Chapter Text
No one saw it coming.
The breaking point.
Ferran had been so strong, for so long, that in the crucial moment Pedri was in reality just staring on, half-mesmerized by his partner’s face projected onto the screens while an offside call was checked, marveling at how beautiful he could be. Pedri spent almost all his time around Ferri’s face, and he still wasn’t used to it.
Please let it be a goal, Ferri muttered, for everyone to see.
It wasn’t a goal.
And the sincerity of Ferran’s heartbreak, his desperation, beamed across the world when the decision was announced.
Not a goal.
In their lives, the pressure was relentless; of course it was. Ferran was Barcelona and Spain’s 7, it could never be any other way. Other players had broken before him: Morata, falling into a depression after the death of a dear friend. Even Iniesta, for half a season. Messi hadn’t wanted to return to Argentina until he won a cup, after they crucified him year after year for his national team performances — yes, even him, before they started winning.
But Messi was wired like Pedri, athletes who existed a bit too much in their own private reality to succeed in any context other than sports, yet geniuses on the field, because they saw life — and football — a little differently than most people.
And Ferran was firmly in the world, the same world as other people and all their noise, never quite able to tune them out. He was present in life with all his attention. He heard, and felt, everything. His mind skipped around curiously, topic to topic, person to person, eager and joyful. He was the opposite of Pedri, who was singular and controlled and controlling. When Ferran broke, coaches and friends and teammates and sports psychologists and legends of the sport always told him to keep going, it was normal, he would get used to it.
So Ferran did try.
And he was determined. He showed up day after day. He did everything he could — even the sort of woo-woo stuff Llorente went for — to stay in form, to give himself the best shot at success. Especially after he and Pedri, blinded, dove headfirst into the most emotionally complicated situation that two teammates could’ve ever invented, by falling in love. And not hiding from it.
But the pressure? Ferran never really got used to it.
Pedri’s father once — gently, meaning it supportively — suggested Ferran’s personality might be why the bullying was so loud, and so personal, when it came to him: the masses sensed a prey with warm blood, a full heart.
Pedri thought of that now, as Ferran’s face crumpled on the screen, when the offside call was made.
Not a goal.
Pedri thought of that when the empty, helpless energy that sometimes overtook his boyfriend stayed with them through the bus ride to the airport, and then the plane, and then the hotel where for the first time Pedri’s teasing — ere’ tonto eh? Pedri said automatically, like he always did, when Ferran accidentally dropped his room key — didn’t even draw a smile.
You are really dumb, huh?
How many thousands or millions of times had Pedri said that to Ferran, affectionately, and it had been fine?
This time it had not been fine.
In fact, Ferran flinched, as though Pedri had physically punched him.
In fact, Ferran disappeared into his own room, not inviting Pedri in, saying he needed to sleep.
In fact, the next day, Ferran didn’t fall into step next to him or behind him, shielding himself from Pedri behind Llorente or Pubill or Dani or Eric or Joan — whoever happened to be there, anyone it took.
In fact, Pedri wouldn’t get a moment alone with Ferran for days.
***
The interviews were putting the fix in, even if Pedri didn’t know it yet.
Because why would he? The interviews were standard practice. The questions were shared in advance, and his answers were rehearsed.
Who’s your best friend? Ferran. Okay, and Gavi.
What keeps you going during tough tournaments? My family, who are always here for me.
What do you think of the Julián Alvarez transfer? He’s a world class player. He would be great for Barca. I would love it if he joined.
He didn’t know that several floors away, in the hotel gym, while Ferran was helping spot Llorente in weight lifting and simultaneously taking a call with his agent, those preplanned words were changing their lives forever.
“They’re really screwing you with this ‘team loves Julián’ narrative,” Ferran’s agent complained.
“They have to say it,” Ferran answered, swatting Llorente’s hand away from a too-heavy set of weights. “I would have to say it, if anyone asked.”
“Yeah, well, nobody’s putting you on a live interview right now,” his agent snapped. “Not after the shit you’re getting online after the last few games. I’m not letting them eat you alive anymore, sorry.”
Ferran felt a lump rise in his throat, suddenly, and he sat down on a bench, his legs suddenly feeling weak and rubbery.
“Can I call you back?” He asked his agent weakly.
Llorente, a good friend, heard the change in Ferran’s voice immediately and stopped with the weights. He gestured across the room for Pubill, Eric García, and Oyarzabal, who happened to be there too, and the other players quickly came over to put supportive hands on Ferran’s shoulders while he gathered himself.
None of them needed Ferran to explain. They knew. Everyone knew, and not just in the Spain squad. The drama of Ferran’s life played out for the world to see, the way it had for years, ever since he’d left Valencia as a teenager. He often thought back to that, his first transfer, especially when he went with Barcelona to play matches in Valencia, and the home crowd booed him for leaving them during his youth. Never mind that the club ownership had been a mess, that the club had already coldly put him on the market to sell at profit; the story details got lost, and now all the masses knew was that they hated him. And all Ferran knew was that he wasn’t welcome at home anymore.
“I don’t know how much more I can take,” he mumbled, not even caring about how that might sound to his Spain teammates. Not for nothing was Ferran the emotional glue of most squads he was in, peers and younger players confiding their fears to him because they knew he would never, ever judge. Now, he trusted his teammates to offer him the same grace.
“You don’t have to do this forever, you know,” Oyarzabal said gently. “People do say no to Barça. Players can make other choices.”
Ferran laughed glumly.
“Really?” He asked, only half-joking. “I forgot.”
“Really. No one could make me leave San Sebastián for the entorno you guys have to face,” Oyarzabal said flatly. “No amount of money or career stature would be worth it. But clubs like yours are like weird, mass cults. You have to remind yourself you can walk away.”
“Hey!” Eric snapped angrily. “Some of us object to that.”
“Anyway, Ferri’s not staying at Barça for money,” Pubill said quietly, astute as ever for someone his age. “I bet it’s …”
“We know,” Llorente interrupted, putting a strong arm around Ferran.
Lamine and Pau wandered into the gym, joking and laughing loudly, making a beeline to the others. Ferran looked away, pained, as if the sight of Barcelona’s brightest young stars, so secure in their futures at their boyhood club while Ferran needed to fight so hard to stay — when Ferran had no boyhood club he could return to — was simply too much for him right then.
“Golf?” Llorente asked brightly, and he, Pubill, and Oyarzabal helped Ferran gather up his gym bag and head out, before the kids settled in with their group.
Eric stayed back in the gym, reluctantly watching them go, wanting to be the person to comfort his dear friend, the way he had for years, back since their Premier League days.
But Eric knew Ferran well enough to understand that he needed space. That in that moment, Eric was the face of a squad that loves Ferran but whose owners had not yet accepted him for the future. That Oyarzabal was right, in a way. In football, the group allegiance — cult, as Oya had so rudely put it — can take precedence over the individual people, and their friendships and loves and connections.
“What’s up with Ferri?” Lamine demanded, coming up behind Eric. “It’s like he’s avoiding us.”
Eric shrugged.
“Nothing,” he lied. He forced a grin and shoved Lamine’s shoulder playfully to distract him.
“Getting sick of us," Eric added in a joking voice, hoping he was really joking. “Too much Barça.”