Archive of Our Own

Pablo didn’t understand that he was feeling jealous until the Spain call ups were announced. His name wasn’t there, where it should be, under “centrocampistas” and Zubimendi, replacing Casadó, a couple spots above Pedri’s.

He wondered when Pedri got the call from Luis, because it clearly wasn’t when his boyfriend was with him. 

He wondered if Pedri knew he was going to feel some type of way, get jealous, get sad, and wondered if Pedri purposefully took the call away from him to spare him.

Often, Pablo didn’t feel like he was a year and a half younger than Pedri. Early into both their friendship and subsequent relationship, they established that they were both on equal and level ground, despite the differences between them. Besides, it was him who made the first advances towards Pedri, who tried to casually signal to Pedri that he liked boys, that he liked him, without saying it outloud, for fear that a microphone would pick it up and put it on some gossip Tik Tok page and ruin their careers before they had even started. 

But today he felt all 620 days of Pedri’s maturity and his own immaturity, as he laid in their bed, under the covers, staring at his phone. He stared at the RFEF’s website, that red rectangle with Luis’s picture to the left, and wished, for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time that his ACL hadn’t torn. Maybe then he would still be getting call ups to Spain. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to be eased into Hansi’s starting eleven. Maybe then he would still be on an uninterrupted upward trajectory. 

He was able to parse out, at the very least, that he wasn’t jealous about Pedri getting called up over him. He had never been jealous of any aspect of Pedri, but rather perpetually in awe and stunned that he got to be around, talk to, kiss, fuck, get fucked by this generational talent. Rather, he was jealous that he wasn’t chosen to go alongside Pedri to Madrid, then Rotterdam, then Valencia. 

Pablo was, as practically all Spaniards are, raised Catholic. However, he was never religious or faithful the way that the majority of the older people in his life are, or some of the players he knows who cross themselves three times before they enter the pitch or point to God after scoring a goal. But, as he fell asleep, his phone in his hand, he silently prayed that he was still enough for Spain, for Barça, for his family, for Pedri.

Pablo awoke to a darkened room, a hand carding through his hair, and his head on Pedri’s lap. He looked up towards Pedri, as Pedri looked down at his phone. Pablo was often struck and taken aback by how beautiful his boy was, just as he had been the first time he set eyes on Pedri. During the first year of knowing Pedri, Pablo was desperate for Pedri’s attention. He often felt like a beggar, desperate for any shred of a smile or eerily perfect pass or “Oye, hermano,” aimed at him. At the time, he didn’t realize he had a crush on Pedri, but in hindsight, it seems obvious. He feels just as desperate now, but if Pedri was to ask him what he needed, he wouldn’t know what to say to him. 

“You’re awake,” Pedri says, leaning down and kissing the top of Pablo’s hair.

“Mmm,” Pablo hums in agreement. “Congratulations on the call up. Luis would’ve been literally insane not to take you, considering the crazy good season you’ve been having.”

Pedri blushes, and Pablo smiles. His boy, always so shy whenever he gets a compliment. “Thanks, nene,” Pedri pauses, his brows furrowing slightly. “I’m sorry you didn’t get called up.”

Pablo shrugs, aiming for faux casualness. “I mean, I haven’t been giving Luis a lot to go off of this season, so I don’t blame the guy for not putting me down and going for Marc instead.”

“Still sucks though,”

“It’s okay Pedri, I promise,”

“I’ll miss you,” Pedri says, his brows still furrowed slightly. 

Pablo wishes he could easily smooth out the crease between his eyebrows, but instead, Pablo smiles and deflects. “I’ll miss you too. And seriously, it’s okay, amor. Now, dietician approved salmon or dietician approved chicken for dinner?”

Once Pedri has packed up and flown down to Madrid with the other boys from their team, Pablo quickly realizes just how not okay it is. 

The silence in the house echoes back just how not okay he is.

He watches all the media that the RFEF starts to frantically post, of the boys walking up to La Ciudad in Las Rozas, of the short training clips in the mist, and of the president calling La Selección “the greatest unifying force Spain has.” He has to force himself to stop after watching that video, feeling like he could vibrate out of his skin with anger and jealousy and sadness, wishing, wanting, that he too was part of the greatest Spanish unifying force. Pablo wishes he could just go down to the local park and kick a ball and run around until he was so tired he couldn't feel anything, but that isn’t an option anymore. Instead, he jams his Airpods into his ears and goes on a run, hoping that no one stops him for a picture or autograph. 

Thankfully, he makes it back to their darkened house unscathed, not being recognized. He chucks his sweaty tank top and shorts into the laundry bin in their closet, and slips into a hoodie and sweatpants that both technically belong to Pedri, but like most other belongings in their lives, have gotten entangled. 

As Pablo’s eating dietician approved chicken, broccoli, and rice at their kitchen island, he texts Pedri. 

Ft tonight?

He thinks about sending a “miss you” text after, but instead refrains from doing so, feeling that Pedri would feel obligated to call and check in on him. Plus, he doesn’t want to seem codependent on Pedri, even though he fears he already might be. 

Pedri texts back as Pablo is headed up to their bedroom.

Sorry cariño, I got sucked into playing FIFA with some of the guys 

Plus I have to beat Dean, he was nervous for like 12 hours until Lamine and Nico got him out of his shell and now the little shit doesn’t know how to respect his elders

I’ll text goodnight tho, obviously

All good, kick his ass

Love you💞

Pablo drops into their bed, plugs his phone in, and pulls the covers over his head to hide from the world. He gets his goodnight text an hour later, as he’s trying to drown out the inferiority he’s feeling by half listening to a video essay on the Premier League chaos while lazily playing Subway Surfers. 

Goodnight bebé, sleep well, te amo💞💞💞

Sleep well Pedri

Te amo♥️

Pablo follows up a couple minutes later.

Te extraño

Pablo watches La Roja nearly lose in Rotterdam. He’s proud of Pedri for assisting Nico’s goal, but the rest of his brain is taken up by wishing he was there too, that instead of Dani he was substituted on for Pedri in the 66th minute, or that he was part of the starting eleven in Rotterdam, standing arm in arm with his teammates, proudly wearing the (ugly, in Pablo’s opinion) highlighter yellow kit, with one whole star over the coat of arms, working towards getting another. Pablo slumps into their couch and scrolls through the reactions to the matches on Twitter, the only thing soothing his jealousy and wistfulness being Portugal losing to Denmark. He thinks about doing something productive, but can’t bring himself to get on the stationary bike or start a load of laundry. Instead, he drags himself upstairs and crawls into bed, hoping that when he wakes up, he’ll feel better.

He wakes up to his phone ringing. He does not feel better.

Pablo glances at the screen, hoping he could reject the call. He steels himself, trying to push away everything he’s been feeling and embody a positive mood. 

“Hey nene, how’ve you been?”

“Just woke up from a nap. You played well, your assist for Nico’s goal was really pretty,”

“Thanks,” Pedri tilts his head to the side. “Is that my hoodie?”

Pablo hadn’t even realized that he had unconsciously sought out comfort by putting on one of Pedri’s hoodies that was infused with his scent. “Yeah, it’s yours. Do you like me in it?” He tries to deflect, distract. 

“I mean, yeah, of course I like you in my clothes. I just… are you okay, nene?” Pedri hesitantly asks. 

Fuck fuck fuck. “Yeah, I’m okay. Why wouldn't I be?”

“I mean, Barça’s not playing a game this weekend, so the normal routine’s off. I’m gone, and you didn’t get called up for Spain, and you’re just watching us play…” Pedri trails off. Pablo remains silent, expecting Pedri to say more, but he doesn’t, opting to also be quiet. 

After a couple minutes of quiet, Pablo breaks first. “I do miss you,” he says, quietly, “I’m not gonna deny that.”

Pedri’s expression softens. “Only a couple more days, corazón. I’ll get the earliest flight on Monday out of Valencia. I miss you too. I love Ferran, but you’re a better roommate. Especially ‘cause I get to cuddle and kiss you.” Pablo smiles at that, which Pedri smiles at. “I’m glad to see a smile, nene,”

Pablo nods, agreeing. “Pedri?”

“Sí, amor?”

“Tell me what’s happening at camp, please?” Pedri’s brows furrow.

“You’re okay hearing that? It won’t make you feel worse?”

“I don’t think so. Besides, your voice is nice to fall asleep to.”

“Then I can do that for you, amor. But please actually try to fall asleep.”

“Promise I’ll actually try to fall asleep,” Pablo says. As Pedri launches into some anecdote from training, something about Cucurella trying to get into the antics of Lamine and Nico, Pablo tries to school his face into something that resembles a supportive boyfriend, rather than one who’d give anything to with Pedri in the Netherlands, joining in with Lamine and Nico on bullying Cucurella. He eventually drifts off, Pedri’s quiet voice echoing through his dreams. 

Pablo watches as Pedri sends Spain through to the semifinals of the Nations League. Pedri and the rest of the internationals come back and get integrated into training, and despite his boyfriend being back in Pablo’s physical presence, they don’t talk about what happened or how Pablo was feeling. Pablo starts against Osasuna, something that breaks through the emotional fog he had been feeling the past week. The 3-0 win and his performance leave him feeling better than he had the past week, which Pedri is quick to comment on once they’re alone and headed back home from the Ciutat. Pedri nudges him, “I missed seeing you smile.”

Pablo quickly turns to look at him. “What do you mean? I smile, I smile a lot.”

Pedri raises his hands defensively. “I wasn’t trying to attack you, nene. I just mean it seems to me like you’ve been feeling down, and it’s nice to see you visibly happy.”

Pablo gets into the passenger seat and tosses both his and Pedri’s bags into the backseat. “Of course I’m happy. I started, I played a whole 90, you had a phenomenal game, and we won convincingly. Why wouldn’t I be happy?”

Pedri turns to face him. “Pablo, you’ve been off ever since I went away for the Nations League games. And don’t try to deny it, I’ve known you for years now and know when you’re feeling off. I want to help you, but you need to tell me what’s wrong.”

Pablo is quiet for a minute. “It’s stupid.”

“Nothing about you is stupid, corazón.” Pablo nods, then turns to look out the window. The drive back home is quiet.

The days after game days are slow, considering they don’t have to be at training until the afternoon, and even then, it’s usually a recovery day. Pablo spends the morning of this recovery day with his head on Pedri’s lap. His boyfriend is petting his hair, quietly watching something on his phone. Or maybe he’s scrolling Instagram, Pablo isn’t too sure. Time has become sticky slow and his brain is finally, blessedly quiet. He isn’t sure what prompted him to speak up, but without his permission, the words slip out. “I’m kind of scared to tell you.”

He can feel Pedri putting his phone down, quietly clicking the off button, turning his attention towards him. He’s glad that his head is on Pedri’s lap so that he doesn’t have to look at his boy while telling him this. Or that he doesn’t have to face all of Pedri’s unwavering attention head on. “Kind of scared to tell me what, corazón?”

“I was jealous,” Pablo’s quiet for a couple of seconds, then quickly scrambles to amend his statement. “But not of you, amor, never of you! I’ve never been jealous of your success Pedro, you deserve everything, you deserve the world, you earned your success and everything you have and I’ve never been jealous of you and hope I never will be!” He can feel his heart rate jump up out of anxiety, and prays that Pedri hasn’t misunderstood him, or that he corrected himself in time, and that Pedri believes him. Pedri’s fingers pry apart his own fingers that had begun to unconsciously grip onto his shorts. 

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay Pablo,” Pedri says, his hands fluttering from working to unclench Pablo’s fingers to going back to stroking his hair. “I believe you, amor, I believe you. But what were you jealous about?”

“I guess I was jealous of the others who got called up. Over me. That…” he trails off, trying to collect his swirling thoughts and form them into something cohesive.

“That?”

“That the others were healthy enough to be playing enough minutes to be recognized by Luis, that they hadn’t been stopped by their stupid ACL snapping in half. That the others were chosen for Spain the way I used to be, that they got to play with you, that they’re worthy to play with you, that they get to contribute and do something useful!” Pablo says, frustrated. “All the progress I’ve made has been stopped and I barely play anymore and if I stop playing I have nothing and then I won’t have you!”

Pedri’s quiet for a minute, before replying. “Your ACL tearing isn’t stupid. And it hasn’t stopped you, amor. I’m not gonna deny that the injury was bad, it was bad, but your body isn’t stupid. Your body going through injury isn’t stupid. And even though reintegration back into Barça is slow, Hansi’s doing it right, and you know it. We can’t have you reinjured because we rush your reintegration, and that includes your reintegration into Spain. I don’t want you reinjured, nene.”

Pablo nods, and hears Pedri breathe, then quietly says, “And you’re always worthy of playing with me, whether you’re 100% fit or injured. Even when we’re old and grey and can’t run well. You’re always worthy to me, Pablo. You can play or not play and I will still love you. You could retire today and I will still love you. I love you for you, and will love you despite the path your career takes.”

Pablo tries to subtly wipe away the couple of tears tracing down his face, but Pedri beats him to it, his fingertips brushing along his cheeks, drifting down to catch the tears that had slid down his neck. “Love you too,” Pablo mumbles.

Real life eventually beckons and interrupts their quiet existence. As they’re about to dash out the door and to their cars, Pedri grabs Pablo’s arm. Pablo turns around, confused. “Pepi, what are you doing? We gotta go, we won’t have time to socialize if we don’t leave now, and I know you wanna talk to Ferran and–” 

Pedri interrupts him. “I love you, Pablo. Unconditionally. Don’t forget it. And if you do, I’ll spend as long as it takes reminding you.” Pablo smiles, and Pedri quickly kisses the corner of his lips, smiling himself. “I’ll see you at the Ciutat.”

“See you soon, nene.” Pedri heads to his car. Pablo locks their front door, and turns to follow the boy whom he trusts to hold his heart.