Chapter Text
Today Lamine turned 19. The kid had insisted on something massive, obviously. An all pink party with the whole squad, all of his friends, the press outside and cameras everywhere. Ferran had almost skipped it. He had been feeling a dull ache in his left hamstring after the last pre-season training session, but Eric had texted three times and Lamine had called once, slightly (not really) pleading. So he'd come, it was their last night out before officially going back to training, after all.
The place was already full. Some of them, although mostly Gavi, were already halfway drunk. Dani stood near the bar with a bottle of water, calm as ever. Eric spotted Ferran first and raised a hand, grinning.
"There he is. Thought you'd bailed."
"Almost," Ferran said, accepting the beer Eric shoved into his hand. "I'm still feeling like shit, by the way."
"Join the club." Eric bumped their shoulders together. "The rest of the guys are inside."
Ferran took a long swallow of the beer and let the cold settle in his chest. He moved through the crowd easily, clapping his friends' backs and laughing when someone pulled him into a quick photo. For a while it was easy, he didn't think about anything except the music and the heat and the fact that tomorrow was a free day. Then he found himself near the edge of the pool for a while, watching the water catch the reflections and half-listening to a conversation between Lamine and Fermín about some new restaurant. He wasn't really paying attention. His mind drifted the way it sometimes did at the evident absence of one man. He finished the second beer and went looking for a third.
He was talking to Lamine again near the food table when his friend's face lit up, recognizing whoever was behind them. "Pedri!"
Ferran turned without thinking, that name already pulling something automatic and familiar in his chest. Ferran had seen him only two days ago at the gym, but Pedri had been quieter than usual that day, distracted. Ferran had put it down to the usual post-vacation fatigue.
Then he saw a man standing next to Pedri.
Tall, dark-haired and with a hand resting lightly at Pedri's back. Pedri was smiling, his soft private smile Ferran usually only got in quiet moments after matches or late at night when neither of them could sleep in their hotel room. The stranger leaned in and said something close to Pedri's ear, and he laughed, low and genuine.
Lamine was already moving, pulling Pedri into a hug, talking too fast. "You made it! And you brought…?"
"This is Lucas," Pedri said. His voice was clear over the music. "My boyfriend."
The word hung there for a second.
My boyfriend.
Ferran felt the beer bottle go heavier in his hand. Around them the conversation kept moving in a blur, Lamine shaking Lucas's hand, a few of the others drifting closer out of curiosity, but Ferran's attention had narrowed. Pedri's boyfriend. Pedri had a boyfriend. Pedri, who had never mentioned dating anyone, who had laughed off questions about his private life for years, who had spent entire nights at Ferran's house because "it felt better than being alone."
No one had known.
Ferran, certainly, hadn't known.
Pedri's eyes found his across the small circle that had formed. Something flickered there, nervousness, maybe, but it was gone too quickly to read. "Ferri," Pedri acknowledged him finally, stepping closer, Lucas's hand still resting on him. "This is Lucas. Lucas, this is Ferran. My best friend."
Best friend. The title landed normally enough. Ferran made his mouth move.
"Nice to meet you," said Lucas with a big smile.
"Yeah. You too." His voice sounded fine. He shook Lucas's hand when it was offered, felt the firm, dry grip, and then let go. Pedri was still looking at him, waiting for something.
Ferran managed a nod. "Didn't know you were seeing anyone."
Pedri's smile turned a little tight. "It's… recent, well, a few months. I wanted to wait until we made it official before saying anything."
A few months. While they had been texting every day, while Ferran had been the one Pedri called after bad matches, while Pedri had driven him home from the training ground more times than he could count and sat there outside Pedri's house just to keep talking. While all of that was happening, Pedri had got a boyfriend.
"Cool," Ferran said. The word came out flat. "I'm happy for you two."
Pedri's shoulders eased a fraction. Lucas's hand slid from Pedri's back to his waist, easy and familiar. Someone else claimed Pedri's attention, Gavi, loud and already teasing, and the moment broke. Ferran stepped back, into the noise again, and the music rushed in.
He found another beer. Then another. He talked to people without hearing half of what they said. He laughed when it was expected. Something sat oddly in his chest, a tight, unfamiliar pressure he couldn't quite name. Surprise, he told himself. That was all. Pedri had always been private, so it made sense he wouldn't announce something until he was sure. Ferran pushed the thought aside and focused on the conversation in front of him.
He drifted toward the bar for a glass of water, then ended up with another beer instead. He told himself the slight off-kilter feeling was just the alcohol catching up with the lingering ache in his leg, nothing more.
Eric found him a while later. "Hey, you good?"
"Fine."
Eric studied him for a second. "Didn't see that coming either."
Ferran shrugged. "Pedri keeps things quiet. Always has."
"True." Eric took a sip of his own drink. "He looks happy, though."
"Yeah."
Ferran didn't look over toward where Pedri and Lucas were standing with a small group. He didn't need to. He could hear Pedri's laugh occasionally cutting through the music. It was fine. Everything was fine. He finished the beer and set the empty bottle down on a low wall.
The music shifted and everyone started drifting toward the open space, but Ferran stayed where he was, talking to Eric about nothing important, until his eyes caught movement without meaning to. Pedri and Lucas had moved. They were dancing, Lucas's hands on Pedri's hips, Pedri's arms loosely around Lucas's neck while moving. Pedri was smiling up at him, and then Lucas leaned in and kissed the corner of Pedri's mouth. Pedri laughed and kissed him back, brief but unselfconscious, right there in front of everyone.
Something hot and acidic rose in Ferran's throat without warning.
He turned away too fast. The lights from the trees smeared. The music felt suddenly too loud, like it was inside his skull. A wave of nausea rolled through him, sharp and immediate. He made it three steps toward the side of the house before it hit fully, sudden, violent, impossible to ignore. He barely reached the low wall near the outdoor bathroom before he was folding over it, beer and whatever else he'd forced down coming back up in a burning rush. Another wave hit, and he stayed bent over until it passed, breathing hard through his mouth.
A hand landed between his shoulder blades, steady and familiar.
"Easy," Eric said quietly. "I've got you."
Ferran spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and stayed bent over for another few seconds until the worst of the spinning stopped. Eric didn't move his hand. When Ferran finally straightened, Eric offered a bottle of water and gum without comment.
"Sorry," he muttered. His voice sounded rough.
"Don't be. Happens." Eric's tone was carefully neutral. "You want to sit?"
They ended up on a low bench further from the noise, half-hidden by a hedge of jasmine. Ferran stared at the dark water of the pool reflecting the string lights and tried to get his breathing under control. The nausea had settled into a low, miserable churn. His head felt thick.
"Too much to drink," he said eventually. " I should've eaten more earlier."
Eric was quiet for a moment. "Yeah. Probably."
Ferran pressed the cold water bottle against the back of his neck. The pressure in his chest was still there, tight and unexplained, but he ignored it. Alcohol, heat, late night, that was all it was. He had seen people get sick at parties before for less. He took another careful sip of water and focused on the way the lights moved on the surface of the pool.
"I think I need to leave," he said after a while.
"I'll drive you."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm driving you."
They slipped out without saying goodbye to anyone. Ferran didn't dare to look back toward the dance floor. He kept his eyes forward, one hand lightly against his stomach as if that might keep the residual queasiness in check. In the passenger seat of Eric's car he stared out at the dark streets and felt the tremor in his hands that he told himself was just the after-effect of being sick.
The drive passed in stretches of silence broken only by the low hum of the engine and the occasional turn signal. Ferran rested his head against the window and closed his eyes for a bit. The tight feeling in his chest refused to fully ease, but he pushed it down the same way he pushed down the lingering taste of bile. Tomorrow he would feel normal again. He just needed sleep and water and maybe a proper meal.
At his house Eric walked him as far as he could. "Text me if you need anything. Or just… text me."
Ferran nodded. He managed a rough "thanks" before the doors closed.
He dropped his keys on the counter, toed off his shoes, and stood for a moment in the entryway, waiting to see if the nausea would return. It stayed at a low simmer.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out. The screen lit up with a message from Pedri, timestamped only a few minutes earlier.
Pedri: you disappeared. everything okay?
Ferran: yeah. just felt sick. headed home early.
The typing dots appeared almost immediately even though the party was far from over in Ferran's mind.
Pedri: okay, feel better.
A few seconds later.
Pedri: are you mad at me?
Ferran: no. why would i?
Instead of getting a reply, Ferran's phone started ringing with a call from Pedri. When he picked up, he could hear the muffled sound of music, probably meaning he was calling from one of the rooms.
"I know I should have told you sooner," he blurted out immediately. "It just… happened fast, and then I wanted to be sure before I said anything. I didn't mean for you to find out tonight like everyone else."
"Okay…" Ferran was a bit weirded by the whole situation. "Pedri, it's fine. I swear. I only want you to be happy."
"Really?"
Ferran forced a smile that felt wrong on his face. "Yeah. As long as he's good to you."
"He is." Pedri's voice softened. "He makes me happy."
The words should have been a relief, but they felt like another layer of the same ache. Ferran nodded even though Pedri couldn't see him.
"Great, then. I should get some sleep now."
"Oh, okay. Yeah, it makes sense. Sorry to bother."
"It's okay. Have fun."
He could feel Pedri hesitating, but he just said goodbye, hung up and sighed amidst the silence of his own house that felt too big now.
The days blurred after that night. Ferran woke the morning after with a headache that felt deeper than ever and a tightness in his chest that water and medication did nothing to shift. He told himself it was the late night and his leg pain meds mixing badly with the beer. He forced down half a protein shake, dragged himself to training, and moved through the session on autopilot. His touches were clean enough. His runs were timed well enough. No one looked at him twice.
But that night he barely slept and the pattern held through the week.
On Monday, they had light recovery work and a quiet lunch he mostly pushed around the plate. Pedri texted in the afternoon, you feeling better? Ferran replied with a thumbs up and a short yeah, just needed sleep. He didn't sleep. He lay in the dark staring at the ceiling until the early hours, the same low unease sitting under his ribs like something he had swallowed and couldn't digest.
Once full training started, he stayed longer than usual in the gym afterward. Pedri found him near the lockers, leaning against the wall with a towel around his neck.
"You look wiped," he commented.
"Couldn't sleep well, but nothing serious."
Pedri watched him for a second longer, then nodded and let it go. Ferran felt a small flicker of relief. He didn't want questions because he didn't have answers that made sense.
On Wednesday the unease sharpened. He managed a few hours of broken sleep and woke feeling hollow. At training he was even quieter than before. Eric asked once if everything was all right and accepted the shrug Ferran gave him. Pedri was on the other side of the pitch for most of the session, working with the midfield group. Every time Ferran glanced over he looked fine, focused, easy, the same Pedri as always. Lucas's name hadn't come up in three days and Ferran told himself that was good. He didn't need details.
The next day his appetite had collapsed into something selective and unreliable. He ate when he had to, small mechanical bites that sat heavy. The tightness in his chest had become a constant low-grade companion, flaring at odd moments, like when his phone lit up with Pedri's name, or when someone mentioned the party in passing, especially when he caught himself replaying the moment Pedri had introduced Lucas with that beautiful smile. He pushed the images away each time. There was nothing to examine.
Then Pedri started watching him more closely and Ferran noticed it in the small things. He saw the way Pedri's eyes lingered a second longer during the warm-up, the quiet you good? after a possession drill, the offer to drive him home that Ferran declined with a quick shake of the head. Pedri didn't push, but the attention sat on Ferran's skin like a light pressure he couldn't shake off.
On match day Ferran came off the bench for the last twenty minutes and did his job without drama. Afterward, in the mixed zone, someone asked about his energy levels and he gave the usual non-answer. In the dressing room Pedri sat next to him, unwrapping tape from his ankles, and Ferran kept his gaze on his own boots. The tightness under his ribs had company now, an edge of irritability he couldn't place. He left as soon as he could, declined the group dinner, and went home to a house that felt too quiet.
By the following week the lack of sleep had settled into his bones. His reflection in the bathroom mirror looked older and the shadows under his eyes deeper. He moved through the morning session like someone half a step behind his own body. During a rondo he miscontrolled a simple pass and heard Flick's short, sharp correction. Pedri was across the circle. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. His expression was unreadable, but the concern was there, quiet and steady.
After training Pedri found him in the parking lot.
"Come to mine," he said. It wasn't a question.
Ferran blinked. "What?"
"You've looked like death itself for a week. Come to mine. I'll feed you and you can actually rest for once."
Ferran opened his mouth to refuse, maybe out of habit already, but the words didn't come. The exhaustion was heavier than the instinct to push people away. The drive was mostly silent. Pedri didn't fill it with small talk. Ferran watched the city move past the window and felt the same low churn in his stomach that had been present since the party. He told himself it was just hunger, or the side effects of not sleeping, or both.
Ferran crashed Pedri's couch immediately after closing the door and saying hi to Nilo.
"Stay there," he demanded. "I'm making food."
Ferran leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, somehow feeling at peace while he listened to the sounds from the kitchen. Pedri moved through his house with the same quiet efficiency he brought to everything. After a few minutes Pedri returned with a plate and a mug. He set both on the low table in front of Ferran and sat down on the other end of the sofa, one leg tucked under himself.
"Eat," he said.
Ferran looked at the food. His stomach tightened at the idea of putting anything in it, but the alternative (Pedri's anger) definitely felt worse. He picked up the fork. The first few bites were mechanical, but then something shifted. The food was simple and warm and exactly what his body had been refusing for days. He ate slowly, carefully, and the hollow feeling under his ribs eased a fraction with each mouthful. When the plate was empty Ferran set the fork down and wrapped both hands around the mug. The tea was chamomile, lightly sweetened in the way Pedri knew he liked it and that made Ferran's heart ache. For the first time in over a week the world felt a bit more solid.
"Thanks," Ferran said. His voice came out softer than he expected.
Pedri looked at him. "You needed it. I know you."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while.
"You want to talk about it?" Pedri asked.
"About what?"
"Whatever's been eating you. You've been somewhere else these days."
Ferran stared into the tea. The easy answer I'm fine, just tired sat on his tongue, but the quiet of the house and the warmth of the food made it harder to reach for. He set the mug down carefully.
"How's Lucas?" he asked instead.
The question came out more abruptly than he intended. Pedri's expression shifted, a small flicker of surprise followed by something more guarded.
"He's… fine," Pedri said. "Just busy with work. We haven't seen each other much since the party."
Ferran waited. The silence stretched.
Pedri exhaled slowly and leaned back against the cushions. "It's not… I don't know. It's good. He's good. But sometimes it feels like we're still figuring out the rhythm. He wants to go out a lot and you know I'm more of a stay-in person. I just like small things."
Ferran turned the words over.
"You don't sound so sure," Ferran said.
Pedri's mouth twitched. "I'm sure enough. He's kind. He makes an effort. It's just… new. And I'm not always great at new."
Ferran watched the way Pedri's fingers traced the seam of the cushion. The private smile from the party felt further away than a week. Something in Pedri's voice, maybe an undercurrent of uncertainty, settled into the space between them and stayed there.
"You don't have to be with someone just because it's easier than being alone," Ferran said. The words surprised him as much as they seemed to surprise Pedri.
Pedri looked at him properly then.
"I know. It's not like that. Or I don't think it is. I just… wanted it to work. I still do."
The honesty sat heavy. Ferran felt the weight under his ribs shift again, not worse, just different. He didn't examine it. He set the mug aside and leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
"You're allowed to not be sure," he said.
Pedri's gaze held his. For a moment the house felt smaller, the air quieter. Pedri's expression was open in a way it rarely was around other people except for Ferran, unguarded, a little tired, searching. Ferran felt the same pull he always did when Pedri looked at him like that, the instinct to close the distance without thinking about why.
He reached out before the thought fully formed.
His fingers brushed Pedri's cheek, light, almost accidental at first. The skin was warm. Pedri went very still and held his breath. Ferran's fingers stayed there, the pad of his thumb resting just below the cheekbone. Neither of them spoke. The contact was simple and electric at the same time, a line drawn in the quiet that neither of them moved to erase.
Pedri's eyes searched his face. Something tense and unspoken moved through the space between them, possibility, recognition, or the sudden awareness of how close they were sitting. Ferran's pulse was loud in his own ears. He could feel the warmth of Pedri's skin under his fingers, the slight catch of breath, the way the moment balanced on the edge of something neither of them had named.
Then Pedri's phone rang. The sound cut through the quiet like a blade. Pedri flinched as if the noise had physically touched him. Ferran's hand dropped away. Pedri reached for the phone on the cushion beside him, glanced at the screen, and the openness in his expression shuttered a fraction.
"It's Lucas," he said.
The name landed between them and stayed. Pedri's thumb hovered over the screen. The phone kept ringing, insistent, filling the living room with the reminder of everything that existed outside the small moment they had just shared.
The next match was supposed to be routine. It was at home, against a mid-table team. Ferran had slept a little better the night before. Pedri's food and the warmth of his place had bought him a few unbroken hours, but the tightness under his ribs had not left. It sat there through the morning activation, through the team talk, through the tunnel walk with the noise of the stadium already rolling down.
He lined up behind Pedri in the tunnel as they always did. Their fingers touched for a second. Pedri glanced back once, a quick check, and Ferran gave the smallest smile. Whatever had hung between them in his living room two days earlier had been carefully set aside in the usual way.
The whistle went and for the first twenty minutes the physical work kept the rest of his mind occupied. The noise of the crowd, thankfully, was enough to push the low unease into the background. But then, as he jogged back, the tightness in his side gave a single, sharp pulse, as if something had been briefly compressed. He ignored it. The half continued. Every few minutes the discomfort under his ribs returned, dull at first, then more insistent, a pressure that made breathing feel difficult at some point. He adjusted his posture between phases, rolled his shoulder, told himself it was fatigue from the week of poor sleep and poor eating. He had played through worse.
At half-time, Ferran sat on the bench and pressed the heel of his hand lightly against the left side of his torso. The pressure eased nothing. Pedri dropped onto the seat beside him, unwrapping a gel, and offered half without comment. Ferran took it and ignored the sensation caused by their fingers touching once again.
The second half began and, around the 60th minute, the pain sharpened. He stopped running and bent slightly at the waist for a second, hands on his knees, waiting for the worst of it to pass. He told himself it would settle. He had felt side strains before that disappeared after the final whistle.
It did not disappear.
By the 75th minute every change of direction cost him. The pain was no longer background. It occupied the centre of his attention, a hot, insistent presence under the lower ribs on the left side that flared whenever he accelerated or twisted. Eric, who had come on ten minutes earlier, caught his eye and frowned.
When the team found a late goal from a set piece, Ferran raised an arm in the automatic celebration and immediately regretted the movement. The final whistle came as a relief he could not fully show.
He walked off with the others, jaw set, and went straight toward the medical area rather than the dressing room. The club doctor met him in the corridor with a serious look.
"Talk to me."
"It's the left side. Started during the game and then got worse."
She guided him into the examination room. Eric followed without being asked and closed the door. Ferran sat on the edge of the treatment table while her hands moved with careful pressure across his torso, asking him to breathe in. He followed the instructions. Each deeper breath lit the same sharp line of discomfort, but nothing made him flinch the way a clear muscle tear or rib issue usually did.
The doctor stepped back after several minutes, expression neutral.
"There's no obvious structural problem I can find on examination. No tenderness, so it's nothing abdominal. The ribs feel stable. We'll do some labs and imaging to be thorough, but right now I'm not seeing a clear physical cause that matches the intensity you're describing."
Ferran stared at the floor. The pain was still there, yet the doctor's hands had found nothing that explained it.
"Could be referred," she continued. "Could be the cumulative fatigue, some stress response. I'll arrange the tests this evening. In the meantime, please rest, no anti-inflammatories until we know more, and monitor. If it worsens or you get any other symptoms like fever, vomiting, dizziness… you call me immediately, okay?"
She made a note on her tablet, gave him the usual instructions about hydration and reporting changes, and then stepped out to speak with the imaging coordinator.
The room went quiet except for the low hum of the air system.
Eric remained where he was, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. He had watched the entire examination without interrupting. Now he looked at Ferran with the particular steady attention he reserved for moments that mattered.
"You know it's not your ribs," Eric said.
Ferran didn't answer. He kept his gaze on the floor tiles.
Eric pushed off the wall and came closer, voice lower. "You've been off for over a week. You barely eat or sleep, and now this. The doctor's right, there's nothing she can put her hands on. Because it's not there."
Ferran exhaled slowly. The pain under his side pulsed in time with the words.
"I've seen you play through actual injuries, Ferran," Eric continued. "This started after the party. After Pedri walked in with that guy."
Ferran's shoulders tensed.
Eric's tone stayed even, almost gentle. "You even threw up when they kissed, man. How could I not see it?" he let out a short laugh. "You've been walking around like someone cut the ground out from under you ever since. And every time Pedri is near you, it gets worse. You're not sick in a way the labs will show. You're sick because you're in love and you haven't let yourself look at it."
The words settled into the room with finality.
Ferran opened his mouth to deny it, the safe version of events he had been repeating to himself for days, and found nothing there. The tightness under his ribs flared once, bright and unmistakable, as if the body had been waiting for the correct name.
He saw it then, in a single unwelcome rush: the way his attention had always found Pedri first anywhere, the comfort in their silences, the satisfaction of making him laugh, the acidic shock of watching someone else's hand rest on Pedri's body like it belonged there.
It had never been his legs or the alcohol or the fatigue.
It was Pedri.
It had been the slow, delayed recognition of something that had been living under his skin for a long time, forced into the open the night Pedri introduced Lucas to the room.
Ferran's breath left him with a short, rough sound. He pressed the heel of his hand against his side again, harder this time, as if pressure could contain what had just been named. The pain did not lessen, but it clarified. It was no longer mysterious. It was the physical shape of wanting something he had not allowed himself to want, and of watching it belong to someone else. Ferran stared at the opposite wall and felt the full weight of the realisation settle. He was in love with Pedri. He had been for longer than he could cleanly measure. And every symptom of the past ten days had been his body refusing to keep the secret any longer.
He closed his eyes. The stadium noise still filtered faintly through the walls, distant now. Somewhere down the corridor the rest of the squad would be showering, changing, preparing for the usual post-match routines. Pedri would be among them. He would probably be wondering where Ferran was right now, always so worried about him.
Ferran opened his eyes and looked at Eric.
"I didn't know," he said. The words came out thin.
"I know." Eric's voice was quiet. "But now you do."
The doctor's footsteps returned in the corridor. She stepped back into the room with the imaging schedule and a few final instructions. Ferran answered her questions on autopilot. He remained on the edge of the treatment table, his hand still resting against the side that hurt, and let the new knowledge sit without trying to push it away.
He was so in love with Pedri it made him sick, literally.
The pain under his ribs pulsed once more, steady and undeniable, as if in agreement.
The days between his side pain and their next game against Sevilla passed in a strange quiet. Ferran went for the scans as the doctor ordered and everything came back clean. She spoke about stress response, referred pain, the way the body sometimes translated unresolved tension into physical sensation. He nodded, accepted the rest protocol for forty-eight hours, and told no one the real diagnosis.
The knowledge sat in him like a second heartbeat, impossible to ignore. He trained after being cleared, arriving early and leaving late so the gaps between sessions contained as little unstructured time near Pedri as possible. When their paths crossed in the corridors or the dining area he kept his gaze steady and his words brief. Pedri noticed, of course he did. His checks continued, you sleeping better?, your leg okay?, want to come later?, and Ferran met each one with a version of fine that was polite enough to survive.
By the time the match arrived the avoidance had become a practised rhythm. Ferran was on the bench to avoid relapse and he understood the decision without complaint. Thirty minutes, if the game state allowed it, would be enough. Around the sixtieth minute the call came and Ferran stepped into the light of the pitch.
They won 1-0. The players met in a tight hug near the centre circle. Pedri found him in the middle of it, eyes bright with the win, and reached out as if to pull him into the same embrace as everyone else. Ferran let the contact happen for the minimum required second just to feel it for once, then stepped away toward the tunnel. He did not look back to see if Pedri had noticed the brevity of it all.
For celebration they moved to their usual place. Ferran had decided he would stay long enough for the team photographs and the first round of drinks. He would keep moving and he would certainly not allow Pedri a clear line of approach, but that was harder than it sounded.
Pedri looked for him almost immediately. Ferran saw it in the way Pedri's gaze tracked across the bar after the first greetings and the small frown when the search did not succeed. Ferran timed his own movements against it. He drifted toward Gavi and Lamine when Pedri moved left. He accepted a drink from Frenkie and stayed in the resulting conversation long enough for Pedri to be claimed by someone else.
Twice Pedri managed to close the distance.
The first time Ferran was near the bar. Pedri appeared at his shoulder with two glasses and the quiet, open expression he used when he wanted an honest answer.
"You disappeared after the final whistle," Pedri commented.
"I was feeling some pain."
Pedri's eyes dropped briefly to Ferran's torso, then back up. "Didn't the doctor clear you for at least 30 minutes?"
"She did." Ferran took a sip of whatever was in his glass. "But I need to be careful."
"Yeah." Pedri held the second glass out. Ferran did not take it and, after a moment, Pedri set it on the bar instead. "You've been hard to find these days."
"Busy week."
Pedri studied his face with the particular attention that had always made Ferran feel transparent to him. For a second the noise of the room receded. Ferran was suddenly aware of the short distance between them. He could see the brown in Pedri's eyes as clear as ever, the shape of his lips… He panicked. He looked past Pedri's shoulder toward the far side of the space and used the movement of a teammate as an excuse to step away.
"I'll catch you later," he said, and did not wait for the reply.
The second approach came thirty minutes later, near the tables. Pedri's hand landed lightly on his forearm, careful. Ferran turned just enough to acknowledge him and not enough to invite the conversation to settle.
"Ferran."
"Yeah."
"Can we talk for a minute? Away from this."
The request was so honest it made his heart ache. Ferran felt the pull of it land squarely in the place under his ribs that still remembered the pain from the previous match. He manufactured a smile that felt stiff on his face.
"Later. I think Eric needed to talk to me as well. I'll find you, okay?"
It was a weak deflection. Pedri's expression flickered to disappointment, but he released Ferran's arm and let him go. Ferran moved into the denser part of the crowd and remained there, accepting drinks he did not finish and conversations he only half-heard. Time stretched. He found a quieter stretch of wall near the back and stayed there long enough to catch his breath. His side was only a mild presence now, background rather than demand. The larger pain lived higher, or everywhere, in the constant awareness of where Pedri was in the room and how carefully he was avoiding to cross paths.
He was still standing there when Lucas arrived. Ferran saw him first as he moved through the greetings with easy familiarity. Pedri was mid-conversation with Gavi when Lucas reached him. Ferran could not stop himself from watching as Lucas leaned in and kissed Pedri full on the mouth, and it was not brief.
Pedri's body language went tight for a clear second before he returned the kiss with something closer to politeness than enthusiasm. When they separated Lucas's hand stayed at Pedri's waist. Pedri's smile was strained. Lucas said something close to his ear and he nodded. That's when Ferran looked away. The glass in his hand had gone warm. He set it down on the nearest surface and stayed where he was, back to the main floor, giving himself the few seconds required to lock everything back into place and avoid another wave of nausea.
He did not hear Lucas approach until the other man was already beside him. "Ferran."
He turned. Lucas stood with the same open, friendly posture he had worn at the party.
"Hey," Ferran said. His voice came out soft.
"Good game." Lucas's tone was genuine. "Pedri said you could only have thirty minutes, but you looked good anyway."
"Thanks."
Lucas nodded and took a sip of his drink. He leaned a shoulder against the wall in a mirror of Ferran's posture. For a moment they stood in the relative quiet of the back section while the larger celebration continued without them.
"I've been wanting to properly talk to you," Lucas said. "Beyond the introductions."
Ferran waited.
Lucas glanced toward the main floor, where Pedri was now in a small group that included Lamine and Alejandro, then back. "He always talks about you, you know? I mean, it's always random stuff like training, trips, drives together… I used to think it was just football. Then I realized it was more than that."
Ferran kept his face neutral. The irony sat sharp and silent behind his teeth.
Lucas gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. "Honestly? When we first got serious I was a bit worried you were going to steal my boyfriend. The man lights up when your name comes up. And he reads your messages even when we're in the middle of something. I told him once it felt like I was competing with a person who had years of head start, but he laughed it off. Said you were his best friend and that was the whole story."
Ferran felt the words land one after another. Steal my boyfriend. The accuracy of the fear, and the complete impossibility of acting on it, settled into the same place under his ribs that had hurt during the previous match. He kept his expression in the correct mild amusement, nothing more.
"He's always been like that with people he's close to," Ferran said. "We've known each other a long time."
"I know. That's what he says." Lucas's smile remained open. "I'm glad he has that, seriously. I just had to get past the part where I thought you were the bigger threat in the room."
Ferran almost laughed. The sound, if it had come out, would have been wrong. He swallowed it and let a smaller, safer version of a smile take its place.
"I'm not a threat," he finally said.
Lucas clapped him lightly on the shoulder, the gesture friendly, final. "Good. Because he needs us both. The relationship and the friendship. I'm still learning the balance, but I'm not trying to get in the way of the second one."
Ferran nodded once. The conversation had reached its natural edge and Lucas seemed content to leave it there. He glanced back toward Pedri, who had looked over once and then returned his attention to the group, the line of his shoulders suddenly seemed tense, even more than during the kiss.
"Anyway," Lucas said. "Enjoy the rest of the night. You earned it."
He moved away toward the main floor. Ferran stayed where he was and let the full weight of the exchange settle without allowing any of it to reach his face. So Pedri talked about him enough that Lucas had been afraid. The irony was so complete it almost felt like a joke the universe had decided to tell at his expense.
He needed air.
The terrace was at the far end of the private section, past the doors that muffled the music the moment they closed behind him. Outside the night was cooler, no one else was out there. Ferran walked to the railing, set both hands on the stone, and let the quiet settle around him.
His side gave a single dull reminder and then faded. Pedri hurt even more now. Pedri, who had a boyfriend, who only saw him as the best friend Lucas would never need to worry about because he didn't stand a chance. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. He told himself five more minutes, long enough to lock everything back into place and return inside, finish one more drink for appearances, and leave without another encounter.
The door suddenly opened behind him.
Ferran did not turn immediately because he knew who it was.
"You're not escaping this time." Pedri's voice was quiet and absolute.