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Ferran knows he fucked up the moment he turns away from the journalists and gets a pointed look from the person responsible for the national team communication as they walk to the van that will drive him back to the hotel. He disassociates on the ride, hoping that maybe he didn’t actually just tell a room full of journalists that he is in a relationship. The silence follows him through the hotel entrance, the elevator ride and the carpeted hallway, echoing around his brain.
“Hi, Ferri,” Pedri grins as Ferran walks through the threshold of his hotel bedroom, opening his arms from where he is sitting on the bed.
Ferran feels himself deflate instantly, the relief that only Pedri’s presence is capable of bringing him overwhelming. Ferran takes two quick steps, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend’s waist, burrowing himself in Pedri’s like they have been separated for days instead of a little over an hour. Pedri doesn’t seem to mind, pulling Ferran onto his lap to make them both comfortable.
“Were they being assholes?” Pedri asks kindly, fingers brushing through Ferran’s bangs softly.
Ferran shakes his head because they hadn’t been, not really. They had questioned his lack of goals, which is understandable to a certain degree, then asked about potentially playing against Messi and with Lamine, which he had been expecting. He probably should’ve also seen the question about his newly found fame as world cup’s it-boy coming, but he hadn’t really given it much thought. “I fucked up,” he mumbles into the hollow of Pedri’s throat.
“Did you swear during one of the questions?” Pedri teases, eyes mischievous.
“Worse,” Ferran groans, lifting his head from where it was nestled against Pedri’s neck. Pedri’s expression softens at his distressed tone, even if obviously exaggerated. He nods gently, making sure Ferran knows he’ll listen. “They asked me what my thoughts were on being a ‘sex symbol’- hey, don’t laugh.”
Pedri’s face contorts into a boisterous laugh, his full body shaking with glee, the hand he had rested on Ferran’s arm squeezing hard enough to leave a mark. He looks so beautiful, nose scrunched up, eyes closed, cheeks blushed and Ferran wonders how he has enough self-control not to mention Pedri is his every chance he gets.
“You’re not going to like the next part,” Ferran says, amused.
Pedri hums, kissing his chin, “Tell me.”
“The words ‘mi pareja’ may have left my mouth,” Ferran sighs, shutting his eyes to prepare for the inevitable scoff of disappointment and light scolding for being a blabber mouth. Realistically, he knows what he said isn’t that bad. Still, he wants the reassurance from his boyfriend, especially if it comes in the form of kisses and cuddles.
Pedri kisses him on the lips, laughing, “Well, you didn’t say my name, did you?”
“No, I left before they could ask any follow ups,” Ferran opens one eye, met with the same peaceful expression on his boyfriend’s face.
“It’s fine, then,” Pedri reassures, kissing him again. “They’ll forget about it when we win on Sunday.”
“Or they’ll wonder why my partner isn’t celebrating the World Cup with me,” Ferran hadn’t even considered that as a possibility until the words leave his mouth.
“Well. Your partner has a very important job to do that day,” Pedri says with a smirk, eyes sparkling.
“Yeah, he does,” Ferran grins, pushing Pedri into the bed with a kiss.
Their friends had, predictably, found Ferran’s screw-up hilarious. Dani, who they all thought would be the first one to slip up about their relationship, had boasted about actually being incredible at keeping secrets. Eric started to search for the video immediately, finding it quickly, and laughing at the panic that settled in Ferran’s eyes when he realised what he had done.
Ferran had expected the dust to settle after Argentina won their game and the focus, predictably, would shift to the actual game being played on Sunday and not his relationship status. He was partially correct, if the videos of Pedri and Messi that have been popping on his feed are anything to go by.
However, the video of his interview had gained more traction than any of them could’ve predicted. Eric had been sending them links to tiktoks of people fake-crying to the snippet of Ferran saying he has a partner. Pedri has been laughing very hard at them, then kissing Ferran like he won the lottery.
Pedri insists their last free afternoon before the final be spent playing FIFA in his room — just them, Dani, Eric and Joan, like they’re back home and not across the ocean. It’s nice, to be able to relax with just his closest people — Ferran leans over and kisses Pedri’s ear noisily, making him squirm.
“Thank you for this, cariño,” Ferran mumbles. “I love you.”
Pedri flushes to the tips of his ears, unused to their physical affection being so public — usually, they aren’t very touchy when surrounded by other people, out of necessity, mostly, but also so they don’t slip up at inappropriate moments, or, at least, not any more than they already do.
“Love you too, tonto,” Pedri mumbles, a kiss pressed against the stubble of Ferran’s jaw. “Stop distracting me.”
“Gross,” Eric pipes up, eyes not leaving his phone. Then, like a switch flipped, his eyes double in size and his head snaps up, “Oh my god,” he gasps. “You have to see this.”
“We’ve already seen the videos of people thirsting over Ferran, Eric,” Pedri grumbles, rolling his eyes.
“No, this is better,” Eric promises, moving to sit between Pedri and Ferran, earning a groan from each of them. “Someone made a post of who they think Ferri is dating.”
“Why would I want to see that?” Pedri questions, face turning back to the game on the TV.
“Just… trust me on this,” Eric insists, arm stretched so all of three of them can see the screen of his phone.
Pedri sighs, but leans in nonetheless, giving Ferran a look that signals him to do the same. There’s a collage of Ferran’s pictures with colourful text, the words “Who is Ferran Torres’ mystery partner?” splashed on top. Eric scrolls through the images slowly, like they’re supposed to actually be paying attention to the information displayed on the screen. Ferran doesn’t recognise any of the faces, each accompanied by a bio and some kind of explanation on why this random magazine thinks they could be his girlfriend.
“This one is my favourite,” Eric says, amusement clear in his voice. “They think you are dating her because, get this… she’s from Valencia.”
“Solid,” Dani jokes, voice flat, fingers still flying through his controller.
“Okay, are you ready for the last one?” Eric asks, like he’s some sort of magician about to present his greatest act.
Ferran rolls his eyes, bracing himself for the stupidity that he’s sure will follow. Then, pictures of Pedri load up on the screen. It’s obviously being played off as a joke, the text itself including a disclaimer of the fact. They’re trying to be respectful and, more likely, avoid a lawsuit — not that they would sue anyway. The post includes some pictures of Ferran and Pedri together as well, some of them so insanely intimate Ferran questions how people are still so oblivious to their relationship.
Eric opens up the comments momentarily and, even at a glance, Ferran can see the amount of vile remarks about him and Pedri, followed by denial of the simple concept of a relationship between them. He waits for a reaction from Pedri — a weak chuckle, an eye-roll, anything. But what he finds is a stoney expression, lips pursed together in a frown, eyes fiery as he turns his attention back to the TV.
“Wow, they caught us,” Pedri says, flat and humourlessly.
Ferran tries to catch his eye, to reassure him, to ask him what he needs. But Pedri’s eyes are absently fixed anywhere but on Ferran.
Pedri is still quiet when they are finally by themselves in his room, after dinner. He still pulls one of Ferran’s shirt’s over his head before laying down, so he can’t be too mad at him, Ferran concludes.
Ferran joins him in bed after undressing, waiting for Pedri to put down his phone, “I’m sorry.”
“What for?” Pedri questions, brown eyes open and honest, but still sad.
“Slipping up yesterday,” Ferran mumbles, trying to distract himself by fidgeting with his hands.
“You misspoke, it happens,” Pedri shrugs, hand extended to grab his wrist and stop the movement.
“No, this is worse,” Ferran sighs, trying to gather his thoughts. “That post… the comments were…” Ferran pauses, unsure how to phrase what he’s exactly trying to say. “I know it made you upset.”
Ferran places Pedri’s face between his palms, and Pedri’s expression shifts to a much calmer one as soon as their skin meets.
“That’s not why I’m upset, Ferri,” Pedri reassures, a small smile making his way to his lips, turning his face slightly to kiss Ferran’s palm. “I just… I hate that they think it’s a joke. That our relationship couldn’t possibly be real, that we can’t love each other and be together just because we’re footballers.” He pauses, inhaling once, “I wish we could just… be. You would be able to talk about having a girlfriend all you want, but since it’s a guy it’s unacceptable? It’s not fair.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” Ferran kisses Pedri, hoping he can wordlessly convey everything he feels. “I wish I could go back in time and not say anything.”
“I wish you could go back and say my name,” Pedri confesses in a whisper against Ferran’s lips.
Ferran rearranges them so Pedri is sitting on his lap, hands wrapped around his hips, “We can, if you want.”
They’ve had this conversation multiple times in the year and a half since they started dating. It’s not realistic, not with the consequences they would suffer — the lost brand deals, the homophobic chants, the backlash from the press. Still, Ferran likes to imagine, sometimes, that they live in a world where they can just kiss in the middle of the pitch in celebration and no one would bat an eye.
“No, it’s fine,” Pedri assures him. “This time next week, we will both be laying on the beach without any worries.”
“At 10 PM?” Ferran teases, tickling Pedri’s sides and making him giggle. “I better be having a nice meal.”
“Hmm,” Pedri chuckles, bumping their noses. “Are you cooking?”
“We can order food.”
“Flick will kill us.”
“We deserve it,” Ferran promises, kissing Pedri’s forehead. “We’re going to be world champions.”
Pedri grins as he knocks Ferran back into the bed and pushes their bodies together once more.
The final whistle ends the gruelling two-hour match that Spain had managed to win by the skin of their teeth. Ferran’s knees hit the grass with a thud, the buzz of the stadium fading to a murmur as he brings his hands to his face and whispers a small prayer. A voice he recognises as Eric’s breaks through the noise with a loud scream and then there are multiple pairs of arms wrapping around him.
Ferran is dropped to his back by the multiple bodies pilling on top of his, Gavi shrieking in his ear, a string of swear words Ferran barely recognises deafening him. Ferran is still on his back when Pedri shows up, looming over him and, once more, Ferran feels the world tilt on its axis and lock into place. They’re both grinning, Pedri’s bangs stuck to his forehead adorably. His boyfriend offers his hands out, pulling him up into a hug.
Ferran inhales once, then feels the tears well up in his eyes, before they start flowing onto the skin of Pedri’s neck.
“I love you so much,” Ferran mumbles quietly, face hidden.
Pedri doesn’t say it back — he doesn’t need to, Ferran knows. Instead, he grabs both sides of Ferran’s face, his own eyes misty and bloodshot.
“Ferri,” he starts, but is interrupted by another onslaught of teammates jumping them, squeezing what feels like ten bodies together, before moving along to the next group.
Pedri and Ferran remain wrapped up in each other, in what, sensibly, could probably be described as a way too long hug, but Ferran is more than willing to have to explain his way out of this one if he doesn’t have to share his boyfriend for a few more seconds.
“Ferri,” Pedri whispers again, eyes looking up at his, cheeks blushed a beautiful pink Ferran can’t help but to soothe with his thumbs. Ferran wants to lean down to kiss him, which should be a much scarier thought than it actually is. “Do you trust me?”
Ferran nods enthusiastically before he even processes Pedri’s words, unsure of what he’s agreeing to until he sees the hitch in his breath, the fear in his eyes, the determination in his brow. Pedri lifts himself on his tip toes, grabbing the nape of Ferran’s neck. He smells like grass, sweat and energy drinks, and tastes like the love of his life as their lips crash into each other. They don’t stay connected for long, certainly not enough for Ferran to feel anywhere near fulfilled, but he understands. Still, he tightens his grip around Pedri’s waist, picking him up and spinning them around once, before taking a step back to give both of them some breathing space.
“Ferri,” Pedri giggles, shortening the distance between them, forehead hitting Ferran’s collarbone with a thud. Ferran buries his face on the top of Pedri’s head, inhaling him further.
“We should not give any interviews for a while,” Ferran chuckles, kissing the top of his head.
“Actually… I have a plan.”
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August 7, 2026