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Zeno’s paradoxes argue that motion isn’t real. Thinking you’re moving is falling victim to a cruel illusion that convinces you that you’ll reach what you’re running towards.
The tortoise slowly crawls away. Achilles runs to catch it. By the time he reaches where it first was, though, the tortoise has already crawled further away. And when Achilles continues running, and reaches where the tortoise then crawled to, it has moved on again. This goes on forever.
Achilles runs and runs, and never reaches the tortoise.
Pedri runs and runs, and never reaches Gavi.
–
There is something seamless and clumsy about how Gavi breaks into the first team.
He trains like his life is on the line. Though for a homegrown talent who is called up to train with the first team, it might not be hyperbolic to say that it is. He’s sharp and exact and tricky and everywhere. He’s not shy about reclaiming space, unapologetic about executing his vision.
He drinks the offhanded praise at well-executed drills like he needs to quell a certain thirst beyond what his body reclaims. He adjusts his play at every reprimand and recommendation of teammates and coaching staff alike.
It’s not in his game that he falls short.
He’s on the edge of huddles, and his face screams that he knows he’s not in on the joke. He’s closed off, shoulders tense, making himself taller. The rest of their teammates find his timidity charming, if a little gauche. He’s awkward and doesn’t mind laughing at himself when someone makes a quip at his expense.
Water breaks are needed and frequent under the harsh summer sun. Pedri sips on some water to quell the heat, too focused on regulating his breathing to join in on the banter and thinly veiled teasing that the team exchanges. He stares at Gavi, laces undone, seemingly extremely invested in the design choices of his bottle of water, kicking his legs and unable to be still.
He doesn’t really know what kind of urge takes over him.
“Hey, Gavi.”
The boy’s head snaps towards him, not expecting the call. Pedri notices for the first time how big and brown his eyes are. How earnest.
He taps his hand on the little empty space on the cooler on which he is sitting. He hopes his smile is at least as inviting as it is awkward.
Gavi fixes him, and his eyes flutter in quick blinks that let Pedri know his ask was unforeseen in Gavi’s plans. Still, he makes his way towards him, plops down next to him, teenage limbs and all.
Their knees knock against each other. Neither of them moves away.
Pedri doesn’t remember what he told him then, but what’s etched in his memory is the way Gavi laughs in response, a bit shy but a little more unrestrained. He could recreate the glint in Gavi’s eyes that day, if asked, though.
He can’t really tell if this was the beginning of the end, or the end of all the endings.
–
Neither of them really realises how it happens, but somehow gradually yet still without any warning, they are together all the time.
They warm up together. Pair up for drills. Sit side by side during lunch. Orbit around each other during strength training. There’s a Gavi-shaped emptiness that lingers around him whenever they are apart.
And somehow, this isn’t enough for them for long.
One afternoon, when Pedri looks up from packing his bag and readies himself to exit the locker room, he’s met with Gavi’s frowning, brows furrowed and lips in a displeased pout. He’s furiously typing on his phone, shoulders slightly hunched, sighing exasperatedly.
“What’s going on?”
Gavi blinks at him as he gets closer. He exhales again, something frustrated, and runs a hand through his hair. Pedri absentmindedly follows the movement. “Aurora was going to pick me up, but she can’t anymore,” he shrugs his shoulders, very obviously tries to school his expression into something less open, “something came up at work.”
Pedri hasn’t realised that he’s starting to know Gavi, until now, when he watches him twitch back and forth, coming onto the balls of his feet and down again, and can tell that he’s going to start rambling.
So, he just beats him to it.
“I can just drive you home.”
Gavi’s quick to agree.
In the car, he monopolises the radio, and one of his playlists immediately blasts through his speakers. Every time Pedri tries to lower the volume, he raises it right back up, and then some.
“You’re going to make me crash the car.”
“I don’t think you need your ears to drive,” he very much does, but Gavi’s annoying when he wants to be, and probably closer to a European title than a driver’s license, so he’s not going to waste his breath explaining it.
The current song ends and another one starts, just as loud and bright. Somehow, Gavi’s presence fills the car more than the vibrations reverberating against the closed windows.
Pedri squints, trying to connect the voice singing through his speakers to his limited knowledge of English music. “Is that Taylor Swift? Do you even understand what she’s saying?”
Seemingly just to spite him, Gavi starts singing along, something incoherent and obnoxious. Pedri doesn’t really know why he lets him go on like this. He should shut off the radio and make sure he drops his teammate off safely.
Instead, at the next red light, he chances a longer look at Gavi. He’s drumming along the track, so incredibly offbeat there’s no way it’s not intentional. Golden hour shrouds him in a sort of daylight that sings something sweet.
A sharp honk breaks him out of whatever he had lost himself in. Gavi doesn’t notice his silence, or at least, doesn’t read into it. He focuses on the road.
If Pedri’s language classes haven’t failed him, he guesses the song talks of a cruel summer.
–
One car ride shared for convenience becomes every car ride shared for the sake of prolonging their mutual occupation of a space, even for a few moments longer.
Pedri picks Gavi up and drops him off almost every day. They argue about music and the weather, Gavi’s breakfast habits and his untied laces, Pedri’s allegedly outrageous outfits, and whatever else they can sew into casual conversation. Pedri tackles Gavi in hugs and swings him around, and gets kicked and tickled back when he least expects it.
Every push and pull is a work of art, it seems.
The first time he drives past the turn to Gavi’s place and leads them straight to his own house, there’s nothing really extravagant about it. Gavi boasted about his FIFA skills, and when Pedri rolled his eyes in response, Gavi wouldn’t let go of an opportunity to prove himself.
He unlocks his front door, and Gavi’s somehow already all over the space. He bursts in like it’s his birthright, knocks his trainers off, and turns to Pedri to signal for him to hurry up, which he doesn’t.
“Do you want something to drink or eat?”
Gavi’s already by the couch when he answers, busying himself with choosing the appropriate spot to optimise his victory chances, or whatever. “I’ll drink your tears and watch you eat shit about it.”
He proceeds to lose practically every game.
Pedri’s laughing so much his stomach hurts, and his every attempt at boasting is met with Gavi flinging something right at him. Each game’s followed by a request for another and a promise of revenge, and saying Gavi falls short would be keeping it quite couth.
Plans are already made for him to get back at Pedri. He can’t ignore him for much of the ride to his place, shoves complementing every other quip exchanged in the dark of the car.
The silence on the ride back home is loud, only rivalled by that which meets him within the familiar walls of his place.
He looks forward to Gavi coming over again.
–
“Do you think you’ll ever leave Barcelona?”
“The club or the city?”
“The club, stupid.”
“Fuck off,” he kicks in the dark but only manages to hit the floor. “No one ever knows, with you.”
“Just answer.”
He blinks at the serious undertone. “No,” he says, quick like truths often are, “I don’t want to. It’s not really up to me, though.”
“I’m staying here forever,” and it’s said with a conviction that only youth can bring. He guesses that he’s young, too, but it doesn’t feel that way. Hasn’t for a long time.
He nods, then remembers the darkness they are both lying in. “Yeah-”
“I’m staying here forever,” he repeats, brushing past his answer, “and I want you to stay here with me forever, too.”
The gravity of the statement echoes against the silence of the night.
There is something terrifying about how much one knows at seventeen. He wishes he still remembered.
There is something terrifying about being offered a bare heart, naked and bleeding, and feeling it pulsing between your hands. He guesses that confessions come easily when the moon is your only witness.
Well. The moon and Pedri.
Whoever he is, to Gavi.
They fall asleep on the floor.
They don’t talk about it again.
–
Time passes, and nothing stays paralysed with it.
Their season ends like it starts, it hurts, but there’s nothing to write home about.
Except for everything with Gavi, that is.
Pedri’s never been one for memories or keepsakes. He doesn’t care for remembering. He doesn’t need to be held down by past accomplishments or past failures. He doesn’t like to think about what carrying yesterday with you means for holding tomorrow in your hands.
Gavi turns eighteen.
To Pedri, he looks a little taller. Something about his face is sharper. Everyone looks at him a little changed, steps around him in different dances. The way his palm hits his in their handshake on the day feels firmer.
The heat of the August sun must be making him a little sick. He thinks of Gavi’s awkward steps around the others on his first day on the first team. He looks at Gavi’s quiet confidence, the assurance in his gait now.
Pedri thinks there are some memories worth holding onto.
Nothing else changes, though.
Especially not the way Gavi nudges his face into the side of his throat as they hug, a little longer than he would with anyone else.
He looks at Gavi blowing his candle. He thinks about what he could have wished for.
–
The new season heralds a new beginning that settles a hopeful feeling in Pedri’s heart.
Something tells him that they can make it.
Gavi does, too. Very explicitly.
“We’re going to win the league.”
“It’s October.”
“I don’t care. You don’t get it. We’re going to fucking win it.”
The assurance in Gavi’s voice makes him smile, and he can’t hide it from the other in time. There’s a fire in Gavi’s eyes, like there often is. He doesn’t think anything could ever tame it. He can’t fathom why anyone would ever want to let that happen.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think we will.”
Gavi shoves him hard and then pushes him back into his arms.
There is so much to play for. So little chance to win under the brightest of lights.
He can’t help but fixate on how much there is to lose, too.
–
It’s not really a surprise when they both get called up for the national team’s World Cup squad. They had both already made their debuts. Gavi etched his name in history.
Still, it feels like something really special. And something really daunting.
It puts a sinking feeling into Pedri’s stomach. The stakes have always been high, for club and country, no matter what. Atlas supports the heavens, and Pedri stands with his feet firmly on the pitch, holding back hell. This has been all he has known since he was seventeen.
He wouldn’t change it for the world.
He worries about crumbling, though. Not for himself—he knows that he’ll pick himself back up. Bring the pieces back together. He worries about the others, though, who depend on him. What’s an anchor good for if it goes loose at the turn of the tide?
He doesn’t get to think of this for much longer, though, as Gavi turns to him with bright eyes, telling him they called me up, Pedri, like he hadn’t been expecting it. He finds that he doesn’t have to pretend to mirror his excitement.
There’s something like childlike wonder that he lets run free when around Gavi. Something like age-old melancholy that buries itself deep, then, too.
–
Decades ending in favour of ages starting can be very anticlimactic, Pedri finds.
His mother calls him in the morning. Her grin is big and proud, and her love drips through the speakerphone and drowns him in the sweet sorrow that comes with separation. Her voice is warm, and he nods as she whispers blessing after blessing, lets her thank God and hopes that He hangs around, if anything.
His father’s eyes shine, and he calls him champ and reminds him that he’s a man now. His messily made bed and too-skinny limbs and the weird knot in his chest that untangles into something like can someone tell me what to do kind of makes him feel otherwise, but he doesn’t say it.
His brother had already moved past the milestone by the time morning rolled around, though he knows their next embrace will reflect something a little like clinging to an unruly, muddy boyhood that he left behind.
Everyone at camp is kind and loud and celebrates him like he’s always been one of their own.
When they start singing and the national team staff bring out a birthday cake, of which none of them will have a bite, he lets himself smile at the thoughtfulness of it and tries to ignore the camera pointed at him.
He blows his candle too hastily, forgoes making a conscious wish.
When he leans back up and his eyes immediately find Gavi’s own, he can’t bring himself to laugh at the irony of it.
They smile at each other, something familiar and a little bit taunting and a lot like stubborn youth. The moment feels like it lasts forever. He doesn’t know if either of them looks away. He couldn’t tell you what drew them out of it.
When he lies awake that night, tossing and turning in a skin that doesn’t feel like his own, Pedri wonders whether he should have wished for things to never change, or for something to be finally triggered into motion.
–
The loss hurts like few things ever have.
There’s a ringing in his ears that drowns out the screams of victory that resound around the stadium. Everything blurs together, seas of dancing red and green across the field and in the stands. He feels rooted to the ground. He feels as unmoored as ever.
The knot in his chest unfurls and wraps around his throat like a noose. His knees fail him, folding under the pressure of something grander than the futile exhaustion settling inside his bones. His head falls to his hands, but he can’t feel anything against his skin. He feels like throwing up.
Weak hands land fleetingly on his shoulders, his back. Words are whispered to him, something about keeping his head high, getting to be proud of himself, regardless, being unlucky. It all rings empty.
There’s no distinguishing guilt from disappointment and frustration from shame when they pool in the crevice of his eyes. His vision blurs, and he can’t breathe. He thinks of the people watching. His people. His family. His friends. God.
A hand lands against his nape, a gentler kind of warmth against his skin burning with humiliation and dirtied by dishonour.
“Not here. Come on. Get up.”
He’s surprised by the ease he is pulled up; his legs feel like lead, and his head hangs low and heavy. A hand find his nape again, pushes his head toward a shoulder. He lets his head drop. Breathes in.
When he adjusts himself to look up, he’s met with bitten lips and glassy eyes.
They walk toward the tunnel, steps balanced and not too deep into the ground.
Gavi is right. There’s a time and place.
–
A room of their own has never been this quiet.
They lie side by side on Gavi’s bed. Sweat and grime washed off with too-hot water that did nothing to subside the necrotic sadness eating at their skin.
There’s no comfort in their proximity—it’s as vital as a heartbeat. If Pedri didn’t have Gavi’s breathing as a reference, he might have let himself run out of life.
I don’t think our bodies are made to handle this, he wants to say. It sounds like running away, so he doesn’t.
His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “It wasn’t meant to be, Gav. You know. Half of us are too green. The other half are the older guys who are walking out of this like that. We weren’t ever meshed enough to make it out. We’ll be back. We’re young. Okay?”
He’s only met with more silence. His words don’t even echo back at him—maybe Gavi’s not as far from him as he thinks. He lets them hang in the air around them. He thinks he’ll start counting the flecks of paint above him.
“When you talked to me that day in training, I couldn’t believe it.”
Pedri blinks at the gravity in Gavi’s voice. He doesn’t feel him rustle, so he doesn’t look away from the ceiling, either. “What?”
He goes on like he didn’t hear him. “I watched every one of your matches, when I was still in Atlètic,” somehow, he can feel Gavi not blinking, “You played with Messi. You made the difference in games. You made the team need you. And you made it look so fucking easy,” a sound like a shaky exhale interrupts him. Pedri can’t tell if it’s to diffuse anger or to hold something back. “I don’t think you get it. How much you take over space. How much the guys look up to you,” he pauses, as if wondering whether to take the leap, “how much I look up to you.”
Pedri isn’t used to feeling this out of control.
“You just took so much responsibility and nothing ever seemed to bring you down. A lo hecho, pecho, and whatever it would take to keep our heads high. I just-” this exhale is definitely frustrated. Pedri feels like he’s done something wrong. “I don’t want you to be strong. I don’t give a fuck about you being strong. It makes me angry, this wall you put up. I’m not a fucking kid. Don’t lie to me. I don’t care about pride and reason. I care about you.”
Gavi still doesn’t look at him.
He couldn’t tell it, if someone ever asked him.
He would just say he found himself clinging to Gavi and sobbing an ugly thing.
–
There’s no epiphany that comes with the realisation.
Gavi is digging articles after articles out of his fridge in preparation for something that is most definitely a violation of their diets. Not that he would care.
He emerges with an armful of food, playing at nonchalance as if he isn’t about to spill over along with everything he carries. As one could have expected, a nondescript package follows its greatest ambitions all the way down. Only for Gavi to stick his foot out, juggle with it a couple of times, and let it land back against his chest, into his hold.
His smirk is victorious, and his eyes shine when he looks at Pedri.
“Bet you couldn’t have done that.”
Pedri can’t seem to remember how to breathe.
Gavi walks into the living room, saying something that sounds like everything is under control, in this annoying cadence of his.
Pedri knows nothing about control.
–
Days pass. Trends change. Matches are won. Some are lost, but it doesn’t matter. He can recognise when fences that were meant to keep them out start to fall down.
Mornings and afternoons are spent with him. Nights are haunted by the remains of his presence, or the ghost of his absence. He doesn’t get much of a break. He doesn’t really want one.
It just becomes another ever-present reality in his chest, like an organ you’re not born with, but would die without.
He lets it beat.
–
None of it feels real.
There are bodies upon bodies on the makeshift dance floor. The air is suffocating, a certain kind of happiness that is too big to be contained in one heart, so it spills over.
You can’t fault him for being on the other side of tipsy.
There’s something so addictive about letting go in this way, about the carelessness that follows discipline. He feels ages old. He feels born anew. He’s been keyed up ever since they’ve had to run off the pitch to fly the invading home fans. He’s riding a high he rarely ever lets himself revel in.
He feels so brave. He feels like he could do anything. He wants to do anything.
He pushes past one of his teammates, whom he can’t really tell, and denies the offer of another drink. He doesn’t get far, though, turns back and asks, have you seen Gavi, do you know where Gavi is, and he only gets a choir of laughs as an answer, something that rings terribly knowing and horribly damning, but he doesn’t really notice, then.
He just wants to find Gavi.
There’s no sea of people to swim across, no tide to fight against. It’s busy but it’s breathable; everyone here is someone one of them knows, or close to it.
He’s on the other side of the room when he sees him. His hands are clammy, and he’s breathing weird. He forces himself to do that thing his brother had taught him, about reconnecting with his senses, or something.
He starts listing.
The lights are bright. The music is loud. Gavi is blinding.
He wants to move closer so he can have something to catalogue about Gavi’s skin and Gavi’s scent. And maybe, if he lets himself dream, if he’s brave enough, one other thing, too.
He doesn’t get to find out if he has the courage.
There’s someone next to Gavi. Some girl he doesn’t think he’s ever seen. He can’t really make out anything about them other than that they look close, and the proximity isn’t forced by clashing bodies. It’s something that looks intentional and aware.
There’s a hand that lands on his nape, twists him in the opposite direction, something like brother, where the fuck have you been, and why do you look so weird, here, have this, come on now, is shouted over the music, but he can’t really focus.
When he turns back, Gavi’s not there anymore. Neither is the girl.
He drinks whatever is in the glass in his hand and asks for more.
The lights are bright. The music is loud. The glass is cold. The room smells like sickness. His mouth tastes like vomit. The lights are bright. The lights are bright. The lights are bright.
–
He wakes up the next morning with a pounding in his head that does nothing to distract him from the ache of his heart.
He remembers how he hadn’t seen Gavi again, the entire night.
He doesn’t bother getting out of bed.
–
They see each other soon after. Gavi doesn’t bring it up, and Pedri doesn’t ask. Nothing has changed, really.
Pedri can’t tell if this is what he had wanted or what he had dreaded.
–
“I think I’m calling it Galaxy.”
Fer puts down a slice of cake in front of him, before moving to wash his hands. It’s off-season, so he isn’t as rigorous with his diet, and lets himself bask in the happiness of seeing his family rejoice in feeding him home-cooked meals and pastries.
He blinks. The cake is layered perfectly, and the icing is exquisitely done. It looks fruity and soft, and he can’t wait to bite into it. He’s sure it’s got everything to be otherworldly, but he doesn’t get why his brother went with that name. So he asks, “Why?”
“I watched this video the other day,” Fer speaks over the running water, “and it spiralled into me reading this study from 2009, or something.”
“You know how to read?”
His brother doesn’t even acknowledge the interruption. “Some astronomers discovered that there’s this chemical compound in a cloud close to the centre of the Milky Way. I don’t remember the name, but apparently, down here, it gives rum its smell and raspberries their taste,” He shuts off the water, starts to dry his hands. “My first thought was like, damn, that would probably make for a really good cake.”
“Of course it was.”
Fer moves to hit him with the towel, but he ducks away just in time. “Just fucking try it, asshole.”
Pedri takes one bite and savours it. He chews slowly, letting every undertone of flavour take centre stage. The raspberry coulis is unctuous, and the chunks of fruit are fresh and biting. The hints of rum are everywhere, filling every one of his senses. He licks the remnants of the icing off his lips.
He wants to say I don’t think this is what the centre of the universe tastes like. Or, this is making me sick; I don’t think we were ever meant to find this out.
Instead, he just turns to Fer to tell him, “That’s some unoriginal name.”
–
Gavi is throwing a party.
He doesn’t think it’s out of desire as much as it is to quell their teammates’ teasing and begging, but he also knows that Gavi never does anything he doesn’t want to do.
Gavi asks him you’re coming, right? and he nods, without thinking about it twice. He’s never been one to deny him anything. He’ll indulge in the push-and-pull, yes, tease him and be teased, but he’ll follow along, blindly. He knows Gavi is the same, though, a lot less eager to hide how easily he folds. Pedri doesn’t think about it too much.
One of the team’s groupchats lights his phone up incessantly, with quick successions of messages. Some of the boys—Ansu, Balde, Jules, mostly—are indulging in a joke that he’s not sure he’s in on. Messages about how the whole party is a set-up for Gavi to stop being a coward. Questions about whether there’s someone in particular he’s most excited to see.
Gavi never does anything he doesn’t want to do. This party shouldn’t be an exception. Pedri guesses there’s something in it for him.
Maybe someone he’s throwing it for.
He doesn’t dare think past that.
He doesn’t show up.
Maybe he doesn’t dare find out.
–
you dont have to worry about picking me up today
its sorted
sorry i didnt figure it out earlier
Oh. Okay
Why are you sorry?
You’re driving back with me though?
No
its ok
just dont worry abti t
Okay
–
Everything feels off.
Not like everything is out of its place. Not this in-your-face off. It is more akin to everything being moved a couple of inches to the left, and the path within his life becoming just stumble after stumble.
Everything is almost the same, and yet he recognises none of it.
They are still friends. They talk and train together when the circumstances push them to it. They laugh at the others’ jokes and teasing. They shake each other’s hands and leave claps on backs after gruelling sessions.
Gavi doesn’t ride with Pedri much anymore. Or at all, if he’s being honest, but the bluntness of the reality of things is not something he feels ready to stomach, so he hedges. He can’t remember the last time they’d stayed at each other’s place. Or had a conversation that went beyond small talk.
He thinks he’s fallen victim to the cruellest bait-and-switch, like something’s been taken from him but only he knows, and there’s no proof enough not to be seen as mad for pointing it out.
Pedri can’t tell what has happened.
It doesn’t really matter, anyway.
He’s injured again and is set to miss the beginning of the season.
–
The doorbell rings incessantly despite his very determined efforts to wish it away.
He half-hops, half-limps toward the door, ready to tell whoever the fuck has shown up out of the blue to fucking leave, whoever the fuck they think they are—
“Gavi?”
His stare is relentless and feels like daggers against his skin. He looks a lot more put together than Pedri feels, rotting in the misery of being sidelined and too-old jumpers that are, much like him, unravelling at the seams.
“You look like shit.”
He wants to say obviously, I do, dickhead, but he doesn’t, too busy fighting off the urge to slam the door in Gavi’s face, and make himself look good, for some reason. He wonders why Gavi knocked, why he didn’t use the key Pedri had given him, ages ago. Maybe he had given it back, unbeknownst to him. Maybe he feels like it’s a privilege he’s not worthy of anymore. Pedri shuts the thought down.
Gavi doesn’t give him time to ponder the decision, because he pushes himself past him and into his living room, dropping bags of food from their favourite spot, a little hole-in-the-wall a few blocks away that makes food that’s both good and doesn’t violate their diets.
And as if the past few weeks hadn’t happened, Gavi makes himself at home.
He makes his way into the kitchen and absentmindedly grabs the cutlery, the movements more muscle memory than anything else. He throws himself on the couch, settles in his usual spot, digs into his food.
Pedri’s still where Gavi had left him stranded.
“What are you staring at me for? Stop being weird. Come eat.”
He moves to sit next to him, maybe a little farther away than he would have before. He reaches for his food—his usual, with the subtle modifications he always asks for.
He doesn’t understand how someone can feel this nauseous yet hungry for something.
Gavi chatters to him about his day, the guys, whatever comes to his mind, apparently. He answers in kind, and he’s not sure if he’s imagining the awkwardness that accentuates their quips, or if this actually feels like a caricature of who they once were. It feels staged. Like they’re wearing old skins they’ve since shed, and pretending they still look the same to each other.
Gavi doesn’t look like he minds any of it, though. He moves through this moment like he moves through everything. Like a gentle breeze and a strong wind. He doesn’t mind knocking over the artefacts. He doesn’t stumble on anything on his path, still. He knows his way around Pedri’s place.
Knows his way around Pedri, himself.
They put on a show of sorts and let the images blur together.
Gavi breaks first. “How are you doing,” and it doesn’t sound much like a question, but he still feels compelled to be truthful. They’re still facing the television, and they won’t look at each other. The couch becomes a makeshift confessional, maybe. Pedri could easily point at the divine in the room.
“I don’t like being injured.”
He can feel Gavi shifting towards him, but he continues to fix his front. Maybe because there is something about staring directly at the sun, or looking God in the eye.
“You’re all moving on without me and I just can’t keep up. Look at what everyone’s saying. About how I’m just weighting the team down. I can’t stay fit. I can’t deliver at the highest level. And there’s nothing I can do to prove them wrong, or get them to shut up. I just want to be left alone.”
The silence that follows is like what follows the trigger, echoing and guilty. Pedri wants to take it all back. He wants to ask Gavi why he’s here, even. Wants to kick him out.
A hand slides around his nape and settles. He lets himself be pulled toward Gavi, unable to fight back against his hold and the strength of his magnetic field.
They don’t say much at all for the rest of the night.
Gavi doesn’t leave, either.
Pedri wishes he could bolt.
–
Things get to a tense kind of almost-normal. Pedri is in pain. Gavi shows up, sometimes. His family is around often.
More frequently, though, when the throb is enough to chase sleep away, he thinks of that party, the dancefloor, the lights, her. He thinks of how he only showed up at the party for Gavi. How he barely saw him, though.
When the pain gets too much, he imagines what may have happened the night he stayed in instead of being brave enough to be cool about it. He thinks of Gavi in the middle of the dance floor, with someone who’s not him. Not awkward limbs and betraying bones and disgusting shyness.
The hatred that bubbles inside his chest toward himself dulls the pain. He convinces himself that’s why he replays to himself tapes he never saw, again and again.
–
There are things that are never supposed to happen. Reaching the other end of the rainbow. Seeing your father cry. Early sunsets in the summer. Icarus burning his wings.
Pedri watches Gavi hold onto his knee and cry out, and nothing feels real.
It’s like the universe is tilted off its axis. There are people who should be untouchable. There is a certain kind of cruelty that shouldn’t reach beyond its cage. There are universes in which this doesn’t happen because it can’t be right, and he figures he must have gotten lost in the fate woven for him to end up in this one.
He watches as Ferran lifts Gavi’s jersey. The team wears something broken on their faces.
He throws up with a violence that leaves the taste of bile against the roof of his mouth for days.
–
Hey Gav
You’re going to be okay
It fucking sucks right now I bet
It’s going to suck for a long time but youre going to be okay
None of its ur fault
Freak stuff
Just
Take care ok
Im gonna see u soon
Draft: Love you so much
Draft: Need you not to give uo because none of it makes sense without you
Draft: Im sorry for being weird
Draft: Is it why we sotpped talking
Draft: I should have gone to the partu
Draft: tell me when I can coe over I hope its soon
Draft: I love you
–
The first time he sees Gavi after his injury, he’s walking awkwardly in his crutches, he is hunched over like he never is, and there are cameras following their every move.
He has to stop himself from holding on, from cradling Gavi’s face, from saying something really stupid like I wish it had been me and not you, I wish I could take it away and feel it twice as much.
Instead, he mechanically follows their other teammates’ movements. Hugs him like a good teammate, a good friend would. Maybe lingers a little longer. You can’t really blame him, though, when it’s Gavi that leans in, when they whisper to each other something a little too honest to look good in the rear view, when he can see Gavi fighting back tears.
Later, when there’s no one else hanging around, Pedri adjusts the hold Gavi has on his crutches. Tells him it’ll be easier to walk with them like that. Gavi fixes him for a while. He doesn’t really understand what his eyes try to tell him.
He doesn’t really understand when he stopped being able to speak their secret language.
–
The season passes too slowly for his liking.
He doesn’t see Gavi for a while, at first. He spends months pushing away everyone, and it’s not like Pedri can blame him. He knows what stares feel like when every ground suddenly becomes unstable, when your own body becomes an enemy trench. When he lets him reach out again, he doesn’t hold any of it to heart.
Matches are won. Not as many as they are lost, though, and it’s not an almost thing.
He’s in and out of the team due to injuries.
He reads and reads every headline about his unreliability, the clubs interested in signing him for little more than a handful of pennies, his wasted potential, the parties he supposedly enjoys while not performing despite being on the club’s payroll, the girls he brings home, the way he was so ahead of the curve only to end up trampled by the tires of time when he fell behind.
Gavi’s rehab goes well except for when it doesn’t. Sometimes he learns about it from the boy himself, when something a little like impulsivity takes over either of them, and they end up at the other’s place, taking up space that is rightfully theirs. Others, he hears it through the grapevine, because they’re suddenly not talking much anymore, because something like an aborted truth was begging to be let out the last time they shared a loud silence.
He’s glad that the media chooses to empty him out of life and blood because at least, it distracts them from Gavi. Not completely, though, never, there is something to be said about vultures, he thinks, but he knows that even though Gavi could handle it, he doesn’t deserve it.
“You don’t deserve it either.”
They’re lying in Gavi’s bed, for some reason. It’s late enough in the night to start wondering how early in the morning it is, and Pedri can’t really pretend he’s not drunk on something disgusting that weighs like lead on his stomach.
He rolls his eyes hard, “Just shut up,” and pushes at him lazily with his arm.
He doesn’t expect Gavi to use it as leverage, to pin him back against the mattress, careful with both their healing limbs.
“I’m serious, Pedri.” The room is too dark for him to make out anything but a faint outline of him, but somehow, his eyes still shine so brightly, like lights under which you feel the need to perform at your best. “I wish you could just see-”
“See what?” His voice is rough when he speaks. The weight of Gavi against his wrist burns like hellfire. He thinks he would throw himself off the balcony if he were to let go.
Gavi doesn’t blink. He lets his stare map every corner of Pedri’s face, as if looking for something. He moves off of him, lies back down.
“Doesn’t matter, anyway. Just believe me,” his voice drops then, and mutters something too quick to catch, and Pedri’s definitely not right in the head, because Gavi would never tell him I wish you would do that, for once, because why would he, what does it mean.
He wonders whether Gavi found what he was looking for, or whether he didn’t. He doesn’t know which is worse.
–
told u
stupid
u were stressing for literally no reason brother
congrats!!!!!
you better go and win it or ill never talk to u again
lol
Haha
Shut up
Fuck off
Thanks
I will
Of course I will
Coach said he called you?
yep
wanted me to be in the squad
idk what irs for lol
hes obv just trying to be nice about it
ive got to focus on my rehab anw
so u have to make sure youre not all old by the time the world cup comes
bc we need to win that too
win that together
Fuck off
Yeah
Makes sense
Good that you’re focusing on getting better
Wish you were tagging along though
Who else is everyone going to annoy
u are going to miss me so bad weirdo
pretend all u want
–
His bed is too big, his room is too big, everything is too empty.
He guesses this is how things are when there isn’t anyone to reclaim half of any spaces he’s in as their own, like some sort of birthright.
He pictures it, the way there would be a patch in his shape over the sheets. It aches a little more than it should.
–
The party, if you can call it that, is something loud like he’s never seen.
He guesses there’s something a lot like vindication in their celebrations. And maybe, international trophies taste their own sort of sweet.
He remembers the ache of two years ago, when they were all too young or no longer young enough, not sufficiently meshed together to make something work, to make something beautiful. It feels like yesterday. It feels like ages ago. So many things have changed.
A lot more stayed the same.
Like Gavi sticking by his side the whole night, celebrating alongside his family, laughing at jokes that he’s in on, somehow. The kind of thing you do when you orbit someone long enough that your magnetic field bends the physics of their planetary system, and makes you an integral part of the equation.
Drinks keep getting passed into his hand, but he drinks none of them.
He’s usually not one for memories, but this, he wants to remember.
He really, really wishes he does.
–
He should not have let the guys convince him to let go for once, just one drink, brother, we promise.
He is very uninhibited, very careless, and very stupid, which is his default state around Gavi, so one can imagine what adding very drunk to the list of adjectives does to the weight of the sentence that awaits him.
“It would mean more if you had won it with us.”
Silence.
“It would mean a lot more to me, at least. Couldn’t have done it without you. You know. You practically qualified us by yourself. And everyone in the camp was like, we’ve got to win it all for Gavi, because, no way we were letting that chance go to waste. That’s what I mean.”
He amazes himself at times, with his ability to turn prolonged silences into something even more gauche. He can’t really tell now, though. His head is really floaty. Gavi’s being so nice, helping him walk back to his room, despite Pedri’s blown-out knee and wobbly limbs making the task a lot harder than it should be. Gavi looks so beautiful. Pedri kind of wants to kiss him really badly.
They pause in front of his door, and Gavi’s digging into his pockets in search of his room key. The touch couldn’t be more innocent, but it makes Pedri’s skin burn. “Lean on me, come on. How’s your knee? Does it hurt?”
He’s guided and laid down gently on soft sheets. Gavi is being so careful with him, so unlike the fire that burns through his fingertips and turns everything he touches to crystal. Makes it worth something. He wonders whether this means that he is worth something, too.
He can’t help but rub his face against the cold of his pillow. He’s feeling very sleepy, all of a sudden. “It’s okay. Wish it hurt more.”
“What? Don’t say that, asshole. You’ll be better soon.”
He thinks he shakes his head. Gavi doesn’t understand. How? Is he dumb? He thinks he’s so obvious. It’s pathetic. “Don’t want you to be in pain alone. Sucks thinking about it. Would have rather it been me, if I could. Would take it twice as much if it means you wouldn’t take it at all.”
Some more silence. He wonders when those had become so charged between them. They used to be so comfortable. Words were just indulgences to hear each other’s voices, much more than necessary to understand one another. Now, it feels like they don’t even do that.
“You’re going to hate yourself so much in the morning.”
His eyes are already closed. He thinks he’s kind of asleep. Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe he’s hallucinating everything that is Gavi. “Are you going to stay the night to make sure I do?”
A hand combs through his hair, rubs at his skull. The weight of it is heavenly. He wishes it would slide down onto his neck and choke him.
He wakes up alone.
–
The sun rises, and it looks like it holds something really precious. As if it is here to say, look, for once, I herald a soft epilogue. Believe me. Dare. Indulge.
The new season reads like a new beginning, a new everything. New coach, new training regimen, new captaincy, new tactics, new hopes. None of the odds favour them, but it doesn’t really mean much to anyone.
He feels good, somehow, confident in his body. He doesn’t dare hope too much, but if the medical staff is right in believing in the new ways they imposed upon him, he might really go an entire season uninjured. He reaches out and touches the wooden table, just for the sake of it. Just in case. There’s something so ironic about how superstition follows hope like an angry tide.
Gavi’s on the brink of a comeback, too.
Years later, he still finds it fascinating, the way he is the heart and soul of everything.
One could accuse Pedri of giving him too much credit, could reasonably argue that the turning page and fresh ink breathed life into a squad of hopeful youngsters and a bunch of veterans—he’s not sure in which category he fits best, to be fair—much more than their teammate’s comeback from injury.
He disagrees.
He watches as things become brighter, when Gavi starts frequently showing up to training, albeit to train separately, at first, again. Banter comes so easily between him and the rest of the academy boys, and there’s something about him that makes the likes of Lewandowski and Iñigo want to lift him off the ground and mess up his hair in affection.
When it comes to him, though, Gavi’s comeback feels like a realignment of something. As if a wrong has been finally made right.
Everything feels the same as it had been, before the better part of a year passed, but also not.
They joke around in training, in the locker room, in the common areas, but banter is exchanged with the care used to handle a loaded gun, safety off. Touching is second nature, especially for them; limbs find themselves entangled, hands land on napes, dig into soft or sweaty hair, kisses are placed on temples and necks. He’s not used to the way he feels Gavi shiver at his touch. He’s not sure if this is some sick sort of projecting, of mingling his senses. Maybe he’s gone crazy. Maybe Gavi just runs cold now, for some reason.
There’s no need to overthink it, or agonise over it anymore. It becomes a simple fact of life.
The summer warmth bleeds into the autumn months. The sky is blue. The sun is blinding. Pedri loves Gavi.
Life goes on.
–
When he looks up at the referee board and sees the red eight and green six, he doesn’t blame exhaustion-induced delirium for the thought of oh, these numbers look really good together, that he lets slip into his mind.
He thinks he can see limbs, waves and waves of crowd standing up, chanting, going wild. He thinks the applause is probably thunderous.
He’s not really aware of much besides Gavi on the sideline, nodding at whatever instructions or encouragement the gaffer’s whispering to him.
It really hits him, then, how different he looks, relative to the last time he had his boots on, ready to run into the midfield and dominate the carpet. How grown-up Gavi looks. How he got to witness some of it, but feels like he missed out on a lot more.
He kind of wants to cry. It’s definitely neither the time nor the place.
He sees Carlos gesturing at him to walk off the pitch, give Iñaki the armband. He lets his teammate leave claps on his back, on his arms, telling him he’s had a good game. He can feel a current of something passing from their skin to his. This is the kind of electricity borne by Gavi’s presence, he thinks. He’s just an unluckier victim than most.
It’s not like he thinks it over very much.
He just walks straight toward the technical area, slowly peeling away at the captain’s armband, fingers trembling slightly for whatever reason.
He doesn’t look at Gavi when he reaches for his arm and wraps the armband around his bicep. He can feel his eyes burning into the side of his face for a moment, before landing on the fabric sliding over his shirt. He knows what Gavi’s like, knows that he’s doing his best to engrave this moment in memory forever. Pedri hopes he gets to be a blurry image in it, if it’s not greedy to wish for this.
He's pulled into a hug so brief, it lasts forever. A few words are whispered into his ear, but they may have been too private for even him to hear, so he lets it go. He kisses Gavi wherever his lips find his skin and holds onto him for a second more, not tight enough but too close still.
He’s back to his senses, kind of, if he can judge by the onslaught of screams, chants, and clapping he can hear coming off from the stand, reverberating against every pillar holding up the stadium.
If asked, he remembers every minute of the ones Gavi played, but not like a memory on roll of film, more akin to clashes of watercolours too hazy to make up something real, but perfect enough to create something true.
Pedri doesn’t breathe until after the final whistle.
–
Pedri’s not surprised when he hears the lock turning.
He doesn’t move when he hears the shuffle of shoes being taken off, of keys being thrown aside.
He’s still got the keys to the place, still. That makes his breathing stop for a few seconds. He wonders if Gavi knows that he’s got the keys to much more, too.
He’s looking straight at the door of his bedroom when Gavi walks through the threshold.
They stay like that, for a heartbeat or ten, daring the other to blink first, to cede under whatever their mutual gaze carried.
In the end, Gavi moves toward the bed to lie down beside him. What looked like a contest of breaking points becomes a mutual sharing of first—or last place. He doesn’t know if anything’s been won yet. He’s not sure if there’s anything left to lose, though.
They lay in silence, staring at the ceiling. It feels oddly familiar. It looks like uncharted territory. This has been Pedri’s home for long enough that this feeling of having been displaced is out of order.
“It was nice. What you did, earlier. Thank you.”
His voice is small, like he’s whispering in front of a church altar, and not in Pedri’s messy bedroom. Maybe the still-open curtains are letting in some sanctity bestowed upon by the moon. Maybe he’s speaking lowly because this is what heaven's mouthpieces do.
Pedri shakes his head, “No need to thank me,” his own voice is low, too, not that he thought about it. He doesn’t really think it’s him speaking, anyway. “It’s something that I had to do.”
“No, it wasn’t. You know who you should have given it to.”
“Yeah, but that’s something I should have done. It’s different from what it is that I had to do.”
He wonders if Gavi understands him. If he can still see the colours that only the two of them have ever known. Or if Pedri’s doomed forever, stranded with an atlas of unrecognisable paints, and surrounded by tongues that don’t speak his language.
The way Gavi deeply inhales at his response, he thinks he does.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah.” Anything. Whatever you want. Forever.
“Why didn’t you come to my party?”
Pedri blinks. It’s not a question he’d expected. It’s not unlike Gavi, though. Not painting by the numbers. For the first time since they’ve lain down, he feels a gaze burning through his skin. He turns to meet it, not one to shy away.
At least he convinces himself this is true.
“What, like, your party, the summer before this one?”
Gavi nods. His expression is grave, solemn. He looks so different. He’s never looked more like himself. “You said you’d show.”
“Is that why you stopped talking to me?” It’s a stupid attempt at a deflection. Repackaging blame and throwing out an accusation disguised as a question. Sure, he wants to know the answer. But he wants to avoid having to give one to Gavi’s question even more.
He’s not stupid enough to fall for it, though. He doesn’t even know why he tried. “Why didn’t you come? Don’t change the subject. I asked first.”
“I don’t know, Gavi.”
“You’re lying. Why are you lying to me? Do you not trust me anymore?”
“What? No, that’s not it. Of course I trust you, Gavi.”
He’s shaking his head hard. “I don’t think so,” he gets up abruptly, stands by the bed. Pedri follows. Falling right into step with him. He doesn’t think they’re doing the same dance, though. “Why can’t you just tell me? You would have, before. You’ve never hidden anything from me. What did I do, Pedri? What the fuck happened?”
Pedri can’t tell when the situation escalated to this point, “It’s not about you, Gavi. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. My fault. Just fucking forget it.”
“I don’t want to fucking forget it!”
They’re shouting at each other now, voices rebounding from one side of the room to another. “Why? It doesn’t matter!”
“Of course it fucking matters, Pedri, because,” and something shifts in Gavi’s breathing, something that sounds like oh, okay, I’m going there. I’m spitting out the bite I was choking on, I’m wrapping the noose around my own neck and pulling hard, “because I just stood there the whole night like a fucking idiot waiting for you to show up, because none of it—fucking none of it meant anything without you there.”
Pedri feels like he’s been drowned in ice water. He feels like he’s been set on fire. “What?”
“I’ve literally told you, back on international duty, fucking ages ago, all the time, and everyone says I’ve been so fucking obvious and pathetic. I’ve just—I couldn’t make it any clearer, Pedri, since day one, it’s spilling out of me, I just could never hide it, and you’re just so fucking you, and so kind, and you’ve never minded, even though it was so juvenile and embarrassing. And I didn’t know what to do with it anymore, it felt like the worst kept secret in the world, but it was like you were the only one not to know, so I thought, at the party, and the guys saw right through me and knew it was all just an excuse to talk to you and have you there and just—”
Pedri’s brain can’t keep up. What did he never mind? “They were talking about me? You threw the party for me?”
“Who else, Pedri?” and he only notices it now, but Gavi looks so, so tired. He hates himself, all of a sudden.
“That-that girl, from when we went out after we won the league?”
It’s Gavi’s turn to look utterly confused. He’s relieved, somehow, not to be the only one out of his depth. “What girl? What are you talking about?”
It doesn’t matter. Pedri feels so stupid. He feels so much like his age, suddenly, just twenty-one, and so, so stupid, such a kid, “What were you going to tell me, Gavi?”
“What?”
“If I had come to the party, what were you going to tell me?”
Gavi scoffs. “It doesn’t fucking matter anymore, at this point if you haven’t-”
“Yes, it does, so just stop being so stubborn and tell me what-”
“That I’m fucking in love with you, okay?” and it doesn’t come out a shout like Pedri would have expected. It’s a desperate thing, boiling over with a devastated kind of frustration, a sadness filled with longing, like he’s already given up. It’s a broken thing that Gavi’s throwing at him, like, here, look at the mess I’ve made. It’s all I have. It’s all for you.
It’s then that Pedri realises, oh, he’s never stopped knowing their language. He’d just got lost in translation, looking for words that were never theirs.
Gavi doesn’t seem to notice everything going on in Pedri’s mind, though, too focused on a mountain of his own. “So, yeah, you didn’t show up, and it doesn’t matter anymore, but I thought, it’s better for you if you didn’t have to put up with me as much, with all my stupid big feelings, and I was ruining our friendship because I just couldn’t not love you, Pedri,” he’s doing a phenomenal job at keeping his tears at bay, they both really are, it’s commendable, “so I had to limit the damage, and-”
Pedri decides it’s his turn to interrupt him, to present him with whatever’s left inside of him that’s raw and honest, “At the party, after we won the league, I drank so much-”
Gavi doesn’t even look surprised at the change of subjects. Is this real life? He’s so stupid. They’ve literally crushed half the stars in the galaxy to write themselves into them. “You had two drinks, at most, you’re just a light weight-”
Pedri can’t help it, he bursts out laughing. He must look so ridiculous. Red eyes and a huge, unrestrained giggle. “I drank so much, and I forgot what a bad idea even is, and I looked for you because all I wanted was to kiss you and die about it.”
They let the confession hang in the air between them.
The silence is quickly broken, though, by Gavi’s laughter. Something incredulous, hopeful, rueful, crazed, mirroring his own state, probably.
“Is it- are you- did we miss each other? Is it too late?”
And Gavi’s not even finished with this frankly utterly nonsensical question—because, please, do point at even one person who can get over Pablo Gavira, in any way, and let them tell Pedri all about it so he can tell them to piss off and that if Gavi isn’t the hell you choose despite, you don’t know fuck all about heaven—that he’s shaking his head, so adamantly that he feels tears he fought against escape him.
“You’re so fucking stupid, acting like I can get over you, you fucking asshole, you’ve got me like this for life-”
And Pedri doesn’t see how he gets there, but suddenly, there’s no distance between them anymore, and Gavi’s right over his side of the room, and he’s cradling his face with a fiery gentleness that is so him that it makes Pedri cry harder.
Gavi’s frayed at the edges and can’t seem to settle on a heartbeat. His eyes flicker over every inch of Pedri’s face, his thumbs trace the ever-damp tear tracks on his face, “I am, too. Pedri, you don’t fucking get it, I am, I love you, so much, I-”
He seemingly decides that words have become useless, and settles for kissing him, letting that do the talking.
Pedri wants to say it feels like fireworks. A supernova, of sorts. Something bright and electric and crazy. But it’s not. It’s fiery, yes, but driven by a sort of desperation that is rooted in adoration, in worship, in devotion. Something that seems to say I’ll die for this. I don’t even care about being a martyr, they can forget me, too, as long as I can say that I have had this.
Gavi kisses him like he’s taking a first breath after drowning long enough that water feels like his own skin and bone. Gavi kisses him like he’s been waiting on it for years, like he’d imagined it, thought about how to go with it, agonised over every detail, and then threw every plan out of the window now that he’s here. Gavi kisses him like Pedri is his anchor and downfall. His lifeline and death sentence.
Pedri can’t really think, not when Gavi’s lips are so warm and bold against his, not when Gavi’s handles cradle his face in a possessive yet ever so gentle hold, like he’s made of crystal, prone to break and never be the same, or water, likely to slip through his fingers to never be caught again.
And Pedri’s hungry, too, he’s imagined this, too, prayed for it to happen to the gods in the sky, in the trees, in the lamppost shade. He kisses back just as filthy, just as brave, follows Gavi’s movements, lets him guide them into a dance of their own. He circles his wrists with his own hands, possessed by the need to make sure that they’re both real, both sentient.
He thinks, for a second, in your fucking face, Zeno, Achilles must have known fuck all about enduring.
You can’t fault him for getting overwhelmed, really, what’s expected of him when something he’s been thinking of for years becomes reality, just when he told himself he can’t dare to dream about it any longer? He retreats, just slightly, so slightly that he can still feel Gavi’s exhale against his lips, to swallow down the taste of this, to breathe, to focus his blurry stare.
He’s not ready for the way Gavi’s eyes, his gaze, knock the wind out of him. Something so adoring, so devoted, it turns biblical. Something that no one is worthy of, much less him. Something that doesn’t have to scream it, and yet says like an objective fact, I’d do it for you, whatever it is. Anything.
He’s been so stupid. They’ve been so stupid. They could have been doing this for so long.
He doesn’t even remember why he pulled away. What’s breathing for when Gavi’s heartbeat is his metronome?
“Gav,” he sounds so wrecked, a mess of tears and too big feelings and relief, so much relief, “Please.”
He doesn’t know what he’s asking for—begging for, really—but seemingly, Gavi does, because teeth pull at his lower lip, ripping a surprised, but oh so please, moan out of him. Gavi takes advantage of his pliant mouth, his lips left ajar, to kiss him, really kiss him, sliding his tongue into his mouth, curling it into his, tracing the roof of his mouth in a way that makes his knees buckle, and oh, god, he’s gonna fall, and embarrass himself even more—
—and, of fucking course, Gavi is there to catch him, hands seamlessly sliding down from his face to grab at his waist—oh, his hands can almost touch around him, oh, okay—and steady him, pulling him even deeper into his embrace. He’s still kissing him, too, like he’s not made Pedri even dizzier with want, with love, with obsession. There’s this young vigour to him, this unrestrained want, and he’s not afraid to show it, not afraid to demand more and more and more. And Pedri just gives and gives and lets Gavi take because this is what he’s here for, he knows it, there’s an indentation in the shape of Gavi in his side, and there’s nothing he can do but sink into him to be whole.
There’s so much heat in their embrace, but there’s so much love, too, that it makes Pedri heady. Gavi keeps whispering sweet everythings against his lips, keeps hugging him closer and closer. Every so often, he pulls away, despite Pedri’s protests, and just stares at him, like he’s taking a work of art in, like he’s committing him to memory, like he can’t believe that this is real.
The third time he does it, though, Pedri feels the need to make it clear—
“Gavi,” he brings his hands up to his face, watches as the boy nestles into his palms, cherishing every touch between them. He pushes their foreheads together, craving this closeness like a drug now that he’s gotten a taste of it, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He feels him exhale deeply, like there’s a weight off his shoulders, suddenly, and it’s like this is what he needed to hear. It’s so them, so Gavi and Pedri, to know. To be able to tell.
“Yeah,” he nuzzles his nose against his, eyes still closed, “You’re not going anywhere,” he nods slightly, like confirming it to himself, “I’m not going anywhere, either. Ever.”
And Pedri giggles, because yeah, this is the boy he loves, the one who throws himself all-in into any challenge, who never gives anything but all of himself. He knows he’s stuck in this forever, that he’s fucked for the rest of time. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
Gavi, obviously comfortable enough now to do as he wishes, just leans into him again, and kisses him something even more gentle, even more loving. There’s a confession in every brush of their lips, in every shape that his tongue traces into him.
And then, it becomes a little more urgent. A little more burning.
He feels himself being pushed back in the direction of his bed, and then softly laid down upon its sheets. Gavi never stops kissing him. Pedri’s getting a little crazy at the thought of relinquishing control to this extent. It feels so natural. Gavi’s magnetic field is rearranging him whole. It feels like this is how it should be, how it always should have been.
They get lost in kisses and closeness, in warm hands that go from shy to unapologetic in a matter of seconds. Gavi’s hands trace Pedri’s ribs, Pedri counts every bump along Gavi’s spine. It feels like he’s known his body forever. It feels like the shape of it is so new.
When Gavi’s fingertips dip into his waistband, however, he forces himself to be reasonable about this. One of them has to be, and it’s clearly not going to be the man currently trying to make him his, to mould him in the shape of them, inside and out.
He tries to pull away for a breath, barely manages to get out, “Gav.”
Gavi goes back to kissing him, as if he hadn’t heard him at all.
Desperate measures, then. His hands slide up, grab at his face, “Gavi,” his voice stern—at least, as much as it can be when he sounds this wrecked.
“What?” He barely minds the interruption, smoothly slides away from Pedri’s hold, and dips into his neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses along his throat. He can feel his focus slip away. He doesn’t know if he can spell resolve, at that moment.
“We need to talk about this.”
Gavi hums, too distracted by the task of tracing his initials along Pedri’s skin, or whatever else he’s busied himself with, “Mhm, yeah, we need to.”
Pedri rolls his eyes. Even then, he thinks, even then, he manages to annoy the fuck out of me.
“Gav,” he pinches his cheek, his ear, whatever’s closest to his reach, “I’m being serious.”
Gavi straightens up, then, hovers over him to look him in the eye. He’s holding himself up with one arm, muscles stretched tight, and his other hand is busy tracing hearts along his face. Pedri has no idea what they were talking about. He sees Gavi nod, truing to look serious, the fucking asshole, “No yeah, I am too, serious, really,” he leans down, catches Pedri’s lower lip with his teeth, slides the hand not holding him up down to Pedri’s ass, letting it rest there, unmoving, “We can talk tomorrow, though.”
And yeah, obviously, they can talk tomorrow.
Tonight, though, he lets Gavi slide his hand into his pants, into his underwear. He lets him touch him where he burns most, lets him reach where no one else ever has. Pedri tells him I’ve never done this before, not like this, and Gavi tells him, me neither, and they’re both clearly perversely satisfied by this.
He lets Gavi prepare him, lets him make him cry, trace his name into the deepest part of him. He lets Gavi push inside him, lets him mould him in his shape, although, according to him, there’s not much work to be done. You were made for me, he tells him, about a dozen times, no one else can ever have you like this, no one deserves this, not even me.
And Pedri would protest, tell him that he genuinely believes he’s been made for him, designed to fit into his arms and into the oblique of his neck, to make room inside him for all of Gavi. But now, he’s choking on too-much, too-hot pleasure, and a lot of love, and he’s delirious on this feeling, so he can’t articulate much besides Gavi’s name, so he chants it like a prayer. A hymn for spring.
When they’re both lying in each other’s arms, spent from the fight and the adoration and the love-making, Gavi whispers promises like he’s etching them into stone, forever to hold him accountable. Pedri doesn’t need proof. He just needs this.
–
The following morning comes with a soft awakening. Sunlight sneaks into the room through the still-open curtains, and lands onto their tangled bodies. He hears Gavi huff at the brightness against his tired eyes, and laughs at what he knows is a soft pout on his sleepy face.
He goes to nuzzle back into Gavi’s neck, but his hold shifts, and he cradles his face in his hands like it’s made of glass. Like he still can’t believe it. He peruses Pedri’s features, traces over his lips with his fingertips, follows the shape of his throat with his touch.
“I love your laugh,” he says, like he’s realised he can say whatever comes to mind now, and it is okay, “I can’t wait to wake up to it every morning.”
And Pedri knows his eyes are shining, something of tears and something of pure glee, unrestrained happiness, like he’s rarely ever experienced.
The moment is interrupted by Gavi, evidently, who whispers, “See, if only you had come to my party-”
And Pedri lets out a laugh, incredulous and endeared and happy, shakes his head and it’s every bit of fond. Still, he wants to shut him up, so he leans down to kiss him.
He’s not surprised that Gavi’s lips taste like raspberries and his breath smells like rum.