Archive of Our Own

The morning light filtered through the half-closed blinds while Ferran lay on his side, watching his boyfriend sleep. It had been three years and it still felt like a miracle every time he let himself think about it. Pedri. Pedri was his, his boyfriend, the man of his dreams. Pedri's face was soft in sleep, lashes dark against his cheeks, mouth slightly parted. Ferran reached out and brushed his thumb over it gently, making Pedri stirred, humming low in his throat before cracking one eye open. 

"Creep," Pedri mumbled, voice gravelly with sleep. He smiled anyway, the lazy one that always made Ferran's chest tighten.

"Can't help it. You're prettier when you're not arguing with the ref in your dreams."

Pedri snorted and shoved at his shoulder first, but it quickly turned into a pull, dragging Ferran down into a slow, warm kiss. It was in moments like this, in which they didn't need to say much because they already knew everything, when Ferran wanted to do it. He had the ring hidden for two weeks now, a gold signet ring with a diamond that caught the light like it was made for Pedri's hands. 

He still hadn't figured out when or where. Maybe on their next vacation, but a beach in Ibiza felt too cliché. He wanted it to be theirs, something they could remember for the rest of their lives, something precious like their love.

"Earth to Ferri." Pedri poked his forehead. "You're doing that thing again." 

"What thing?" 

"Staring into space like you're planning something." Pedri sat up, sheets pooling around his waist. The light made him look like an angel, highlighting the defined lines of his shoulders and the faint tan lines from training.

"I wasn't doing that," Ferran tried to distract him by kissing his lips, then his cheek and ear until it made Pedri laugh.

"Stop it."

"Nope. You're too beautiful."

He pushed Ferran a little so he could look him in the eyes. "Want coffee?" 

"Yeah. I'll make it." 

Ferran slipped out of bed before Pedri could protest, padding to the kitchen in just his boxers. The ring box was currently tucked inside an old pair of boots at the very back of the wardrobe, where he had moved it three days ago after Pedri had started digging through the sock drawer, his first hiding place. Ferran had nearly had a heart attack. 

He measured out the coffee grounds with mechanical precision, but his mind went elsewhere. The World Cup was looming. Spain's squad had already been announced and the pressure was quietly building in his chest like a slow tide. What if he proposed too soon? What if the timing was wrong and it became another thing the media twisted? What if Pedri said— 

No. Pedri wouldn't say no. Ferran knew that in his bones. 

But still. 

"You okay, love?" Pedri's arms slid around his waist from behind, cheek resting on his shoulder. "You're ruining the coffee." 

"Shit." Ferran quickly adjusted the heat. "I was just... thinking about the tournament."

Pedri hummed, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. "We'll be fine. We've got this." 

Ferran leaned back into him, letting the solid warmth ground him. Pedri's hands were steady on his stomach, familiar calluses and all. How was he supposed to carry this secret for weeks in the same hotel rooms, same training camps, same everything? 

When the coffee was ready and poured into their cups, he turned around, holding both of them behind his back with a smile.

"Left or right?"

Pedri pretended to think about it too much. "Left."

The next few days blurred into the usual chaos of pre-tournament prep: training sessions that left them both exhausted and buzzing; interviews where they sat a careful distance apart, eyes meeting just a second too long; nights where they fell into bed together and their bodies fit in the way they always had, like the years had mixed them into one soul. 

Ferran moved the ring again the night before they flew out. Pedri had gone for a late massage after a particularly brutal gym session, and Ferran found himself staring at the boot box with rising paranoia. What if Pedri suddenly needed those? What if he looked for something else and accidentally found it? The box was small, sleek black, but it felt enormous in his hands. 

He ended up sliding it into the inner pocket of his carry-on suitcase, buried under layers of compression socks. Safe. For now. 

The flight to Mexico was long. Pedri claimed the window seat, immediately pulling out his iPad to spend hours on his videogames. Ferran sat beside him, leg bouncing restlessly until Pedri reached over and stilled it with a hand on his knee. 

"Relax," Pedri said softly, voice low enough that their teammates couldn't hear. "It's just football." 

Well, at least Pedri would never guess the real reason behind his nervousness with the World Cup going on.

"Just football," Ferran echoed with a weak laugh. His suitcase was in the overhead bin, ring nestled inside like a grenade. 

The hotel in the tournament bubble was nice, modern, with balconies overlooking training pitches. They roomed together, of course. No one questioned it anymore, the team had grown used to their quiet domesticity. Ferran unpacked while Pedri was in the shower, heart hammering as he transferred the ring box from the suitcase to the bottom of his bedside drawer, then immediately second-guessing it. Too obvious. He moved it to the inside pocket of his team jacket hanging in the closet, then to the small safe in the room, but what if Pedri asked for the code? 

By the time Pedri emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, towel slung low on his hips, Ferran had moved it again, this time into the zippered compartment of his toiletry bag. 

"You're acting weird," Pedri said, eyeing him as he rubbed another towel through his damp hair. 

Ferran froze. "Weird how?" 

"I don't know. Jumpy. You've unpacked the same shirt three times." Pedri's eyes were sharp this time, the joke clearly over. "Is it really the pressure? Or is it because this would be our first World Cup as a couple?" 

Ferran seized the excuse like a lifeline. "Yeah. I mean, right now there's... a lot going on. For both of us. For the team." 

Pedri's expression softened. He crossed the room and pulled Ferran into a hug, damp skin warm against Ferran's t-shirt. "We've carried worse. Remember the season we both came back from injuries? This is nothing." 

Ferran buried his face in Pedri's neck, breathing him in. The ring felt like it was burning a hole through the toiletry bag across the room. "I know. I just want it to be perfect." 

"It will be." Pedri kissed the top of his head. "We're here together. That's already perfect." 

Ferran almost told him right then. The words were there, pressing against his teeth. Marry me. Let's do this forever. But he swallowed them. Not like this, in a hotel room with jet lag and tournament nerves, not when he hadn't planned the words or the moment. 

The first week passed in a whirlwind of training, some media duties, and carefully scheduled rest. Spain tied their opening group match 0-0, an underwhelming performance that commentators criticized hard, but that certainly didn't cloud their dreams. Back in the hotel, the squad was silent  during ice baths, recovery meals, and early curfew. But in their room, it was different. 

Pedri pushed his boyfriend against the door the second it closed, kissing him with the kind of hungry focus he usually reserved for big matches. "Forget about it," he murmured against Ferran's mouth. 

"Pepi…" Ferran's hands found Pedri's waist, pulling him closer. The adrenaline was already singing in his veins. 

They didn't reach the bed the first time. Clothes shed in a trail across the floor, hands and mouths relearning every inch of skin like it had been months instead of days. Pedri's touch was familiar, perfect as always. Afterward, tangled in sheets with Pedri's head on his chest, Ferran stared at the ceiling and thought about the ring. The sad match long forgotten. He'd moved it again that morning while Pedri was at physio, into the pocket of a hoodie buried in his suitcase. Two moves in one day. He was losing it. 

"You're still tense," Pedri observed quietly, fingers tracing patterns on Ferran's ribs. "Talk to me." 

Ferran kissed his forehead. "I'm anxious about the next games. That's all." 

Pedri didn't look entirely convinced, but he let it go, drifting off to sleep with the easy trust that always made Ferran's heart ache. How had he gotten so lucky? Years of navigating the constant spotlight and dating rumors they could never confirm nor deny, but Pedri still looked at him like he was the only person in the room. 

The third hiding spot change came days later. A cleaner had come through the rooms while they were at training, and Ferran convinced himself the hoodie pocket wasn't safe enough. What if the ring shifted and made noise? What if Pedri borrowed the hoodie? He moved it during a quick break between sessions, slipping back to the room under the pretense of grabbing his forgotten water bottle. This time, he tucked the small black box into his bedside table after noticing that Pedri didn't even look at it, burying it at the very end. 

But Pedri sensed something again that evening. 

They were on the balcony sharing a protein shake and watching the sunset paint the training pitches gold. Pedri's leg was stretched out, foot hooked around Ferran's ankle in that casual way of his. 

"I don't like seeing you this distracted," Pedri said, not accusatory, just... concerned. "More than usual. This isn't even our worst start in a tournament, I don't know. Is it our family? Or—" 

"No, no, they're fine." Ferran forced a smile. "Honestly, it's the pressure. For some reason, every match feels bigger now. And I want to do well for you. For us." 

Pedri studied him for a long moment, those dark eyes seeing too much. Then he reached over and laced their fingers together. "You don't have to carry it alone, you know. Whatever it is." 

Ferran's throat tightened. He squeezed Pedri's hand. "I know. I love you." 

"Love you too, babe." Pedri leaned in and kissed him softly, tasting like chocolate protein and home. 

Inside, Ferran was a mess. The ring had been moved twice, three times if he counted the initial transfer from suitcase to jacket to bag. He kept imagining scenarios: Pedri finding it by accident, the proposal ruined, or worse, Pedri thinking it was still too soon. The pressure of the World Cup was real, but this secret was amplifying everything. 

The group stage continued. Spain topped their group with two wins after that embarrassing draw. Pedri wasn't his best version, both of them knew it. The season had been too rough on him and that effect was finally showing. His frustration grew, but at least their chemistry off the pitch remained the same, although the ring was now a weight on Ferran's chest and mind. Every time he returned to their room, his eyes went straight to wherever he'd hidden the box that day. 

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling training session, Pedri flopped onto the bed and groaned. "My legs are dead. Pass me my phone?" 

Ferran handed it over, then watched in slow-motion horror as Pedri reached lazily toward the bedside table.

Pedri's fingers brushed the edge of the drawer. Ferran's heart stopped. 

"Wait—" Ferran said too quickly, lunging forward and closing the drawer. "That's... uh, my painkillers. You shouldn't mix them with your stuff." 

Pedri raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you hide painkillers?" 

"Since I don't want you worrying about every little ache." Ferran sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Pedri's legs into his lap and starting to massage the tight muscles. Distraction. He was getting good at that. "Let me take care of you for once." 

Pedri sighed happily under the pressure of his thumbs, but the suspicion lingered in his eyes. "You're being so weird, Ferri. We've done three years of this. I thought we were past the hiding things phase." 

Guilt twisted in Ferran's gut. "It's nothing bad, I promise. Just... my brain. The stakes are high. I want our future to be—" 

He stopped himself. 

Pedri propped himself up on his elbows, studying him. "Our future?" 

Ferran swallowed. "Yeah. Like, after all this. Us. Winning things together." 

The smile Pedri gave him was soft and devastating. "We already are."  

That night, after lights out, Ferran lay awake listening to Pedri's steady breathing. The ring was back in the toiletry bag, zipped tight. He'd lost count of the moves now, each shift feeling more ridiculous than the last. Maybe he should just do it, pull the box out tomorrow after training, get down on one knee in this bland hotel room while they were still winning— God, no. Pedri deserved better, a moment that felt like them, not rushed between fixtures. 

He turned carefully, wrapping an arm around Pedri's waist and pulling him close. Pedri murmured something incoherent and nestled back against him, trusting even in sleep. Ferran pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade. Soon, he thought. I just need the right moment. 

He'd find the place, the words, the perfect way to turn three years into forever. 

The round of 32 came and Spain faced Austria. Ferran started on the bench but came on at 70', legs still heavy from the sleepless night before. The ring was no longer in their room. After another paranoid 3 a.m. reshuffle in which he moved it from the toiletry bag to inside a rolled-up pair of shorts inside his training bag, he'd finally cracked. 

He'd pulled Marc and Marcos aside after recovery the previous evening. "Look, I need a favor. A big one. Don't ask questions." 

Marc, still half-wet from the shower, had raised an eyebrow. "Secret stuff for your boyfriend?" 

Ferran inevitably smiled. "Something like that. Just… keep this in your room. Pedri never goes in there. I'll come get it when I need it." 

Marcos had eyed the small black box like it might explode, but both of them had agreed without pressing too hard. His friends knew the code: some things stayed private, especially when your boyfriend was also your midfielder. 

Now Ferran felt lighter without the constant physical presence of the ring in his space. But the anxiety had simply relocated. Every time he glanced at Marc or Marcos in the dining hall, his stomach flipped. 

Pedri, of course, noticed. 

"You're doing it again," Pedri said quietly as they walked back from the team meeting. Spain had won 3-0, but Pedri still carried the discomfort of knowing he was not meeting everyone's expectations and, on top of that, his boyfriend had decided to act like he was planning a murder.  

"Doing what?" 

"Looking over my shoulder like you're expecting someone to jump out." Pedri's hand brushed his briefly in the empty hallway. "It's tiring, Ferri. Please." 

"I'm sorry." Ferran thought the excuse of the pressure was now wearing thin even to his own ears. "I didn't even play much today, that's… disappointing. And now every match could be our last." 

Pedri stopped walking. "We've been playing knockouts since we were kids. This is different. You're different." 

Ferran pulled him into a quick hug, kissing the top of his head. "I'm fine. I promise. Let's just focus on Portugal." 

That match was physical, fast, chaotic. Ferran was subbed in late again, but this time he connected with the game, linking up with Mikel who scored the only goal at the 91st minute. Pedri was on the bench by that time, but the celebration was pure instinct, his boyfriend jumping into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist, both of them laughing into each other's necks while the stadium roared. 

That night Ferran waited until Pedri was asleep, curled up on his side, exhausted from the match, before slipping out. He texted Marc: You up? Coming by. 

Marc's room was two floors up. Marcos was out playing cards with some of the older guys. Ferran knocked quietly, glancing over his shoulder like he was doing something illegal. After a few seconds the door opened and Marc stood there in a Spain hoodie and shorts, hair messy, looking half-asleep.

"You're really committed to this box, huh?" Marc said with a smirk, stepping aside so Ferran could come in.

Ferran walked in but didn't reach for it. The small black box was still sitting on the desk where Marc had left it earlier. He stared at it for a second, the weight of what it represented settling heavy in his chest even without holding it.

"I just… needed to check it was still safe."

Marc closed the door and raised an eyebrow. "Man, we're not gonna lose it." He paused, studying Ferran's face. "Am I supposed to pretend I don't know you're fucking planning to propose? Is everything okay with you two?"

That brought a brightness into Ferran's voice that he didn't know could exist. "Yeah. Everything's perfect. Just… wanting to do something special."

Marc didn't look entirely convinced. He tilted his head and waited, the silence stretching just long enough to make Ferran shift on his feet. After a moment, Marc sat on the edge of his bed.

"You can talk to me."

Ferran let out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair. He sat down on the spare bed, eyes flicking once more to the box on the desk.

"I've been carrying it for weeks, and every time I leave it in our room I panic because he could find it. That's why I asked you to keep it."

Marc nodded, the teasing gone from his expression. "Okay. So why do you look like you're about to throw up?"

Ferran was quiet for a few seconds, staring at his hands. "Because it has to be perfect. I've been with him for three years, but that's nothing compared to the amount of years I've loved him." He let out an awkward  laugh. "He's… he's everything, Marc. And I don't want to just pull the ring out in some random hotel room after a long day of training and hope for the best." He looked up, voice softer but more intense. "I want the moment to feel right. I want him to look back on it and feel how much I mean it. Not something rushed or stressed or half-thought. Pedri deserves the best version of this. The perfect one. Even if that means I have to keep leaving the damn box with you and acting like a sick idiot for the rest of the tournament."

Marc watched him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I get it. You want it to be something he'll never forget."

"Exactly." Ferran exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "I've almost told him a hundred times already. Every time he looks at me with that worried face because I've been acting weird, I want to just drop to one knee and get it over with. But I can't. Not yet. Not until it feels right."

Marc glanced at the box on the desk, then back at Ferran. "Then it stays here as long as you need. No questions asked. And for what it's worth… I think he's going to say yes no matter when or where you ask. But I understand why you want it to be perfect."

Ferran managed a small, grateful smile. "Thanks. Seriously. Just… keep it safe for me."

"I will." Marc stood up and stretched. "Just try not to look so guilty every time you come up here. Pedri is jealous, bro. I don't want him to kill me."

Ferran huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. I'm starting to realize that."

He stood as well, deliberately leaving the box where it was. The two of them shared a brief, understanding look before Ferran headed for the door.

"Get some sleep," Marc said. "And good luck with the perfect moment. You'll find it."

Ferran nodded, the secret still heavy but a little less lonely than it had been five minutes earlier. "I hope so."

He slipped out into the quiet hallway, empty-handed, the ring staying safely behind with Marc.

He was halfway back down the corridor when he heard footsteps. He froze for a second, heart jumping, then forced himself to keep walking naturally. Pedri appeared around the corner, hair messy from sleep, wearing one of Ferran's old Barça shirts.

"I woke up and you weren't there," Pedri said. His eyes flicked over Ferran's rumpled appearance. "Where'd you go?"

"Couldn't sleep. Went for a walk. Clear my head."

Pedri stepped closer. "You walked past our floor?"

Ferran's heart hammered. "Needed more steps. Come on, let's go back to bed, amor."

He guided Pedri toward the elevators with a hand on his lower back, trying to act normal. Inside, panic clawed at him. If Pedri had come two minutes earlier… if he'd seen him coming out of Marc's room… yeah, he would've needed a better explanation.

The quarterfinals loomed against a strong Belgium side. Training was sharp, focused. The ring had already been safe in Marc and Marcos's room for days now, and Ferran had no intention of moving it back. Both teammates were good about it, though Marc started giving him knowing looks whenever they crossed paths. One afternoon, while Marcos was at media duties, Ferran found himself in their room again. He wasn't there to collect the box, he just needed a quiet place to breathe for a few minutes without Pedri's worried eyes on him.

Marc was stretched out on his bed scrolling through his phone when Ferran walked in.

"Lover boy again?" Marc said with a half-smile. "The box is still where you left it. It's not gonna disappear, I promise."

Ferran sat on the edge of the spare bed and rubbed his face. "I know. I just… needed five minutes where I wasn't thinking about whether I look too guilty or too distant."

Marc put his phone down. "You're overthinking it, man. He already knows something's up. The longer you wait, the worse it's going to look."

"I know," Ferran muttered. "I just need to think what to do."

They were still talking, Marc half-teasing him, Ferran half-defending himself, when the door opened after a short knock.

Pedri stood there, eyebrows raised. "Hey, Marc, I was looking for—" His gaze moved between them. Ferran sitting on the bed, Marc standing close in just a t-shirt and shorts, both of them clearly mid-conversation in a closed room. The easy atmosphere in the room vanished in an instant.

"Pedri," Ferran said, standing up too fast. The ring box was on the desk, half hidden by a shirt. He stepped forward, blocking the view. "What's up?" 

"I came to see if you wanted to walk with me before dinner." Pedri's voice was carefully neutral, too neutral. His eyes kept flicking to Marc. "But you seem busy." 

Ferran's brain short-circuited. He grabbed Pedri's wrist gently but firmly. "No, I'm not busy. Let's go. We can do it." 

"But—" Pedri started. 

Ferran was already steering him out, pulse roaring in his ears. "Come on, babe. Marc was just… we were just talking about the match." 

Marc waved awkwardly from inside. "See you at dinner, guys." 

The door closed. Pedri pulled his wrist free in the hallway. 

"What the hell was that?" 

"Nothing. Just chatting." 

"You dragged me out like I caught you doing something." Pedri's jaw was tight. "And why are you spending so much time in their room lately? You've been weird for weeks, Ferran. You sneak out at night, make excuses, avoid being alone with me sometimes—" 

"I'm not avoiding you." 

"You are." Pedri's voice rose. They were still in the corridor, he lowered it but the anger didn't fade. "I thought maybe it was stress. I gave you space, but now you're running to Marc's room every chance you get? Marc? Really?" 

Ferran blinked. "It's not like that. At all." 

"Then what is it like?" Pedri stepped closer, eyes blazing. "Because from where I'm standing, my boyfriend has been acting like he's hiding a whole other life. You won't talk to me. You flinch when I touch you sometimes. And now this?" 

Ferran's chest ached. He knew he had fucked up, but he couldn't tell him. Not here, not in a hotel hallway during the quarterfinals with Pedri mad at him. It had to be perfect. He hadn't waited this long for nothing.

"Amor, please. It's not what you think." 

"Then tell me what it is!" Pedri's hands clenched at his sides. "I'm tired of your excuses. I'm tired of feeling like I'm losing you while we're literally in the same fucking room every night. If you're having doubts about us, just say it." 

"What? Never. I'm not—" Ferran reached for him, but Pedri stepped back. 

"Don't. I saw how comfortable you looked in there with him. You were laughing. You were relaxed. You haven't looked at me like that in days." 

The jealousy hit Ferran like a slap. Pedri, beautiful, talented, loved-by-everyone Pedri, was jealous of Marc. Because of him. 

"It's not Marc," Ferran said desperately. "There's nothing going on. I swear on everything." 

Pedri laughed, bitter and short. "Then what? Because I'm out of explanations, Ferran. You're treating me like a stranger." 

Ferran's throat closed. He wanted to drop to his knees right there, pull out the box, ruin every plan he'd made. But the words stuck. I'm trying to propose. I love you more than anything. Please just trust me a little longer. 

He couldn't say it. Not like this. Not in anger. 

"I can't tell you right now," he whispered. "But I need you to trust me." 

Pedri stared at him for a long moment. The fight drained from his shoulders, replaced by something worse: hurt. Deep, quiet hurt. 

"You're making it really fucking hard to," Pedri said finally. 

He turned and walked toward the elevators, leaving Ferran standing alone in the corridor, heart hammering, the secret still burning behind the closed door down the hall. 

Ferran didn't follow immediately. He couldn't. His legs felt rooted to the spot. 

The match was the next day. The ring was safe with Marc for now. But everything else, their years together along with that easy trust they'd built, was cracking open, and Ferran had no idea how to stop it without ruining the one thing he wanted more than a World Cup trophy. 

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars. 

Just hold on, he thought. Please hold on. 

But Pedri's angry, wounded expression lingered behind his eyelids.

The morning after the fight, the hotel room felt like a morgue. 

Pedri was already up when Ferran woke, moving around silently. He dressed in his training kit without a word, earbuds in, and scrolled through his phone with a focused expression that screamed avoidance. Ferran sat on the edge of the bed, watching him, the words from last night heavy between them. 

"Morning," Ferran tried. 

Pedri gave a single nod, no smile, no kiss on the shoulder like usual. He grabbed his boots and left the room without looking back. 

Ferran's stomach twisted. He deserved it, deserved very second of the cold shoulder. But it still hurt like a punch to the ribs. 

Tactical review was torture. Pedri was serious on the pitch, and off it, he kept distance. When Ferran tried to sit next to him, he moved to the row behind. In the lunch line, he gravitated toward his other friends. Marc caught Ferran's eye once across the room and raised a questioning brow. Ferran just shook his head. Not now. 

By evening, as the team bus rolled toward the stadium, Pedri still hadn't said more than three words to him. Ferran stared at the back of his head the whole ride, willing him to turn around. 

Both of them would start on the bench this time, the weight of that decision making all of them painfully awkward because it was Pedri. He didn't even know what to tell him.

Belgium came out aggressive, pressing high, forcing errors. This time Ferran was subbed in earlier, together with Pedri. It was more complicated than they thought, but the final whistle blew Spain through to the semifinals, 2-1. They didn't celebrate wildly. A quick fist bump, eyes meeting for a second. Pedri's expression was unreadable behind the intensity. 

The locker room exploded. Shirts flying, hugs, screams, the pure ecstasy of surviving another round. Music blasted. Ferran got pulled into group hugs, clapped on the back, but his eyes kept searching for one person. His person. 

Pedri was in the corner, smiling tiredly as teammates congratulated him, but the light didn't reach his eyes the way it usually did. Ferran couldn't wait anymore.

He crossed the room, weaving through the chaos, and caught Pedri's hand. 

"Come with me." 

Pedri tensed but didn't pull away. Ferran led him out of the main locker area, down a quieter side corridor near the medical rooms where the noise faded to a distant hum. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. They were alone. 

"Ferran—" 

Ferran didn't let him speak. He cupped Pedri's face with both hands and kissed him deep, desperate, pouring every unsaid thing into it. Pedri stiffened for half a second, then melted, hands fisting in Ferran's damp match shirt as he kissed back. It tasted like salt and relief and the metallic edge of exhaustion. 

"I'm sorry," Ferran whispered against his lips when they broke for air. "I'm so fucking sorry. You were right. I've been acting weird and distant and I hate that I made you feel like that." 

Pedri's forehead rested against his. His breathing was ragged. "But why?" 

Ferran kissed him again, softer this time. "There's nothing bad going on. No one else. No doubts about us. I swear on my life, on our dogs' lives," he emphasized, making Pedri laugh. "I love you more than anything. I just… I've been carrying something I can't talk about yet. But it's good. It's really, really good. I promise, love." 

Pedri searched his eyes for a long moment. The hurt was still there, but it had cracked open, letting something warmer seep through. 

"You're killing me with your secrets, you know that?" 

"I know." Ferran brushed a thumb over Pedri's cheekbone. "Just a little longer. After the tournament, okay? Or when the moment feels right. But I need you to know I'm not going anywhere. You're it for me." 

Pedri exhaled shakily and pulled him into another kiss, this one slower, more grounding. When they parted, he nodded. "I won't push, then. I trust you." 

"Thank you." Ferran rested their foreheads together again. "Now that we have a free night, let me take you out. Just us." 

Pedri's smile was small but real. "Yeah. Okay." 

They showered quickly, changed into civilian clothes, Ferran in a simple button-up, Pedri in one of those fitted shirts that made Ferran's mouth go dry, and slipped out through arrangements with the staff. A quiet restaurant had been booked in advance for players who wanted privacy, tucked away from the main tourist spots with a private terrace overlooking the city lights. 

The car ride was quiet at first, hands linked in the backseat. Ferran rubbed his thumb over Pedri's knuckles, grounding himself in the touch. 

"You played amazing tonight," Ferran said eventually. 

Pedri huffed a laugh. "I was dropped, amor. We both know I could do better." 

Ferran turned to look at him properly. "Hey, you came on and changed the whole rhythm of the game. That pass before the second goal? No one else on the pitch sees that."

Pedri's mouth twitched, almost smiling, but he still looked a little self-conscious. "You're just biased."

"Obviously, you are my love. But I'm still right." Ferran squeezed his hand. "I'm just saying, if they ever make a statue of you, it should be of that exact pass."

Pedri snorted, trying not to smile too hard. "You're so dramatic."

"I'm romantic," Ferran corrected. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" Pedri leaned in a little, eyes glinting. "Because earlier this week you were acting like a man with a dark secret and now you're over here turned on by a simple pass."

Ferran laughed under his breath. "I'm allowed to be both. Mysterious and deeply obsessed with my boyfriend's abilities."

Pedri rolled his eyes, but his thumb started tracing lazy circles over Ferran's hand. "You're lucky you're cute when you're trying this hard."

"Trying what hard?"

"This whole ‘I'm completely fine and also the most supportive partner in the world' performance."

Ferran grinned. "Is it working?"

Pedri pretended to think about it for a second, then leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Ferran's mouth. "A little bit."

"Only a little?"

"Don't push it," Pedri said, smiling against his skin. "You're still on thin ice. Very attractive thin ice, but still."

Ferran laughed properly this time and tugged him closer. "I'll take it."

They fell into easier conversation as the city lights blurred past, recapping moments from the match, laughing about a near-miss in the first half, teasing each other about tired legs. The knot in Ferran's chest loosened with every mile. 

The restaurant was perfect: dim lighting, soft music, a table on the terrace with a view of the skyline sparkling below. No cameras, no fans, just them. Ferran had arranged it discreetly through a contact earlier in the day, heart pounding the whole time like it was already the proposal night. 

They ordered wine, non-alcoholic for safety, but still celebratory, and shared plates the way they always did at home. Ferran watched Pedri across the candlelight, the way his eyes caught the glow, the small smile playing on his lips when their ankles hooked under the table. 

"I missed you," Pedri admitted halfway through the main course. 

"Me too." Ferran reached across the table and took his hand. "I'm sorry I let it build up. The World Cup, the pressure, wanting everything to feel right… I got in my head. But nothing is wrong with us. You're still by far the best thing in my life." 

Pedri's fingers tightened around his. "You're not… having second thoughts about anything?" 

"None." Ferran's voice was steady, sincere. "I want a future with you. A long one. Wins, losses, whatever comes. I want to keep building what we have." 

The reassurance settled between them like a warm blanket. Pedri didn't push for more details. He accepted the words, the touches, the quiet promises. They lingered over dessert, shared chocolate cake, and talked about everything and nothing. Back at the hotel, the night stretched soft and slow. 

Their room felt different now. Ferran closed the door and pulled Pedri close immediately, kissing him against it with the same depth as in the corridor earlier, but without the desperation. This was celebration. This was relief. 

Clothes came off unhurriedly. Ferran's fingers worked open each button of Pedri's shirt with deliberate care, pushing the fabric off his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. He kissed the newly exposed skin, collarbone, the dip of his throat, the strong line of his shoulder, tasting the faint salt left from the match. Pedri's hands weren't still either, they slid under Ferran's shirt, palms warm and broad against his back, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. 

They stumbled toward the bed in a slow tangle of limbs. Ferran guided Pedri down onto the mattress, following him, mouth never leaving his. The kiss deepened, turning hungry but still tender, tongues sliding together in a rhythm they'd perfected over three years. Pedri sighed into his mouth when Ferran's hand skimmed down his side, tracing the familiar ridges of muscle, the sharp cut of his hipbone. 

"You're so perfect," Ferran whispered against his lips. "Missed you." Pedri arched up, pressing their bodies together. 

"Then don't stop, baby. Fuck me." 

Ferran didn't. He mapped every inch of him with hands and mouth, sucking marks into the sensitive spot just below Pedri's jaw that always made him shiver, licking a slow trail down the center of his chest, teasing a nipple until Pedri's breath hitched. When he reached the waistband of Pedri's pants, he took his time peeling them down along with his underwear, kissing the inside of his thigh, the crease of his hip, everywhere except where Pedri wanted him most. 

"Ferri…" The plea was soft, needy. 

He looked up, meeting Pedri's dark, half-lidded eyes, and finally took him into his mouth. Pedri's groan was low and wrecked, one hand flying to Ferran's hair, not pushing but holding on. Ferran worked him with slow, deep pulls, tongue swirling, savoring the weight and taste of him. He loved this, the way Pedri's thighs trembled, the broken little sounds he made, the way his fingers tightened when Ferran hummed around him. 

After several long minutes, Pedri tugged him up gently. "Want you inside me, now." 

They shifted, shedding the last of their clothes. Ferran grabbed the lube from the bedside drawer, warming it between his fingers before pressing one carefully into Pedri. He took his time stretching him, adding a second finger, then a third, crooking them just right until Pedri was rocking back against his hand, whispering curses and his name in the same breath. 

When he finally pushed inside, slow and steady, they both moaned. Ferran buried his face in Pedri's neck, breathing him in as he bottomed out. The heat, the tightness, the perfect way they fit, it grounded him. 

"I love you," Ferran breathed as he started to move, deep rolls of his hips that had Pedri clutching at his back. "So fucking much." 

Pedri wrapped his legs around Ferran's waist, pulling him deeper. Their mouths met again in messy, open kisses, syncing with the rhythm of their bodies. The pace built gradually, slow and sensual at first, then harder, more urgent as pleasure coiled tight. Ferran changed angles until he found the spot that made Pedri cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. 

"Right there—fuck, Ferri—" 

He kept hitting it, one hand braced beside Pedri's head, the other stroking him in time with his thrusts. Sweat slicked their skin. The room filled with the sounds of their lovemaking, skin against skin, gasps, moans, whispered names. Ferran felt Pedri tighten around him, trembling on the edge. 

"Come on, amor," Ferran murmured, voice rough. "Let go." 

Pedri came first with a choked cry, spilling between them as his back arched. The sight and feel of it pushed Ferran over moments later, burying himself deep as pleasure crashed through him in waves. He rode it out, hips stuttering, until they were both spent and shaking. 

Ferran collapsed half on top of him, careful not to crush, and held Pedri close like he might disappear. "Te quiero," he murmured against Pedri's damp skin, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder, his jaw, his temple. "So much." 

Pedri kissed his temple in return, fingers carding lazily through Ferran's sweaty hair. "I know. I love you too." 

They stayed like that for a long while, trading gentle kisses and soft touches as their breathing slowed, bodies still joined, the world outside the hotel room forgotten. 

The road to the final was a blur of tension, tactical meetings, and stolen moments of calm between Ferran and Pedri. After that healing night following the quarterfinals, the weirdness had truly faded. Pedri no longer asked questions. He simply held Ferran's hand a little tighter and kissed him a little longer before lights out. Their connection sang clearer than ever. 

Semifinals against France, a comfortable 2-0 win in which Pedri and Ferran didn't get too many minutes, but they were there, in the final against Argentina. The atmosphere of the stadium was electric even in warm-up. 

Ferran had the ring with him. He'd retrieved it from Marc that morning with a quiet today feels right. Marc had clapped him on the back and wished him luck. The small black box sat tucked deep in his personal bag in the locker room, nestled among his spare boots and a Spain flag. He had a feeling, a deep, bone-set certainty, that if they won tonight, this would be the moment. Not some perfect beach or private villa. Here, where everything had culminated, where their shared dream became reality. 

"You good?" Pedri asked him in the tunnel before kickoff, bumping their shoulders together. His eyes were bright with focus, but there was that soft undercurrent reserved just for Ferran. 

"Never better," Ferran replied, and meant it. "Let's bring it home." 

The stadium roared as the teams emerged. They were the clear favorites, but Argentina had something on their side too, Messi's last dance. However, Spain was a young team, hungry, and connected in ways few others had managed. 

Spain controlled the match from the first whistle. They kept the ball and forced Argentina into long stretches of defending. Pedri and Ferran started on the bench, watching their teammates patiently probe for openings. Chance after chance came and went, but the score remained 0-0 as the game wore on. In the 62nd minute, the coach made the double change. Pedri and Ferran stepped onto the pitch together, Ferran pressing a quick kiss on his boyfriend's neck because he knew he had his lucky charm next to him.

The game remained the same. Spain tried even more, circulating the box with confidence while Argentina struggled to get out of their own half. Still, the goal wouldn't come. The clock ticked past 80, then 90. Extra time felt inevitable. The first period of extra time was more of the same, Spain dominating possession, Argentina hanging on. Then, in the 106th minute, it finally happened.

Nico received the ball on the left, a little too close to the keeper and under pressure. With limited space to turn or cross, he instead rose and glanced a clever header into the open space just outside the box. Ferran took one clean touch to set himself, then struck it high and hard across the keeper. 

The ball hit the net. 1-0. The stadium erupted, but Ferran barely heard it. He sprinted toward the corner flag, arms wide, screaming. Teammates piled on him instantly, but the first face he truly registered through the chaos was Pedri's, pushing through the pile to grab him, foreheads pressed together, both of them laughing and shouting. 

"You fucking legend!" Pedri yelled over the noise. Ferran held onto him a second longer than necessary. 

Only then did Argentina truly wake up. With nothing left to lose, they finally pushed forward and created one big chance in the dying moments, but the shot went wide. Spain held on through the final minutes of agony until the referee blew the final whistle.

And they were World Champions.

Ferran barely had time to process it before his teammates crashed into him. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, hands grabbed the back of his shirt, voices shouted in his ear. He hugged them back hard, laughing and yelling, the gold of the moment flooding through him.

Then he found Pedri. He pulled him in even tighter than the others, arms locked around him like he might disappear if he let go. Pedri held on just as tightly. They buried their faces against each other's necks and shoulders, hiding from the cameras and the noise for a few stolen seconds, breathing the same air, smiling so hard it hurt.

"You're the fucking best. I love you so, so much." Pedri's voice was muffled against Ferran's body. 

"I love you even more, baby." 

A moment later Borja and Dani crashed into them from the side, wrapping both of them up in a messy four-man hug and nearly knocking them off balance. All of them were laughing, still clinging to one another as the rest of the team poured onto the pitch around them.

The celebrations were pure madness. Trophies, medals, fireworks, the Spanish flag waving everywhere. Ferran and Pedri found each other again and again, hugging during the team photos, singing at the top of their lungs, gold medals gleaming around their necks. Confetti rained down like stars. 

At one point, while the rest of the team was still shouting, the two of them ended up standing close in the middle of it all. Ferran lifted his medal slightly, eyes locked on Pedri's. Pedri did the same. Without saying a word, they both leaned in and pressed their lips to the gold at the same time, still looking at each other over the medals. Only them knew what that truly meant. The moment lasted only a couple of seconds, private in the middle of the chaos, before they were pulled back into another group hug.

Ferran kept the secret burning in his chest. The ring was still in the locker room. He needed that private moment. 

Eventually the on-pitch chaos moved indoors. The locker room was louder than the stadium, music blasting, champagne spraying, players half-dressed and fully euphoric. Ferran joined in the initial madness, spraying Lamine with a bottle, singing with the younger guys, lifting the World Cup trophy high when it was passed around. It all felt surreal in his hands, heavy with meaning. 

Little by little, the room thinned. Some players moved to the mixed zone for interviews, others headed to the showers in groups. Ferran lingered, heart hammering as he watched Pedri towel off his hair, still shirtless in his shorts, medal catching the light. 

Their eyes met across the room. Pedri smiled that soft, private smile. 

Ferran grabbed the World Cup trophy with one hand and slipped the ring box into the other, keeping both hidden behind his back. His hands were shaking. This was it. After three years and one perfect goal. 

He approached Pedri slowly. The music had quieted to a distant hum in this corner of the room. They were alone for the first time since the final whistle, truly alone. 

Pedri tilted his head, amused. "What is it?" 

Ferran stopped right in front of him with both hands still behind his back, smiling like an idiot, tears already pricking at the corners of his eyes. In his left: the gleaming World Cup trophy. In his right: the small black ring box. "Left or right?" 

Pedri laughed but obeyed, thinking hard as always. "Right."

Ferran brought his left hand forward, showing the World Cup trophy and leaving it on the bench next to them because that was not what Pedri chose. Then his right, the small black ring box already open. Pedri's breath caught. His eyes went wide. The locker room lights caught the big diamond, making it sparkle even more if possible.

"Ferri…" The word came out shaky. 

Ferran dropped to one knee right there on the tiled locker room floor, their future in his hands. His heart felt like it might burst out of his chest. All the planning, the hiding, the paranoia, the fights, it all led them here. 

"I know you've been wondering what has kept me insane all these weeks. And I couldn't tell you because, how could I ruin this moment?" Ferran's voice was already unsteady. He swallowed hard, eyes shining. "Pedri… my best friend, my partner, the love of my life. If someone had told me five years ago that this would be us, I would've said it was impossible, only a dream. But you let me into your heart and I've never been the same. You make me better on the pitch, but more importantly, you make me better every single day. You've seen me at my lowest, when I couldn't even go out without hating the world, but also at my highest, after goals and wins, and you've been the first person I looked for every single time. You've chosen me, again and again, even when it wasn't easy."

His hands were shaking now. The ring box trembled slightly in his grip.

"Today we won the World Cup together. And I scored the winning goal, it's the greatest night of my career… but it's still not the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. You are. Being yours is. Waking up next to you, fighting with you, coming home to you, that's when I really win. The only thing I want more than this trophy… is a lifetime with you."

He took the ring in his fingers while noticing that Pedri was also shaking.

"So will you marry me?"

Pedri stared at him for a heartbeat that felt eternal. His eyes were already shining, lips parted like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Then a wet, disbelieving, overjoyed laugh escaped him, and he dropped to his knees too, crashing into Ferran so hard they lost balance and fell on the floor between laughs. Ferran wrapped both arms around him and held on like the world depended on it. Pedri kissed him hard, messy and trembling, one hand fisted in Ferran's shirt, the other cupping the side of his face. When he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was wrecked.

"Yes," he whispered against Ferran's lips. Then louder, laughing through tears, "Yes, amor. Of course yes." 

Ferran let out a broken sound that was half laugh, half sob, and pressed their foreheads together, both of them shaking. Pedri kissed him again, softer this time, tasting salt and joy and relief, while confetti still clung to their hair and gold medals hung heavy between their chests.

Ferran slid the ring onto Pedri's finger with trembling hands. It fit perfectly. Pedri held his hand up, staring at it, then at Ferran, then at the trophy, and started laughing again, the kind of pure happy laughter that made his eyes crinkle. 

"Isn't it quite big, though?"

"I knew you would say that."

"I can't believe you hid this the whole tournament. All the sneaking around… Marc's room… that fight…" Pedri shook his head, pulling Ferran in for another kiss, deep and slow and full of everything they'd been through. 

"Surprise," Ferran murmured, grinning against his mouth. "Worth it?" 

"Completely worth it." Pedri rested their foreheads together, both on the floor, medals clinking. "We're World Champions. And we're getting married! What the fuck." 

They stayed like that for a long time, trading kisses and quiet words, the distant sounds of celebration filtering in. Eventually they stood, arms around each other, admiring the ring and the trophy next to them. 

That was when the door swung open.

Dani, Eric and Joan piled into the locker room mid-laugh, still buzzing from the pitch, champagne stains on their shirts and gold medals proud around their necks. They stopped short when they saw the two of them standing so close, Ferran's arm around Pedri's waist and Pedri's hand held up between them like he was protecting something precious.

Pedri's face lit up the second he saw them.

"Guys!" His voice came out high and breathless, almost squealing as he spun toward them and shoved his left hand forward. The diamond caught the light. "Look. Look. We're getting married!"

Then the room basically exploded. Dani let out a loud, disbelieving shout and lunged forward, pulling both of them into a crushing hug. Eric started laughing so hard he had to bend over, clapping Ferran on the back with both hands. Joan just kept repeating no way under his breath while grabbing Pedri's hand to get a better look at the ring, eyes wide.

"You're serious?" Dani demanded, still half-squeezing them. "Did you just ask?"

Pedri was grinning so hard his cheeks had to hurt, bouncing slightly on his feet as he nodded. "Yes. He had the ring the whole tournament. The whole time. He was acting so suspicious I thought he was cheating or something. I was ready to ki—"

"Hey," Ferran protested weakly, but he was smiling just as wide, cheeks flushed, one arm still locked around Pedri's waist like he couldn't bring himself to let go.

Eric shook his head in pure delight. "You're actually insane. Both of you. World Cup winners and engaged in the same night. Unreal."

Joan finally released Pedri's hand and pulled him into a quick, tight hug of his own. "Congratulations, guys. Really. You deserve this."

Pedri laughed against his shoulder, still buzzing with so much happiness it seemed to radiate off him. When he pulled back he immediately reached for Ferran again, fingers finding his automatically, the new ring pressing cool and solid between their joined hands. The five of them stood there in the half-empty locker room, talking over each other, laughing, replaying the goal and the proposal in the same breathless rush, while outside the rest of the squad's celebrations kept echoing down the corridor.