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The email from his agent sits in his inbox all morning.
He doesn’t even have to open it to know what it says - the subject line is enough: “Offer: Manchester United.”
Ferran stares at it between bites of breakfast while the chatter of the team hums around him. Gavi and Balde are arguing about something stupid, Pedri’s laugh flickers through the air like sunlight and Ferran’s chest tightens until it feels hard to breathe.
He is happy here.
He loves this club, this team, this city that smells like salt and noise and home. But happiness isn’t the same as peace. And lately peace has felt impossible, especially when the person sitting across the table is Pedri, still grinning from something Gavi said, dimples deep, eyes flicking up to meet his like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t destroy him every time.
Ferran looks away first.
He opens the email later in his car, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles ache.
It’s real. Big salary, guaranteed starter position, promises of being an important part of their rebuild project. No talk of “competition for places” or “rotation.” They want him.
And he hates that it tempts him.
He doesn’t tell Pedri. Not yet.
Instead, that night, he finds Eric and Dani in the corner of the little training park near his house, where they usually mess around after hours, shooting half hearted free kicks into an empty net.
Eric spots his expression first. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you just got dumped.”
Ferran laughs without humor. “Might as well have.”
“Okay, drama queen,” Dani mutters, juggling a ball with one foot. “Spit it out.”
He hesitates, glancing around. “United sent an offer to me a few days ago.”
Dani stops juggling. The ball drops and rolls away. “Manchester United?”
“Yeah.”
Eric’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re kidding. And judging by your face… you’re considering it.”
And when Ferran doesn’t reply, Eric purses his lips and shakes his head, “Why the hell would you go there? That team’s a circus, bro.”
“I know.” Ferran’s voice cracks slightly. “But they’re offering a lot. And… guaranteed starter position.”
Silence settles heavy between them, broken only by the dull echo of a ball somewhere down the park.
Eric crosses his arms. “You are a starter here.”
Ferran lets out a small, sharp laugh. “Am I? Not really. Not always. And my contract’s almost up. They sent a renewal offer but it’s not the same as this one.”
Dani frowns. “Still. I know this sounds kinda douchey but money’s not every thing when us footballers are already privileged enough with it. It’s not like Barça’s paying you in peanuts, bro. And ‘part of their rebuild?’ Bro, you were part of the rebuild here at Barça too! And now look at us, we’re domestic treble champions. Come on, Ferri, you love it here! You’d be miserable there.”
He looks down at his hands. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s kind of the problem.“
They both stare at him, confusion flickering, then something like understanding slowly forming.
Eric steps closer. “This isn’t just about football, is it?”
Ferran shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.
Dani opens his mouth to say something, but Ferran cuts in, “Just… just don’t tell Pedri yet. I mean it. Not yet.”
“Ferran…”
“Promise me.”
So they nod and he turns away, pretending not to see the quiet, worried look they share behind him.
Because leaving would hurt.
But staying, loving Pedri in silence, might maim him slower.
Pedri doesn’t believe it when he first hears.
They’re in the locker room after training, laughter still echoing around as everyone drifts between jokes and halfhearted teasing.
Pedri’s loosening his laces when Dani says it, not maliciously, just an accidental slip of the tongue, “Well Ferri, if you actually leave, you better not forget us.”
And it’s the way Ferran freezes mid laugh that makes Pedri look up.
At first, he laughs, easy and teasing, “Yeah, right. Like Ferran would ever leave Barça.”
Nobody answers.
Dani’s grin falters, Eric suddenly finds something very interesting about his shoelaces and Ferran… Ferran won’t look at him. He has the tiniest flinch in his shoulders like he’s been caught doing something he didn’t want anyone to see.
Pedri blinks, confusion knitting his brow. “Wait. What?”
Ferran exhales slowly, like the air’s been sitting heavy in his lungs all morning. “I got an offer,” he says, voice flat. “From United. And… I’m considering it.”
Pedri laughs again, incredulous, his tone light because it has to be. “Yeah, right. United? Be serious, Ferri.”
Ferran doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even look at him. Just keeps fiddling with his shirt like if he stared at it long enough, he won’t have to look up.
That’s when it hit him that this isn’t a joke.
The laughter dies in Pedri’s throat. “No, wait. You’re… you’re serious?”
“Yeah.”
There’s no pause, no hesitation. Just that word, heavy and certain and impossible.
Pedri feels his heart stumble, chest tightening like someone’s pulling the ground out from under him. “You’re actually considering it?”
Ferran’s quiet for a long time, eyes fixed on the floor. Then, he looks up and said softly, “Yeah. Maybe.”
The air around them shifts - sharp, thin, like there’s not enough oxygen left to go around. Pedri’s breathing speeds up before he even realizes it, chest heaving shallowly.
He forces a desperate laugh because surely this is just a joke, a prank. “What are you saying, Ferran? That you’re going to leave? Barça? This Barça?”
“Pedri-“
“No, no, wait.” He shakes his head, almost stumbling to his feet, trying to make sense of it. “This is us. Us. The team, this club, it’s everything to you. You love it. You’ve always loved it.” His voice cracked but he didn’t stop. “How can you just leave like that?”
Ferran’s lips part but nothing comes out. His jaw tightens, eyes flicking up and in a few seconds, Pedri swears he sees it. The guilt in his eyes.
“It’s not that simple,” Ferran murmurs finally.
Pedri laughs again, bitter now. “Not that simple? You talk about this team like it’s your heartbeat. You stay after training when everyone leaves, you train on off days, you told me-“ His voice catches. “You told me it’s home.”
Ferran closes his eyes. “It is.”
“Then why the hell are you leaving it?”
Ferran shrugs, eyes flicking away. “Contracts end. Things change.”
There’s no answer.
Just the sound of Pedri’s breathing growing uneven, shaky, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.
He feels something hot rise in his chest - anger, panic, grief - and he doesn’t know which one it is, only that it’s too much.
He looks at Ferran - really looks - and the sight of him sitting there, silent, not denying it, not fighting for it, makes something snap.
“No, you cant. I just… I just need-“
Pedri steps back, shaking his head hard, like if he moves fast enough the words will un-hear themselves. His breath comes out in short pants and he’s not getting enough oxygen in his lungs.
Ferran stands up and reaches for him - not close enough to touch, just a reflex, helpless. “Pedri, listen to me-“
But Pedri’s already gone.
He turns and walks out, too fast, too uneven, the edges of his vision blurring. His chest felt like it’s caving in, breath stuttering as he makes it down the corridor, ignoring whoever calls his name.
He doesn’t know why this hits right where it hurts.
People transfer all the time, all his best friends at every level of football did. U-17, U-21 and now professional football.
He’s used to this.
Then why does it feel like the world is crashing down?
He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know any thing.
By the time the doors slam shut behind him, he doesn’t even know if he’s angry or heartbroken and he doesn’t even know why.
Only that the thought of Ferran in another shirt, another life, feels like someone’s pressing on his lungs and won’t let go.
Ferran finds Pedri in one of the old storage rooms behind the training ground. It takes him twenty minutes of walking through empty corridors, calling his name once or twice before giving up on that and just… listening.
The door is cracked open a little, light spilling from the flickering bulb inside. Pedri’s sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled up, head tipped back.
Ferran stands in the doorway for a long moment, unsure if he’s even wanted there. Then he pushes it open and steps in quietly.
Pedri doesn’t look up.
So Ferran sits down beside him, leaving just enough space that their shoulders don’t touch and for a while they don’t speak. The only sound is the hum of the lights.
It feels easier, somehow, to be silent. Words would make everything real.
Finally, Pedri breaks it, voice low and rough. “Why?”
Ferran swallows. “You know why.”
“No,” Pedri says sharply. “I don’t. So tell me.”
Ferran stares down at his hands, turning his bracelet around his wrist just to have something to look at that isn’t Pedri’s face. “They’re offering more money. And a starting position.”
Pedri lets out a short, bitter laugh that sounds like it hurts. “You’re a starter here.”
Ferran shakes his head. “Not a guaranteed one. I’m just… keeping the seat warm for Lewy.” He shrugs, trying to make it sound casual. “And I don’t mind, really. He’s a legend. He deserves to start. But football careers are already short enough, Pepi.”
At the nickname, Pedri’s lip wobbles. He looks away quickly, blinking hard, refusing to let anything fall. “What about us?” he asks quietly.
Ferran’s chest tightens. He wants to tell him that’s what this is about, that every reason he’s listed is a lie to hide the real one. That it’s not the money, not the game time, it’s the way it’s become unbearable to breathe the same air and not be allowed to reach for him.
He wants to say: Stop me. Tell me to stay. Tell me not to leave because you want me to stay for you and I will.
But Pedri’s eyes are shining and desperate and Ferran knows he can’t say that.
So he lies. “We’ll still see each other.”
Pedri laughs, sharp and bitter and disbelieving. “We’ll still see each other?” He turns toward him, eyes shiny with a rage he has never seen in him before. “We’ll still see each other? Do I mean nothing to you?”
“Pedri-“
“No, tell me!” he snaps, voice cracking now. “Am I that disposable? Yeah, sure, we’ll see each other. Maybe once every summer, right? Maybe not even then because you’ll be off with your new friends at your new club, isn’t it? Once a year and that’s apparently no problem for you.”
“Pedri, it’s not that. It’s not… it’s all just so-“
He stumbles over his words and Pedri gets to his feet, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “Barça sent you a renewal offer, Ferran.“
Ferran’s head drops down. “I know.”
“Yeah,” Pedri says, voice trembling with anger he’s barely holding back. “When I renewed, I asked about the club’s future plans and they told me they’re betting on you.” His chest heaves. “It’s not like they’re kicking you out… you’re the one who’s leaving.”
The words land like blows, each one harder than the last.
Ferran opens his mouth, then closes it again.
Because what is he supposed to say?
That the club might believe in him but he doesn’t believe he can stay another year pretending this isn’t breaking him?
That every time Pedri smiles at him it feels like both heaven and hell, and he’s tired of loving someone who will never love him back?
He looks up at Pedri, who’s standing there, chest rising and falling, eyes glassy and furious and heartbreakingly alive and Ferran realizes he’ll remember this moment for the rest of his life.
But all he can say, quietly, is, “It’s not that simple.”
And this time, Pedri doesn’t reply.
He just shakes his head, sharp and final, before walking out and leaving Ferran alone in the room, with the echo of his own heartbeat and the stupid, useless truth he couldn’t say still stuck in his throat.
The next morning, Ferran feels like he hasn’t slept at all.
He gets through breakfast and the warm up on autopilot, smiling when people talk to him, laughing when he’s supposed to, but everything feels muffled like the world’s moving through water.
Pedri doesn’t even look at him.
After training, when the rest of the team heads inside, Ferran stays back. He hesitates for a long moment before walking toward the small office overlooking the pitches. The door is open.
Hansi Flick is sitting at his desk, watching a clip on his tablet. He looks up immediately. “Ferran.” He gestures for him to come in, a small knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I was wondering when you’d come talk to me.”
Ferran manages a weak laugh and sinks into the chair opposite him. “Guess I’m predictable, huh.”
Flick sets the tablet aside and folds his hands. “Manchester United. Your agent informed the sporting director today.”
Ferran nods, jaw tight. “Yeah. They sent a formal offer. My agent’s… talking to them.”
The coach doesn’t look surprised. Just thoughtful. “And you’re seriously considering it.”
Ferran shrugs. “They’re offering a lot. Guaranteed starting spot. It’s-“ He hesitates. “It’s hard not to think about, you know? Football’s short. You can’t predict anything. One injury and it’s over, you won’t get any good offers after that.”
Flick nods slowly, the kind of understanding that comes from years in this business. “You’re right. Football careers are short. Money and minutes, they matter.” He leans back slightly. “But so do the places that believe in you.”
Ferran looks up.
Flick’s tone softens but it stays steady, measured and professional. “I won’t pressure you, Ferran. I know what United can offer financially. I’ve seen this before, watching good players leave because a club couldn’t match a number.” He pauses. “But I want you to know, for what it’s worth, we’re counting on you. You’ve been central to what we’ve built this past year.”
That catches Ferran off guard. “I really appreciate your trust. And I really admire your project,” he says quietly. “All of it. The structure, the team, the atmosphere. It’s special. It feels like we’ve really built something. And… you’ve been the coach who gave me my best season, you know? Upped my confidence and brought that passion for the game back.”
“But?” Flick asks, gentle but direct.
Ferran exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “But… I don’t know if I can stay.”
The coach studies him for a long moment, then says it softly, the way only someone who’s seen this a hundred times can: “It’s not about the football, is it?”
Ferran freezes.
His heart stutters and he looks up sharply, eyes wide, the kind of startled expression you give someone who’s just read your mind. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. After a few seconds, he looks down, lips twisting, and shakes his head.
“No. It’s not.”
Flick nods slowly. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push. Just lets the silence stretch, full but not uncomfortable.
When he finally speaks again, his voice is lower, kind. “You’re young, Ferran. But you’ve already learned something most players don’t realize until it’s too late. That this game doesn’t stop for your heart. You have to make choices that let you live with yourself after football too.”
Ferran swallows hard. “And if both choices hurt?”
“Then you pick the one you can still respect when the hurt fades.”
That lands heavy. Ferran looks at the floor for a long time, nodding slowly. “I’ll think about it.”
Flick gives him a small smile. “That’s all I’m asking. Whatever you decide, you’ve earned my respect and the team’s gratitude. My door’s always open.”
Ferran stands, nods again, but before he leaves, Flick adds quietly: “For what it’s worth… sometimes staying is the braver choice.”
Ferran doesn’t turn around, but his throat tightens and he can’t quite breathe properly until he’s out in the hallway again.
The days after their fight feel heavier and heavier.
Pedri goes through them on muscle memory. Wake up, drive to training, pull on the kit, smile when someone cracks a joke.
On the surface he looks fine, he’s always been good at that. But underneath, everything aches. Not in the sharp, angry way pain sometimes comes but deep down, like his ribs have forgotten how to hold his chest right.
He keeps expecting Ferran to come up to him, to say something - anything - that will make it all make sense. But he doesn’t. He still greets him in the mornings, still passes him the ball in training, still laughs with Eric and Dani like he hasn’t left a hole behind somewhere just by thinking about leaving.
It shouldn’t matter this much.
It’s just football. People transfer all the time.
That’s what Pedri keeps telling himself, over and over, like a prayer. But every time he sees Ferran out of the corner of his eye, the lie feels heavier.
Then the media catches wind of it.
The first time Pedri hears the words Manchester United in the dressing room, his chest tightens until he can’t take a full breath. Headlines, reporters, journalists outside the gates - “Ferran Torres considering Premier League move. United offer player key role and higher wages.” It’s everywhere now.
And Ferran still doesn’t deny it. Not once.
The game was already slipping away from them.
Barcelona were a goal down, and every second felt heavier - passes breaking down just before they should connect, voices snapping sharper with every mistake. They were losing aerial and ground duels, misplacing the simplest passes. The team looked tired, disjointed.
Pedri could feel it bubbling under his skin - frustration, exhaustion, something deeper he didn’t want to name. Ferran was a few meters ahead, tracking back late, shoulders tense.
Pedri sees the gap forming before it happens.
“Press him!” Pedri shouts, stepping up, voice cutting through the noise. “Ferran, press him!”
Ferran moves a beat too slow. The opponent slips past him, quick and clean, and in the next breath, the ball is in the back of their net.
The whistle blows. 2-0.
Pedri’s jaw clenches hard. His pulse roars in his ears as he jogs towards the centre circle. “You have to press your man better!” he snaps.
Ferran turns, sweat beading on his forehead, eyes flashing. “Mind your own side, Pedri.”
Pedri stops dead. “Excuse me?”
“I said worry about your side,” Ferran says, voice even sharper now. “You’re not exactly perfect out there either.”
Pedri’s chest burns, anger sparking under his ribs. “I am worrying about my side,” he shoots back, stepping closer. “But when you don’t press, you leave everyone open!”
Ferran’s head snaps toward him fully then, eyes narrowing, color high in his cheeks. “Don’t start, Pedri,” he warns. “You lost that duel that led to the first goal. Don’t act like this is all on me.”
“Yeah?” Pedri barks a bitter laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Maybe if you’d been in position, you could’ve pressed him and we’d still have a chance.”
Ferran’s jaw tenses. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Pedri bites out, his pulse racing now.
Ferran takes a step closer, close enough that Pedri can see the exhaustion in his eyes. “You know exactly what. Mistakes happen. Let’s… let’s try to get one back and forget about this.”
Pedri could’ve stopped there. He should’ve stopped there. Ferran was giving him an olive branch. But his mouth was faster than his brain.
“Of course,” he snaps, voice sharp enough to slice. “Why would you care? Your head’s already at fucking Manchester United, isn’t it?”
The words hang between them, heavy, electric.
And the second they leave his mouth, Pedri wishes he can grab them back.
Ferran freezes. His face goes still in that awful, quiet way, not angry now, just hurt. Deeply, deeply hurt. The kind of hurt that cuts deeper because he didn’t expect it from Pedri.
Pedri’s stomach drops. “Ferran, I-“
But Ferran just shakes his head slowly, lips pressed tight. Then he turns and walks off, not looking back.
The rumours had spread like wildfire by now.
Manchester United talks advancing with Ferran Torres, deal possible before winter window.
Every time he checks his phone, there’s another notification. He doesn’t need to open them. The headlines are enough.
He’d told himself he wouldn’t care what people said. That he’d keep his head down, stay professional, like always. But none of it hits quite as hard as the one thing he didn’t prepare for - Pedri not talking to him.
Not a single word in days.
Not in the locker room. Not in the physio area. Not during drills. Pedri moves around him like Ferran’s air, like something he doesn’t even have to acknowledge to breathe.
And it kills him. Slowly.
And he still couldn’t shake off the way Pedri had sneered at him during the last game.
Insinuating that Ferran wasn’t giving it his all because he was already thinking of another club. That had hurt.
However, he knew Pedri regretted it the second he said it because he had the most expressive eyes he’d ever seen in his life. Pedri could hide anything but if you knew him well enough, you could instantly tell what he felt by just one look into his eyes.
So when he sees Pedri in the gym that evening, alone, finishing up a workout, the decision to go in isn’t really a decision. It’s instinct. His heart makes it for him before his head can stop it.
Pedri’s by the weights, wiping sweat off his forehead. His shirt clings to his back, the slope of his shoulders tense. Angry. Tired. Ferran stands by the door a few seconds longer than he should, just watching him: the way he moves, the way the veins in his forearm stand out, the crease between his brows.
He looks… hurt. Even if he won’t say it.
When Pedri finally catches sight of him in the mirror, his expression shifts instantly. The small flicker of hurt, the way his mouth hardens. He doesn’t smile. Just grabs his water bottle and turns toward the exit.
“Pedri,” Ferran calls, voice rough.
No answer.
“Pedri, please.”
Nothing.
So he does the one thing he shouldn’t - he reaches out and catches Pedri’s wrist as he walks past.
Pedri’s body goes rigid. Slowly, his head turns, and Ferran sees his reflection - those dark, glassy eyes that give everything away even when his face doesn’t move at all.
“I’m telling my agent yes,” Ferran says. The words come out too fast, too soft. “Tomorrow.”
He didn’t mean to say it so callously. Not like that. But now it’s out there, hanging between them like a bruise.
Pedri just stares at him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. His eyes are wide, the shock flickering through them like a ripple and then the hurt follows, quiet and deep, settling behind his lashes like it’s trying to hide.
Ferran’s fingers still rest around Pedri’s wrist, warm and trembling and inside his head it’s chaos. He can feel Pedri’s pulse racing under his hand.
Say something. Please. Tell me not to go. Tell me to stay for you and I’ll stay. I swear I will. One word from you and I’ll burn the contract, I’ll walk away from everything.
But Pedri doesn’t say anything for a long time.
His throat bobs once as he swallows. The faintest tremor runs through his lip before he bites it, hard. His eyes shine - wet, unfallen tears - and that’s somehow worse than if he’d yelled.
He looks like he’s trying so hard to keep himself together that it might kill him.
Then, gently but firmly, he pulls his hand free. The touch disappears, leaving Ferran’s fingers tingling, cold.
Pedri’s jaw tightens. He presses his lips together, breathes out slowly through his nose, the sound shaking just barely. Then he looks up, those wide, glassy eyes meeting Ferran’s for one raw, unbearable second.
“Congratulations,” he whispers.
It’s soft. Almost resigned. But it cuts like a blade.
Before Ferran can say anything - before he can even reach out again - Pedri turns and walks out. No hesitation, no second glance. Just gone.
The door swings shut behind him with a dull thud.
And Ferran stays there, frozen, every muscle in his body tense, his hand still half lifted in the empty air where Pedri’s wrist had been.
The apartment is dark when Pedri gets home.
He doesn’t bother turning on the lights, just tosses his bag somewhere near the door and kicks off his shoes without even looking. The echo of the gym still clings to him: the hum of machines, Ferran’s voice, the way his name had sounded coming from his mouth.
“I’m telling my agent yes.”
The words replay in his head again and again, looping until they start to sound unreal.
He rubs a hand over his face, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. His eyes sting but he won’t let himself cry. He hasn’t let the tears fall, not once. Not after the fight, not through training, not when the headlines started crawling across his phone.
He’s Pedri González. He’s used to pressure, to pain, to pretending it doesn’t hurt until it finally stops.
He goes to the kitchen because it’s muscle memory - water, something cold, anything to busy his hands. The fridge hums softly in the quiet.
And then he sees it.
That stupid little fridge magnet.
The magnet was shaped like a tagine, painted with crooked little palm trees and the word Morocco in looping gold letters. slightly chipped at the edge. Ferran had brought it back from Morocco last summer, tossed it at him in the locker room with a grin. So you can remember me when I’m off being cultured, he’d joked.
Pedri had cherished it, stuck it on the fridge right away.
It’s been there ever since - through every late night, every early morning, every tired meal eaten standing right here.
Now he just stares at it.
And suddenly it’s like all the air’s been sucked out of the room.
His chest tightens hard and before he can stop it, his hand comes up, pressing over his sternum as if that’ll make it easier to breathe. His vision blurs. His throat burns.
He tries to swallow, tries to steady himself, but then the first sob breaks free, sharp and unsteady and it’s over.
He doesn’t even realise what he’s doing until his hand is on the magnet, pulling it off the fridge. It’s warm from the metal, small enough to disappear in his palm.
He grips it harder, presses it against his chest like he could somehow keep it, keep Ferran, keep everything. His other hand clutches the counter for balance as his knees threaten to give out. The sound he makes isn’t clean or quiet, it’s raw, gasping, broken. He can’t catch his breath. His heart is hammering too fast, his chest aching so sharply it feels like something’s tearing.
He slides down to the floor, back hitting the cabinet, the magnet still clutched tight against his chest. His breath comes in harsh, uneven pulls, sobs shaking through him until his whole body trembles. He presses his palm harder against his heart, gasping between each breath, trying to force air back into his lungs.
He doesn’t even know what hurts more - the idea of Ferran leaving the club or the realisation that it’s not just about the club or football at all.
It hits him then. All at once. Why it hurts this much.
Why it’s been unbearable.
Why every second around Ferran feels like both home and heartbreak.
Because it’s him.
It’s always been him.
Ferran, with his stupid jokes and soft eyes, with his steady warmth and the way he’s always been there.
And now he’s leaving.
Because Pedri couldn’t say what he should have said.
He lets out a shuddering breath, the sound breaking halfway through. His hand shakes as he wipes at his eyes, the magnet still pressed against his chest like a heartbeat.
After a while, the sobs quieten.
He’s emptied himself out - all the tears, all the air, all the words that never made it past his lips. His face feels hot and tight, his throat raw.
But somewhere under the exhaustion, something shifts. A stubborn, solid kind of certainty.
He can’t let Ferran go.
He can’t.
Not like this. Not without trying. Not when he finally understands what all of it means.
He pushes himself up from the floor slowly, legs unsteady, the magnet still in his hand. He sets it on the counter just long enough to grab his keys, his jacket, his phone. His reflection flashes in the dark window, eyes red, cheeks streaked, determination cutting through the mess.
He picks the magnet back up, slips it into his jacket pocket.
And without thinking twice, he’s out the door.
Down the stairs.
Out into the night air that bites at his face and makes his breath hitch again.
Into his car.
The city lights blur as he drives, heart still pounding, chest still aching but this time it’s not from crying.
It’s from something sharper, clearer.
He doesn’t know what he’s going to say when he gets there. He just knows he has to go.
He has to try.
It’s well past midnight when Ferran hears the knock.
He’s sitting on the couch in his sweats, the lights dim, his phone heavy in his hand. The message to his agent is open - “I’ve decided. Let’s move forward with United.” - typed and waiting.
He’s been staring at it for the last hour, thumb hovering over send, heart beating too loud in the silence.
When the first knock comes, he startles.
Three sharp raps against the door.
He frowns, glancing at the clock. No one visits this late.
But then he hears it again - that same pattern, hesitant, uneven.
And something in his chest shifts.
He knows that knock.
He’s on his feet before he realises it, heart climbing into his throat. The door feels too far away, the air too thin. He crosses the living room in a few steps and pulls open the door.
Pedri’s standing there.
His hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes red, not from tiredness but from crying. He’s still catching his breath, one hand in the pocket of his jacket, the other clenched loosely at his side.
Ferran doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares.
“Can I come in?” Pedri says, voice quiet and unsteady.
Ferran steps aside instantly. Pedri slips past him, and the warmth of him - the familiar scent of his cologne, the sound of his uneven breathing - fills the apartment.
The door clicks shut behind them. For a second, neither of them speak.
Pedri’s still by the doorway, jacket half unzipped, eyes darting everywhere - the couch, the phone on the table, the empty glass beside it - before settling on Ferran.
“You were really going to do it,” he says softly.
It’s not a question.
Ferran opens his mouth, but the words don’t come. He just exhales, long and quiet. “I haven’t sent it yet.”
Pedri nods once, like that answer matters more than it should. His eyes are wet again, catching the light.
He hesitates, then reaches into his pocket and pulls something out.
A small shape rests in his palm - the chipped magnet Ferran got him as a joke but he remembered the way Pedri’s eyes lit up like it was the best gift he had ever received.
Ferran’s breath catches.
Pedri looks down at it, then back up, his voice shaking. “I don’t want you to go.”
It’s barely more than a whisper, but it hits Ferran like a punch.
For a moment, all he can do is stare, at the magnet, at Pedri, at the way his fingers are trembling as he clutches it. His chest feels too full, like something is breaking open inside him and spilling out, all the things he’s been holding back for months.
“I-“ Ferran stops, swallows, tries again. “You don’t mean that.”
Pedri’s eyes flash. “Yes, I do,” he says, firmer now. “You can’t leave, Ferran. Not Barça, not…” He stops himself, biting down on the rest of the sentence. His throat moves as he swallows, his breath trembling. “Not me.”
The magnet hits the floor with a faint clink. Pedri doesn’t even look down.
“Don’t go.”
The words cut through the silence like something sharp. His voice breaks on the second word, trembling and desperate. Ferran stares at him, chest tight, trying to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.
Pedri steps closer, slow and shaking. “Please, Ferran.” His fingers find Ferran’s shirt, fisting in the fabric right over his chest, tugging hard enough that Ferran has to take a step forward to keep balance. “Don’t do this. Don’t leave.”
“Pedri…” Ferran breathes out, helpless. His resolve is already breaking. He could never say no to Pedri in the entire time he has known him.
“I mean it,” Pedri’s voice cracks again, eyes glassy and wide. “You can’t go. They can’t be offering enough money in the world to leave all this behind. This is your home. You love it here. You love-“ He stops, choking on the words, swallowing hard before finishing in a whisper, “-you love us.”
Ferran feels the world tilt. His heart’s hammering so loud he swears Pedri can feel it under his fist.
Ferran almost laughs at how close to the point Pedri is. He does love it here and he does love him, and somehow that is precisely what the problem is.
Pedri goes on, “You said you’re just Lewy’s replacement but that’s not true! You’ve played more than him this season and-and if they sign someone else, they would have to fight for their place in the squad like you have! It’s not like Flick would cast you aside, you know that, Ferri you know that.”
Ferran tries to speak, tries to tell him but these reasons don’t even matter. That he’s happy with his role here and the money, the position, none of it matters when his heart hurts every single day. But he can’t so the words come out broken. “You don’t understand. I can’t-“
Pedri shakes his head sharply. “Don’t tell me you can’t. You can.” His voice trembles, breath hitching. “You can stay. You just don’t want to.”
Ferran shuts his eyes, the words hitting too close, too deep. “It’s not that,” he says, voice rough. “It’s - everything’s complicated, Pepi-“
“Then make it simple!” Pedri bursts out, the words shaking.
Ferran opens his eyes, and the sight nearly destroys him. Pedri’s eyes are wet, red-rimmed, his jaw trembling as he stares up at him. He looks lost, small in a way Ferran’s never seen before.
“Please. For me.” Pedri whispers again, the word trembling between them, soft and pleading. His fist tightens in Ferran’s shirt, pulling him closer until there’s barely any space left. His breath hits Ferran’s lips when he says it again, lower, rawer: “Stay for me. Because I’m selfish and I don’t care what any other club is offering you. I want you to stay… for me.”
And that does it.
It all breaks in Ferran’s chest.
He’s a weak man for him, he always has been.
From the first time Pedri laughed at one of his bad jokes, to the quiet nights they’d spent driving nowhere, to this moment now, when every inch of him is screaming stay.
Stay for him, above every thing.
He knew this would happen the minute Pedri asked him to stay because he wanted him to. He could almost laugh at how predictable he was.
Ferran’s hands come up before he can think. He cups Pedri’s face, thumbs trembling against his skin, catching a tear before it falls.
“Okay,” Ferran whispers, voice cracking. “Okay, Pepi. I’ll stay.”
Pedri stares at him, eyes wide, searching his face like he doesn’t quite believe it. “You mean it?”
Ferran nods, his forehead almost touching Pedri’s now. “I mean it. I’ll stay. I’m not going anywhere.”
Pedri lets out a sound then - quiet, cracked, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. His grip on Ferran’s shirt tightens until it hurts, like if he lets go, Ferran will vanish right in front of him.
And maybe he would have.
But now he won’t. Not after this.
Ferran pulls him closer, rests his forehead against Pedri’s and closes his eyes. Their breaths mix, shaky and uneven. It’s not even a kiss - but it’s something heavier, something that lives in the space between what they can’t say and what they’ve already said too loud.
Pedri breathes out a shaky, broken, “Thank you,” and Ferran almost breaks right there.
He keeps his eyes closed, voice small and sure against the quiet. “You don’t have to thank me.”
And Pedri loops his arms around his neck and hugs him so tight, that Ferran can do nothing else but hide his face in Pedri’s shoulder and hug him back.
Pedri wakes up to the low hum of a voice, soft and rough, drifting from somewhere across the room.
For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. The air smells faintly like Ferran’s cologne and clean laundry, the blanket over him is heavy and warm. Then memory comes rushing back - the drive, the argument, the tears.
He blinks blearily, turning his head toward the sound coming from the kitchen. The apartment is washed in that early grey of the morning. Ferran is in the kitchen, back to him, phone pressed to his ear, one hand braced against the counter.
He fell asleep on Ferran’s couch, it seems.
Pedri stills, half hidden beneath the blanket. He isn’t supposed to listen but he can’t not.
“…yeah,” Ferran is saying quietly, voice low and tired. “I’ve made up my mind. Tell them no.”
A pause, the faint tinny voice of his agent coming through the speaker, surprised. “No? Ferran, wait, what do you mean no? I told United we were positive you’d say yes today. The salary’s-“
“I know what the salary is,” Ferran cuts in gently but firm. “I just, I’m not doing it.”
Pedri’s heart gives a small jolt.
“Hold on,” the agent says, confusion sharpening his tone. “You were ready to accept two days ago. What happened? Did something change with the terms? I can call them, try to negotiate higher-“
“It’s not about the money,” Ferran says. His voice is quieter now, like he doesn’t want to wake anyone, like he thinks Pedri is still asleep. “I just… I feel at home here.”
The agent is silent for a beat. “Home?” he repeats, uncertain.
“Yeah.” Ferran exhales shakily. “My family’s here. My… my life’s here. I know what people say, that I’m not always a guaranteed starter or whatever but I belong here. I can’t just walk away from that. Not like this.”
“You’re sure about this?” the agent asks. “It’s a big decision, Ferran. Once I tell them no, the offer’s off the table.”
“I’m sure,” Ferran says softly, decisive now. “Tell them no.”
There’s another pause. Then, “Alright. And Barcelona’s renewal? You want me to tell them you’ll sign? Or do you want to negotiate the salary they’re offering?”
Pedri holds his breath.
Ferran’s head drops for a moment, the tension in his shoulders easing like he’s been carrying something too heavy for too long. When he speaks again, his voice is steady, certain.
“Yeah,” he says. “Tell Barça I accept. I’ll sign the renewal. There’s no need for salary negotiations.”
The agent sighs faintly on the other end, still processing. “Alright, Ferran. If that’s what you want. I’ll call them this morning.”
“Thanks,” Ferran murmurs.
“Don’t mention it,” his agent says finally, softer now. “You sound happier, by the way, for what it’s worth.”
Ferran gives a small, quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I am.”
He ends the call. The silence that follows feels thick, but not in a bad way.
Pedri doesn’t move. He stays there under the blanket, staring at the back of Ferran’s head, his chest tight and warm all at once. His throat burns with words he doesn’t say - thank you, I heard you, you stayed for us, for me.
But he just lies there quietly, watching Ferran run a tired hand through his hair, staring down at his phone with a small smile.
He stays by the counter long after the call ends, phone facedown beside a glass of water. His shoulders are loose now, lighter somehow, but there’s still that stillness about him, the kind that comes when your mind’s still catching up to what your heart has already decided.
Pedri lies there on the couch, watching him but he can’t stay there pretending anymore.
He pushes off the blanket and sits up, the quiet rustle of fabric breaking the stillness.
Ferran turns instantly, hearing the sound. His eyes meet Pedri’s and for a heartbeat, surprise flickers across his face, then softens into a small, tired smile.
“Good morning,” Ferran says gently.
Pedri blinks, hair a mess. “Good morning,” he murmurs back, awkward and quiet.
Ferran’s mouth curves, that soft sort of laugh slipping out of him. “How much of that did you hear?”
Pedri hesitates, eyes darting to the phone still on the counter. “All of it?” he admits, sheepish.
Ferran chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “Well,” he says lightly, turning back toward the counter, “I told you I’d stay, didn’t I?”
He reaches for the coffee pot, setting it on the stove with practiced ease. Pedri stands there for a few seconds, watching him move, the quiet clatter of mugs filling the silence.
Then, softly, like he’s scared to break something fragile, he asks, “Why did you… why did you agree to stay just because I asked?”
Ferran’s hand stills mid motion.
Pedri’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Your agent… it sounded like you were going to say yes. Like you wanted to. What changed when I asked?”
For a long moment, Ferran doesn’t turn. His back stays to Pedri, shoulders tense, head bowed a little.
Then, quietly he says, “You really don’t know, do you?”
Pedri frowns, confusion flickering across his face. “Know what?”
Ferran exhales, running a hand through his hair, the motion slow and weary. Then he turns to face him.
“It’s all because of you.”
Pedri blinks. “Me?”
Ferran nods, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah.” His voice is steady, but soft, the kind of calm that hides how much it costs to say. “I wanted to leave because of you. And I stayed because of you.”
Pedri’s breath catches. “You wanted to-“ he stammers, confused and hurt, “to leave because of me?”
Ferran gives a small, broken laugh and runs a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t keep on tormenting myself,” he says quietly. “It was too hard seeing you every day and not-“ He swallows hard. “-not have you. Not have you when… when I’ve loved you for years.”
Pedri’s eyes widen, a small, sharp gasp escaping before he can stop it. The room feels smaller suddenly, heavier with the truth.
Ferran looks up then, finally meeting his gaze. His expression is raw, unguarded. “But I stayed because of you too,” he says simply. “Because one word from you and I knew I couldn’t go. I knew from the start if you say something, my resolve would break right then and there. I love Barça, I do, but I was ready to leave it all behind. Then you said don’t go, and… well.”
He gives a half shrug, his mouth curving into a small, rueful smile. “I guess they’re right when they say all men in love are fools.”
Pedri just stares at him, heart pounding, eyes wet, a dozen thoughts colliding at once. The hum of the coffee pot fills the silence again, low and steady, as if the world is holding its breath waiting for him to speak.
For a long moment, neither of them moves.
Only the low hum of the coffee pot fills the air and the light filtering through the blinds paints thin golden lines across Ferran’s face, across the curve of his jaw, the soft slope of his mouth.
Pedri’s chest rises and falls too fast, his heart drumming painfully against his ribs. He doesn’t even think; he just moves, one step, then another, until he’s close enough to see the tiny crease between Ferran’s brows, the way his lashes tremble when he looks down.
“Ferran,” he says quietly, the name breaking a little in his throat.
Ferran looks up. There’s everything in his eyes - love, fear, resignation - and all of it aimed right at him.
Pedri’s hands lift almost on instinct, finding Ferran’s face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he doesn’t touch him. “My Ferri…” Pedri breathes, his voice thick, trembling. “You’re such an idiot.”
And then he kisses him.
It’s gentle at first. It’s years of things unsaid, a thousand near misses, all of it spilling out at once. Ferran freezes for a second, breath caught in his throat, before his hands come up to Pedri’s waist, holding on like he’s scared to let go.
When they finally break apart, Ferran’s breath shudders as he swallows, trying to speak.
“You’re not…” he starts, voice barely above a whisper, “you’re not doing this just to make me stay, right?”
Pedri’s brows scrunch, confused.
Ferran’s throat works as he forces the rest out. “You - you can’t joke with this, Pedri. This is - I can’t be flippant or… or casual about this. It means too much to me.”
Pedri exhales, shaky, then swipes his knuckles softly down Ferran’s face, half a laugh catching in his chest. He looks at Ferran, eyes bright and certain now, and says quietly, “What makes you think I could ever do casual with you? I love you, you idiot.”
Something in Ferran cracks open at that - a sharp breath, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp and then he’s kissing him back.
No hesitation this time. No distance.
It’s desperate and reverent all at once, Ferran’s hands in his hair, both of them breathing each other in like they’ve been holding it back for far too long.
When they finally break apart again, Ferran’s forehead rests against Pedri’s, both of them trembling, eyes closed. Pedri feels the faintest brush of a smile ghost across Ferran’s lips before he whispers,
“Guess I’m not going anywhere then.”
Pedri smiles, small, breathless, dizzy with relief, and whispers back, “Good. Because I’m not letting you either.”
Training had never felt so light for ages.
For the first time in weeks, Pedri was laughing, really laughing, as he tried to race Gavi to the next drill cone.
Ferran jogged a few paces behind, smiling to himself.
There was something about seeing Pedri smile again that made his chest feel both full and weightless. It still didn’t feel real, the small hand that had curled into his shirt a few nights ago, the whispered don’t go, the kiss that had unraveled everything and rebuilt it in one breath.
“Hey, Romeo,” Dani’s voice snapped him out of it, a grin spreading across his face as he fell in step beside Ferran. Eric followed, eyes already glinting with mischief. “You’ve been smiling like a fool since we got here.”
Ferran rolled his eyes, reaching for his water bottle. “I always smile.”
“Not like that,” Eric said, wagging a finger. “That’s a ‘my crush texted me back’ smile.”
Dani leaned closer, lowering his voice theatrically. “Or maybe a ‘my crush finally kissed me’ smile.”
Ferran nearly choked on his water. “You two are ridiculous.”
Eric only smirked wider. “Actually, the word is… observant.”
Dani nodded solemnly. “Mhmm. Observant enough to notice that you and a certain midfielder are suddenly… back to normal.” He made exaggerated air quotes. “Very touchy, very smiley, very ‘we totally didn’t have a fight about me leaving the club and then make up’ normal.”
Ferran’s lips twitched. “You’re insane.”
Eric’s eyes narrowed playfully. “So… you did reject United, then?”
Ferran hesitated a second too long. And then nodded.
Dani grinned like a cat that got the cream. “Oh? See, me and Eric can read you two like an open book!”
“Yeah, well,” Ferran admitted, trying to sound casual but failing as a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I told my agent to say no.”
Eric raised a brow. “And the reason is… what I think it is?”
Ferran just shrugged, a small, helpless smile curving his lips.
Dani let out a laugh. “Unbelievable. My man’s in his loverboy era.”
Eric joined in, nudging him. “Dude, look at him. The glow! It’s insane.”
“Shut up,” Ferran muttered but he was grinning.
Dani puckered his lips obnoxiously. “Go on, Ferri, blow him a kiss. We’ll pretend we didn’t see.”
Ferran shook his head, laughing. “You two need help.”
Eric smirked, and then made loud, exaggerated smooch noises, mocking him, “Oh, look at me, I’m Ferran Torres. I love Pedri sooo much, I was about to sacrifice myself to a bad team so his beautiful face could stop tormenting me. I’m the world’s biggest drama queen. But oh!” Eric puts a dramatic hand on his forehead and sways, “He stopped me from leaving and we’re sooo in love now. If he told me to score an own goal tomorrow, I’d do that because I’m just sooo obsessed with him.”
“Screw you guys,” Ferran said through a laugh, waving them off as he turned and jogged forward.
Ahead, Pedri had just turned around at his laugh, hand shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked back toward him, that soft, familiar smile breaking across his face the moment their eyes met.
Ferran’s grin widened, heart skipping in that way he still hadn’t gotten used to.
He picked up speed, sprinting to catch up, calling out, “Wait for me, Pepi!”
Pedri laughed, shaking his head as Ferran fell into stride beside him, like nothing had ever broken, and everything had finally fallen back into place.
The locker room had mostly emptied by the time Ferran made his way down the quiet corridor toward Hansi Flick’s office.
He could’ve just let his agent handle it or let the club make the announcement. But after everything, it didn’t feel right.
Flick had been one of the first people he’d gone to when the offer came in, the one who had listened without judgment. He owed him more than a message through staff channels.
He knocked softly on the half open door. “Mister?”
Flick looked up from his desk. When he saw Ferran, he smiled and gestured him in. “Ah, Ferran. Come in.”
Ferran stepped inside. “I just wanted to let you know before the news breaks or my agent calls. I’ve decided to stay.”
For a second, the coach said nothing. Then a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. He stood, walking around the desk to meet him. “That’s great to know,” Flick said warmly, clapping him on the shoulder. “We didn’t want to lose a player like you, one who gives everything for the shirt.”
Ferran exhaled, tension easing out of him. “Thank you. For your advice, and for being honest with me when I wasn’t sure what to do.”
Flick nodded. “You handled it the right way. It’s not an easy decision to make, choosing heart over mind.” He paused, eyes soft but sharp. “Though, if I had to guess, I’d say the heart part was probably very convincing.”
Ferran blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
Flick gave a small, knowing smile. “Let’s just say… I’ve been in this sport a long time. I know what it looks like when someone stays because there’s a person behind them, smiling in support.”
A flush crept up Ferran’s neck before he could stop it. “It’s not - I mean, it’s not like that,” he started, but the words tangled somewhere in his throat.
Flick chuckled quietly, lifting a hand. “You don’t need to explain. Whatever it is, if it makes you happy, that’s enough. Football’s easier when your heart’s in the right place.”
Ferran chuckled softly, nodding. “Yeah. It is.”
The coach clapped him on the back again, firm but friendly. “Good. Now go enjoy your evening. And tell your… friend,” he added with a faint smirk, “that I expect both of you sharp and ready for training tomorrow.”
Ferran laughed under his breath, ducking his head. “Yes, sir.”
As he turned to leave, Flick’s voice followed him, warm and amused.
“Oh and Ferran?”
He looked back. “Yes?”
Flick’s eyes glinted. “Whatever changed your mind… hold onto it. It’s good for you.”
Ferran walked out of the office smiling, something light blooming in his chest.
He walked down the long corridor toward the exit. The late afternoon light spilled across the hallway, painting it warm and gold.
When he pushed open the glass doors to the parking lot, he didn’t have to look far.
Pedri was there, leaning against the side of Ferran’s car, one hand in his pocket, the other waving absently as he spoke into his phone. He looked up the moment Ferran stepped out, grin wide and easy.
“Finally!” Pedri said, ending his call and walking toward him. “I thought you were gonna spend the night in there.”
Ferran laughed softly. “Just talking to the mister.”
“Ah,” Pedri nodded, then immediately dove into a stream of words, hands flying as he talked. “Okay, good, because I am starving, Ferri. Like, actually starving. Gavi took my protein bar at lunch, said something about ‘bulking’ so I haven’t eaten since that one banana I had and now I’m dying. I was thinking we could go grab something at that little place near your place? The one with the crazy good tortilla? Or maybe sushi? Or both, actually, because-“
Ferran just smiled, slow and fond, watching him ramble on.
He’d missed this, this version of them. The easy laughter, the small mundane chaos, Pedri’s voice filling the spaces in his head that used to ache with silence. It felt like the world had righted itself, like color had finally bled back into everything.
Pedri was still talking, hands moving animatedly. “-and you owe me dessert for making me wait this long, by the way-“
“Do I?” Ferran said, smiling.
Pedri shot him a mock glare. “Yes. Obviously.”
Ferran chuckled, shaking his head. “Fine. Dessert’s on me.”
“Good,” Pedri said, satisfied, already turning toward the car.
As Ferran followed him, he found himself watching the way the sunlight caught in Pedri’s curls, the bounce in his step, the small hum he made under his breath as he unlocked the car.
Flick had been right.
Whatever changed his mind, whatever had kept him here when everything else told him to go… he’d hold onto it.
And right now, it was walking three steps ahead of him, grumbling about sushi and dessert. And Ferran smiled because the world seemed all in place now.