MARS.

You woke up to an empty bed and two closed doors, in a room you were not entirely familiar with. A mess of a suitcase scattered on the floor, the warm memory of Ferrán's body next to yours and a purposely silent phone you knew you would have to confront at some point.

The screen lit up as soon as you disconnected the charger, and you winced at the large amount of notifications that had popped from every social media app you had an account in.

New comments, thousands of likes and a myriad of tentative followers whose curiosity had been satisfied by your feed after discovering who your boyfriend was. All that, and private messages tagging you or teasing you from the Spanish men’s national football team.

They had posted stories that you had not entirely consented to, but not entirely refused to, and that now everyone in the country had seen一stories that told a story of flashbacks from an unforgettable night that you could still feel in the aftertaste of alcohol in your mouth, and in the soreness of your body. Party, celebration and the uncontrolled happiness of a country that had just won its third world cup.

And after spending the night in your boyfriend's hotel room, all that was left was a barely-there headache you could feel throbbing between your temples and behind your eyes, and videos from many different perspectives of a kiss you hadn't anticipated but didn't regret so much either.

Remnants of chaos, and the absence of Ferrán lazing next to you, which was strange because drunk or not, he loved to wake up clinging to your skin like you were going to disappear.

But then you heard retching, faint and raw, from the other side of one of the closed doors. A low sound that threatened your morning from the back of his throat, like a promise he hadn't fully agreed to the night before, but that whose consequences had caught up to him anyway.

With a soft sigh escaping your lips you stood up, fresh air from the balcony you hadn't closed caressing your bare legs, and knocked on the door, waiting a couple of seconds before cracking it slightly open.

You peeked into the bathroom, all turned off lights and warm coloured tiles, and your sleepy worry deepened into a sorrowful pout when you saw your boyfriend had knelt in front of the toilet, lid open and pale as a ghost, while he emptied his stomach in waves of heaves and remorse.

“My love,” you whispered, taking a step in but hesitating around the sidelines.

He turned his sweet face towards you, his hair damp in sweat and sticking to his forehead, and croaked a weak, “‘Morning…”

“Good morning, champ,” you answered, finally crouching next to him, your hand resting between his shoulder blades, “how are you feeling?”

It didn’t smell that well, but you tried to ignore it as much as you could. You could see the way his arms slightly trembled over the porcelain of the toilet, and how much effort it took for him to properly breathe without triggering the retching in the back of his mouth.

“Not so good,” he said, and he closed his eyes when he felt your fingers dancing between the strands of his hair. “What happened yesterday?”

His question made you pause, but he didn’t even notice.

“What do you remember?”

He took a puff of air, then let it go slowly, in an attempt to think. If you tried hard enough, you could almost see the way his brain worked, going over the pieces of memories that he could hold on to before they got lost in his mind again.

“I remember the bus ride,” he started, dropping his head into your shoulder, “the bottles of wine Marcos kept opening. And the song that played when I walked onto the stage. I remember—I also remember your song. You were there, weren’t you?”

You nod, an amused smile cracking into your lips, and then actually say it out loud in a sigh, “Yes, I was.”

He moved his head backwards, opening his eyes in a flicker of anxiety.

“I know that tone,” he whispered, staring at you with his brows furrowed in a gesture of absolute panic. “What did I do?”

“You really don’t remember a thing?” and you really tried not to laugh, but the damage had been done hours and hours ago, and you had already come to terms with it.

“Those glasses of wine fucked up my head,” he offered, like it could somehow undo whatever mess he had created.

“—weell,” you said, drawing the word out, letting it hang in the air like an empty threat.

His eyes widened, even more and he sat down, legs straightened in front of him, like a toddler that had just been told off by his mom. You moved your hand from his hair back to his shoulders, drawing caresses in circles on his back.

“Just tell me, please,” he begged, voice cracking around the edges, “was it that bad? Did I embarrass myself? Did I—” he caught himself, stopping and swallowing hard, trying to brace himself. “Did I embarrass you? In front of everyone?”

You couldn’t help it, and laughed. A soft, breathless laugh that escaped from your lips and that had Ferrán shivering before you. You took his face with both hands, cupping his cheeks tenderly, and looked into his hazel eyes.

“Baby, you kissed me,” you revealed, and you could swear his brain stopped working altogether. “On stage, so yeah, you kind of embarrassed both of us in front of everyone.”

He was looking at you, but you were not that certain that he was seeing you. His mouth opened, then closed. And then he opened it again.

“I—I, what?”

“You were all on stage while I was performing,” you said, getting to his level and sitting down. You tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and then still took his hands between yours because you knew he relied a lot on physical contact. He followed the motion with his startled gaze, still processing. “And Pedri tried to get you to stay with him, but you ended up coming behind me and wrapping your arms around me. You wouldn’t let go, as usual. And then you kissed me and told everyone the song was yours.”

He blinked, and then dropped his head into his hands, groaning. A long, low, deeply mortified groan that echoed off the bathroom tiles, while you just laughed.

“Oh, my God,” he mumbled into his palms. “No, please, God, no.”

“I’m sorry,” giggling into the space between your bodies, “but yes. It happened.”

He looked up at you, eyes still wide and horrified.

“I ruined everything,” and he pronounced the words like he had just realised it, the weight of it heavy on his shoulders. “The celebration, your performance. It was a big moment for everyone and I made it about me, I—”

“Hey, Fer,” you cut him off, your voice soft but firm, resting your palm against his cheek. “Stop.”

“But—”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you reassured him.

He stared at you, trying to find a hint of the lie he was sure you were telling him.

“You’re not mad?” he asked, voice small. “I outed us, now everyone knows…”

“I’m not mad,” you said, playing with the hem of his shorts, “I was… surprised, yes. And also a little bit embarrassed. But not mad. It was bound to happen anyway. At least it happened in a funny way.”

He exhaled a shaky, relieved breath. Then he winced, pressing a hand to his stomach.

“I think I’m going to throw up again,” he announced, face contorted in pain.

“Okay,” you stood up, hand disappearing along his head in a gentle scratch for a moment, “do it. I’ll get you some water.”

He leaned over the toilet again, retching, and you watched him for a moment, wincing—your man, who had scored the goal that gave Spain the awaited trophy of the World Cup, who had announced your relationship to everyone in plaza Cibeles, who had overcome so many critics to get where he was.

Who had, also, celebrated so much he had been reduced to a mess of hangover sickness in the bathroom of your hotel.

You went to the little fridge and took a bottle of water, fresh and wet against your palm, and waited in the threshold of the door. When he finally straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, you handed it open to him. He took it with trembling fingers and drank slowly.

“I do remember some of it,” he confessed, voice rough. “Not the kiss—” he quickly added, like he had to make sure that you knew he hadn’t lied to you. “But I remember some parts of the bus. The noise, everyone was screaming. And there were flags everywhere, too. I remember taking pictures and videos with my phone, and looking for you. In the crowd. I knew you had to be somewhere, but you took a different plane so I didn’t know if you were in Madrid yet.”

“I was,” you said, softly, sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, facing him. “In the plane, I mean. In the back, in the last rows. I flew back with you.”

His eyes flickered with something—recognition, maybe. Like his mind was learning to untangle the memories from the image you were painting for him of the day before.

“You were there?”

“I was, but no one was supposed to know,” you explained, taking his hand. “I was going to fly back with the rest of family members and friends, but the management contacted my agent to perform the song during the celebration, so I had to go with you.”

He winced. “If I had known…”

“I couldn’t hug you, you know that,” you reminded him, “and you were too tired anyway. You slept a lot. And when we arrived I was the last one to leave the plane, so you were already going to the Royal Palace to present the trophy and everything.”

The look on his face when he glanced down to your intertwined fingers made you pause, waiting for him to speak his mind.

“Can you tell me everything that happened, in detail?” he asked, looking back up at you, his body leaning towards you like it was nature.

And so you told him.

You told him about the flight—the first hour of chaos and singing turned to screaming songs drunkenly, and then into another type of chaos, a quiet one, where every one got one row of seats to rest uncomfortably on your way to the Spanish capital. You told him about your ride to the famous square of Madrid, where the stage was already set for them to arrive in the evening. How you had practiced a bit your performance.

You told him about the videos he had sent you from the bus ride to Cibeles, always with a glass of expensive wine on his hand, asking his teammate Borja, who was the DJ, to play your song over and over again. You told him about the moment you had sneaked into the crowd, how the streets were packed with people, how the noise was so loud you could feel it in your chest.

And how emotional you had gotten when everyone had started singing the song, while you could only look up at him—shirtless and drunk and completely lost in the moment, even though he hadn’t known you were there.

Superestrella, superstar, the record you had included as a joke in your latest album, and that had turned into a meme and a symbol of Spain’s wins during the World Cup. A song you had written about Ferrán, the night you met in a random club in Ibiza, and that you didn’t think would be one of the hymns of the summer.

And then, when the sun had set behind the skyline of the city, and the spotlights had drawn the country’s attention to that stage painted in red and yellow, how you had still hid in the backstage. While the MCs talked to the public, balancing the emotions and the music, and also while the players were received one per one, with a loud applause they all deserved.

“I was so nervous,” you admitted, exhaling a laugh. “I had performed that song a hundred times during the tour, but this time you were there… and you were so drunk.”

“I didn’t plan it,” he said, his voice quiet. “I swear, if I knew that you were going to be there I wouldn’t have accepted that much alcohol.”

“I know, that’s why it felt so real,” you kissed his knuckles, a smile dancing in your lips. “You scored the goal. You earned every glass of wine, after all the season, after all the hate.”

He looked at you, his eyes softening. “When did I walk up to you?”

“Right,” you focused, every memory stitched into your mind. “I got introduced by Ibai. I remember wearing my in-ears and hearing Yeremy say hi to me through Ibai’s mic, but I entered the stage already singing the beginning of the song.”

You hadn’t been able to avoid the way your eyes had searched for Ferrán among the players.

“When I walked in, you were holding onto Pedri,” you explained, lost into the flashbacks that you were seeing so clearly inside of your head. You had to show him the videos, after you’d come out of the bathroom. “He told me, later, that he had to physically shut you up so you wouldn’t scream my name out loud.”

He had the decency of looking a little bit sheepish to your words. “I hadn’t seen you since before the match. I’m sure I wanted to touch you, I probably needed to.”

“The thing is, because you were drunk, you didn’t remember that you couldn’t,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes while you curved your lips into a smirk. He was really affectionate, always. “I managed to sign until the middle of the second verse before I realised that you were making a mess among your friends.”

“Oh, God, I remember that now—” he started, the ghost of his captain’s hand on his chest like a lifeline before everything had gone down south.

He could see himself reacting to hearing your voice—not the recorded bit he had been listening to since the beginning of the World Cup everywhere, but your voice, with the little trembling thing you always hid in the back of your throat in the third word of the second line.

He had seen you glancing back at him as you sang, and then how he had tried to get to you, as close as possible, while his teammates stared with a mix of amusement and alarm. And then Rodri, physically stopping him from approaching you, Pedri to his back, while Llorente and Yeremy danced next to you.

“Calm down, man,” his captain had said, low but clear. “Let her sing, you can be with her afterwards.”

But then you had made the mistake of looking at him again. Not at his shape, in a blur of blue and red and yellow, but at him, at his face, to his eyes. He had been sitting beside Pedri, knee jumping up and down, knuckles white from holding onto his seat. The intensity of his gaze had made you stumble over a word.

He looked like a kid on time out.

But you’d managed to recover. Heart pounding, heat creeping up your neck, and looking away from him, which felt like treason for his inebriated mind. You had walked to the opposite side of the stage, some of the players and staff following you—the camera definitely following you—and trying to focus on the crowd before you rather than on Ferrán.

Somehow, Nico Williams had seen it first. Only some of his teammates had known about your relationship throughout the tournament, but Nico had always teased him about it. That night, though, he had been pretty serious about you.

“Ferrán, no,” he had said, grabbing him by the arm when he managed to escape Pedri. “Leave it, she’s working.”

“I don’t care,” Ferrán had slurred, pulling his arm free in an attitude. “I haven’t touched her in the whole month.”

“You were with her yesterday,” Lamine had added, appearing on his other side, already recording with his phone. Ferrán’s eyes had narrowed at the camera, but he hadn’t said anything to his young colleague.

“In my bed,” he had corrected, his voice getting shamelessly louder over your song—his song. “I touched her in my bed, not in public. I couldn’t hug her after we won.”

Nico had winced, “Man, don’t say that in front of everyone.”

You hadn’t even realised that Gavi had disappeared from your side, after jumping and screaming to the song, to physically restrain your boyfriend, hooking an arm around Ferrán’s waist. You had been too focused on staying on the beat, on avoiding any other mistakes, on getting to the end of the performance without any scandals.

Gavi had been drunk as well, like everyone, but he’d had the presence of mind to know that Ferrán needed to be contained.

“Stop it, Ferri, please.”

“But she’s looking at me,” Ferrán had insisted, almost desperately, “she looks at me, and she smiles and I can’t—”

The Barça player had looked over at you, already on the second chorus, whose eyes were most definitely not on Ferrán anymore, and sighed. Nico and him had an interchange of glances, a silent conversation that ended with both of them shrugging, and Gavi let go of Ferrán.

“Fuck him, honestly,” and Ferrán had celebrated his freedom with a quick sip of his cup, that Nico took from his hands in a heartbeat. He didn’t need more alcohol. “I won’t be responsible for any news about him tomorrow.”

Ferrán had been next to you before anyone could realise it.

“So you remember fighting with the guys but you don’t remember the actual kiss?” you asked him, incredulous and amused by his words.

He tucked his head, chin resting on the wrinkled fabric of the T-shirt you had thrown over before going to sleep. “It’s coming back in waves, but slowly.”

You had moved from the bathroom to the bed, toilet flushed and teeth washed, to go over the events of the night before. You had to take a bus to the airport with some other players of the football team in a couple of hours, but so far you were enjoying the bubble of tranquility and shame you had built over the mattress.

“You were trembling,” you proceeded, your fingers buried in his long hair, leaving caresses as you talked, “when you came to me. I felt you before I saw you, because you always do the same thing—you slide a hand on my waist, and you pull me backwards, so I have you wrapped around me.

» I had just finished singing, I was still trying to regulate my breath, and I remember looking at Marc really scared before I looked back at you, and you were trembling. And it felt so warm and right and familiar, that for a moment I froze.”

He was blushing, a soft shade of pink on his cheeks, his neck, his ears. You didn’t tell him that at the moment, you had also been trembling, because he was already so embarrassed about it you didn’t want to make him feel worse.

“You smelled like wine and sweat and that shampoo I got you in France a month ago, and you were still singing the song, moving your lips into my hair,” you laughed at the vision, and he tightened his arms around your waist, his face hidden on your skin. “I turned off my mic, and I asked you what you were doing, but you just stared at me, and then buried your face in the crook between my neck and my shoulder.”

“Like every time I’m acting shy,” he added for you, and you repeated his words.

“Like every time you’re acting shy, yes. The thing is, I saw Ibai panicking as well. I think he was sure that it was not consented all over again, because he didn’t know we knew each other, that we are together, and I was about to turn back the mic again to come up with something…”

“But I kissed you.”

“—but you kissed me,” and you smiled sweetly at him. It had been really stressful, balancing the fact that everyone was watching you—thousands of people in the square with their eyes glued to the stage, and to the screens broadcasting every second for the ones that were further away—and that, at the same time, it felt like it was just the two of you, alone.

» You gave me a peck first, right on the corner of my lips, and then went for more. I knew that if I refused you, you wouldn’t understand why, so I kissed you back only once, and then tried to stop you. I think I actually put my hand right here” you rested your palm against his collarbone, and his breath got stuck in his throat, “before Ibai pulled you away from me.”

The kiss had been sloppy. With Ferrán absolutely drunk, he had misjudged the angle twice, but the second time his nose had bumped your cheek before his mouth found yours. You had relished into the feeling of his lips on yours, sighing, before remembering where you were. It had been so sincere, so desperate…

He groaned, “I need to send him my apologies.”

“I apologised for you, but I think it would be nice,” you told him. “He understood, though. Afterwards. But the crowd was screaming. I remember that. Then you said something to him, I don’t know what, and took his mic.”

You took a breath of air, trying to mimic his slurred voice, and repeated the words he had said on stage the day before:

» ‘You guys, this song is about me! She wrote it for me, about the night that we met, when I didn’t even know if she felt the same way! And now—’” you paused for a second, voice catching slightly. You laughed softly, intertwining your hands with him, and he left a kiss over your abdomen, eyes glistening the same way they had the day before on stage. “‘And now that I have everything I dreamt of, now that we won the World Cup, I cannot hold the trophy and not be able to hold her as well. She’s my girl, the love of my life. And if anyone has a problem with that…’

» You didn’t even finish the sentence. I had tugged at Ibai’s T-shirt to tell him that everything was okay while you talked, so he had let you go. But you didn’t finish the sentence, because you had grabbed my face and kissed me again.”

The music had started again, but now the actual song, not the background melody for you to sing over, while you had kissed under the spotlights. You knew some of his teammates had been recording, that there would be lots of different perspectives of that kiss, but you had leaned into Ferrán’s touch, enjoying the way he seemed so adamant on devouring you whole.

Gavi had found a bottle of champagne, and opened it, spraying it indiscriminately over you, and everyone around you, and among laughter and wheezing and unfiltered happiness, you had managed to separate from him.

You had turned on your microphone, while he buried his face back in your neck, muttering something about you being his favourite star, and you just said “I guess now everyone knows” wrapping your arm around Ferrán’s waist, holding him steady.

You didn’t remember how you had made it back to the hotel, just the ride from the backstage to the club where they had organised an afterparty, and he didn’t remember either, but now that everyone knew you were together, you were not really worried about what could appear on the Internet.

“In my defense,” he mumbled into your T-shirt, smiling into a lazy curve of his lips, lopsided and slightly proud, “three years is a long time to keep a secret. Especially with the amount of public life that we have.”

“Oh, yeah?” you asked, propping yourself up on your elbows.

“Yeah.”

“You say that like we didn’t already know that if one of us was going to be the one to crack, it was meant to be you,” you said, and he bit you softly as his only response, his teeth grazing over the side of your waist.

You shrieked, falling on your back, and he climbed until he was face to face with you, leaving kisses and tender bites on his way up. He was laughing as well, weakly, hoarsely, but still with that glimpse of adoration in his eyes.

“I love you,” he said, and you buried your hands in his hair.

“I’ve never been happier than I was in that moment,” you confessed, giving him a quick peck, “last night, on that stage, being held by you.”

He smiled and he kissed you again, warm breath against your skin, and you grinned into his mouth, eyes closed and mind at ease, when you whispered that you loved him too.

author 's noteㅤ✶ㅤas promised! the ferrán fic.. first of all, i would like to say this will be one of the last ferrán fics i write if not the last one ( here are my reasons ), and it hurts because it was thanks to him that i started writing again at all, but oh well. i hope you understand, i hope that you enjoyed it, and i hope that you still stick around to check other fics of mine! 🤍

welcome to casanova beach club, what can i get you? fedri x f readerㅤ( 6556w ) ── warningsㅤthrouple content slightly angsty at the beginning because of #stress spanish terms of endearement used are 'mi vida' = my life / 'mi niña' = my girl / 'amor' = love slightly ferrán centered because he appears more please wear seatbelts when in a car guys! also joder means fuck in spanish, i think i dropped one around thereㅤno use of ynㅤ⟡ ㅤfluff , proofread ! .ㅤ⸝⸝ㅤclick to masterlist .

The big screen attached to the furthest wall from you was a blur of words and data you couldn't quite focus at the moment. You had your laptop opened in front of you, where the next presentation was on queue, and you were going through all the information you had memorized the day before over dinner while your boyfriend pretended to hear.

It was six forty something in the afternoon, AC turned on and the blinds dimmed so the bright May sunlight wouldn't bother you, and after all the preparation and lack of sleep now you were the one pretending to hear your colleague. The meeting, which had started almost three hours ago, was already running late.

And now you were running late.

You felt your phone vibrate against the wooden surface of the table, merely inches away from your hand, and picked it up before it could tremble a second time—not even daring to disrupt the monologue that your coworker was sharing with you about the content she wanted to include in her show during the following days.

As a senior content producer, you were supposed to be paying active attention, and even interrupting with constructive feedback as an expert in your field. You were also, however, allowed controlled slips from the gathering, if it had to do with work. And with the amount of projects and contacts that you had, there was always a chance that the next message was an important one.

At least if the device that you had left over the table at the beginning of the meeting was your work phone, which it wasn’t.

You unblocked your personal phone in a swift flick of numbers that were more reflex than memory, and disabled the sound in your phone in a heartbeat when you felt it buzz once again. At that time, that day, only two people could be the authors of the texts. A conversation that had started in the group chat because of a picture, so you lowered the screen light a notch before you went over the messages.

pedri: [attachment]

pedri: what do you think? too formal?

You bit back a smile, zooming in the selfie mirror that your boyfriend had sent you. You recognised behind his lithe figure the messy sheets he had forgotten to fix after leaving the bed that morning, and also the familiar way the reflection was slightly bathed by the evening sunlight. He was asking about the white button up shirt he was wearing, and the slacks and the matching suit jacket, but not about the nervous curve of a smile in his lips.

ferri: you look like you’re going to a wedding

ferri: drop the button up or the blazer and wear something more casual

And you agreed. The other third of your group chat, Ferrán, your other boyfriend, had a more enhanced sense of fashion, and it almost pained you that none of you could be in the room with Pedri to help him decide what to wear.

But the meeting was important, and you had already asked for days off for the rest of the week, so you had to be there. Even though in your very organised schedule, you were supposed to have already left—and you should have already done your presentation, but your boss had completely lost track of time and you were left with a cute picture and a conversation you could not be a part of instead of getting ready with him.

pedri: answer to @ ferri ‘you look like you’re going to a wedding’ my mom told me to look handsome

ferri: you always look handsome, don’t worry

You felt eyes on you, and when you lifted your gaze, your best friend in the office was looking at you. She had just written a quick sentence in her notebook, something your coworker had said and you had completely missed, and she delivered a short nod in your direction to check that everything was fine.

You answered with a tight smile, nodding back. Everything was as fine as it could be.

pedri: ha ha

pedri: what are you wearing, then?

ferri: [attachment]

ferri: casual but elegant

His clothes were still draped over his bed, but you could tell the classy details in his pants, and how well they unconciously matched the dress you had chosen for the occasion. You had sent a picture from the store the day you had bought it, and while you knew Pedri had cared, it was clear that it had been Ferrán the one to really take in the design.

pedri: you're a dork

pedri: it’s better if i wear black, right?

ferri: black goes with everything

ferri: stick to a dark colour palette

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a moment, hesitating. You wanted to respond, but your fellow editor was still going on and on about how to announce certain news in the roster; besides, you had already spent an increasingly suspicious amount of time with the phone between your hands. You desisted, this time shoving the phone into your bag, that was hanging from the back of the chair, and pretended to cough as you fell back into focus.

7.12PM

You couldn’t help but check the time just once again. The number had changed, but not as fast as you had wished for only one minute ago. Your presentation had finished not that long ago, followed by a positive commentary from your boss, and now that you were done, escaping that meeting had turned into your one and only priority.

Your friend had picked up where you had left it, changing slightly the subject into her direct field of expertise, and you wanted to listen to her, but your head was running over all the options to still, somehow, manage to get there on time. Arriving late was really not an option, since it was the first event from your boyfriend’s work you were going to attend with his arm around yours.

It had been a long conversation, throughout the days that followed the big parade in the bus around the busy streets of the Catalonian capital their football team had organised, when Pedri had locked eyes with you and sent you a flying kiss. In the heat of the moment it had seemed innocent, because there were a lot of people, and it could have been for a random fan, but after reflecting on it and following a couple of dangerous threads about it on X, you had decided to officialise your relationship with one of them.

That way, if someone actually saw something, you could control the narrative. It was basic journalism.

But you could not announce anything if you were not actually there, and you didn’t have time to go back to Pedri’s house and get changed in time to leave with him. Your work clothes were not that bad, but you could tell you were not going to be dressed properly—or maybe way too strict, too professional. More like a member of the directive than a plus one guest. And if you went straight from your office to his house, it was still a fifteen minute drive.

With a deep, anxious sigh stuck in the back of your mouth, you pulled the texting app in your laptop.

you: i cant leave yet

you: lara is talking about the data for this weekend’s articles

you: our articles

You saw the silly picture you had taken of Pedri during the recovery of his latest injury pop up in the chat as soon as you had sent the last text, and then the bubbles forming and popping while he wrote an answer.

pedri: how long do you think it'll take?

pedri: i have to leave in 10 minutes max, the car is already here

Right, the rental car his club had chosen to pick him up, because you had decided to go together and then come back with Ferrán, since he lived so close by. You failed to avoid muttering a low fuck under your breath, but no one around you seemed to be too invested on what you were doing, rather than in Lara’s words.

you: it's ok, you go

you: either i arrive late or i dont go and we'll make it official another day

pedri: hey, you still got time

pedri: you can make it, dinner’s supposed to start at 8.30

pedri: everything will be fine

pedri: just keep us posted about what you decide

You pouted to the dimmed screen of your laptop while your friend started to pick up her notes from the lectern, and then swiftly looked over to your boss, still typing, to check what was next in the agenda for that afternoon.

you: i know

you: i just really want to go and this meeting is stressing me out

The coordinator of editors for LaLiga content shifted the papers in front of him at the head of the table, and exhaled a sigh with the next point you were supposed to talk about. You tried really hard not to defeatedly sink further into your seat, and listened to his questions.

ferri: we know, mi vida

ferri: for now focus on your job

ferri: that's the important part

7.29PM

There were no more presentations scheduled for the day, but you couldn’t stop looking at the bottom corner of the screen’s right side, where a couple of pixels flickered into existence every few seconds. It made the light numbers of the time appear and disappear, and you wanted to swear that it made minutes pass faster, but you were not entirely sure.

It was almost seven thirty, and in one hour you had to be in the restaurant that FC Barcelona had rented for the occasion. You knew how it looked already because you had written an article about the celebratory dinner that the club had organised to gather all the players, coaching staff and even the management, including their families and spouses, to praise everyone for the good work during the season.

And after dating two of those players for almost a year, this time you were going to be inside the beach club, surrounded by their teammates, instead of in the office, writing about whatever information the photographers of your company had collected in the time they waited outside the building.

The thought of introducing yourself to the footballers that already knew you in your most professional mindset as Pedri’s girlfriend would’ve had you restless if you weren’t already preoccupied about how to get there in the first place.

You slid your finger along the touchpad of your laptop to check the time one more time, and saw a new notification. It was Ferrán.

ferri: @ you do you want me to go pick you up?

The seat sighed under your weight when you sat up straighter, writing an answer as quick as possible.

you: don't worry

you: if i leave to go back home and change, i'm going to be late anyway

you: i'll probably go directly as soon as i'm done here

ferri: in your car?

You winced, knowing that he was going over the same path of options you had gone a while ago. Taking your car would be useless, because you didn’t have any type of identification or invitation to the event, so security wouldn’t let you pass. But if you went by walking, you could go up to the entrance as another fan and then ask Pedri to help you in.

To get there, unfortunately, you had to take a thirty minute suburban train, which right now was your last resort.

you: no

you: train

pedri: taking the train to castelldefels is a nightmare, amor

You knew. Of course you knew. And you also knew that he was trying to help, but with the echo of your boss’ voice in the back of your head, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of one of your coworker’s pen against the table, and the annoying speed in which the corner of the projector’s screen was flickering, you couldn’t even begin to explain how his words were only stressing you more.

you: i don't see any other option

And you saw him typing once more, but you closed the texting app before glancing at the answer.

7.51PM

When the clock on the wall—because you had decided to stop looking at the screen, for the sake of your sanity—had hit ten minutes to eight in the evening, you had already set your mind on just not going. It was not fair to the organisers of the event, it was not fair to the punctuality values your parents had taught you and it was certainly not fair to your heart, that had been stammering against your ribcage at an alarming pace.

Now it was calm, and even though you felt like you were disappointing your boyfriends in some way, you were also very at peace with yourself.

Everyone at the celebratory reunion knew you, and you were not about to appear in your work clothes, out of breath and slightly dishevelled, when they all had praised your professionalism, and your elegant composure in all the interviews you had performed with them. It was pride, but also your personal brand, that was in the line.

So for a while you had focused back into the meeting, earning approval and corrections in your plans for the following week. All national competitions were over, and now the football branch of your company was turning their focus on complete coverage of the upcoming World Cup, so they had decided to talk about it right then and there since you were going to be gone until the following Monday.

Great.

You took your phone from the leather bag hanging from the back of your chair, and opened the group chat with your boyfriends once again to a picture—the latest message of twenty three.

pedri: [attachment]

pedri: i just arrived

pedri: there's a lot of people

It was a cute selfie, with the curve of his chin slightly cropped and a dreamy background. You could see the beach in the back, thin and darker towards the shore, and the profound blue of the sea that was way darker than the one in the pool to his left, light twinkling over the water. The decorations were a haze of white and esparto grass and straw, and you couldn’t really see who was the player in the table behind Pedri, but there were drinks already half finished.

Still, you could tell he was nervous in the tightness of his sweet smile.

you: here they're still going at it

you: it feels like it will never end

you: going over some world cup prep

You crossed your legs under the table, trying to conceal the fact that you were paying more attention to the conversation held between your hands than to the chosen correspondents to travel to the USA during June and July. You knew your name was among them, because you had signed off those papers two days ago, so you really didn’t need to listen to the same list once again.

ferri: tell them you have an emergency

you: what emergency?

ferri: a relative is in the hospital

You almost snorted, your eyes rolling in exasperation. Ferrán was the one that teased the most when he was in a good mood, but he also had a good sense to understand when you were not in the right place to be teased. The problem with it came when he tried to make you laugh within your sour temper. Most of the time it worked, but not when it was job related.

And after all the risks you had gone over when talking about going official with one of them, it seemed like they didn’t remember a thing and you were the only one still going over all the possible terrible outcomes of a small slip.

you: they will see the pictures tomorrow and know is not true

you: i’m not risking my credibility at work, thank you

pedri: answer to @ ferri: ‘a relative is in the hospital’ that's too much, ferri

ferri: shut up, i'm working on a solution

Now, that was the message you had been fearing. Because Ferrán was not going in a rented car but his own, and he was also the most impulsive out of the three of you, he was more prone to stupid ideas that ended up in chaos—and you were not taking the chance for that to happen.

Your fingertips danced over the keyboard of your phone, deciding what to type, and then you heard someone clearing their throat. 

“Something you want to add?” your boss asked, strict and low, with a wrinkle of annoyance around his sharp eyes.

“No, sir,” you called back, setting the phone screen down on the table like it burned. “All clear.”

8.04PM

By the time the meeting followed the sweet path of the last point in the agenda, your fingertips were already twitching in anticipation to open the text message app in your laptop and check if Ferrán had said anything else about his possible ideas. But every time that you didn’t follow with your gaze the conversation, that you didn’t nod to the words of your coworkers or added your own input, you felt your boss’s eyes over you.

So you waited until the final part of the meeting, when the secretary of the director read the minutes of what you had agreed on during the neverending hours of non stop babbling, to sneakily open a new tab over the wallpaper picture of your hometown.

pedri: ferri, i think some spots in the parking lot are reserved for us so you can park there when you arrive

ferri: got it

You smiled, somewhat relieved, that everything seemed to go according to their original plan. Pedri was already there, having fun, and Ferrán was on his way, ready to spend some nice time with their team in a deserved celebration of their hard work.

You added a message, typing as slow as you could to avoid suspicion.

you: i will try to get out in 5 minutes if they don’t shut up by then

you: i’ll check if i have some extra clothes in my office

you: but if when i get there is too late, i’m going back home

pedri: hey, take it easy, it's ok

pedri: im not trying to stress you, amor

The tip of your friend’s sandal nudged your shin, and your eyes went upwards immediately. She pretended to cough, and proceeded to add some information to one of the points—the one you had been working on about the details in the farewell to Robert Lewandowski from FC Barcelona. Old news, but a nice article to complete all the information from your web.

She left her last sentence hanging just in the right way so you could continue for her, and actually add your voice to the discussion, and when you finished, the meeting continued smoothly.

You winked at her. Nice save.

you: i know

you: we all know what time is it, anyways

you: are there any cameras?

pedri: yeah, a lot. i think everyone sent journalists here

Of course there were. It was not just any football event, where all the companies would send their fair amount of photographers to capture every second, on top also of the usual fans that wanted to earn some signatures and pictures; it was a domestic dinner where sports met privacy and everyone got to have a glimpse of the footballer’s inner circle. Known and unknown spouses and girlfriends, and the way they interacted with each other, feeding the public’s morbid curiosity.

You looked over to your right, where the director of photography seemed as close to falling asleep as you were to flee the room any given minute, and considered the names you had talked about before the meeting, trying to remember if he had mentioned who he had selected to take pictures of the event that afternoon.

you: yeah i know

you: i don’t know who javi sent to cover the entrance tbh

pedri: everything is going to be alright, mi niña

pedri: let me know when you arrive and i'll go out to escort you

pedri: there's no rush

When your boss’s voice picked up in one last sentence before ending the meeting, you tried not to look too eager to leave. You closed the laptop in a heartbeat, and grabbed your bag so fast you almost tripped over the chair on your way out.

You heard your friend, probably confused, throwing some questions at you, but you shouted over your shoulder something messy and quick that you wished it sounded like ‘Talk to you later, promise!’, but really just came out as gibberish in the empty corridor.

The flat sole of your sneakers barely left any sound over the tiled path to your office, and when you arrived, you had less than an exhalation to leave your blazer in the little closet by the corner and take a cute, warm shawl that you kept there for emergency situations like that one. You put the laptop and the agenda into the key-secured drawer of your desk, and grabbed the black heels that you had left under the table some time last week in between meetings and projects.

Then you took off, making sure that the light was off and the door was closed, and didn’t even think twice before rushing to the hallway and down the stairs, too full of adrenaline to take the elevator.

Your bag was big enough to keep the items you had just gotten, and you juggled it with one leather handle over your shoulder to take your phone and check when the next train was going to be. You would have enough time to freshen up and get ready on the way to Castelldefells.

When you unblocked the device, instead, you had a private message from Ferrán:

ferri: i'm outside

ferri: no need to run

And someplace between a heart attack and absolute relief, you sighed his name out of your mouth—there had been a plan, after all. You should have known.

You ran your hand over your face in a defeated gesture, quick feet flowing over the stairs, until you got to the private parking of the building. Not the underground one, more hidden from the public eye, but the one upfront, where everyone could see who parked there.

And in the first row, in a shadow of luxury and care, there was a hybrid model of the Cupra deal FC Barcelona had made with the car company, waiting for you. And leaning into the driver's door, but outside of it, the strong silhouette of Ferrán, with his black, simple T-shirt folding into the curves of his arms with reverence. He was smiling, almost grinning, under the stupid cap he had at least decided to wear to pick you up.

“You stupid, stupid boy,” you muttered under your breath, approaching him like a storm brewing behind the horizon. The afternoon had been a carousel of emotions, but certainly the permanent one since you had started dating them was anxiety at everything Ferrán did that decided not to share with you two.

Like risking your privacy by appearing, out of nowhere, in your work place for everyone to see.

“Get inside,” you all but snapped at him, punching him strengthless in his chest, brows furrowed into the poor attempt of masked anger. You couldn’t stay irritated at him for too long, but every time you had to try a little longer.

“Not even a ‘thank you, amor’?” he asked, the grin still dancing on his lips, but taking the heels from your hand and opening the car for you nonetheless. “Joder, tough crowd.”

You ran to the passenger side, settling into your seat in an exhalation, and prayed for your coworkers to wait a couple of seconds before leaving the building. They were all sports journalists for LaLiga—even with the cap on, there was no way they didn’t recognise Ferrán’s face driving you away. They all would know anyway, when the pictures of your arrival appeared in their mail that night, but there was no need for them to find out beforehand.

“What were you even thinking, amor?” you hissed, lowering your bag in between your legs while he started the car.

“Well, my sweet girlfriend was stressed out of her mind trying to figure out how to get on time to dinner,” he answered, taking his cap off and throwing it in the space between you, then rearranging his hair with one swift move of his hand.

Your heart melted a little at his words, leaning back into the leather of your seat.

“Thank you,” you murmured, and when his free hand found yours in your lap, you held it for a second too long before he lifted it to kiss it.

“I know it was risky,” he told you, and you fought the need to scoff in his face, back to the playfulness that you two usually shared. “But it'll work, I promise.”

“I'm still going to look a mess, but I guess you're right,” you conceded, anticipating the incredulous way he opened his eyes.

“‘I'm right’?” he rested his hand on your thigh, and teasingly squished it, “Walah! Hold on, I need to record it or Pepi will never believe it happened! Can you repeat it?”

Warmth spread over your chest when you heard his laughter and joined him in a fit of happiness, pretending to roll your eyes at him. He hadn't even taken his phone to record it一this was just him messing with you enough to make you relax.

“It's your word against mine,” you said, “and you know my sister is a lawyer, so I'll probably win anyway.”

“Like Pedri wouldn’t take your side just because it's yours,” he added, glancing sideways between you and the road before making a turn. “You don't need no law一Ok, wait, hear me out. In the next red light, which will be in like a minute, I need you to change seats and move to the back.”

You frowned, setting your hand over his in your leg, “Why?”

“Well, I took the liberty to sneak into your apartment on my way to you,” he explained, the enigmatic curve of his lips merely a gesture of mischief. “So, unless I fucked it up, you should have everything you need back there to change.”

“You what一” but you were already looking backwards, his hand leaving the softness of your flared jeans to rest it on the wheel.

In the seat right behind you there was a hanger that you recognised as one of the set of ten you had bought in Ikea when you had first moved out of your parents’ house, an elegant, dark dress flowing into the clean carpet of the car. In your smaller travel bag, tossed carefully over the leather of the car seat, you could see the zip open, but none of its contents.

When you looked back at him, he had a faltering smile plastered on his mouth, clearly waiting for you to confirm if he had made the right call or not.

Instead of trying to word an answer, you slid your hand into his hair and whispered a tender kiss on his cheek.

“Graciès, guapo,” but your eyes were saying much more.

Before you could even begin to notice the reddish hue in his ears he stopped the car, red light right in front of you, as he had promised, and patted you gently in your knee, “Go, go, go!”

You opened the passenger's door in a shriek, and while you heard his chuckles from inside, turned immediately to the door behind, taking the travel bag over your lap and wincing to the loudness of the door when you closed it after you.

“Done!”

Ferrán glanced towards the bag you had left on the floor by his side, putting it where you had been seconds ago, looking for something you could use to cover yourself, and you missed the way he bit his lips in concentration through the rear mirror.

You were too busy going through the stuff he had taken for you, and preparing what you were going to use first. There was a dark, strapless bra, carefully wrapped in its original box, because you didn’t get to use it that much, and a small toiletry bag with some make up.

“Take this,” his voice made you connect your gaze with his in the mirror, and you took your own shawl without thinking twice. “I think it's a little bit see through, but with the tinted windows, and this wrapped around the backrests, no one should see anything from outside.”

“Perfect,” you called, but he knew you had already fallen into the simplicity of your usual routine to get ready. And, as he started to drive again, twenty minutes away from the beach club you were going to, all he could think was that even if it was a little bit see through, the only one to actually see anything would be him一and if that was the case, he wouldn't be too sad about it.

8.22PM

Ferrán had tried his best to behave behind the wheel. He really had, especially when you had asked him to let you know when he was going to stop at any red lights, to work on your make up without unfortunate movements that messed it up.

But at the same time, he was just reckless like that, and even more so when he knew his girlfriend was half naked in the back of his car. It was that haze of trouble in his gaze every time he glanced in the rear mirror and you caught him, and the sinful way in which your dress had flowed over you and you had put it on.

The jeans had been a little bit complicated to take off, but now everything was folded and kept inside the travel bag, and you had your phone in your hands. You were talking to Pedri, you had said, and he felt the vibrations of new notifications in his phone every time you sent a message.

“How’s he doing?” he asked, turning his head towards you.

“He's nervous,” and your voice sounded as agitated as he assumed Pedri would be feeling. He waited for more information, but you kept quiet, still typing, cornered in the further seat to him.

He was a touchy person, he couldn’t help it. His twitching fingertips longed for your presence in the passenger seat, close enough so he could feel you under his hand. But you were putting distance between the two of you on purpose一if he got used to it during the drive to the restaurant, then it would be less difficult for him to keep his hands to himself during the actual dinner.

But seeing you there, with your silky dress, and those thin straps that threatened to slide down your shoulder under the least amount of breeze, he thought it was close to torture. The heels you were going to wear were beside you, black and short and delicate, and the bag he had chosen was discarded by their side, its chain dangling over the carpeted floor of the car.

You were close to your destination, and the closer you got, the more wrinkles that appeared in your dark tinted lips. If Pedri was on edge, waiting and holding the secret of your relationship by himself in the restaurant, he couldn’t even imagine how you were feeling, about to step into the other side of a world you thought you were used to.

“Pedri says in two minutes he will go outside, to wait for us,” you murmured, but you didn’t even look at him while saying so.

“In two minutes we will be arriving, so it's perfect,” he answered, and he tried to sound as reassuring as reassured he wanted you to feel.

There was a pause, a pause of you putting your phone back into the bag he had taken from your so-well-organised closet, a pause that exhaled a sigh from your mouth and into his ribcage, and then he talked again:

“Hey,” and your name sounded so soft when he pronounced it that you couldn't not look at him. “Everything is going to be fine, and I mean it.”

“I know.”

He chuckled under his breath and used the flashing lights. You could already hear the fans screaming names一though you couldn't make out whose name they were saying.

“You know,” he repeated, “but you don't believe it.”

“I know that people will see me exiting your car, and assume I'm your girl, and then I will have to go up to Pedri and act like I'm just his for the night,” you explained, a pained little sound escaping your throat right at the end of the last word, “and it's not fair to you.”

He felt a knot of vulnerability building up in his chest, and said nothing after that. You were too close to security and the slow looming of reality, anyway.

He stopped the car right where the gate of the Casanova Beach Club started, and lowered the window so he could get identified by the agents in charge of security. They gave him the thumbs-up, and he drove a couple of meters to the first free spot in the parking lot.

Silence was beginning to swallow you whole by the time he finally turned the engine off, a myriad of journalists and fans buzzing outside, but he took a second to look at you一really look at you, with his hand in the passenger's backrest and his body turned to you一and smile.

“I love you,” he said, and there was not a glimpse of regret or doubt or the resentment you had expected in his chocolate eyes. “Nothing anyone could say will change that I love you, you and Pedri, and I don't care that I have to pretend to just be your friend out there if that means that I get to love you both quietly when no one is looking.

“Ok?” he asked, a heartbeat later, when all he could see was a shadow of tears in the waterline of your nude gaze.

“Ok,” you repeated, and his smile widened.

“Let's go then.”

He exited his seat gently, all gracious elegance and a troublesome smirk, and he waved at the fans while walking in front of the car to your side, the keys dangling from his hand.

You took his phone from the space between seats to give it to him later, and slid the thin chain of your purse over your shoulder, waiting for him. Your work bag and all the clothes were inside the travel bag, so when he opened the door for you, you gave it to him. He took it with his free hand, and then offered the other to you.

As graceful as possible, you put on the heels, and then rested your hand into his, getting out of the car. In one last look that belonged to you two only, and making sure that his frame hid your words, you murmured, “I love you too, by the way.”

His smirk softened into something sacred, something that disappeared when he remembered where he was, and he just nodded, helping you into the sidewalk.

He went back to the trunk, to leave your travel bag secured, and you just stood in the entrance of the restaurant, in front of the flashes instead of behind for the first time in your life. You felt rather awkward, under the heat of May, still and useless over the pavement. You were not even processing what the journalists were shouting at you, and for a moment your mind betrayed you into the image of a deer caught in front of a car.

You were standing in front of Ferrán’s car, after all, and you felt your heart stammering in the back of your mouth rather sickly.

Until one of the journalists actually said your name, and you abruptly turned in his direction一one of the journalists of your company. You didn't properly remember how he was called, just his surname after hearing it around the office.

And before you could even conjure up a way to smile without looking terribly uncomfortable with the situation, you felt your boyfriend’s hand around your waist. The left one, with no ring in his index, so it was Pedri.

You smelled him first, soft and barely there, then turned towards him, and only that way your smile felt genuine.

“You ok?” he asked, his grip slightly tight over the thin fabric of your dress.

“All good,” you said, resting your hand over his and squishing reassuringly.

“Can I just kiss you on the cheek?”

“If you don't,” Ferrán said, his back to the public as he approached you two, “I will. And then a lot of people will have a lot of questions.”

You giggled, shoulders relaxing now that you had your favourite people next to you, and nodded at Pedri. He lowered a bit his hand, slightly protective over you, and drew a circle with his thumb over the bone of your hip, leaving a cute peck on your cheek.

And as they greeted each other the same way they had been doing for years, the voices of the journalists came clearer, like you had just woken up from a dream and reality was settling around you. It was Pedri's touch on you, Ferrán close enough for his presence to feel grounding, and the multitude of questions about who you were thrown right before you.

Pedri guided you through the entrance, politely waving at everyone while security followed you along the way, and you knew Ferrán was somewhere behind your back. When you got to the outdoors corridor right before the hall to go inside the restaurant, you took a big breath.

You had come all the way already, the rest was going to be the easy part. You knew everyone inside, either because you had interviewed them, or because you had come across their name while investigating for your articles. They would be surprised when Pedri introduced you as his girlfriend, but not necessarily that much.

The hired photographer in front you didn't even ask before taking a couple of pictures of you entering the gathering, and you caught a glimpse of the director of the FC Barcelona already inside, as well as some of your boyfriends’ closest friends.

You felt Pedri's exhalation against your temple when he looked down at you, “Ready?”

You took a glance back towards Ferrán, who was already smiling at you in all supportiveness, and mirrored it with a curve of your lips. You leaned slightly into the Canary Islander next to you, and released the puff of air you had been holding.

“Ready.”

After your first step inside, you heard a big applause coming from the table where Gavi was sitting, and once you couldn't contain the laughter, the rest went as smoothly as it could go.

🍸ㅤ𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗟𝗘𝗗𝗚𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦.ㅤi think this fic might be my baby. i'm obsessed with it and i got overboard with it - i created a 2k word document with info about their backstory before being together haha but it's fine. they're cute. shout out to my partner in crime @aaksuitac for always supporting my craziness and being there to 'give me her life if i wrote fedri x reader'. esta vai pa ti, guapa. i hope you guys liked it 🤍