faces in the crowd for Ferran, he didn’t see him anywhere, and worry started to curl in his belly. He tried to push it down and texted him again.
Ok I think you left already
Just text me that you got home okay?
But as the club started to empty out and Pedri drove home, the worry curled up again.
* * * * *
Ferran gently shook Eric awake when they pulled into his driveway. He helped him out of the car and into the house, sitting him at the kitchen counter.
“Let’s eat something and then get you to bed, yeah?” Ferran said. Eric covered his face with his hands but nodded—silent, but at least he was no longer crying.
Ferran went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and looked through the containers of food. He found some leftover pizza that should do the job and put it in the microwave to reheat. He handed Eric the water and now warm pizza and watched over him as he ate.
When Eric finished his food, he made to get up, but Ferran stopped him.
“Finish the water too.”
Eric whined but obliged.
Then Ferran helped him up the stairs, waited patiently while he used the bathroom, and tucked him into bed.
“Thank you for being here, Ferran,” Eric said quietly. “You’re a good friend.”
Ferran smiled down at him. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” he said. “Good night, campeón.”
Ferran tried his best to make himself comfortable on Eric’s couch. He wanted to stay so he could check on Eric, but also because he felt useful here, at least. Caring for his friend was something he could focus his energy on instead of letting his mind run wild coming up with nightmare scenarios about his future.
But as the night wore on and Eric stayed seemingly sound asleep, he ran out of fresh worries to distract himself with. As he tried to sleep, his mind wandered to a familiar place, tucking itself into the painful comfort of yearning for someone he knew he couldn’t have. It wasn’t his therapist’s favorite coping mechanism, but it was an improvement on catastrophizing.
Ferran chuckled bitterly to himself at the bleak similarity in his and Eric’s situations, both of them quietly pining after their own teammates. At least this wasn’t new territory for Ferran—he’d felt this way about Pedri for years and learned to live with it.
And there was a twisted consolation in having unrequited feelings for his best friend: he’d always have him in his life, just never in the way he wanted. He would still get to see his sweet Pedri’s smile every day, bask in the fact that he saw Ferran with all his failures and loved him anyway.
Because that was the thing. Ferran knew that Pedri loved him in a way that nobody else did and in a way that was reserved only for Ferran. But he also accepted that it would never be in the same way that he loved Pedri, and the small part of him that hoped he was wrong about that was not brave enough to find out. So he settled for getting to see him, tease him, and hold him for just as long as was appropriate for two best friends.
Ferran tossed and turned with his thoughts well into the morning, drifting back to agonizing over his footballing form when he exhausted his angst over Pedri, the couch beneath him apparently protesting the idea of someone deigning to sleep on it.
He’d just managed to drift off for an hour when the sound of footsteps carefully descending the stairs woke him right back up. Ferran sat up, feeling a headache start to build near the back of his head.
“Good morning,” Ferran said when Eric finally made his way down.
“Not so loud,” Eric whispered, squinting in one eye, holding a hand up to his head.
Ferran held back a smile and guided Eric back to the kitchen, seating him once again at the counter. He dug around in a cabinet for some painkillers, handing Eric the pills and some water. He started the coffee maker and took ingredients out of the fridge. He worked wordlessly, frying eggs and toasting bread, and a few minutes later presented Eric with his hangover meal.
A few bites in, Eric finally mumbled, “You actually stayed.”
“I just wanted to make sure you survived the night in one piece,” Ferran said, still keeping his voice low. “You were…a bit of a mess.”
“What did I do, dance on a table again?”
“Oh no, you were far too sad to be doing that. No, you cried over a mystery man instead.”
Eric flushed, his eyes widening, and then let his head fall onto the counter. “This is so embarrassing. I would never cry over a man.”
“Of course not. But I’ll say this again to make sure you hear it sober, too: you deserve someone who sees how amazing you are, Eric. MVP or not.”
“Thanks,” Eric said weakly.
“I’m gonna let you eat and rest, now,” Ferran said eventually, after making sure Eric was set up with enough coffee and extra toast. “I’ll see you tomorrow at training, yeah? Call me if you need anything.”
When Ferran got home, he fell into his bed immediately, his clothes from last night still on, the exhaustion and adrenaline from the day before finally catching up to him.
* * * * *
When Pedri woke up the next morning, there were still no messages from Ferran. He peered out the window at the driveway next to his and didn’t see Ferran’s car there. Now Pedri really started to worry. His mind started to spin with horrible ideas of things that might have happened to him, or worse, things he might have done to himself.
He pulled his phone out to shoot off another text, maybe a simple “Hey just checking in,” but just then, Ferran pulled into his driveway. He got out of his car, still in the same clothes he had been in last night, looking very rumpled. The pieces fell into place for Pedri, and he slid his phone back into his pocket and deliberately turned away from the window.
Ferran must have gone home with someone last night.
The realization left Pedri feeling…strange, a discomfort in his chest he couldn’t place. He circled around it, wary of picking it apart, and concluded that it must be hurt over the fact that Ferran had ignored his texts for a hookup. Pedri thought that, as his best friend, he mattered more than that. Would a quick “sorry, left already, I’m all good” have killed him?
As Pedri went about his day, he felt the discomfort grow heavier in his chest. Ferran was clearly home now, and still no response? He felt slighted—he had just wanted to make sure he was okay.
Later, as afternoon started to fade into evening, Pedri’s phone finally buzzed with a slew of messages from Ferran.
Ferri
Sorry Pepi I just saw these
I had to take a very drunk Eric home last night
And then I tried to sleep on his couch but that thing is horrible
I got home and crashed I just woke up
Relief flooded Pedri’s body. Ferran hadn’t been with some woman, ignoring him. Everything felt right again.
And then his heart broke at the thought of Ferran, deep in his own sorrow, still looking after Eric because that was just how he was.
Thinking about Ferran made his chest ache a lot these days.
He pushed the ache away and responded to the messages.
Okay just glad you’re okay
Pick you up bright and early tomorrow :)
But the bitter taste of worry from last night and this morning, though muted, remained.
The drive to training the next morning started out quiet. Ferran’s usual melancholy had settled into the car between them.
“I wish you had told me sooner that you left the party early,” Pedri said, just looking for something to say to fill the air.
“I told you, I was with Eric and just never really had the chance to check my phone.” There was a hint of annoyance in Ferran’s voice.
Pedri didn’t understand how Ferran could be annoyed when he was the one who had spent hours worried sick over him.
“Ferran, you just disappeared. You could have said something.”
Pedri wasn’t even sure why he was picking this fight. Ferran was obviously fine. But this felt safer, somehow, than the silence that had stretched in the car before—that had become familiar on their drives to training every morning.
“Pedri, I don’t know what you want from me. We do basically everything together. I think it’s okay if there’s just one night where you don’t know where I am right away,” Ferran snapped.
The words felt like a slap to Pedri. Why was Ferran being like this? How did he not see that he was just trying to look after him?
“I was worried about you, Ferran! I thought something happened to you!” Pedri shouted.
They were stopped at a red light, no response from Ferran. Pedri looked up to find him looking at him, surprise softening his eyes.
Eventually, Ferran said, “I’m sorry, Pedri. I didn’t realize. But you don’t need to worry about me.”
“Yeah, well,” Pedri said, almost a whisper, “it’s hard not to, these days. You’re always so…sad.”
Ferran was silent for a while. The light turned and Pedri returned his attention to the road.
“Pepi, I…” Ferran trailed off, took a deep breath, and started again. “I- I’m not doing great right now. You’re right. But I’m working through it. I’m in therapy. And I’ll have all of the summer to get my form back. It’s gonna be okay.”
It sounded like he was trying to convince himself just as much as he was Pedri, but Pedri let himself believe him. If anyone knew what was going on in his own head, it was Ferran. He tried not to let the strain of the argument weigh on him.
“Okay,” Pedri said, his voice small, “but I’m still gonna worry about you. I need you to tell me if things ever get…worse.”
“They won’t,” Ferran said gently.
Pedri wanted to believe that, too.
During the team meeting before the start of training, one of the staff members announced that Spain’s initial roster for the World Cup squad had been released.
Ferran had been called up.
The whole locker room cheered when his name was read, and Pedri pulled him into a fierce hug. With the way the season had been going, they weren’t sure if the coach was going to make the call, but he did, and now Ferran had a chance to prove himself again and represent his country on the biggest stage.
Pedri noticed a pep in Ferran’s step as they headed up to the pitch. He was joking around with Eric, who’d gotten a surprise call up himself, along with Joan, and the mood amongst the team was bright.
During their warmup jog, Ferran nudged Pedri on the shoulder.
“Another World Cup together, tío,” he said, a grin on his face. “This is gonna be it. The comeback of the shark.”
“I’m really happy for you, Ferri,” Pedri said, nudging him back.
Pedri couldn’t wait to spend more time together at the national team camp. They had built their lives around one another here in Barcelona, but they were even more intertwined when they were on international duty. They’d be roommates as usual, wake up together, go through their days together, get teased about how inseparable they were, talk until they fell asleep on opposite sides of their hotel room, and then wake up and do it all over again.
Ferran and Pedri. Pedri and Ferran. Taking on another challenge, together. He was already counting down the days.
“They’re not ready for us!” Ferran announced, then sped up towards the front of the group, and Pedri laughed and ran to catch up to him.
Throughout the rest of training, Ferran started to seem normal again. He pinched Pedri on the arm when he wasn’t looking, leaned on him way too hard while the coaching staff explained exercises, and tugged overzealously on their shared resistance band during stretches. During the mini games, Pedri watched with pride as he slotted his assist past Joan and into the goal, then did it again, and again.
Maybe Ferran was right. Things were going to get better. Perhaps he had just needed a spark of hope to shift his focus. And the World Cup could be that spark.
When it happened, Pedri didn’t quite see it. All he knew was that he heard Ferran cry out, then he looked over and found him on the ground, Cubarsi scrambling back up from the tackle, concern on his face.
Pedri didn’t think much of it at first—Ferran took dramatic falls all the time in training.
But then he stayed down too long, his hand on his ankle, his face still contorted in pain. Cuba was standing over Ferran, hands on his knees, panic in his eyes.
Ferran tried to stand, winced, and sat back down on the grass, calling for a medic.
Pedri’s heart dropped. He wheeled on Cubarsi.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouted angrily, going to push him.
Raphinha got in between them before he could get too close, so Pedri settled for yelling at him over Raphinha’s shoulder instead.
“It’s training, you don’t tackle like that!”
“Sorry, I- I was just trying to—” Pedri registered a tremble in Cuba’s voice and ignored it.
“I don’t care! You fucked it up and now—”
Raphinha held a hand over Pedri’s mouth, silencing him.
“Pedri,” he warned, fire in his eyes, “Get it together. Don’t make this worse.”
Pedri reluctantly bit back the string of insults on his tongue. He was vaguely aware of the medical staff coming onto the field. His shoulders sagged, and he turned his attention back to Ferran, watching the doctors help him off, limping.