Chapter Text
Joan always prided himself in his calm rationality. He stayed quiet during fights, caught up in his head where other people would burst out with emotion. His life was calculated, tranquility what kept him steady. Following the same routines, staying down and observing the fast paced world around him.
It also applied to his love life. If you could call it that. Love.
Quite frankly, love was the last thing on his mind. The fuss of it all, the tangled emotions, the pathetic way in which people would lose themselves – he'd seen it before. Had grown up too close to the consequences of the fucked up thing people called love.
So he kept it pragmatic. As a professional athlete, he’d feel the pressure and heat more often than a normal person – the adrenaline, the pent up energy, it had to be let out somewhere. And playing in LaLiga meant he didn't have to do much to get laid, had to do a lot to proceed carefully with it, though.
NDA’s, the same person never twice, don’t get spotted around night clubs. Most importantly: don't let anyone see you're hooking up with men.
He didn't do it all the time. The ratio of available men to available women was terrifyingly small. And Joan wouldn’t dream of putting his career in danger for something as silly as sticking it up someone’s ass.
It wasn’t that he didn't like women. Just that nothing came close to a hard yet soft body underneath his, a plump ass, defined broad but not too broad back muscles, short hair he could bury his fingers in, a male voice pitching high only for him.
He didn't expect it. When he came to Barca, signing with what was probably the best club in the world. He’d never, never, done it with a teammate. Hadn't even thought of it.
And now he found himself waking up next to a small figure, dark hair cut short at the back of his head, the nearly black strands sticking up at the top of it, catching the few rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains. His head was pounding, skin hot where it touched the boy’s waist and back which was pressed up against him. It took him a second to clock just who he had in his hotel room in Valencia right now.
Pedri, split naked, all soft lines and quiet little noises in his sleep.
It was the closest Joan ever felt to panicking. In his adult years, anyways.
He slipped out from under the blanket, getting dressed as quietly as possible while trying not to pay attention to Pedri’s small boxer shorts on the floor. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, collected his stuff and left.
Since they’d been so smart and took it up to his room, he was now aimlessly wandering through the hotel, desperately in need of an ibuprofen. The garden outside was still quiet, a shadowy bench under a tree smiling at him invitingly.
Pedri. Out of all people. Joan couldn't even say he was surprised.
He’d caught himself watching the Canary even before he came to Barca, when they played against each other. It wasn't just admiring his seemingly effortless style of play that made controlling a ball look like ballet. It was the blush on his cheeks. The sweaty fringes of hair curling on his forehead. The soft way he… did anything, really. Smile, talk, watch, laugh, move the ball, dribble without even touching his opponents.
He’d written it off as simple curiosity. Throughout life, he'd feel attracted to a lot of people, stare at someone's legs or eyes or lips for longer than intended. He was only human, after all.
It didn't really get better when he came to Barca.
There was one time in training – Joan despised remembering it – when he completely let in a ball without moving. It was definitely only coincidence that Pedri had plopped down to the ground close to him just then, stomach first, head propped up by his hands and this cute, round butt of his perfectly on display. He’d looked around, laughed when he saw the ball effortlessly hitting the net. He’d raised an eyebrow at Joan, gotten an eyeroll in response.
It would have been fine if that had been it. If Joan was just lost in a few unfriendly thoughts about his new teammate.
There was more, though.
After the third time he'd caught Pedri staring at him between the goal posts, he'd realized it. He should’ve realized it sooner, in all honesty. Though it had been nothing publicly official, it had been quite common knowledge in the bubble of Spanish footballers. The thing between Pedri and Unai Simon.
Joan had watched a Barca versus Atleti match once, out of boredom, maybe to take notes from how Spain’s number one keeper and his good companion would defend against the League’s top strikers. In the end his focus had been shattered by something he saw after the match had ended. You wouldn't have seen it if you hadn't focused on it. On how Unai and Pedri stood near the tunnel, next to each other and chatting with Iñigo and Dani Olmo, the Basque’s hand leisurely placed on Pedri’s back, almost soaking up all of the lower half of his torso with how big it was compared to the Canary. Pedri had leaned into it, brushed Unai’s side with his arm more than once while talking. And then, just before the camera had swerved and cut the four out of the corner of the frame, he’d seen it. Unai had leaned down, brought his hand up to the younger’s face, brushing his hair before he rubbed at a spot on his temple with a frown. Pedri had just let him do it, followed him with those doe eyes of his, chuckled about something.
It made so much sense. Joan knew that Pedri’s father had been a goalkeeper as well, and, what could he say. Seemed like the midfielder took after his mother a lot.
So Joan started paying attention to it, to where Pedri paid attention to. And he couldn't lie that it wasn’t flattering when they gathered for a cooling break, Pedri's eyes trained on Joan’s gloves, seemingly lost in focus. Or his applause when he made a save. His probably too intense stare when he saved a shot from the Canary himself in training, especially. And then his softness on the other hand.
How he’d invited Joan to walk around Seoul with him and their group of teammates, voice somewhat shy. How he’d made sure Joan didn't feel left out on the day trip, leaning over and explaining inside jokes that lost their charm by being explained in the first place, but made Joan laugh anyways. How he gave him a reassuring smile in the locker room before every game, like he personally assigned himself to make Joan's life easier and harder at the same time.
He really couldn't blame his drunk self for last night. Though he didn't remember a thing after the shouting and screaming on the team bus, Lamine’s obnoxiously loud reggaeton booming through the speaker, energy sizzling from the first and promising remontada of the season. He could very well imagine how it must have gone, though. How Pedri probably looked up at him, his smile sheepish as they entered a bar from what his mind foggily told him. It probably hadn't been hard to be lured in by those sparkling, innocent eyes, the furious blush on his cheeks and nose, the pouty lips and small hands.
Yeah. He definitely couldn't blame himself, though he probably should.
Pedri woke up to the sound of a door closing. He felt kind of disoriented for a moment. Not because he didn't know where he was. He just remembered falling asleep next to a certain someone, but woke up to an empty bed. He rolled over with a small groan, engulfed by the lukewarm sheets on the right side of the hotel bed. And by his smell.
By him, he meant Joan Garcia. Barca’s new goalkeeper, and unfortunately, Pedri’s new object of infatuation. Well. Object didn't sound fitting. It made him sound so shallow while his feelings were anything but shallow when it came to the keeper.
After Unai and him had broken things off, Pedri planned on enjoying his solitude for a while. No weird feelings, no collapsing of his nervous system because his connection with a man wasn't stable, no more achingly pining after hands that could pick him up and hold him like a baby.
His maxim had lasted for exactly six weeks. Maybe eight. If you didn't count the time Pedri spent browsing about who Barca’s new signing would be. He knew Joan, of course. Had played against him before, met the calm and nice man through Eric at a party once since they’d played in the Olympics together.
He’d thought about him once, even before Unai really happened. They’d just met, a few years ago, and Pedri had felt the heat rush to his cheeks when the tall man with kind brown eyes had leaned forward, clasped his small hand in his huge one, placed their cheeks against each other in a swift greeting.
He’d thought about it for a few hours that night. Discovered that maybe, just maybe, he liked men. Men with hands bigger than his own. And shoulders that could shield him from the outside world completely, if they wanted. The teenager had fallen asleep with a blush on his face that night.
And then years later everything had changed. Except for one thing: Pedri still liked men with goalkeeper hands. Especially now that he’d experienced what they could do to him. So when Joan arrived for training with the blaugrana squad for the first time, now even taller, broader, more mature, Pedri couldn't stop thinking about him at home again.
What happened from then on was out of his control, really. He was good at keeping quiet, staying in the background, calculating his every action. Except for when a tall man entered his brain and mashed his synapses like they were oats in a porridge bowl.
He stared at the Catalan, couldn't get his voice to sound steady and normal when he spoke to him, probably praised him for his good saves more than necessary.
Oh well. At least it worked.
Pedri wasn't a big drinker, also not after scoring the first goal to step back up against the two-nil lead of Levante, and from outside the box at that.
He accompanied his friends to the bar, sipped at one mojito, just enough to get him tipsy. And have enough liquid courage to flirt with Joan, apparently. He remembered most of it, though not all. He tried not to cringe terribly at the memory of his half drunk self making eyes at the keeper.
—––
“You played really well today,” Pedri complimented the Catalan, slipping between him and some random guy at the bar. Joan turned to him, smiled his way too friendly smile at him.
“You too, Pedri. That goal was a screamer,” he replied as his arm was suddenly knocked against Pedri’s chest from the impact of someone behind him. He quickly maneuvered it around the younger’s body, hovering across his back now. Pedri noticed that the position brought him closer just a few centimetres. He was almost pressed against the counter now, Joan’s long arm surrounding him spreading warmth to his body.
“Yeah? You liked it?” he asked. And damn his voice for sounding a lot more sensual than he’d intended. Joan looked back down at him, hesitated for a second.
“Of course I did, do you even know how improbable you sacking in that shot was?” he asked back, genuine admiration laced with the drunk inability to hide his attraction shining through both his voice and eyes.
Pedri beamed and shrugged, the sweet and expecting glint in his now wide small eyes evident, that he sported every time someone told him he’d done a good job. Gosh, how he hated being such a sucker for praise.
“One point eight percent, Pedri,” Joan added then, a grin playing at his lips.
“You keeping track of my stats, Joan?” he asked, amused. Definitely not flustered.
“Came across it on my phone in the bus,” he simply said.
Someone bumped into Pedri then, sent him to almost hit his head on Joan’s shoulder if the Keeper wouldn’t have steadied him by the waist within a second. “Careful,” he muttered into his ear. Pedri could only nod, feel the heat pool in his stomach.
“It sucks that you’re on the other side of the field when we score goals,” he then blurted out. Joan raised an eyebrow. “Why, because you can’t celebrate with me?”
The Canary nodded, his bottom lip beginning to stick out again.
“How would you have celebrated then?” he asked, a light smile on his face. Pedri looked up at him for a second, then down at Joan’s hand that was wrapped around his still full cocktail glass. Pedri reached for it, placed his fingers atop Joan’s, brought the glass and the Catalan’s hand around it up to his lips and took a sip. He placed it back down, slowly, looked at Joan and scrunched up his nose.
“What’s in there?”
Joan had to collect his words for a second. What the hell had that move just been? “Vodka,” he then replied.
“I don’t like it,” Pedri complained. Joan forced a chuckle, took the glass again and drank it, sip after sip. It wasn’t lost on him how Pedri’s eyes were trained on his fingers, on his adam’s apple bopping up and down.
“You haven’t answered my question yet,” he then reminded the midfielder. He blushed.
“Probably would’ve jumped you or something,” he muttered then, but Joan caught it. His eyes went wide, a grin pulling at his lips. Not to mention the pressure building in his stomach. “Jumped on you, I mean,” Pedri quickly corrected, cheeks and nose crimson red. Joan loved it. He hummed, still grinning.
“We can just re-celebrate now, if you want,” he then whispered, lips grazing the shell of Pedri’s ear, which immediately turned pink. His hand slipped to Pedri’s lower back, thumb disappearing under the oversized shirt. Pedri’s breath hitched, hands immediately falling to Joan’s waist as if to stabilize himself.
“Yeah, we could… do that,” he mumbled, eyes searching Joan’s, who smirked. The goalkeeper looked around and he’s never been more grateful for being in the VIP area and not seeing any of their teammates close. He pulled the smaller boy closer, brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. Pedri blinked at him and couldn’t help but slide his hands up Joan’s chest, across his shoulders, before grabbing onto his bicep. Which Joan totally did not flex right that second. With a smile, he downed his drink, feeling his head grow lighter and lighter, then bowed and kissed the soft skin behind Pedri’s ear, who inhaled sharply at the contact.
“Joan,” he whispered, tilting his head much to Joan’s delight.
“Yes, Pedri? Do you want me to pay?” he whispered back, received a nod. He quickly paid for his and Pedri’s drinks, despite the Canary’s protest, his left hand never leaving his waist.
They went back to the hotel as quickly as possible.
In no time, Pedri’s shirt was thrown against the door, Joan’s following soon after, their pants pooling on the carpet next to the bed. The hotel was quiet, their heavy breathing seemed so loud, as if the whole floor could hear it, too. Pedri’s hair was mussed up in all directions, Joan’s hand didn’t leave it for one second. Pedri basked in how perfectly his head fit into Joan’s palm, how his fingers stroked his scalp. Joan’s lips were all over him, hastily – kissing, biting, sucking at his tanned and ridiculously soft, unblemished skin. It didn’t take long before also the last piece of fabric was gone, their bodies sticking together now.
“Jo, oh my-” Pedri arched up against the keeper’s mouth, who was busy spreading his saliva all over Pedri’s dick. He buried his hands in the too short hair, pressed him down, relishing in the feeling of his wide lips and throat stretching around him. He thrusted upwards, almost cried out, when suddenly Joan released his length with an obscene sound.
“You wanna come, baby?” he whispered, kissing Pedri square on the lips, who sucked on his tongue. He pulled away, placed his thumb on Pedri’s bottom lip and tapped it.
“Open your mouth, Pedri,” he ordered softly. Pedri’s eyes widened, and he felt all the rest of his blood shoot down to his dick. He quickly obeyed, licked at Joan’s thumb, closed his lips around it and sucked. Joan almost couldn’t take it. He replaced his thumb with his pointer finger, getting it coated by Pedri’s saliva, then rimming him carefully. Pedri cried out at the first finger pushing inside him. He grabbed at Joan’s other hand above his waist, dug his fingers into his palm.
“You’re doing so well, so so well,” Joan muttered when he entered the second finger, kissed Pedri’s throat, then swallowed his little ‘ah’s. And then after the third finger prodded him open, he pulled them all out, licked them himself, grinned at Pedri’s open mouth and wide eyes.
“Joan,” he breathed out and wrapped his thighs around his waist when he made a move to get off the bed. “Where are you going?”
“Getting a condom, bonito,” he replied. Pedri shook his head.
“No, no, don’t leave. Do it without. Please,” he begged. Joan eyed him. And fuck, he looked so delicious, so open and wet and soft only for him, he was dying to be inside him. Raw.
So that’s what he did. Pedri cried out, chanted his name, scratched at his back. He felt better than he ever did before. So full. So complete. So small under Joan’s body. He arched against him, moaned as if they were the only people on planet earth. Bit Joan’s finger that found its way back to his lip, then sucked on it, whimpering around his thumb. He thought he was about to die from the overstimulation of Joan’s skin, Joan’s cock, Joan’s hands and Joan’s voice, praising him like he was winning a world cup final.
“You’re taking it so well, hm? Love putting that tongue to use, no?”
“You’re good, you’re feeling so good, Pedri.”
“Yeah just- exactly. Perfect, baby. Literally wrapped around my finger, you like that?”
Pedri’s chest constricted, dick throbbing relentlessly, and when Joan closed his hand around the sensitive skin of his erection, he had to muffle his scream by biting his hand. Everything after that was kind of blurry. Pedri felt as if he’d just been transported into another universe, catapulted through the milky way as he ejaculated and rode out his high, Joan still pumping inside him. Then suddenly he cried out again as a warm fluid filled his hole. Joan pulled out, the process both painful and arousing, Pedri immediately felt cold and empty.
He distantly remembered being washed off with a towel, falling asleep seconds later, someone’s body heat behind him.
—––
He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled onto his stomach, the twinge in his butt aching. Though it didn't hurt as much as the knowledge that Joan had left him here. Pedri felt nothing short of stupid. He’d more than enjoyed the night. Thought that, yeah, this was it. They’d wake up together, Pedri being held closely to the man twenty centimetres taller than him, finding out that they couldn’t just ignore their feelings for each other.
Only that, apparently, maybe, Pedri was the only one harbouring said feelings.
The thought made his stomach churn.
He sat up, carefully, hissing when his naked butt touched the sheet. Since he was in Joan’s room, he quickly gathered his stuff and pulled it on. Tried his best not to think about the situation too much and ignore the lump in his throat.
He looked outside, found that the sky was rather gloomy today, and snatched a Barca training jacket from Joan’s suitcase. ‘The least he could give me, anyways,’ he thought bitterly.
Joan joined the team at breakfast later than Pedri. The Canary felt all his senses spike up when he saw him walk into the hall. And because apparently the universe hated him, the closest and only free seat was next to him.
Pedri took a deep breath, sent a curt smile to the keeper, then ignored him.
Or at least, tried to. If ignoring meant not paying visible attention to a person, he succeeded. Eyes trained on his food and Ferran on his other side, chuckling about his dumb jokes.
If it meant not paying attention to a person at all, he failed. Poorly. Every shift on the chair, every intake of breath, every scrape of his knife – it drove the midfielder crazy.
Joan felt like a villain. He wasn’t oblivious – he could see the way Pedri had tensed up the second he’d sat down beside him, could see how hard he was trying to ignore him and keep his characteristic ease.
He would have liked to say something, comfort him – he did care for the younger boy, after all. But he's never done this before. Sex with someone he actually liked and knew as a person and would see again frequently. He also never wanted to do something like this, his plan was to stay out of those complex relationships for as long as he could.
So now he just sat there, forcing the thoughts about how well his too large jacket looked on Pedri away.
Pedri still didn't acknowledge him until after everyone was finished and they were trapped inside the elevator alone together.
Joan smiled at him, but it seemed more like a grimace. Pedri looked at his feet. The atmosphere was unbearable, air so thick he was surprised the elevator hadn't combusted yet.
He was surprised when he heard Joan speak up a few seconds later.
“Does this change something between us?” he quietly asked with the clumsiness of someone who had obviously never dealt with a similar situation before.
Pedri frowned at him. “Didn't it already?” He didn't mean for his voice to sound this cold.
Or maybe he did.
“I don’t know, but I would like for it not to,” Joan admitted. Pedri huffed out a breath.
“Are we still friends? I’m… I’m just not good at this, Pedri. I’m sorry,” he muttered then, feeling like it was more his responsibility than Pedri’s to talk it out.
“You’re sorry?” The midfielder’s eyes snapped to him, wide and incredulous. Joan swallowed.
“Yeah? I didn't want to use you. I was drunk, and I shouldn't have done it, we’re friends. Teammates. Stuff like this shouldn't happen between us. So I’m sorry,” he explained. And Pedri could only look at him. Swallow down the vile of what he’d feared would be Joan’s reaction: regret.
He didn't necessarily feel his heart break, but there was a fissure, maybe, tearing a few muscles in his organ apart, creating a small wound. Shattering the fluffy dreams he’d created for himself last night. And the many weeks prior.
But it was okay, right? He’d just been a bit too naive to believe that Joan could feel the same for him. He couldn’t blame the Catalan for that.
Joan could see the gears turning in Pedri’s head. He didn't know what was going on inside, though. While the Canary was a soft and smiley person, he was also usually guarded and controlled in his actions and emotions. It showed both on the pitch and in his private life, like right now.
The boy looked at him, then to the side.
The elevator pinged then, came to a halt, the doors opened. They hesitated for a moment before they stepped outside. They were quietly walking next to each other, and when Joan stopped in front of his door, Pedri did too. He looked at the floor, then at Joan, who was fiddling with the key card in his hands.
“A goodbye would have been nice,” came the low murmur from Pedri then.
Joan looked up, hated the beat expression on his face, the low and unsure tone in his voice. It was so unlike him.
“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I got overwhelmed, but I guess I should have said something to you.”
Pedri shrugged with a humourless laugh. “I guess. At least you didn't leave me right after.”
The goalkeeper frowned. “Pedri. I’m sorry.”
“I know, you’ve only said it ten times. I got it. It's okay, really. We’re good. We can be, whatever, friends or something,” he rambled then. His voice lacked emotion, which was good for him, but also an obvious sign for Joan that they were, in fact, not good.
He didn't press further though. Yes, they were friends. But not very close ones. Not those who could call the other out on their bullshit and reveal what was hidden in their chests to at least to some accord.
He wanted to keep Pedri in his life, he knew he’d regret not being shined on by the smaller boy’s inner sun. And besides, he had to be good with him in order to function at work. So he told himself that they’d get over it in a few days. He didn't believe it was that deep for Pedri either, but he’d already figured that he wasn’t the type of guy to sleep around, so he assumed it was just a bit harder for him to grab the concept of it all and forget about it again.
He smiled at him, cautiously. “Okay,” he breathed out. He didn't want this to escalate in any way. “Thank you. I really like you, Pedri. Would be a huge shame to let this get in between us, you know?”
And Pedri only nodded. “See you then,” he greeted while already turning on his heel and advancing to his own hotel room.
I really like you, Pedri.
The younger pressed his hands against his eyes as soon as he closed the door behind him.
Fuck you, Joan.
He threw the jacket into a corner and packed his suitcase for the flight back.