incapable of makin' alright decisions, and havin' bad ideas - Chapter 8 - thiswasalongwait (2024)

Chapter Text

Gavi walked with long strides, heading towards his car. The air was blowing cold in Barcelona, and there was no longer a miserable murmur coming from the training court. He reached into his pocket to look for his keys, a frown on his face and a grimace that gave away his bad mood.

Ya, he definitely shouldn't have come.

Maybe it was too soon. Maybe he should’ve tried to talk it all out with Fermín before.

Everyone went about their friendship as if Gavi were the rabid animal and Fer was the calm tamer in charge of holding him back, but they really didn't have such a disparate character. Gavi was just easier to turn on, more easy to turn off. Sudden, fast, overwhelming emotions. Fer was the type to withstand all the blows with a smile until the one who managed to unleash him made him explode against everything and everyone, and Gavi really didn't know how to put away his internal fire—especially because the victim had never been him .

He caught his bottom lip between his teeth. Tomorrow or day after he’d have to return to training, and clearly there was a certain percentage of the team that did not want to see him there until the whole situation was resolved—a situation that still no one knew how to solve.

He pressed the button on the remote control of his car and reached out to open the door, when he heard a voice calling his name from the entrance to the Ciutat Esportiva.

He pressed the button on the remote control of his car and reached out to open the door, when he heard a voice calling his name from the entrance to the Ciutat Esportiva. He turned curiously, only to see Pedri running towards him, his training clothes still on. Gavi followed him with her gaze until he was standing next to him, her cheeks red with exhaustion slightly hidden by his un-shaved beard.

"Wait," he said, while he put a hand on the car so that Gavi wouldn't open the door (even though she was now looking at him with her arm away from the handle): "Want to give me a ride already? "

Gavi looked away for a second, then fixed it on him again. "I have my car right–"

"I'll drive ya tomorrow too. We've got to talk."

It used to be a usual sight, Pedri with his hands on the wheel and Gavi with his elbow resting on the window, sunglasses covering eyes that looked forward and a light laugh bouncing against the car walls.

It was sudden, the change. Fermín moved up to the first team, and Pedri no longer needed to be his designated driver. Gavi improved his game and Pedri's injuries began taking a more serious tool, and suddenly, the comparisons began to become louder and louder.

Gavi didn’t quite realise that he was avoiding Pedri until their relationship began to be summarised in saying good morning and celebrating goals together.

Sometimes, he wondered if Pedri also wanted to avoid him, if his sudden and public friendship with Ferran was just a strategy to make people forget about the Pedri and Gavi phenomenon. Then he tended to feel guilty for giving himself so much importance.

"This is a mess," Pedri began.

Then Gavi realised that the Canario was always the one prompting their every interaction, which made him feel a little more pathetic.

"Yeah," Gavi sighed, looking out the window, head resting on his clenched fist. As they passed through the doors of the Ciutat, they saw the crowd of journalists and fans.

He didn't look too closely, hiding his eyes with sunglasses so they would think he was looking away. As a group of kids stood in the way of Pedri's car and he had to maneuver to continue moving forward, a journalist from El Chiringuito hitting the glass with the pad of the microphone.

Gavi didn't want to see his face too much, but he managed to hear the muffled murmur through the glass. Something about whether his future was in Real Madrid or some bullsh*t. He just wrinkled his lips and looked away, focusing on Pedri.

Through the window on his friend's side, he captured an image glued to a piece of cardboard that a girl with a a deep frown and an angry face was raising with her arms wide open—an edit of his face attached to Luís Figo's body, with black letters that read PORC, which was Catalán for pig.

"Bloody hell," Pedri sighed, avoiding another teenager who had decided to get in his way.

His biggest mistake was letting his gaze wander to the crowd. He caught a glimpse of a Real Madrid jersey with Gavi's name on the back—Oh, that really made him gag. After another couple of atrocious sights of the sort, he decided to lower his gaze and fix it on his own lap, thanking Pedri for speeding up to get them on the road and being able to get away from there as soon as possible.

"Think we've left them behind," Pedri noted, watching through the rearview mirror as he stepped on the accelerator. "God, this has really shaken things up. And here I thought the worst thing that was going to happen this month would be losing the Clasico."

Gavi took off his glasses, putting his fingers to his eyes to squeeze the paralips, trying to calm down. "I know," he mumbled. "Sorry about this."

"Don't be," he told him casually. "Things happen. It just sucks that it's all so public."

"Tell me about it."

Pedri gave a one-shouldered shrug, resting an elbow on the window and his fist clenched firmly around the steering wheel. He looked at Gavi out of the corner of his eye once more, while he continued with his temple pressed against the window glass.

"Are you really going to go to Madrid?"

Gavi bit his lower lip. Everything would be a lot f*cking easier if they all started asking that stupid question with that stupid face of a betrayed lamb.

"Can hardly believe it myself," he replied tartly.

Pedri drummed with a nervous gesture against the steering wheel. "Is it official yet?"

"I’ve got no idea," he cut short. "I did tell Laporta I wanted a loan–"

"You told Laporta?"

Gavi rolled his eyes. "It was in the heat of the moment. I was trying to negotiate other teams, and the board members where saying well, why the f*ck would we sell him at all if he doesn't wanna go to Madrid? And Laporta just accused me of every bullsh*t in the book. So yeah, I just told him to negotiate a loan."

Pedri stopped the car at a red light, and took the opportunity to look Gavi directly in the face. "And because of an argument you're going to get yourself transferred to the team you hate most in the world?"

Gavi covered his eyelids with the palm of his hand. "I don't know, Pedri, I don't know," he replied curtly. "A lot of f*cking things have happened." He tilted his head back, looking at the roof of the car. "And I mean, I did call Laporta a drunk, fat, sex addict , so I don't think he holds me in the highest regard right now."

Pedri had his eyes so open and was looking at Gavi with such amazement that he missed for a couple of seconds the moment the traffic light turned green. There were a few seconds of silence while Pedri slowly lifted the clutch and engaged second gear. Gavi licked his lips nervously. When he started to feel nervously hot, he decided to cover the air conditioning grille with the palm of his hand to see if cold air came out. It didn't.

"And you and Vinicius," Pedri added, finally addressing the heavy elephant in the room—when Gavi made his appearance at the Ciutat training field, the Canario actually wondered if Gavi would stand up in front of the entire team and explain all that about him now apparently hooking up with Vinicius Jr. , as if that were something that could simply be explained , as if the day Pedri saw them kissing right in front of his nose he hadn't felt like he’d fallen into an alternative reality reigned by absurdism. "You are a thing now."

"Certainly not now ," Gavi replied curtly.

"Well, but you were–?"

"Didn't you hear Fermín?" He talked back, turning to glare at Pedri. " We shagged , that's as far as it goes. He tricked me, I fell for it because I'm a f*cking gullible piece of sh*t. There’s not more to it than that. Vinicius is a lying and manipulative c*nt and I'm a little bitch who lets others do whatever they want with him. There’s quite literally nothing more to explain.""

Pedri swallowed, staring at the road. He nodded silently, while he maneuvered the gear lever to take a roundabout. Gavi kept his irritated expression on for about ten more seconds before a sigh broke through his facade.

"I'm sorry," he added shortly, looking down at his own lap. "I shouldn't talk to you like that."

"It's okay."

"No, no it's not. Of course you’ve got questions. It's just–" He pressed his lips into a thin line, taking a second before continuing. "I don't even know how to explain the fact that we were a thing, let alone explain how and why that thing was shattered to pieces—I don't even know that myself, to be fair."

Pedri chose the longest detour towards Gavi's house. The Sevillian didn't even try to complain.

"Did he convince you to change?"

"He tricked me into changing," he corrected firmly. "He had— Or Florentino, I don't f*cking know. I just know someone paid a photographer to have those pictures taken— the ones on the balcony with the jersey..."

"I know which ones."

"Ya, I'm sure the entirety of the footballing world knows which ones ," he mumbled. "Next thing I knew, Laporta was summoning me to his office and saying that he was going to kick me out of the team whether I wanted it or not— Even tried to kick Xavi out when he jumped in to defend me, the bastard. So I just called him, went to Madrid, and he just..."

Gavi covered his face with his hands. He needed to rub his temples and give himself a second to breathe before continuing. Pedri patted him on the knee, soothingly.

" f*ck , I’d seen my life crumble before my eyes, and he was simply telling me to talk to who or go where and I didn't have the strength to tell him to leave me alone, to tell him I’d solve everything on my own. And the only thing I did was make it all worse. Call my agent, talk to Ancelotti, photos in Valdevebas? God, I've dug my own hole and now I'm drowning in it."

"He manipulated you–"

"And I made it f*cking easy for him." He scrunched up his face, almost as if he disgusted himself (which was more or less the case). "God, Pedri, I even told him I loved him. How low can a person fall until they say enough is enough?"

Pedri widened his eyes. He looked away from the road and looked at Gavi's profile, which had now turned red with embarrassment. " Oh ," he gasped, "I didn't know you where like—serious, serious ."

"We weren't— He wasn't," he corrected bitterly. " I was serious. I was considering joining Real Madrid and leaving my whole life behind— He was just, I don't know, in for the sex? For the money? Who the f*ck cares. I'm the stupid one, not him." Probably the topic was becoming too serious for Pedri, because Gavi noticed how his cheeks turned red and he had to stick closer to his window, out of mere impulse. "Sorry," he added, for the umpteenth time. "I don't want to get explicit."

"It's— Not, it's fine," he said, "It's just... God, sorry mate , but I've gotta ask: are you, like, gay and stuff?"

"Yes to the gay, not to the stuff," Gavi responded. Pedri didn't seem to know whether to laugh or not, so Gavi decided to give him the best smile he could convey, just to lighten the mood. "Ya, I know, crazy. It's kinda recent."

"So, you're not into chicks?"

"Don't think so."

"Since when?"

"Don't know, for like three weeks?" Pedri raised an eyebrow. "I mean, probably since always , but I just started thinking about it recently."

Pedri nodded slowly, a deep frown of concentration marking his forehead. "So," he resumed, "He was your, like, first?" Gavi shook his head. "So, like, who–? When?"

"La Masía." Pedri widened his eyes with horror. "What? An entire boarding school of fit, male teenagers, and you think there wasn't the occasional blow j*b in some empty classroom?" Pedri looked even more horrified. Gavi burst into laughter. "They didn't let us mix with the girls, we were fifteen and beginning to feel the hormones weigh more than heteronormativity."

Pedri swallowed. "Dude," he began, "I'm gonna ask you a question and I want you to answer with full honesty." Gavi raised an eyebrow, but let him continue. "Have you and..." he closed his eyes, as if it was hard for him to even imagine it. "Have you and Fermín ever–?"

"Gosh, no!" Gavi exclaimed in horror. "God, Pedri— Of course not !"

"I was just asking–!"

"Why would you ask that?!"

"You guys are so close all the time that I just–!"

"Not every guy I'm friends with I've f*cked— Jesus, Pedri!" He turned to him with an indignant expression. "You and I used to be so close all the time! Did I ever try to shag you?"

"No but–!"

"But nothing!"

"Alright, alright!" Pedri finally responded. "I'm sorry!"

Gavi snorted, crossing his arms and shaking his head. "Fermín, God .”

Pedri mumbled another apology, before taking a sharp turn that made him put into first gear—they had already moved away from the most populated area, and now they were in an area full of chalets and little else. Several footballers lived there, Gavi among them.

" You and I used to be so close all the time, " Pedri repeated, after a while. Gavi turned to look at him, a frown still framing his face. "It's been a while since that, huh?"

"I guess," Gavi responded, shifting in his spot.

" Pedri and Gavi. How come we don't have headlines anymore?"

"We've gone out of style."

"We gotta take a step of authority, show those Madridistas who the Golden Boys are."

Gavi chuckled, while Pedri relaxed enough to drive again with one hand on the wheel. What remained of the road was a straight line to the youngest's development. Gavi noticed that Pedri slowed down the car, trying to lengthen the conversation.

"How come we're not as close as before?"

Gavi looked at him out of the corner of his eye, a resigned grimace that accompanied a sigh taking over his expression.

"It wasn't that he got jealous or anything, right?"

It took Gavi a few seconds to process that. Then, his head jumped up like a spring. "Who? Vini?" Pedri nodded. "Don't talk nonsense, you think I'd stop hanging out with ya because of him?"

"Well, since TikTokers were always saying that we were a couple, maybe..."

"Oh, shut it, even he wasn't that jealous," he admitted dismissively. "And even if he was, I'd never ditch you because he said so. God, I should’ve cut ties with Fer months ago if it were like that."

Pedri raised his eyebrows with an amused gesture. "Told you you two were suspicious."

"Oh, f*ck off. "

They both started laughing. It almost felt natural, like a year ago, when there were no Ferranes or Fermínes and it was just the two of them, the Golden Boys.

"I miss when we were all that close," Pedri admitted after a while of residual laughter. He started driving in first gear—thank goodness that this was a little-traveled neighborhood, or the other drivers would have already started honking at Pedri. "I thought I was the only one who had noticed. That's why I never brought it up. You were hooked on the kids from La Masía and... I don't know, I thought you had forgotten about me."

Gavi snorted, looking away from the glass, with a bitter smile. "God, you make me sound like a horrible person."

"I'm not saying you did it on purpose–"

"No, but I did. I did do it on purpose."

Pedri looked away from the road, looking at Gavi with raised eyebrows. He shrank into her sweatshirt, crossing his arms under the fabric, the heat rising to his face.

"The first months of the season... Bloody hell, I was the talk of the club. Too many midfielders and not enough positions. The Madrid press began to say that I would become a f*cking bench-warmer and I guess that got to me—And then, when Xavi began to change the formations so that I could play winger... I don't know mate. Pedri and Gavi weren't a duo anymore, you know? It was a way of comparing us, seeing that Golden Boy was more golden than the other. "

"That's stupid, this season you are being key for the team–"

"Ya, alright, but you're injured half the time," he argumented. "No offense," Gavi then added timidly. "Nothing guarantees me that when you come back from your injuries and are fresh as a rose again, I won't be the lesser Golden Boy of the duo again."

He frowned profoundly. "Gavi, that's—”

"Ya, f*cking toxic, I know. But I needed Pedri and Gavi to stop being on everyone's mouth. We were never going to be Xavi and Iniesta. You were going to be your magician self and I..."

He licked his lips. Pedri had to lean forward to look at his face. For a moment it seemed like the conversation was making Gavi emotional.

"My lacks were gonna become louder if I was next to you. So I just decided not to be. I couldn't take it, to be your friend. And Fermín had just gone up and you became close to Ferran in the summer and I just said, you know, f*ck it ."

Pedri spent a few seconds in silence. When they finally arrived in front of Gavi's house, he stopped the car in front of the door, but made no attempt to remove his seat belt or turn off the engine.

"Do you think your lacks were the only ones showing?" He asked, while Gavi waited for it to be a good time to open the door and get out of there. "People talked about my defensive play as if I were a statue standing in the middle of the field for ninety minutes."

"Your defense game it's not bad–"

"I know it's not, but when you’re Pedri and Gavi , people expect me to live up to the heart and soul of the team." He replied accusingly. Gavi turned to look at him, leaning his shoulder against the glass. Pedri continued looking straight ahead. "I'm killing myself trying to defend in every game, it doesn't matter if my muscles are f*cked or not, but of course, people compare me to you and suddenly I'm not good enough if I don't run at an average of fifteen kilometers per hour for the whole bleedin’ ninety minutes."

Gavi had the impulse to say that each of them had their strengths, to explain to Pedri that his offensive game compensated for any lack he might have in defence, but with what right could he say that right after admitting that he’d purposefully distanced himself from him just because of the comparisons? By what right could he now pretend to know what a team was?

"Competing against the coach's favorite. Knowing that because of my injuries my spot will always be doubtful, and yet I’ve got to watch how Xavi will always make you a starter no matter what you do," he accused. His voice was becoming surly. Gavi was now breathing heavily. "Even if you play out of position, it doesn't f*cking matter, you'll play. And you'll complain and kick every time they try to sub you off. How do you compete against that? Against someone who's tiredness and injuries don't they take a toll on them?" Now he did turn to look at Gavi. "I had to be born with some f*cking talent and spend years of my life perfecting it—I couldn't get any f*cking team interested in me until I was sixteen. But you? You’re all fire, all fury, all lashing out at everything and everyone. You win over the fans, you win over the mister, you win over your teammates, and I have to look at how I'm just the slightly less bright star."

" Slightly less br— Are you f*cking kidding?" Gavi raised his voice slightly, gripping the edge of the seat. "You were born with talent, damn, you do magic every time you touch the ball. You give assists that I couldn't even dream of. Have you got any idea what it's like to have to give everything on the field until you can't take it anymore? Having to spend hours with physios because I can't even walk?” He kept his eyebrows raised, looking at Pedri as if he were really waiting for him to give him an answer. “But who knows what would happen if I didn't do that."

"But you do it."

"Yeah, cause I don't got a f*cking choice," Gavi replied, looking Pedri dead in the eye. "You have that choice. You can afford to let yourself be subbed off. You can afford not to run as fast as your f*cking legs can. You have that f*cking talent you were born with—I don't. You make one of those wonderful assists of yours and you have a fixed spot in the starting line-up for the next five matches. I play two games in a row without practically fainting on the field and I can assure you that I’d be warming up the bench there with Oriol and Marcos. "

"You're also f*cking talented."

"Not as much as you."

"You don't need to be."

"Yeah, but I have to make up for all my lacks somehow ," he said. "You have no f*cking lacks. Have you got any idea what it's like to be compared to one of the best midfielders in the world? With the wizard Pedri , Pedri Potter , blah blah blah ? I don't have that overwhelming talent to back me–!"

Pedri pursed his lips, resting his elbow on the steering wheel. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be compared to the Golden Boy?" he interrupted bitterly. "Because we may both have winned that sh*tty trophy and whatever, but it's you who gets the title. It's you who is Barça's Golden Boy . It's you who is the Fan favourite, who is Xavi's favourite, the future captain, a heavyweight in the locker room, the reincarnation of Puyol, the culé spirit personified. You’re the one who gives everything on the field. You’re the heart and soul, you–"

"Maybe I don't f*cking wanna be the heart and the soul! Maybe I wanna be more than my passion!"

"I could never do what you do–!"

"I could never do what you do either!"

Gavi remained silent, looking at Pedri with irregular breathing. Pedri held his gaze for a couple of seconds longer before letting himself fall back against the seat, crossing his arms.

"So what? I outshine you, so you go with someone who poses less competition? Is that what you consider Fermín? What you think I consider Ferran?"

"Bloody hell, dude; I'm not a f*cking cartoon supervillan."

"You start to seem like one."

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? " He replied bitterly. "I just… I couldn't take it anymore."

"It was being hard on me too, but I never thought it was worth our entire friendship."

That genuinely made Gavi feel like he’d been punched directly in the stomach.

He sighed, slumping against the seat, and decided to stare at the roof of the car.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, with a much more pathetic tone. "I think Fermín is a magnificent player. And so is Ferran. And I don't think we outshine them or vice versa. It's just that..." she swallowed. "You and me. Pedri and Gavi, you know? We were always going to be weighed up, we were always going to be one and the other. And suddenly the fans were comparing us and talking about selling one and benching the other and who is better and I just wanted them to stop being a token next to you."

Pedri remained silent, his face serious, his jaw set tight. Gavi turned to let his gaze fall to the window.

"And then Vinicius," he added, embarrassed. There he got the heavy feeling that his eyes were about to water. "He fueled the fire, told me I'd always be less than you, you know?"

"That's f*cking retarded." Pedri replied surly. "And if he said that then he’s a f*cking c*nt."

Gavi shrugged. "He sort of was," he admitted, with the typical sadness that talking about Vinicius always brough chasing him tirelessly. "But he was right, too, you know? Us two, Barcelona's midfield, the Golden Boys, we’d always be one against the other. I guess he also said it because, well, he was trying to convince me to change to Madrid, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t right in a way."

"So you just pushed me away."

Gavi shrugged once again. "I'm sorry."

"Are you really?"

Gavi bit the bottom of his lip. "I don't know," he sighed, "I really think everything is easier since we're not Pedri and Gavi anymore."

Pedri nodded with a serious gesture. "Even if you destroyed our friendship along the way?"

"Don't exaggerate. We're still friends. We're just not f*cking cojoined twins."

"I didn't mind that," Pedri replied accusingly. "I don't know if you found my company difficult, but I really enjoyed being your friend."

Gavi swallowed. He tried to show an innocent smile, nudging Pedri to ease the tension—it didn't work. "Don't talk in the past tense, c'mon, we're still close."

"Are we?" Pedri accused, now looking at Gavi with his eyes turning red, a sad shine in his pupils that brought a chill to the younger man. "Because it sounds like both of our lives would be a lot easier if we weren't."

Gavi blinked groggily. "Hey, come on, Pedri–"

"Maybe Fer's right. Maybe Madrid's your place after all. At least this way you’ll leave the legend of Pedri and Gavi l ong behind," he spat, taking a breath to compose himself, turning the car key to rev the engine again, putting it in first gear with a sharp movement. "Now you and Bellingham will be the new Golden Boys , but hey, you’ve long lost that battle by a mile to even care about comparisons."

He had both hands on the steering wheel, looking ahead with a serious expression, frowning. Gavi stared at him with his mouth agape. " Pedri… "

"Get out of the car."

Gavi closed his eyes. He licked his lower lip in frustration, finally deciding to open the door and step out onto the sidewalk in front of his house.

When he closed the door behind him, Pedri didn't take two seconds to speed away.

(...)

He got a few messages. Xavi, Lewy, Felix, but he decided not to open any of them until the next morning, if he was eager enough before facing all of his teammates again in training.

It was the first time in too many months that he couldn’t speak to either Fermín or Vinicius—essentially because it was both of them who were partly the cause of his miseries.

For a moment, he cursed La Masía for all those anti-underage drinking videos they had made them watch since they were thirteen years old. He could really use a whole bottle of wine right now (perhaps even two).

He spent the entire afternoon sitting on the couch watching F1 races on rebroadcast. He didn't even notice when ten at night arrived (the time he should probably go to sleep, considering he was training the next day at eight in the morning), at least until the phone began to vibrate in his pajama pocket and he turned it on to find that Ivan de la Peña was calling him.

"Yeah?" He asked, putting the phone into hands-free mode. He lowered the volume of the TV, but he didn't fake too much enthusiasm when answering the call.

" They told me that you went to the Ciutat today? " He asked, not even uttering a good evening out of politeness.

"Yeah. Went terribly. I think I've started a civil war. Tomorrow I'm going back to training officially, though. I’ll probably be separated from the team— haven't run a single mile for like six days, after all."

" Good, good, " De La Peña muttered. " You made a good mess at the meeting. "

"You know? These days I make a good mess everywhere I go."

His agent hummed with slight impatience. " You sound sad. Are you okay? "

"Had a fight with Pedri."

" Well ," he dismissed casually. " It's normal for some of ‘em to get angry. No one likes sudden team transfers, especially of such magnitude. But hey, I’ve managed to negotiate some options with Barça despite your… outburst. ” Gavi didn't know what to say to that, so he just whispered a thank you and let Ivan continue talking. “ And Madrid’s also willing to review the conditions for the loan—as long as you establish that that is the only way you plan to negotiate with them. "

Gavi looked at the television screen. Verstappen's car appeared in the foreground, overtaking everyone else.

The f*cker, he'd never be as good as Alonso. f*ck Red Bull or whatever sh*tty f*cking car he drove.

"You think it’d be such a bad idea to go to Madrid?" He asked suddenly, as the camera switched to Leclerc's car. "After everything they've done?"

De La Peña sighed. " We've talked about this. "

"Yeah, I know, I know, wolf in sheep's clothing or wolf in, I don’t know, f*cking Himalaya monster’s clothing, whaetever —You think I could play alongside Vinicius after knowing that he tricked me into getting into his bed and messing around with my head? Turning me against the team of my life?” He asked darkly. “That I could shake Florentino's hand as if he hadn't taken photos of me in one of my lowest moments? That I could let all of that go?”

Ivan sighed, leaving the line silent for almost a minute. " That's something you’ve got to decide for yourself. "

Gavi sighed heavily. Rusell overtook Alonso, f*ck . Leclerc went almost toe-to-toe with Verstappen, so at least there was that.

" You no longer want to sign with Madrid? Is that it? ” He questioned, then added: “ What about he loan? "

"I don't know," Gavi admitted. "Has Barça talked about options for me to stay?"

" I think the board has its own civil war on that. "

Gavi hummed resignedly. "And other teams?"

" The most tempting option is PSG. "

"If the thing comes down to Madrid or PSG I'm definitely going to Madrid, so that should tell you enough."

His agent chuckled. Gavi didn't feel like smiling, so he simply concentrated on Verstappen taking first place again. f*cking c*nt. “ I'll have that in mind. I'm trying to get them to negotiate with Bayern, but they don't offer enough money to make your sale that profitable. Laporta wants a sum for the history books. "

"Well, it’s Bayern . They’ve got Kimmich and Musiala. You think they need to empty their coffers for the Golden Boy ?"

He spat out the title with some contempt. Ivan felt taken back at that. He also decided not to comment anything. Gavi cursed under his breath as Fernando Alonso fell another place in the race behind Hamilton.

" Well ," Ivan resumed. " For now, go train. I'll try and get Barça to put forward their options for you to stay. And I'll make it clear to Florentino that Barcelona won't sign a loan with such... Well, Florentin-esque terms ."

"And discuss Bayern."

" Yeah, that too ," Ivan conceded, although Gavi had the feeling that he wasn't paying special attention. " Laporta’s told me that he’s got an important meeting tomorrow— I assume that with the board, they need to decide the stance of Barça. I know from a direct source that there’s a large part of the directive that wants you to stay, but Joan is really hell bent on his, well... position . In any case, tomorrow afternoon they’ll send me offers and counteroffers." After a few seconds of hesitation, he added: "Obviously I can't forbid you to come, but after what happened the other day, I think it’ll be better... "

"It's okay, I wasn't planning on going," Gavi admitted. Verstappen crossed the finish line, coming first in the race (for a change). Bastard . Then Sainz and Norris came. Alonso came fifth. Good—not good enough . "I'm not good at diplomacy, and I'm too tense for corporate language."

" Good ," Ivan sighed. " Is everything okay with your teammates? "

"Well, Pedri and Fermín don't talk to me. And half the team has turned against me. Apart from that, I guess I'm as good as ever."

The line went silent again. Ivan spoke when all the cars crossed the finish line—perhaps he was watching the rebroadcasts too. " Don't let all of this get to you, okay? "

“Of course not," Gavi replied bitterly. "What would I be if I let all this get to me? If it weren't all heart and soul ?"

Ivan sighed. He took another minute quiet. The channel barely let the sports journalists comment on the race before they started broadcasting another one—this one was a Grand Prix. Gavi turned up the volume.

" Sleep well, okay? And have something to eat. I know how you get when you're down. "

Gavi nodded. Then he realised that Ivan couldn't see him: "Yeah, I will," he replied dismissively. "Good night."

Ivan reciprocated, but Gavi hung up before he could finish the sentence. He threw the phone to the opposite end of the sofa, and continued with his gaze fixed on the Grand Prix.

Once again, Verstappen was in the lead, while Alonso fell places in the table.

───────────────────

" Don't do anything stupid. "

"I've been doing stupid things for a long time. I think this is the first time I might do something sane."

" If you screw up this operation– "

"This operation has been screwed from the very moment it started," he replied curtly, pushing open the car door, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear while with his other hand he reached for a folder of papers that rested on the passenger seat. "Pablo doesn't want to change teams."

" He’ll be your teammate ," the voice on the phone replied as Vinicius closed the door of his car and pressed the button to turn it off. He looked around as he stood up to walk inside the building—He'd seen the Ciutat Esportiva once from the outside, but he’d never gone through its metal fences. And the truth is that the withering look that the guard gave him while he raised the security barrier didn’t quite invite him to show up there again. “ You’ll guide him, teach him that with us he can know true glory– ”

"Don't you get it? He doesn't care for glory," he replied bitterly. "It may or may not be stupid, but it is what it is. You've gone to get hooked on the one footballer on the planet who doesn't care about money or greatness.” Vinicius clicked his tongue. "Although well, that's exactly the thing about him, isn't it? How raw he is. You can't buy him. We all want what we can have, huh?"

" You and I both can have what we want, if you don't mess it up! " The voice on the phone answered. He was used to hearing the man calm, collected, always one step ahead, that's why seeing Florentino with such an on edge tone brought Vinicius a strange feeling of power.

"You think that's what I want? Knowing that Gavi will resent me every day he spends training far from Barcelona, far from all his friends, and far from La Masía? That he’d appreciate it if I was the one to separate him from that pathetic coach whom he likes so much?"

" He's a kid, he'll grow up and understand..."

"You know what, maybe we should stop using the fact that he’s a brat as a bleedin’ excuse," he suggested wryly. "He's a kid you want to take away from all the people he loves and bring into a team he hates ." Vinicius looked at the watch on his wrist. He grimaced when he saw that he was already five minutes late for his meeting—Ah, f*ck it, surely Laporta could wait ten minutes. "Can you guess what he’ll think the next time we lose against Barcelona? Who will he resent when we lose at the Camp Nou and the stadium he once considered his home booes his name? Can you imagine how he’ll feel about us when his life team turns him into a public enemy?"

" That didn't have to happen, because Gavi was supposed to hate Barça as much as Barça hated him. But it was you who went and f*cked it up. And now you want to send everything to hell for... what? A renewed sense of justice? "

"I can't go another f*cking day knowing that he hates me!"

" Maybe you should’ve had your priorities straight and looked for another f*cking hole to stick it in, but now you're in just as deep a pickle as I am, and screwing up this operation will have consequences for you. "

Vinicius clenched his fist around the folder, crumpling the papers closest to the edge. "Then let it f*cking be."

" Vinicius! " The Brazilian took the phone from his ear, and heard Floretino's residual voice calling his name before deciding to hang up the phone and put it in his pocket.

Then he picked it up one last time to put it on silent, to make sure it was in Do Not Disturb mode, because if he knew the old man at all, he would try to contact him all morning to discourage him from doing something stupid.

He glanced at the parked car—it took him just seconds to recognise Gavi's, a white Cupra, which was certainly too big for someone like him.

It's not that Vini believed that would be Gavi's personal choice, but in the end Cupra was Barça's sponsor that season, and the Golden Boy had no choice but to parade the vehicle through the streets of Barcelona. It was massive, tall, surprisingly wide—kind of family-suited, definitely not a single teenager's choice.

He also saw Raphinha's car out of the corner of his eye, recognising it from the few times they saw each other for national team purposes—A Tesla, tacky as it may be.

As he walked inside the building, he prepared his strategy; If he wanted to talk to Gavi (and believe him, he did ) it had to be after the meeting. Being able to say hey, I just kind of preserved your dream and saved your career was a good card to play if you wanted to have someone's attention. And again, he did. He assumed that meeting any of the other Barça players would result in a withering glare in the best of scenarios, so he figured it’d be best to sneak into the offices without attracting attention. He could hear the noises coming from the training field anyway, so they were probably all doing their own thing, far from the inside halls.

He opened the glass door and entered the building, receiving the hallways stamped with the Barça crest with a grimace on his face.

You know what? He constantly called Gavi childish because of his aversion to Madrid, but seeing himself surrounded in such a Barcelona sanctuary was bringing up the lowest emotions within him.

It didn't take him even two steps to reach the reception—Through the glass he was able to catch a glimpse of how the players were training, Xavi directing them with a coat hugging his torso. He tried to search among all the culé players, but there was no trace of Gavi.

He guessed that he spent so much time looking around for the young Sevillian, that he ended up forcing the poor receptionist to clear her throat to get his attention—she was young, fairly pretty, although Vinicius wasn't much into chicks. She was wearing a polo shirt with the Barça crest embroidered on the collar, and when the Brazilian returned her gaze, she looked down at her computer. "You’ve got a meeting at eleven thirty, right?"

"I do, yeah."

She nodded, clicking a couple of things on the screen with her mouse. "They’re waiting for you."

He hummed. "I hope eagerly so," he mocked, then began to walk, folder clutched firmly under his arm.

Before he turned the corner, the girl added: "Third door on the right."

The office hallways had a more serious and corporate tone; Less Barça crests printed on the walls, more transparent doors and white lights. Everything was more tense once you crossed the corner, like going from the children's area of a hospital to the first floor for adults.

The third sliding glass door on the right was open, and the atmosphere inside was heavy, even for him.

He took a deep sigh before looking out to see the environment. Afterwards, he only needed to tilt his head to see a group of three men in suits scrutinizing him with their gaze.

"My, you couldn't be more extra if you tried," he commented, trying to release the tension. He leaned on the frame before stepping inside, grabbing the hands of the two board members who flanked either side of Laporta, and who had stood up as soon as they caught a glimpse of him in the hallway. "Why so serious?"

Laporta looked him up and down. He finally decided to stand up, stretching his arm. "I do consider this matter a serious issue."

"Not really, just a couple of fa*gs trynna have a fling," he scoffed. One of the board members (one who had a large mustache covering the entirety of his upper lip) gasped as if he’d been personally offended. Laporta didn’t react while Vinicius shook his hand firmly. "Well, come on, let's negotiate... Or whatever comes up."

(...)

Vinicius closed the door behind him.

There was no longer a folder. His cell phone was still silent.

Now, the only thing that accompanied him was a heavy feeling in his chest, a desire to sit down and hide his head in his hands until something could give him the clarity of having done the right thing.

(...)

The Joan Gamper facilities were fairly smaller than Valdebebas. As he walked through the hallways, he saw the girls team out of the corner of his eye, and only stopped for a moment to observe them through the glass.

He wasn't much into women's football. He’d seen one or two Clasicos (all ended with the humiliating defeat of Real Madrid, who certainly didn’t seem to even pose a threat against Barça Femení), some Champions League or the World Cup final, but it's not like he could name the players from memory. He recognised Aitana Bonmatí (her name was everywhere those days); Alexia Putellas, of course; Graham Hansen (who used to be like the raising star in the Clasicos); and he missed catching a glimpse of the tattooed Mapi León—he recalled something about her torning her external meniscus, but he hasn't done much research to be sure.

They were running up and down, practicing passing and resistance, doing one of those circuits that the CMs who ran the socials loved to record. The coach was a short man –maybe that was a requirement among Barça's coaches– who at that moment was standing next to Putellas, discussing something that Vinivcius couldn’t distinguish through the glass.

Must suck, knowing that the women's faction of your club could trample the men's team. At least Vinicius had the notion that Bellingham could win a duel against Olga Carmona.

But at that moment he hadn’t gone there to sh*t on Barça, he’d come here to bring peace, and there will be peace.

That reminded him, he should be on the look out for the indoor training facilities, where the physical trainers probably had Gavi doing reinsertion work—He was half sure the following Tuesday Barça was playing against Porto or something, and they probably needed have their Golden Boy nice and ready.

He kept walking. He also saw Barça B training as well—they were all kids, but to be fair, so was Barça's first team.

He decided that skirting the outer fields would get him nowhere, so he instead chose to enter the hallways. He passed storage closets and bathrooms (again, stamped with the Barça crest, which he though was quite appropriate for a place dedicated to scatological activities), and finally began to see the beginning of gyms and indoor warm-up zones. He passed a couple of windows in silence, until finally he heard the unmistakable labored breathing coming from inside one of the training areas.

When he looked inside to get a better look, taking care to hide his presence, he caught Gavi's back doing squats.

Ah , what a sight. The first time he saw him in a little more than a week, and the first glimpse he caught of his personal beloved Golden Boy was his pert butt. You know, life was a bitch often times, but it could be really rewarding when you knew how to take advantage of the few opportunities it gave you.

He partially hid behind a wall, so that the physical trainer who accompanied Gavi wouldn't take notice of him. He was squatting in front of him, looking at his watch—he assumed to count down the seconds until they had to change exercises.

Vini would never understand straight men.

How could you be looking at your watch with that nonchalance when you had f*cking Pablo Gavi with his arse exposed right in front of your nose, wearing those freakishly sinful shorts? Especially with that way he had of pulling them until the edge was wedged in the part where the thigh joined the pelvis, leaving his entire leg exposed—and in that crouched position, revealing part of his buttock.

Vinicius was drooling just looking at him, and there was a glass separating them. If he could be as close to him as that bloody trainer, he’d already be burying his nose in his neck, beads of sweat sensually running down his skin, and he’d squeeze his hands around those fleshy cheeks until leaving tattoos of his fingertips on his delicate skin and—

" Hey ," a gruff voice exclaimed behind him. Vinicius's blood ran cold. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Vinicius heard footsteps approaching, and although he was determined that keeping his face pressed against the wall was probably his best bet to avoid being recognised, the angry stomping gave him the clue that it’d be better to turn around and have a real chance to defend himself—Although it wasn't as if any of the Barça boys would try to attack him, right?

Besides, he could probably take most of them in a fight. Maybe not Araujo or that Portuguese bloke with the crazy eyes and tattoos on his neck, but if he ended up in a direct physical confrontation against Pedri or Lamine Yamal , surely he...

He gulped as soon as he turned around.

sh*t.

Ah, sh*t.

"I said," Xavi Hernandez repeated. "What the f*ck are you doing here?"

Next thing he knew, he was pressed against the glass, Xavi's rough hands perched on the collar of his shirt and his feet about to rise from the ground.

The sound of the impact against the glass alerted Gavi and the trainer who was guiding his movements, and they both ran out of the gym room to observe the scene that was taking place.

Gavi's face was pale, although Vinicius couldn't spend much time looking at him because he was too busy trying to get away from that f*cking lunatic of a coach.

"Stay away from him, do you hear me?" Xavi shouted. He shook him against the glass, bouncing his head with a thud. "Or I swear–! "

Vinicius wasn’t too attentive to the phrases, busy in the middle of the struggle trying to get away, but he was sure that they at least included the words kill , kick and son of a bitch .

Ya. This wasn't going as planned.

Alerted by the noise, Ferran and Pedri appeared running down the hallway, followed by Sergi Roberto. The physical trainer who was helping Gavi with the stretching was getting between Xavi and Vinicius, while Gavi was also trying to sneak between the two and push his coach's chest.

"If you come near him one more f*cking time I swear–!"

"Mate!" Sergi exclaimed, joining in to hold Xavi by the shoulders—good side was, Hernandez’s days as an athlete were long gone, and with them, his impeccable physicality. Sergi only needed Ferrán's brief support to have a good grip on the coach and hold him off. "Calm the bloody hell down!"

Gavi had gotten between the two to separate them, and when they moved Xavi away from the conflict, only the palm of his left hand rested on Vinicius's chest. The Brazilian was loosening the collar of the shirt that Xavi had stretched out, one hand resting on the glass to maintain balance.

Xavi was now raising his hands, as if he were trying to convince Sergi, Ferran and the physical trainer that he didn't need to be held. Gavi, for his part, had gone from looking at Xavi to turning his head to look at Vinicius with half-closed eyes. He didn't seem quite upset, neither quite angry, simply utterly confused. Although Vinicius was sure that would change as soon as he processed his presence at the Ciutat Esportiva, so he decided to swallow his anger towards Xavi with all the willpower in his being, and take advantage of Gavi's attention now that his reactive self was put on hold:

"I've had a meeting with Laporta," he explained shortly. He was considering going for I needed to talk to you , or perhaps I had to see you , but he decided to go with the option that would not make him look like a stalker right away. "I– Can we–?" He bit his lip. No, asking Gavi to talk alone at that moment couldn't go well. "I've helped your case, I swear. I've thought things through and..."

"Just leave him alone dude,” Ferran intervened. He reached out to put a hand on Gavi's shoulder and pull him along. Vinicius had the slight and fleeting temptation to break his arm in half. "You f*cked it all for him, what else do you want?"

"I'm trynna fix what–!"

"Fix the fact that you're a bloody c*nt ?" Pedri added. "Get the f*ck out of here."

"I don't f*cking got to explain myself to any of you!"

Vinicius' shout once again upset Xavi, who was already on the edge. "Shut the bloody hell up–!"

In the end, he was the one who ended up keeping his mouth shut. Thanks to Gavi, specifically, who had gotten out of Ferran's grip and raised a hand so that Xavi would stop screaming—Sergi Roberto pulled him away again, supported by Gavi's physical trainer.

"What are you doing here?" Gavi asked him.

Yeah , he hadn't heard that voice in too many days to stay sane. He wanted to close his eyes and melt into the thread. Still, he held back. He swallowed and looked down at Gavi, who had gotten his teammates to move back and give them some space—he certainly preferred to have that conversation by themselves, but he supposed that would do.

Vinicius sighed. He tried to reach out an arm toward Gavi, but he pulled away. He also saw how Xavi struggled from Roberto's grip and mumbled something about not putting a finger on him if he didn't want to have his hand cut off , so he decided to leave the contact for another time.

He kept his distance and put his arms in his pants pockets. "I’ve spoken with–"

"Yeah, I got that, you had a meeting with Laporta—What the f*ck for?" Gavi interrupted him, and Vinicius was already able to find the hostile tone in his voice.

"I came to–" He glanced at Xavi and the other Barcelona boys. He hadn't realized it, but some other adults, part of Xavi's coaching team, had also joined the party. It was a matter of time before the other players began to arrive, so it was better to hurry. "I— I don't wanna discuss this here, but I've basically told them to let you stay and–"

" Let me stay?" Gavi repeated indignantly. "You came here to beg the board to let me stay?"

"Well, there wasn't much begging, it was more—"

"You think I couldn't do that on my own? That the problem is that I need to beg them?" He insisted, with a wrinkled expression. Vinicius cursed that he hadn’t chosen his words better, but he assumed that Gavi's trigger was already pressed and unable to be stopped now. "Now you come here after all you've done and—What? Out of pity? You think you can just fix what you've done?"

"Well," Vinicius stammered, under Gavi's gaze, narrowed, teeth clenched, fists clenched. " Partly? "

Gavi raised his eyebrows, then let a wry laugh possess him. He looked around, even casting a sidelong glance at Xavi. Finally, he pressed the inside of his cheek with his tongue to end up pushing Vinicius hard, pushing him backwards. "Are you f*cking kidding me?"

"Gavi, I–" Vinicius began to mutter. Gavi gave him another push. "Just listen to what I have to say!"

"I don't f*cking wanna listen to anything you've got to say!"

"I came here for you !"

" No one asked you to! " He screeched. His teammates had widened eyes. Vinicius only needed to look back to realize that more players had joined in to the fuss— Fermín's blonde hair, standing in the front row next to Ferran and Pedri, attracted all his attention until Gavi raised his voice at him again: "I just wanted you to leave me f*cking alone!"

Vinicius caught Gavi's arm before receiving the third push. He pulled him towards him with a sharp movement. "I told you I wouldn't let you walk away from me, didn't I?"

He blurted out the sentence coldly, and Gavi only hesitated for a couple of minutes before breaking free of his grip with such force that he propelled Vinicius against the glass. Behind his head, he noticed how Fermín was tempted to intervene—that only made Vinicius want to stick closer to Gavi, even if he knew that that wasn’t the way to tame him.

"Just, please , listen to me," he pleaded again, trying to forget the spectators and staring at Gavi intently. "I f*cked up and I've done everything I can to fix it and I just need you to listen to me, cause you don't know the half of it–"

"What the f*ck else could I need to know?"

"At least let me explain–"

" No! " He replied in a screech. His eyes were turning red. He was agitated, on edge. At any moment he was going to burst. "You lied to me, you manipulated me, and now that I've left you behind you show up here—At my f*cking job ! Dude! Are you f*cking aware of how creepy this is?"

Vinicius cursed under his breath, throwing only a sidelong glance at all the spectators. "I didn't mean to make a scene, it's that crazy coach of yours who came to attack me–!"

"Can't blame him! I'm hardly holding off myself!" Vini looked away to the side. Gavi put his hands on his head. "It's just... f*ck . What the hell were you expecting to accomplish? You come here, in all your f*cking glory, and expect me to listen to you? After you've f*cked up my entire life?"

"I came here precisely to fix–!"

"You don't want to fix anything! You just want me to stop being mad at you!"

The Brazilian shook his head. " What–? " He babbled. "Yeah, and what's so wrong about that?"

One of the Barça boys had the f*cking guts to laugh . Vinicius clenched his jaw, turning red with embarrassment.

Oh , he was gonna demolish those bastards in the next Clasico, you can be sure of at least that.

"That you don't even f*cking know what you did wrong!" Gavi responded, a defeated tone in his gaze. "That for you everything went wrong the moment I found out about what you did! That you had me practically kidnapped, knowing I was bloody miserable every second because the club of my life had betrayed me, and you were elated !"

"I thought I was helping you..."

"But you weren't! You were helping yourself !" He accused. "And you didn’t maybe thought about stopping for two seconds to realise that your whole... f*cking— ploy ... Was making me miserable! I missed my friends and I missed my home and you were f*cking getting off on the fact that I was just for you to enjoy!" He bit the inside of his cheek. He had tears gathering in the corners of his eyes— God, Vinicius had seen him cry more in the last month than in his entire life. What did that say about him? "The truth is... just the fact that you could do something like that to me says enough to know that I don't even want to have this f*cking conversation with you. Just the fact that you believed that I could be happy at some point—Or just maybe the fact that you never cared about me being happy."

"Of course I–" Vinicius swallowed. "I cared about you more than–!"

"You cared about you ."

"I just came here and risked my entire career for you !" Vinicius accused him, the small, wild-like part of him (more Gavi-like) beginning to feel like a cornered dog in need to bark. "I came and told Laporta he could tell the world I was a f*cking fa*g— No, f*ck that, I told Laporta I would tell the world I was a f*cking fa*g if he didn't take you back!" Gavi widened his eyes. With the movement, a few tears slid down his cheekbones. "Yes, damn it! I brought the photos and put them on his bloody table! And you know what? I don't give a sh*t! I don't want a f*cking career if I don't have you by my side!"

"That's the thing with you! You chose your truth! You chose the path that you think’s right and demolish everything in the way! But I can't make any f*cking decisions around here!" Vinicius took a step back. Gavi was approaching him with an angry tone. His face was actually turning red. "You almost destroy my career because you decide that Barcelona’s not my place anymore! And while I still try to fix the mess that you created, you come and decide to put my career in danger again !"

Gavi slammed his outstretched palm against the glass, causing the vibration to resonate for several seconds. Vinicius assumed that he was already reaching his limit.

"Because yes ! Let's give the bloody arsehole that wants to sell me at all cost a f*cking picture of me kissing a f*cking dude! Nothing can go wrong with that!" He screamed. "Maybe I didn't wanna go back to Barça! But you just had to go and destroy everything I was working towards! Because that's you ! You break everything you touch and on top of that you expect the rest of us to be fine with it!"

"I was trying to help you!"

"Do you have any idea how that's been working for me so far?" Vinicius ended up running his back against the wall. Gavi leaned over him, his eyes blazing. "f*ck, just get out of here! Get out of my f*cking life once and for all!"

He gave him one last push and prepared to turn around, but Vinicius just couldn't let it be. He stretched out an arm and grabbed his shoulder, begging: "Gavi I just—"

The response came in the form of a punch, directly against Vinicius's temple, which made him actually destabilise and have to lean on the glass to stay upright. Gavi kept his fist raised as he let out ragged breaths, staring at Vinicius with eyes so wide that he looked a little manic.

" Get out of here! " He screeched in agitation. "Just get the f*ck out of here!"

Vinicius tried to plead again, even if his dignity was being spat on and trampled on. "Gavi please–"

Gavi tried to throw himself at him again, a vein in his forehead about to burst, but this time he found a pair of arms that held him back.

It was Fermín.

Of course it was f*cking Fermín.

" Gavi please–! " He exclaimed, but Fermín was grabbing Gavi by the forearms and dragging him away, through the crowd of Barça players, who were now looking perplexed at the pathetic image that Vinicius Jr. had become.

Raphinha took a step forward. Vinicius didn't even bother to regard him. “Come on, I'll take you to the parking lot," he told him, putting a hand on his back to guide himm. Vinicius only allowed himself to be directed a couple of steps, then stopped with regained lucidity:

"Wait, I've got to talk to–" He turned around, but found himself surrounded by the same wall of Barça players who were previously spectators of the argument. "Raphinha f*cking let me–!"

"Shut the f*ck up, dude!" Raphinha cut him off angrily, now grabbing Vinicius's shirt with a closed fist, squeezing the fabric. "You came, you made a fool of yourself, and now it's time for you to get the f*ck out! He doesn't want to see you!"

"And don't come back here," added Xavi, who had stopped needing to be held by Sergi Roberto and his technical staff. "Stay away from Gavi, forever. "

Raphinha didn't give him time to stay and respond, and he didn't give him time to dedicate a few words to the idiots on the Barça team who’d been watching his heart be trampled over and over again. He simply let himself be dragged out of the building, blinded by the sun that hit him directly in the eyes.

"You screwed big time," he mentioned coldly, before re-entering the Ciutat. Vinicius didn't bother to pretend that he was listening to him. "Do him a favour and don't do him more favours, yeah? He's pretty miserable already thanks to you ."

(...)

Fermín held him by the shoulders without saying a word. There was no harshness in his movements, and Gavi could even recognise the ghost of the gentleness with which they usually treated each other.

They went to the locker room, which was on the underground floors, and Fermín opened the wooden door to make way for Gavi.

"That was intense," Fermín mentioned, uncomfortably, while Gavi looked for a place on the benches and leaned his back against the wall, apparently exhausted. "You've got to have guts to come here and pull something like that."

"Or just have no shame. He's an expert on that."

Fermín pursed his lips, nodding his head slowly and silently. He took out a bottle of water from a refrigerator near the entrance and threw it at Gavi, who didn't catch it—rather, he let it fall and then bent down to pick it up from the floor. Then he grabbed another bottle from inside the refrigerator and opened it for himself, struggling to twist the cap.

He walked slowly to the bench where Gavi was sitting, plopping down a few centimeters from him, his head resting on Christensen's sweatshirt.

"We heard you shouting, that's why we all appeared in the hall."

"I guessed."

"Yeah, you were being loud."

“It happens."

Gavi let his head fall back, his eyes hooded downward. Fermín took a swallow from the bottle, holding it between his knees.

"Vinicius is a c*nt," the blonde added. "If you hadn't hit him, I would’ve done it."

"Or Xavi," Gavi mentioned. "You missed the best part. The bastard was sneaking around and before I knew it he was holding Vinicius against the glass of the gym area.”

"No f*cking way, the mister did that?"

Gavi huffed a half-hearted laugh. "The father complex took over him." Fermín let out a shy laugh. "We had to get between them. Then Sergi saved Vinicius's arse."

"Save his arse? You think Xavi would’ve won?"

"I know Xavi would’ve won."

Fermín continued giggling, while Gavi opened his bottle and took a couple of short sips as well. He spread his legs until their knees touched, and he felt comforted by the contact.

"I'm sorry I said you had sex with Vinicius in front of the whole team," he said, his tone tense, jaw clenched. Gavi turned to give him a curious look, then turned back to the front.

"Well, I did f*ck Vinicius."

"It was rude."

" Bah , it happens." Gavi downplayed it. " I'm sorry I f*cked Vinicius." The comment took Fermín by surprise in a way that made him burst into laughter. "Now that's something to be sorry for."

" Ah , it happens," Fermín echoed sarcastically. Gavi turned to him with a giggle appearing on his features. "I want you to know that— " He swallowed, drawing half of Gavi into it. "If Laporta uses those photos against you, I'll quit Barça."

Gavi sat up on the locker room bench. "What?"

"The photos of you and Vinicius. If Laporta makes them public, or if he tries to blackmail you in the slightest with them, Barça can suck my dick. I'll quit this team."

Gavi took a deep breath. "Fer, I can't ask you to do that–"

"I don't need you to ask me. I will. I won't stay in a team that could ever treat my— Anyone , like that; but much less my best friend."

Gavi shook his head. "I can't let you–"

"I'm not asking your permission. It is what it is."

Gavi grimaced, snorting through his nose before slumping back against the locker room wall. "Don't talk nonsense. Your dream is to succeed at Barça."

"At Barça with you ."

"I may not even be here from January on."

Fermín let out a huff. "Well," he mumbled, dismissive. "I stand my word. If those photos leak and Barça has something to do with it, you and I will be for sale in January."

Gavi had to remain silent, resigned, taking another gulp from the bottle while Fermín did the same, sitting next to him. "In the end you were right, who'd say," he muttered, "Vinicius was only here to ruin my life. I was the idiot. Who'd say. "

" I'd say," Fermín replied curtly. Gavi glared at him while his friend smiled innocently back at him. "He's a c*nt," he repeated, "I don't know how you could like someone like him."

"Neither do I," he confessed, "He's a f*cking c*nt."

"The worst of the lot."

"The absolute bloody worst."

Fermín nodded, taking one last swallow that ended all the water in the bottle. Then he threw it to the floor of the locker room. Gavi followed it with his gaze, watching it roll until it hit the wall.

"And I was madly in love with him. What does that say about me?"

Fermín hummed, thoughtful: "That you're kind of, sort of, a little bit of a c*nt too?"

Gavi gave a half-hearted laugh. He sank a little against the wall, trapping his lower lip between his teeth. “I was letting him do things to me that I wouldn’t have allowed anyone . And the fact that he always kept taking it a step too far until–”

Fermín turned to look at Gavi's profile. He was blinking rapidly, head tilted up.

“Fer I feel so pathetic,” he confessed. “I was actually in love with him. I let him hurt me and treat me like sh*t. If this hadn’t ocurred I don’t know what— What could’ve happened, when every boundary was trampled on.”

"You're scaring me," Fermín confessed, smiling uncomfortably, the implication of the confession leaving an ugly feeling in his stomach that made him shift in his seat.

"I scared myself at times," Gavi admitted. "When I simply let him treat me as if he owned me. Sometimes I wondered how far I’d let him go.”

Gavi remembered himself struggling to find his breath as Vinicius pressed his head against the pillow, while his pleads to get off of him died against the mattress. Maybe that was a step too far, or maybe it wasn't. Vinicius had taken it upon himself to erase those lines.

"Sometimes I think I would’ve let him take every piece of me until I was left with nothing."

Fermín's expression was distraught. Gavi didn't dare look back at him.

"I'm truly pathetic, ain't I? I can't fall in love with someone normal," he admitted, "Because I was. I was desperately in love with him. So what does that say about me, Fer?"

Gavi brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them weakly.

"God, I'm so f*cking pathetic," he wailed, " So, so, so pathetic."

When he burst into tears, Fermín was there to put his hand on his shoulder and hug his back.

Maybe that was why Vinicius hated Fermín so much, because he used to have the task of putting back together everything he broke.

The cries were drowned this time against Fermín's chest, who supported him with the necessary care. And minutes passed like this, while Gavi lamented his own existence, until they heard a knock on the door.

Fermín looked up: "Not a good moment!" He exclaimed quickly, while Gavi separated from him and rubbed away his tears (although the ghost of crying remained in his red eyes and swollen lips).

It was Xavi's voice that responded through the wood of the door: "Is Gavi here?" He asked. "I need to talk to him."

"Now it's not—" Fermín tried to repeat, but Gavi cut him off by slapping his leg.

"It's okay," he first told his friend. Then he composed himself before telling Xavi to open the door. The coach did, and the first thing he did was walk around the room looking for his players. The muscles in his face tensed when he recognised Gavi crying, but he knew there’d be no point in bringing it up.

"Are you alright?" He asked anyway, because he couldn't pretend that he wasn't terribly worried about the kid. Gavi nodded with a forced smile, sitting up straight with his arms crossed. Xavi sighed, standing in front of them with a nervous expression. "I need to talk to you. It's urgent."

"What happened?"

Xavi looked from Fermín to Gavi. He decided not to ask if they had made up in case he, I don't know, jinxed it or something. “I’ve spoken with the board." Gavi raised his eyebrows. Fermín leaned forward with keen interest. "I wanted to ask about that meeting—If it wasn't true, we could report that bastard for trespassing and... Well, the point, it was indeed true."

Gavi nodded expectantly. Fermín put an arm on his shoulder, trying to calm him down.

"Gavi," Xavi addressed him clearly. "Barça wants you to stay. They’re willing to have a firm no for the rest of the teams."

Fermín almost left his seat. Gavi remained static, elbows on his knees and eyebrows raised in expectation. " What? How? " Fermín asked before Gavi's silence. Xavi nodded, and a smile began to appear at the corners of his face. "Yeah," he celebrated. "They haven't given me many details but... They’re willing to pretend that none of this has happened. You can stay at Barça without negotiating."

Two pairs of eyes fell on Gavi.

He just slumped against the wall.

───────────────────

When he crossed the threshold of the door, he left his keychain on the furniture on the landing. He took off his shoes, and left his training bag by the door for the cleaning girl to pick up later.

He’d showered, and the moisture was still evaporating from his hair. Disheartened, he approached the thermostat by the entrance and pressed the button to raise the heat. With his legs slightly numb, he fell onto the nearest armchair, sighing lazily.

His phone vibrated with a message from his mother—since all that stuff with the photos with Vinicius and the almost-transfer, she was pretty keen on checking up on him. And so was his sister, who had left him a missed call while he was showering after finishing training.

Fermín had also left him a couple of texts while he was driving, which he hadn't bothered to open yet.

The press was full of photos of Vinicius roaming around Barcelona –he wasn't even trying to disguise himself, the bastard– going to cafes and clothing stores, as if absolutely nothing was happening, as if he were simply on a quiet vacation. Hence why Fermín was terribly disturbed by the idea that the Brazilian could do something to Gavi.

He certainly thought it was an exaggeration, but their relationship was strained at best, and as long as Fermín was over protective of him, he wouldn't be giving him the cold shoulder.

Vinicius wasn't the kind to jump him on the streets and attack him. The worst he could do was show up at his door, most likely hammered, for which he had the unbeatable solution of turning a deaf ear and continuing sleeping.

Yeah, since Gavi had exposed certain nuances of their relationship, Fermín not only cursed Vinicius' name, but actually seemed eager to not let Gavi take two steps without someone accompanying him—truthfully, it wasn't all that deep.

While he was typing to Fermín that he was safe and that no hormonal Brazilian had assaulted him in the garage of his house, the screen of his phone turned black. He rolled his eyes as he read his agent's name in the center of the screen. Those last few days she had been calling religiously at the exact time he got home from training.

He waited a few seconds, letting a couple of rings run, then slid the green button with a sigh.

"Yeah?"

" How was your day? "

Gavi searched between the sofa cushions for the TV remote, to see if he was in time to watch the evening news. "Fine, uneventful."

“ After the last few weeks, that is appreciated. "

"I guess."

He found it between the armrest and the cushion he was sitting on, and had to hold the phone between his shoulder and ear to reach it. " So training was alright? None of your teammates are retaliating against you? "

Retaliating . Gavi scoffed, as he pointed the remote at the TV and turned on the screen. "No," he replied shortly, "Xavi’s the same as always, so are the rest. Pedri's not talking to me, but we’ve argued so I guess that’s to be expected."

" Oh, that sucks. You should talk about whatever happened between you two. "

"Yeah, I don't think it'll be that easy."

Ivan pressed the issue a bit, but finally left Gavi alone. He made some small talk, just for the sake of not being rudely direct, and finally asked: " So, have you thought about the signing thing? "

Gavi put on the first channel. They were talking about a macrobotellon on the outskirts of a town in Galicia. Ha . Lucky c*nts. "Care to go on about the offers again?"

Ivan cursed under his breath, although Gavi heard him from his side of the line. " You know the offers ," Peña accused. " Bayern offers a good salary, Madrid a higher salary, PSG a bongers f*cking salary. "

"I told you that PSG is out of the question."

" It's a lot of money to turn down just like that. "

"Madrid has too many Champions to turn down just like that, but it doesn't seem like that's going to happen any time soon, does it?"

" Madrid still wants a loan. "

"Yeah, but Barça doesn't."

" If you want a loan I can get you a– "

"I don't know what I want."

"W ell, it's about damn time you figure that out, Gavi! "

"I'm trying to!" Gavi responded, raising his voice perhaps more than necessary. When he got a hold of himself, he ran his hands over his face and sat up straight. "I still don't know what to do."

Ivan remained silent for a few seconds. Then Gavi heard him sigh. " Look ," he exhaled. " If what you want is to stay at Barça– "

"If I wanted to stay at Barça, I would tell you that I want to stay at Barça," he cut him off coldly. "Barça screwed me. Just because they magically decided that it was no longer a tradeable token doesn't mean I forgive 'em just like that."

Of course, the fact that Barça suddenly wanted him back had not been an arbitrary decision of fate—rather, since the meeting with Vinicius, Laporta seemed so keen on taking him back all over again.

Yeah, that was just the prospect he needed. That if Barça kicked him out it was because of Vinicius and if they wanted him back it was also because of Vinicius. Truly wonderful. Clearly Vini knew him so well.

" Okay. Then Madrid is it? "

"Madrid played with my image, invented fake news about me and hired a photographer to take bloody photos of me at the worst possible moments. Does that seem like a fruitful relationship to you?”

Ivan snorted. " Then what the f*ck do you want, Gavi? "

He did hear himself. He knew he sounded f*cking irrational.

"What about Bayern?" Said Sevillian, in an attempt not to seem completely retarded.

That piqued Ivan's interest. " Is Bayern what you want? "

"I'm just asking how that would go."

His agent took a few seconds to think. " You’d be much less mediatic—Nothing moves the press as much as Barça and Madrid after all. "

"I only hear advantages."

" And you don't know a word of German—or well, English. Although we could get around that. " Gavi threw his head back. Brilliant . The prospect of having to learn a new language was just what he needed. " The only problem really is that Barça is going to complicate that transfer a lot—now that the board’s finally made up their mind, they really don't wanna let you go. "

Gavi pressed his lips into a line. "Should've thought about that before trying to kick me out the back door." He muttered under his breath.

Ivan clicked his tongue, waiting for a few seconds of silence. " I also don't think you should rule out Barça as an option so hastily. " Gavi looked at the ceiling lazily. " Your friends and your life are in Barcelona. That’s also a burden when negotiating. "

"Well, that's footballer's life, isn't it?"

" It doesn't have to be. "

Gavi huffed in irritation. "So you’re saying you want me to stay in Barcelona?"

" I want whatever you want. " Before Gavi insisted that he doesn't know what he wants, De La Peña said simply: " You've been happy at this club all your life and I don't want you to rush. Barça is your passion and I think that's a big part of who you are as a player. I wouldn't want you to lose that. "

That line alone brought him back to his argument with Pedri, to t alent against heart , to the fact that being reduced to his passion was the main reason why he and Pedri fell apart. "And don't you think it’d be better to go to a team in which I wasn't simply the heart and soul?"

De La Peña hummed confused. " Simply? " He asked in disbelief. " Your passion is what makes you you . Not everyone can do what you do. Being the heart and soul is not synonymous with mediocrity. "

Gavi frowned, squeezing the first sofa cushion within reach between his fingers, returning his gaze to the evening news playing on the TV, the volume almost at minimum. "I still don't know what to do," he concluded after several seconds of taking the sentence in. "I don't know if I'm ready to do anything in the winter market, even. Perhaps we should think about postponing operations until summer."

De La Peña made a noise that Gavi couldn't read. " Whatever you want, but that would be just delaying the hard decissions. "

"I personally am in no rush to resolve them." Ivan just clicked his tongue, not saying anything. "I'm going to leave you, okay? They're showing tomorrow's weather and I don't wanna miss it."

The excuse was poor, but Ivan didn't seem in the mood to argue. He hung up first and Gavi was able to let the phone fall between the sofa cushions.

(...)

The calendar was back to being almost painfully pressing.

Vinicius had already been seen at the airport, returning home to Madrid alone. LaLiga returned to dictating on weekends after the short break due to international matches. Likewise, the second round of the Champions League qualifiers was already more present than ever, and even the ruthless sports press had somewhat left the issue of Gavi's scandalous signing aside to focus on the Spanish teams competing again on European territory.

There had been some leaks. ' Tension in the Barça locker room ', ' Problems between Xavi and Laporta? The disruptive element: Pablo Gavi ', ' Figo's drama comes with a sequel, and Gavi is the main character ', or 'Pedri and Gavi, rumours of the enmity that marks Barça’s dressing room in its last steps before making the leap to Europe' were some of the most creative titles with which media such as Marca or Sport had attacked the Catalan entity since the infamous pictures were leaked.

While new speculations came out every day (Gavi even heard media relating him to the American soccer league, if you can believe that), De La Peña had stopped pressing the issue of deciding on a team, seeming to finally reach the conclusion of that Gavi wouldn’t accept any contract until the summer arrived.

The relationship between Xavi and Laporta was colder than ever, and despite the fact that the president of Barça seemed to have gone back on his decision to sell the Sevillian player, Gavi had not yet had a proper conversation with the president to at least explain why his sudden change of heart was due.

Well, he did know what it was due to, he just wanted to know what the f*ck Vinicius could've possibly said to make Laporta have such a firm posture all of a sudden. But, hey, he preferred not to worry his head with such issues. The more time passed, the more the press got colder about the whole thing, and the fans no longer seemed to want his head stuck on a stake at the entrance to Montjuic, so things weren't all that bad either.

(Regarding the culé fans, the first reactions when talking about a possible signing with Real Madrid were rather— murderous . He couldn't blame them, to be fair. They all had some sort of PTSD with the Figo case (and if it’d been any other of his teammates, Gavi would’ve, most likely, reacted just the same). But luckily, the less the matter was talked about, the majority seemed to be turning against the board rather than against him —also a certain female sector on TikTok was having their own kinda fun making edits with the leaked pictures, adding romantic songs and speculating that he and Vinicius were a couple— which was partly true, but they had also done that with him and Pedri on numerous previous occasions, so clearly those ladies didn't need much plausible evidence for their theories).

In short, things were returning more and more to normal. Apart from the fact that Pedri wouldn’t even bat an eye in his direction, that some of his teammates had become rather wary of him when it came to sharing a shower, and that he had all the big European clubs in suspense waiting for a decision on his possible transfer, his life was pretty much the same as always.

At the time he was in the bus, João Felix by his side. That Tuesday they’d play the second match of the Champions League qualifiers against Porto, in Barcelona. João looked at his cell phone, reading some girl's messages –probably another poor ill-fated woman that he’d use to unsuccessfully forget about his ex– and Gavi looked out the window as he began to hear in the distance the noise of the Barça ultras singing in the vicinity of Montjuic.

"Think there'll be flying pig heads?" João asked mockingly, after noticing how Gavi shifted nervously in his seat a couple of times. "Let’s hope I'm not on the field when that happens, blood repels me."

Gavi looked up, still with his arms crossed. A bitter smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I think they threw a roasted head at Figo."

"Don't know. I could ask him, though, I've got his number." He typed a couple more characters on his cell phone before dropping it onto his lap with disinterest. "I'm sure you’ve got a lot to talk about."

Gavi bit his lower lip. "You don't take even a bit of courtesy time before starting to make sh*tty jokes, huh?"

João looked up with an amusingly guilty look. "Too soon?"

"Lil' bit."

"Well, suck it up. You're the one who f*cked a Madridista."

"Ah, f*ck off."

"Bloody fa*ggot."

"This f*cking fa*g's gonna kick your arse if you don't shut the f*ck up."

João started laughing. He made a sound that sounded like an owl. "Look who's all feisty now! Clearly the transfer market doesn't put you in a good mood."

Gavi shook his head. His laughter had gone from distant bitterness to warm amusem*nt. He leaned his temple against the window, watching out of the corner of his eye as the bus passed among the fans—they had their torches lit, and a red light gave atmosphere to the road that went up to the peak of the mountain. From the point where they stood, they could see the clock that crowned the Olympic stadium.

Truthfully, Montjuic was rather dashing. If it weren't for the low capacity of spectators, the unfortunate location (which wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the fatality of Catalan public transport), and the disastrous athletics track that stood between the first row of the stands and the field, the site would be close to perfect.

Maybe he was just a sucker for old stuff. Maybe he just liked the clock that stood above it all.

"The transfer market’s always appeared murky to me, don't you think?" Gavi asked, rantingly. "They put a price and bid on us, like cattle. We’re normalising buying humans a bit too much. I thought that’d been abolished in like, the 19th century."

João took a few seconds to understand the joke, then burst into laughter. "Oh, yeah they’ll soon make a sequel to Gone with Wind and you’ll be the protagonist." Gavi smacked him on the leg. João covered his mouth to hide his smile, rolling his eyes. "You wouldn't have survived a day in my shoes," he mocked. "From Benfica to Atlético to Chelsea and now to Barça. And at this rate, I don't know what will happen to me next year either." He ran his hands behind his neck, sighing relaxedly. "I’d like to try the German league. Or perhaps Serie A— yeah, Italian girls are fit."

"Who the f*ck cares about Italian girls? You'll be back with Magui in less than two months."

João's smile disappeared from his face with comical speed. "f*ck off, mate," he mumbled. Gavi's smile widened. João slapped his forehead. " Knob ."

When they left the crowd of fans behind and the bus went down to the subway where the buses were evacuated, the bus lights came on. He saw Xavi standing up, followed closely by his brother, being the first to approach the door to get off the bus.

"Back to the flying pigs question," Gavi resumed, as he grabbed his backpack to stand up. "I certainly hope not."

He was on the starting eleven.

Well, of course Xavi would put him in the starting eleven.

Pedri and Gundo accompanied him in midfield; Iñaki was the goalkeeper (may God save us); Lewandowski went with Raphinha and João up front; Cancelo, Araujo, Kounde and Christensen defended on the back.

Clearly Xavi wasn't going to give him much time to prepare for the culé's wrath before setting foot on the pitch. Wether they were ready to curse his name and whistle every time he got close to the ball or not, he’d have to find out on the field.

He'd been one to preach that ridiculous Cruyff phrase like it was a verse from the Bible. That 'if you have second thoughts about playing for Barcelona, you are no longer of service to us '. His passionate thirteen-year-old self had trhived into believing that his beloved club didn't need anyone who wouldn't give their life for the crest.

Now, all that pride was spitting back in his face. If Twitter hadn’t already been filled with that f*cking phrase from Cryuff, right now his greatest fear was finding a banner that read that in large handwritten letters, perhaps accompanied by a photo of him to crown the humiliation.

Ah, yeah, that match had the potential to be a f*cking public humiliation. And he certainly couldn't blame the culés, but damn, having his own entire stadium booing his name was going to be an event that would for sure accompany him in his future nightmares.

He put on his boots, and without bothering to tie his laces, joined the line formed by his teammates in the stadium's locker room tunnels. The Porto players made a parallel line next to them—Nico Gonzalez, who’d greeted him with the propper enthusiasm (and a clear expression of constraint, not wanting to ask more questions than was appropriate); and Pepe, the former Madrid defender whose greatest achievement was stepping on Messi's fingers and having more yellow cards than goals in his career.

(Gavi evidently held no grudges.)

He didn’t really know the rest, although João did seem to be familiar with some. By the time he'd joined Gavi's side in the line, a certain Diego Costa was patting him on the back and saying something to him in unmistakable Portuguese.

Seeing the tension in his neck and his unmistakably serious face, João sighed, standing right behind him:

"I don't think they can sneak a pig's head into a stadium, Gavi."

Gavi blinked a few times nervously. Xavi had already gone out onto the field with the reserve players, who were sitting on the bench. As he was leaving the underground facilites, he squeezed Gavi’s shoulder and told him to break a leg (not literally, if possible).

Oh, God, he really needed a pep talk right now. The nerves were getting to him.

"If they managed once they can do it again,” he responded to João, just to talk to someone and not let himself drift into the depths of his thoughts.

"Stadiums got a lot of security these days."

"Maybe the security guys are in on it. How could they not? All culés must hate me right now."

"I'm sure it's not that –"

"Yeah, right," Gavi interrupted, ruffling his bangs nervously. "They loathe me. I've read Twitter. I've never seen insults in so many different languages—And last year, I was the punching bag of Real Madrid fans, so I should be somewhat seasoned on the subject of receiving hate.”

João put a hand on the back of his neck, pushing him forward so he could walk with the team as the Champions League anthem played. “It's all assumptions, people aren’t going to jump to conclusions–”

“They aren’t going to jump to conclusions? I’m yet to see the day where football fans aren’t reactionary and short f*cking minded.” He adjusted the collar of his sweater, as if it were suffocating him. “I couldn’t even blame them. Their conclusions are correct— I was photographed at f*cking Valdebebas man!”

João seemed really not up for that conversation, not while the sun was blinding them as they went out onto the field and they were shoulder to shoulder with Porto players—he could swear he just saw Otávio look at Gavi out of the corner of his eye as if he were completely crazy (which he was).

"Calm down," João insisted with a certain tone of impatience, both hands on his shoulders. "People don't even know if these are all rumours or not, literally no one has confirmed anything."

"There are photos of me with the f*cking Madrid jersey–"

"It'll be fine ."

"You can't possibly know—"

"You're practically the fans’ prodigal child," João cut crudely. "It's gonna take a bit more than some rumours and a shocking friendship to get booed in your own stadium. It'll be fine, Gavi."

Gavi gulped. In just a couple more steps, he’d already be exposed in the middle of the entire stadium, his boots once again touching the grass of Montjuic.

He decided to close his eyes, so that everything felt less real, and he knew that he’d already left the tunnels when the noise of the fans' chants began to echo in his ears with total clarity.

Was he motivated? Well, he was always over-excited in one way or another. Even if what he wanted to do was sit in the fetal position and hide his head between his elbows, he definitely felt as hyperactive as ever before starting a match.

Whatever the fans did, he couldn't blame them.

In a way, he’d always seen himself reflected in them. The euphoria and the disappointment, the desire to break everything standing in the way of the team. Since his first day training under Koeman, he’d always considered himself a child in a world of adults, a fan among a world of professionals. He was just lucky enough, fit enough and talented enough to be the one chasing the ball and not the one screaming from the stands, but the feeling was the same, with each victory and with each defeat.

In a way, Gavi knew that seeing any other Barça player wearing a Real Madrid shirt would have filled him with immeasurable anger. By what right would he curse a fan for burning a jersey with his name on it?

In a way, maybe that was just another push. Maybe that made him enter the grass with more desire than ever. Because his rage was at Laporta and not at the fans, and because he wanted to remind them that his heart was as fiery as ever.

When he opened his eyes, his teammates were shaking the Porto players’ hands, and the sun dazed him for just a few seconds. While the Champions League anthem was playing, he decided to avoid staring at the stands and instead look directly at the Barça bench, where he met Xavi's gaze with ease.

He gave him a warm smile that made Gavi want to tear up. Then he looked up at the sky, clenching his fists behind his back.

Ya . That was going to be a long game.

(...)

"D’ya know if Lotti is punishing you or not?"

Bellingham sat next to him, a bag of some protein sh*tty crisps that tasted like rice in his lap. Rodrygo had the phone in his hand, announcing the current results of the other matches, while the Barça-Porto match ran on the TV. Camavinga and Tchouameni were arguing about something in French, leaving the other three out (which was, indeed, f*cking rude).

Vinicius, meanwhile, simply let his eyes run across the screen, harshly following the ball. It wasn't the best game he’d ever seen, but it wasn't bad; Maybe it would’ve been a better option to watch the PSG-Newcastle or the AC Milan-Dortmund, but Jude was a kind of reformed ex-culé, and it was his house after all, so he controlled what match they watched.

"No," Vinicius responded, after ignoring him for perhaps too many seconds. " Punishing me? You kidding? I'm not twelve. He can't punish me."

Bellingham clicked his tongue, returning his attention to the game. "Hey, you did put on quite the show, mate." He nudged him jokingly, as he pointed his eyes at the screen. "Gosh, that Pedri. The bastard's good isn't he?"

Vinicius wrinkled his expression as he watched the replay—the Canario had filtered the pass between three defenders, although the shot hadn’t resulted in a goal because João Felix had hit the post. "He's good enough ," Vinicius replied sharply. "His stats don't reflect that, so what does it matter?"

"Ya, that's his jinx, if only Barça had good forwards." Vinicius wrinkled his nose. Jude sounded almost dreamy. Any day he’d show up with a Messi kit humming Tot El Camp and he wouldn't even be surprised. "You talked to Gavi before the match?"

Vinicius cleared his throat. Rodrygo also looked up to watch as the conversation played out. " What? "

"Yeah, now that you're mates and all that," he said simply, popping a crisp into his mouth. "Had fun that day you brought him to a night out, he's a fine lad. Although that whole deal with the signing is a good mess. Does he even wanna change teams at all?"

Vinicius put his hand to his hair, touching his frizzy curls with his fingertips. "I don't—” He stammered. "Well, I don't know, we haven't talked much. I think everything’s very much up in the air. Barça did try to kick him out when those pics were leaked."

Jude winced, as if he’d been hurt. "Ah, ya , that was a messup on his part."

It was probably a matter of time before the Barça players started gossiping among their national teams and the rumour that Gavi and Vini were involved began to spread like wildfire through the European clubs—until then, he'd enjoy his glass closet for as long as he could. Even if the news that Gavi and Vinicius were fraternalising had already been a strange blow for the Madrid locker room, Vini didn’t even wanna begin to imagine the faces of some of the team's seniors if they found out that Vinicius liked to ram it into Barça's Golden Boy.

Truthfully; Ceballos, Kroos and Carvajal could as well form their own KKK.

He didn't think Jude was the hom*ophobe type, but the least he knew, the better.

"I hate transfer market dramas. You should bring him again to hang out, I could give him some advice on— Oh, sh*t! Varela's got the ball."

Oh sh*t? Vini repeated in his head. The bastard could at least try to hide it.

Aurélien and Eduardo stopped their private conversation, and Rodrygo stood up straight looking at the screen. Jude had put a protein crisp in his mouth, but he stopped chewing to avoid making noise while the commentator narrated:

" He's got a clear path ahead now. Look at that, another quick feint to the left, and he's past Araujo! " Said the powerful voice of Carlos Martinez on the television. " He approaches the edge of the box, got a clear pass for Evanilson but seems that Varela’s going to try and do everything himself! Cancelo arrives from the right wing and—Take a look at Gavi’s sprint! "

Vinicius's breath caught when Gavi entered the shot.

He ran as fast as his legs could, the frown that usually framed his forehead more pronounced than ever. Vini watched as he threw himself to the ground, almost too fast to distinguish if there was any contact in the livestream, and before Martinez could warn that the scoring opportunity has been thwarted, Gavi was moving the ball away from the Porto attacker's feet.

" What a fantastic defensive play by Gavi! That's exactly what his team needed at this moment. Varela looked unstoppable there, but Gavi stood firm and came out on top! "

Julio Maldini was next to add his two cents to the comment, who had remained silent while Carlos Martinez narrated the confrontation. " An equally brilliant piece of defending by Gavi, as we’re accustomed from Barça’s youngster, who is only nineteen years old—Ah, well, it sounds a bit ridiculous to keep talking about his age, doesn't it? Gavi’s already a well-established player in Barcelona’s locker room. ”

" You said it. Although that could change soon. "

Maldini laughed. " Ya, let's not get ahead of ourselves, " he cut him off cautiously. It probably wasn’t wise for commentators to discuss transfer market rumours in the middle of a match. " The crowd did for sure love every second of it! Now that they’re showing the replay on the Montjuic screens, listen to the atmosphere of this Barça-Porto match! "

The TV showed the replay of the action. A clean tackle, no contact. In the background, the commentators turned off their microphones for just a few seconds so that the cheers from Montjuic could be heard, celebrating Gavi’s deffensive action.

"Ah, I could’ve sworn it was a penalty," Camavinga complained.

"Nah, tackles are Gavi's thing, I wouldn't take a chance on him when it comes to that," Tchoumeni argued.

Camavinga's response came in French. Once again, they became invested in their own discussion, while Jude, Rodrygo and Vini remained attentive to the screen.

(...)

Shortly after his tackle, the referee whistled the halftime.

Gavi walked towards the locker room tunnel with the blood rushing through his whole body, the ringing in his ears silencing the fatigue, which was barely present after forty-five minutes of maximum performance.

They had the score in their favor by the minimum, thanks to a goal from Cancelo that put them in the lead. Still, the game wasn’t going smoothly—Porto was generating more chances than they’d like, and it was a matter of time before they scored the tie.

(In fact, if it weren't for Gavi’s tackle, they probably would've by then.)

Xavi patted him on the back as they entered the locker room, and he accepted a bottle of water from one of the staff without exchanging a word. When he got to his seat he fell down and leaned against the locker, downing the plastic bottle in just two gulps.

Adrenaline ran through his every vessel. Sweat slid down his forehead, tingling his sensitive skin. Araujo took the opportunity to give him a caring shake as he took his seat a few meters away from him, congratulating him for saving the chance that he couldn't. Fermín grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him on the forehead, affectionately, running to the bench marked with the number sixteen.

Pedri passed by him, shoulder to shoulder with Ferran. Ferran ruffled Gavi's hair as he dropped into the seat marked seven, right next to him. Pedri didn't even regard him with a glance.

Xavi was the last to enter, closing the door behind him to leave all the staff outside. Even though they were winning, he had that permanent serious and obtuse expression on his face. He also took a seat in the middle of the locker room.

Gavi tried to concentrate when the mister's mouth began to move, but the music from the stadium and the chants from the stands still thundered through the underground tunnels.

He really had to stop for a moment and wonder if the feeling would be the same on other teams. If by doing a crucial defensive action for another team he’d also feel as if his entire body was on fire. If the noise of fans cheering at the top of their lungs would also bring goosebumps to his skin.

He wondered what it’d be like to hear cheers in German, or in English, or in Italian. In a language that his ears weren’t able to make sense of. How he’d feel not being able to defend the name of the city that welcomed him for more than half of his life. That watched him grow into what he was now.

He wondered what it’d be like to hear the Bernabeu cheering on one of his tackles, after the entire stadium cursed his name in every match. Trying to love the stands that he had so often looked at with contempt.

To be honest, any prospect other than running with the Barça crest over his heart would have seemed horrifyingly bitter at any other time in his life other than that ominous present.

He threw his head back, not even bothering to pretend to be paying attention to what Xavi was saying. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, while he felt the walls of the stadium tremble with the presence of the attendees.

For a moment, he felt again like that sixteen-year-old kid making his debut in a pre-season friendly. When Koeman was still managing the squad and Nico Gonzalez (who now sat on the rival bench) had adopted him as his protégé. The same nerves, the same enthusiasm, the same feeling that he needed to prove himself—even if now it was to remind the culés that he hadn’t turned his back on them just yet, that they were still moved by the same feeling.

God.

f*cking Laporta. f*cking Vinicius. f*ck all of them. They had no right to take it all away from him. They had no right to ruin the feeling that made his heart beat.

He pressed the edge of the stool with one hand, while with his other forearm he wiped his eyes, irritated with sadness and sweat, and now beginning to sting. While he searched near his locker for another bottle of water, he decided to listen to the last indications of Xavi's speech before he let them take a few minutes of rest:

"I want you pressing higher up, but not leaving gaps behind—You hear me Jules? You need to communicate more. Balance is key. Don't let them get behind you."

Gavi opened a single eye to look at Kounde, who nodded passively. Then he covered his closed eyelids again with his arm, skin burning to the touch.

"They've been finding too much space between the lines. Don't let them have that freedom. When we get the ball, transition quickly. We can't just sit back and invite pressure. We need to control the game." Gavi heard the sound of a marker being thrown to the ground. He assumed that Xavi was using the board to explain a specific play. "Felix, good game, but I need fresh legs up front. Lamine, you're going in." He quickly began heading towards Yamal. "Link up with Lewandowski, keep the ball moving."

Lamine nodded with an audible hum. João let out a resigned sigh. Gavi listened as Xavi asked the defenders if they were fit to follow, and he finally decided it was time to sit back up and open his eyes when he heard his coach utter: "Good. This game is ours if we play smart and work as a team. Let's get out there and finish this job. Visca Barça . "

" Visca Barça, " Gavi joined in the soft murmurs of response.

The locker room was almost half empty when Xavi dismissed the team. Lamine and Balde went out to warm up, Pedri, Araujo and Robert stayed next to the physios for recovery massages and applying ice to their muscles. Gavi only took the opportunity to quickly go to the bathroom, then looking for a place in a corner of the tunnel to breathe in silence for a few minutes.

The video scoreboard showed that there were just four minutes left before halftime. He was almost about to get up and run out to kick the ball a couple of times, when a shadow took away his vision of the field.

He looked up. Xavi was exchanging a few words in a low voice with his brother, telling him to go outside and handing him the play chart. When he was finally left alone, just a few Porto players marching behind them and people from the medical staff of both teams running through the hallways, he squatted in front of Gavi, placing both hands on his knees to support himself, squeezing him affectionately.

"And how are you going?" Gavi looked up, passively brushing his hair out of his face. Xavi’s hands were cold and rough, unlike Gavi’s skin, which burned. "I don't want you to overexert yourself, lest you get injured and–"

"I'm overexerting myself and we're only one goal ahead of them on the scoreboard, so ."

Xavi gave him a hard look. "I can substitute you if you think–”

"I'm fine, I wanna play."

Xavi pursed his lips when Gavi interrupted him. He, realising his action, shrank into himself. "You spent almost a week without training. If you're a little out of shape, it's okay, Fermín can go in for you when there's half an hour left."

An inevitable dread invaded Gavi at that very moment. It was one thing to have the stands cheering on his defensive actions in the midst of the euphoria of the game—having all the attention on him during a substitution, however, that did terrify him. " No ," he responded quickly, careful this time not to interrupt Xavi. “I'm good to go, barely even tired.”

Xavi sighed. He squeezed Gavi's knees a little more, like that way he could better unravel his thoughts. "You're playing like you have something to prove."

Gavi frowned. "Well, don't I?" He asked bitterly. "Don't I always?"

"You’ve got nothing to prove, Gavi. This signing thing can't affect you while you're playing a–"

" Don't I? " He repeated, more emphatically. "All those people out there think I'm going to turn my back on them. And... I just might!" he stated. "The least I can do is give it my all.”

Xavi clicked his tongue, while Gavi raised a hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. He took another glance at the scoreboard—they had two minutes left. He pushed Xavi's hands away and jumped to his feet.

"I should go warm up," he announced, as his coach stood up as well.

Xavi nodded, stopping him for a second by grabbing his shoulder before he went out on the field:

"That sense of duty, it's part of what makes you such a great player," he told him, reflectively. "When I'm not here, try not to lose that. I’d be a personal failure on my part if you took the word of people who want you to believe that loving a club is childish."

Gavi gave a saddened smile. "A non-reciprocal love. Or at least, rather fragile."

Xavi raised an eyebrow. With his index finger, he pointed to the ceiling. The noises from the stadium made the walls shake. "That doesn't sound fragile to me."

Gavi looked away. "The board–"

"The board's not the club, they are," he cut off. " We are," he added then, patting Gavi on the shoulder.

Pablo didn't know what to say about that, but he didn't need to either, because that was the moment when Xavi looked at the clock and realised that they were thirty seconds away from continuing with the second half. He gave Gavi a push to propel him towards the exit of the tunnel, and ended their conversation with "Give it your all, but don't break anything!"

(...)

"Yeah, get that f*ckers!"

Jude, again, didn’t even try to hide the withering look he gave Tchouameni when Porto (finally) scored the tying goal, just twenty minutes from the end of the match.

It was a chain of misfortunes—Balde lost it, Lamine couldn't get it back, with one pass they got rid of any defensive action Gavi could make in the midfield, and they only needed to move it a couple of times outside the area to sneak it between Kounde and Araujo and past Inaki Peña, straight to the net.

"I'm, like, fifty percent sure that was offside," Bellingham tried to add.

The VAR checked it. It wasn't an offside. Rodrygo gave Jude a mocking slap and Vinicius watched with satisfaction as Porto’s score went up one point, tying with FC Barcelona.

Gavi was the one serving from the center, a direct pass to Gündoğan that would start a fairly quick attack.

To be fair, if no kind of unfortunate event occurred, they'd probably score a goal in the remaining twenty minutes, but it was always good to see the Blaugranas struggle.

His gaze followed Gavi's easily recognizable body across the screen.

He was pretty much everywhere. Which was the case with every match he played, to be fair. But today, there was some kind of rage inherent to all of his actions. The sprints in defense, in attack, the long passes, even the only shot that he’d tried to make against the net and that had been intercepted by the goalkeeper had carried a power that almost blew Lewandowski's head off as it passed by him.

Based on what Floretino had said (although to be honest, he didn't have much to say to him anymore), the issue of Gavi was still completely up in the air. And if the sports press was anything to go by (it mostly wasn't) Barça had turned back on their decision to kick him out, but now he and his agent were evaluating all the other offers.

The truth is that if Vinicius had to base himself on Gavi's performance today, it didn't seem like the brat was planning to leave Barça anytime soon. The crowd, too, seemed to want to convince him to stay with the force of their shouts. If the fans had been a little timid at the beginning of the game (some faint boos had even been heard in the very first minutes) they were now very close to chanting Gavi's name every time the toe of his foot touched the ball.

At this point he didn't give a sh*t what team he was on, he just wanted Gavi to talk to him again.

Oh , speaking of the devil, the bloody midget had just started a play.

He received from Araujo and gave a long pass to Chrstiensen at the other end of the box. Porto's defense wasn’t formed yet, so perhaps they’d have a chance to reach the area.

Bellingham silenced Cama and Tchouameni's French chitchat to turn up the volume, another of those stupid insipid crisps in his mouth while he listened attentively to what Carlos Martinez was narrating:

“ Christensen spots Raphinha making a run down the wing—fantastic control by Raphinha! Who now charges towards a penalty area. Porto's defense tightens in the box. ”

"Oh, look at that mate!" Jude pointed out when Raphinha made a particularly difficult dribble. Rodrygo clicked his tongue and Vinicius muttered a listless " Bah ."

" Pedri is coming from the edge of the area, Raphinha filters a pass between Eustáquio and Pepê. He looks for open spaces. İlkay opens back and Gavi makes a run for it— Pedri crosses! Gavi goes for it! Gavi’s got it! He controles it with his chest! Gavi shoots and–! "

Vinicius closed his eyes as the thunderous screams of Maldini and Carlos Martinez came roaring out of the speakers in Jude's living room, celebrating the goal. Camavinga cursed in French and Jude fell back against the sofa with a big grin on his face, looking at the screen satisfied while the cameras pointed to Gavi celebrating with his teammates.

There was no lack of kissing the crest, of course not. Even the way his fingers tightly gripped the fabric of the shirt today was more intense than other games. The way he raised a fist and looked at the stands while clenching the shield inside his closed hand made Vinicius want to spit out of bitterness.

"Wasn't he coming to Madrid?" Rodrygo asked, almost indignantly. Camavinga rolled his eyes at the idea. "What the hell is he doing, then? Florentino is going to withdraw the offer if he behaves like this."

Bellingham gave a wry laugh. "Does that look like he wants to go to Madrid?"

After a bit of bickering, all eyes turned to him, while he was busy glaring at the TV as Gavi hugged all of his teammates—Ah, even Fermín had gotten up from the bench to give him a bloody hug, the f*cking c*nt.

"Aren't you two friends?" Tchouameni inquired. "What's he gonna do with the signing thing?"

Vinicius swallowed.

(...)

Fer ran towards him with the pink Champions dungarees covering his shoulders and grabbed his head in a way that almost seemed like he wanted to tear it off. He shook him from side to side while the stadium speakers announced the goal of Barça’s number six.

Gavi moved from one of his teammates' arms to another, his fingers gripping his shirt, feeling the hardness of the seams of Barça’s crest under the pads of his hands.

His gaze scanned the stands, and ended up going upstairs—it was night, and the stadium lights were a bit blinding.

Ah .

Since when was the nightsky so beautiful in Barcelona?

Kounde was patting Pedri on the back—a masterful assist, like all the ones Pedri gave.

When the excitement calmed down a little, it was just the two of them left. Gavi had his hand still awkwardly placed around the crest on his chest, Pedri with his hair made a mess because of their teammates ruffling it.

Gavi swallowed, then let the fire in his veins move his muscles at will, throwing himself at Pedri and surrounding him with his arms. The Canario took a while to react, but he gave him a squeeze on the back with the same familiarity that Gavi's lips found their place on Pedri's neck, giving him one of those affectionate little kisses that they hadn’t shared in definitely too long of a time.

(...)

" The Golden Boys duo crowns the field again! We’ve missed their rapport in this tournament! "

Bellingham was marvelling at Pedri's assistance with Rodrygo. Vinicius decided to miss the end of the oh so emotional scene to go to the bathroom.

Porto tried. Even in the tediously long extra time they created some promising chances, but when the final whistle sounded, the score was in favour of Barça 2 to 1.

"Atlético won 3 to 1," Rodrygo announced the rest of the results, reading from his phone while Tchouameni went to the kitchen to get something to drink. Bellingham was happier than any Madridista should be after seeing Barcelona win. "Same for Dortmund. City 3 to 2— Ah, oh, PSG tied with Newcastle."

"Didn't they lose not so long ago against Milan?" Jude mentioned. Rodry nodded. "Yeah, they're not getting too far this season. I kinda wanna face them in the quarters.”

"For that they’ve gotta get past the round of 16," Vinicius said bitterly. Bellingham made a dismissive face.

When the others started talking among themselves and weren't paying much attention to him, he opened his phone, checking the time.

"I should go," he announced. "See you at training."

Jude looked up, mouth stuffed with the tasteless rice-flavored crisps. He waved his hand goodbye, a stupid smile spreading across his lips as crumbs fell from the corners of his mouth.

"So soon? We were gonna have dinner together!"

Vinicius shook his head as he grabbed his sweatshirt. "Not hungry."

Bellingham decided it was not worth arguing. Instead, he patted the couch to get the Brazilian's attention once again. "Don't forget to send me a message!" He reminded her friendly. "What you changed your number for, anyway? Did it get leaked?"

Vinicius rolled his eyes, turning his back on his teammates as he walked to the exit. "No reason," he said dimissively, "Got tired of the last one.”

The next thing they heard when Vinicius walked out into the hallway was the street door closing. Jude finally finished swallowing all his crisps, then turned to his teammates. "He's so… eccentric ."

"He's a weirdo," Tchouameni bluntly corrected.

Jude raised his eyebrows, slapping his knee reproachfully. " Meanie! "

(...)

The club’s inner civil war had subsided as the days passed and the team's dynamics were settling back to their usual place. The last few days before the game, with the nerves of having Frenkie and Ter Stegen injured, the focus of the training sessions had been more on sweating bullets to face the most difficult rival in their qualifying group (with the evident objective of maintaining the first position), than in whatever the press said about transfers.

Now that they had declared themselves winners and granted a guaranteed pass to the next phase of the Champions League, with a goal from Gavi to take the victory, the animosities in the locker room had dissipated like sand in the wind.

It was a small victory against a Portuguese team, they weren't going to celebrate much either, but Xavi did give them licence for a couple of beers in the Ciutat, some music and a bit of fun, but that was as far as it went.

They’d turned on one of the floodlights, not wanting to disturb the surrounding neighbours too much, managing to illuminate a third of the field. There were several empty and unopened cases of beer in the center of the circle. Some players were sitting on the grass, Xavi and Lewandowski had brought a bench from the storage room, while others like Kounde or João were using their jacket as a protection from the dirty grass. They discarded the bottles in a bucket that they had transported to the grass, which filled up as the hours passed.

He and Pedri had not exchanged many words since the celebration, although the canary had handed him the bottle opener for his beer, wearing a good-natured smile, so he sure couldn't keep being so angry.

"Well, Gavi," Sergi began, sitting on the floor with his elbows on his knees—he wasn't drinking, he’d been assigned to take the La Masía kids home (disadvantages of being the captain). "After giving us such a goal, you won't have the nerve to announce that you're leaving."

Gavi looked ahead. He was sitting on the knee of Marcos Alonso, who had sat on one of the refrigerators and had the audacity to take his place. He was on his fourth beer, which wouldn't have affected him so badly if it weren't for the fact that he hadn't eaten since, like, eleven in the morning. The rest of the players looked up attentively expecting the response, glad that someone had finally addressed the elephant in the room (which after so many days of ignoring it, had practically become the team's mascot).

Gavi gave an awkward giggle. "Truthfully, if that were the case, I certainly didn't want to ruin my wonderful performance with such gloomy news.

Ferran whistled ironically. "Don't let it go to your head." Lamine and Fermín joined him, insulting his lack of humility and raging narcissism. Someone went as far as to throw a crumpled piece of paper in his direction, which he had to dodge by fidgeting on Alonso's legs.

That notion was a little beeping in the back of his brain that he was choosing to ignore, because the time to think about his signing was neither after a Champions League match with excitement still running through his veins nor when he had enough alcohol in his system not to be able to drive.

Certainly, if he had to sign the contract at that very moment, there wouldn’t be a f*cking club that could match that feeling, an offer of endless money that could fill him with the same joy.

His friends, his city. The starry sky that guarded Barcelona, the sound of the laughter of his mates. The dream of being a boy from La Masía succeeding in the first team—that so many of his teammates were moved by the same childhood ambition, by the love of the place that had seen them grow up.

Xavi's gaze weighed on him. When he returned it he found him analysing him with those dark, adult eyes.

If a man who had seen so much of the world and achieved as many successes as Xavi f*cking Hernandez still loved Barça with all the intensity of his soul, it really couldn't all be that bad.

But it wasn't a hasty decision—somehow, those were the ones Gavi was best at. It was one of those decisions that would be up in the air for weeks, it was a decision that would change the course of his future.

A future that he had always considered safe at Barça, but huh , how the tables have turned. Xavi says that the board was not Barça, but weren't they the ones who decided his future at the end of the day? Who decided if he was not a Barça player?

He had already accepted that his life club had tried to throw him under the bus once, he wasn't sure he could take a second.

D’you think I wouldn't have gone to the office and presented my resignation right there if they’d gone through with that?

Fermín's words echoed in his head. Along with them, the blonde's gaze also joined Xavi's, the uncertainty on his face reflecting a concern that he was clearly trying to keep hidden.

Truthfully, had he trusted his teammates more and Vinicius less, he wouldn't be in that situation.

After spending several seconds silent, he realized that all the gazes in the circle were weighing on him, the same hint of uncertainty in all of them, their eyes reflecting an almost pleading shine.

Ah , he couldn't make them wait like that until summer. He couldn't keep them expectant for him to appear at any moment and announce that he was leaving not to return.

" Next week ," he announced. "Next week I’ll meet with Laporta and my agent. The transfer issue will be resolved next week."

Pedri raised his eyebrows with hope. Gavi was surprised to see him intervene: "So you're staying?"

Gavi hesitated before responding, which made Pedri's animated smile turn into a grimace. "I'll decide next week."

There were some complaints and some murmurs. The drunkest ones tried to throw phrases at Gavi to convince him to stay. Xavi silenced them with a single shout.

"Take all the time you need," he told her wisely. "If you regret your decision, you’ll do sofor the rest of your life."

"What he means is no pressure," Lewandowski intervened, removing the tension from the air. While the others burst into laughter, Gavi smiled at Xavi, silently, grateful.

When the topic of conversation turned to something more cheerful, his phone began to vibrate, and as soon as he took it out of his pocket, it started ringing.

He got up from Alonso's lap, who seemed grateful not to have seventy kilos of weight making his mules numb, and walked away from the field towards the stairs that went down to the locker room. At first he thought he was De La Peña, calling to congratulate him on the goal and performance, but when he was away from the group and read the screen, he realised he was an unknown number.

He leaned on the railing, placing his beer bottle carefully on the ground and crossing his arms—away from people and light, it kinda little cold.

Probably as a footballer, it’d be recommended not to take calls from unknown numbers, but hey, since when had he though twice before doing things?

"Hi?"

The line was silent. Gavi glanced at his teammates, in case it was them playing him a prank.

"Hello–?"

" You played a good game. "

Gavi froze in place. He recognised the voice instantly, but wanted to doubt his groggy self. As he moved, trying to alleviate the shock and the sudden way his heart started beating fastly, he kicked the bottle and had to quickly bend to the ground to get it upright again. "What?" he asked in a stammer, as he placed the bottle away from the rail.

" The game. I watched you. It was a good goal. And the tackle. And, well, everything else you did. " Gavi closed his eyes. He glanced behind his shoulder to check that no one was looking at him. Xavi was laughing with Sergi and Lewandowski. The Masía boys were drunker than anyone should be after a game against Porto. Fermín seemed sufficiently entertained with a hammered Lamine to pay attention to him. " Good assistance from Pedri too– "

"What the f*ck do you want?" Gavi cut off bitterly, still squatting next to the railing, maintaining balance with his shoulder. "I've blocked your number, how–?"

" Got a new one. "

Gavi gasped, letting his jaw drop. "Are you—? You're f*cking sick," he stated crudely.

" Maybe, " Vinicius responded, as if he didn't really care. " I thought we made it a tradition to call you after games. You always have things to say—or people to complain about. "

Gavi had so much tension in his body that he could not react except that Vinicius finished the sentence. "You're f*cking with me," he sighed. "The audacity that–" He staggered into his squatting posture, and so he dropped onto one of the steps, taking a seat with his back to the rest of his companions. "The audacity you have is— Are you— I don't—" He put a hand to his forehead. "I don't even know what to say."

" Hey, at least I'm still able to leave you speechless. "

"I f*cking hate you." He spat. "f*ck, you're unbelievable . First you f*ck up my entire life—"

" Didn't you just came out of a stadium applauded and praised after scoring a goal? Your idea of a ruined life is quite different from mine... "

"Not precisely thanks to you!" Gavi replied, raising his voice, trusting in the distance that separated him from his mate to lose his temper as much as he needed. "You—You tried to screw up my life," he corrected himself, and Vinicius' ironic laugh only served to turn him on even more. "You came here to make a scene at my job –"

" The plan was to talk to your f*cking president and leave without attracting attention. "

"And yet I found you fighting Xavi !" He accused, like the very idea was ridiculous.

" He attacked me! " Vinicius defended himself. " I was just— looking ! "

"Looking at what!"

" At you ! " He answered obviously. " I saw you and I needed... I don't know, to get a f*cking fix? Then he assaulted me! "

Gavi shook his head, laughing bitterly, a single dry laugh coming from his throat. He leaned his head against the railing, and out of the corner of his eye he could see his companion—He hoped no one had noticed his absence yet.

"You're sick," he said contemptuously. "I don't even know what I'm doing talking to you."

Vinicius left a moment of silence on his side of the line. Then he stated simply: " Yet here you are. "

Gavi bit the inside of his cheek. He kept the phone pressed to his ear as his gaze went to the stars scattered in the night sky above them. "Guess I've never been one to make wise decisions."

Background noises were heard on Vini's side of the phone. He seemed to be sat in a sofa, perhaps his bed. " I need you to let me explain what happened. "

"I know what happened–"

" Not everything. "

"Everything I need to know," Gavi corrected sharply. "If you called to tell me that you did love me or that you regret it or that... any bullsh*t that might have occurred to you, save it. I don't care. What's done is done.”

" I called because I wanted to hear your voice, " Vinicius replied. Gavi bit his lower lip, now lowering his head to shrink a little into himself. " I was expecting you to hang up on me, honestly. "

"Clearly you think too highly of me. Both of us know I don't have near that much self-respect."

Gavi clearly heard the gulp that came from the other line. " I f*cked up, I know, " he acknowledged, " But I– "

"It's not–" Gavi cut him off, his voice shaking. The few beers and the cold and the recent emotions left him vulnerable to any blow. And Vini wasn't just any blow. "You didn't just f*ck up, Vini. It's–"

The way Gavi said Vini with that tone of defeat, in a way, made Vinicius' chest start to hurt.

"It's not what you did, it's very fact that you did it." He closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head. "That... That doesn't make any sense, I... "

He let out broken sighs. His heart continued to beat with all his might. Gavi was sure that if he happened to still be wearing the heart rate monitors they used in games, an alarm would’ve already gone off among all members of the staff.

"You knew how much I love Barça," he noted painfully. "You knew it. You knew that I went out of my way for the club, for the team. Yet you never cared about what made me happy, you just cared about—"

" I thought coming to Madrid could make you happy! "

"You keep saying that!" Gavi accused. "You keep saying that like there were no possible selfish reasons for you to want me to move to Madrid, weren't there?" He lowered one hand to grab the edge of the step. " My career . That's all you had in mind, right? Not the fact that you’d have me with you every hour of the day. Not the fact that I’d finally be just for you to enjoy."

Vinicius spent too much time silent to give the impression that he had the conversation under control. Gavi's breathing didn’t relax in the slightest knowing that they were on equal terms.

" Florentino found out that we fraternalised ," he noted bitterly. Gavi raised his eyebrows. " The first time I brought you to Madrid, the first photos that were taken. He made me confess the entire thing. "

Gavi gave an ironic huff. "Are you trying to tell me that he forced you?"

" No ," Vinicius responded quickly. " But he knows how to convince. And he told me that between the two of us we could bring you to Madrid, and that everything would turn out well if I did what he told me." He took another couple of seconds thoughtfully. Gavi pressed his knees to his chest while he listened with a serious face. "And he also told me about some conflict of interest laws and, in short, that he managed to paint it for me as if bringing you to Real Madrid was the best thing we could do, both for you and for—well, us . "

" Us was fine before he got involved." Gavi retorted bitterly. "No, in fact, us was perfect before he got involved. Now, well— us doesn't exist anymore."

He supposed that those moments that Vinicius took to respond were while he took in the last sentence, while he let the pain settle in his chest and stop blocking his throat—at least, that's what Gavi felt.

" He organised everything, I just did what he told me, " he explained. " He told me to suggest Neymar to call you so they could record you in a night out and create discord between you and Barça. "

Gavi closed his eyes. He felt a little stupid for feeling special when Neymar called him. He felt stupid for thinking he was special at all.

" He told me to invite you to Madrid, to take you to dinner, that there would be paparazzi following us the whole day. "

"He told you to make me wear the Madrid jersey too?" Gavi inquired sad*stically. His eyes were already filled with tears by then. He probably should be checking that his teammates were doing their thing and not missing him, but the last thing on his mind at that moment was to be discreet. "He told you to use me like a f*cking sex doll and take me out to the terrace to take a photo that will haunt me my entire career? Or that was just your bitter addition to the plan?"

" I got carried away, " Vinicius defended himself. " I didn't expect you to go out on the terrace. I didn't expect you to start crying. It was supposed to be a thing between us."

"Well, wasn't it awfully convenient for you then!"

" Do you think when you were crying on my terrace I was thinking about the f*cking photographer? ”

" I don't know, " Gavi replied. The smile that displayed his lips didn’t carry a drop of joy. "I don't know. And that's the f*cking problem. That I really do believe you evil enough to do something like that. To use me as you please, no matter how cruelly."

The silence was thunderous after that sentence. It was almost minutes without saying a single word, although if you had asked Gavi it felt like full hours.

" I guess I truly am a callous person in your eyes. "

"You've given me more than enough reasons."

Another heavy silence. This one, somehow, felt sadder.

"My friends are waiting for me," he whispered. Then he did bother to look at the field; He was met with the curious looks of several of his mates—Pedri, Fermín, Felix, to name a few. Not to forget Xavi, who watched him like a father with a worried grimmace. "Don't call me again. Please."

" I want to see you. "

Gavi tightened his fingers around his phone. "How many horrible names do I have to call you so you understand that I don't want you near me?"

" You could lose your voice before that happened, " he asserted. " I told you, remember? I'd chase you until you asked no more. "

That horrible feeling filled Gavi's stomach again. All the power taken away from him, again.

"You're disgusting," he attacked, his face forming an ugly scowl, tears now audible in his voice. "You can't stop ruining everything for me, can't you? You can't let me be happy. You have to come and call me and remind me that I'm never going to get rid of you because I had the f*cking misfortune of falling in love with you. You're f*cking evil."

" I just need to see you, please, " Vini pleaded. " Give me at least one last time. "

"I don't want to see you. You're the worst thing that's ever happened to me, don't you get it? Having you around never ends up well for me."

" I'm sorry, I'm f*cking sorry, " he insisted. Tears were also audible in his voice. Gavi felt guilty for making him cry, then he wanted to slap himself. " I'm sorry I'm so f*cking difficult to love. I know I'm messed up. But please I need to see you one more time, please."

"Leave me alone," he repeated coldly. "Leave me alone. Forget about me, please . For the love of God, forget you ever knew me."

" Gavi please— ”

"Don't call me again."

He hung up the phone while Vinicius uttered his next plea, and turned it off to ensure he wouldn't receive any more calls that night. He threw the phone against the grass, with less care than perhaps was appropriate, and took a swig of the beer to try to calm himself down.

He wiped away his tears, rubbing his eyes until they were irritated, and stayed hugging his own knees until his breathing and heart rate decided to calm down. After several minutes with his head trapped between his knees, eyes closed and head trapped in a whirlwind of thoughts, he heard footsteps coming towards him that made him look up.

Pedri raised his arms and extended them, as a sign of peace. "I came because they were about to send the paramedics to see if you were okay. Xavi was worried that the beer had made you sick—for God's sake, can you tell him you're not ten years old?" As he took a few relaxed steps towards Gavi, he noticed the dry trail of tears on his cheeks when he was close enough to him, as well as his painfully red eyes. Pedri hesitated as he approached a little closer. "Is everything alright?"

Gavi nodded, smiling fakely as he raised his fingers to wipe his cheeks. " Yeah ," he stammered. "Yeah, I..." He didn't quite know what excuse to come up with. He shrugged and shook his head in time, as he lowered his feet to the next floor of steps so he wouldn't be cowering in himself. "I got an unpleasant call."

Pedri frowned, finally taking the few steps away that still separated them. "You sure?" Gavi nodded again, widening his fake smile. Pedri looked for a seat next to him with the palms of his hands, his eyes getting used to the lack of light. "From who?"

Gavi shook his head dismissively. "No one important," he said as he finished wiping the last traces of tears from her eyes. "You guys started to miss me, huh?"

Pedri hummed. "I mean, you've been here for half an hour." Gavi giggled timidly, finally stopping fidgeting and sitting upright. "You don't want to talk about it, then?"

He seemed surprised by the insistence. " Ah , no," he pressed, a little more seriously, crossing his arms. "No. It's not that important."

"It has to be if it makes you cry."

"I'm not nearly as strong as you guys think I am."

Pedri let out a resigned sigh as he saw Gavi avoid eye contact. He finally decided to give up and fall back, using the step as a backrest. They enjoyed a few seconds of awkward silence, in which he caught Gavi looking out of the corner of his eye at the circle of Barça players to make sure no one was staring at them.

"You played a great game today."

Gavi now looked back at Pedri. Although his eyes were red, they were bright as ever. "You too."

"You really got the stands going."

Gavi shook his head, a smile spreading across his face. "Thanks to whom? Your assistance was magical. All I did was run like a headless chicken and be in the right place at the right time."

Pedri clicked his tongue. "Well, today you happened to be in the right place at the right time a good load of times," he pointed out, "Perhaps running around like a headless chicken isn't such a bad tactic."

When Gavi finally decided to accept the compliment and stop bickering, Pedri put a hand on his knee, giving it a comforting squeeze.

"The fight of passion against talent all over again, huh?" He asked wryly. "Maybe you weren't so far off the mark with that. Although I think we're better as allies than enemies.”

Gavi caught his bottom lip between his teeth. "Right," he whispered. "Sorry I..."

"I also wanted to tell you–"

"Me first, please," he cut him off timidly. He leaned his head forward, staring at the ground—then he thought better of it, decided to look at Pedri directly. "I, look, I know it sounds like I'm a sh*tty person," he admitted, "And, hey, maybe I am. But there came a point where I couldn't take it anymore." Pedri held his gaze, hands placed on both his knees. He didn't look pissed, which was reassuring. "It was consuming me, being two halves of a unit. You have all that talent and that experience and that calmness and I... Well. I just don't. And at the beginning of the season everyone was talking about Xavi benching me and how in a few months I’d be on loan to some mid-table team and—Seriously, I felt like sh*t. Pedri and Gavi stopped feeling like Pedri and Gavi and started feeling like Pedri — the bright rising star, future Ballon d'Or, future captain. And Gavi —the... f*cking... angry bird that has more yellow cards than goals per season. The lesser Golden Boy.” He put a hand to his forehead. Pedri caressed the back of his neck when Gavi finally couldn't look at him anymore. "I didn't wanna be the lesser anything. I was making myself miserable. Every f*cking mistake in a game felt like I had just screwed up my career. Every goal you scored was one more nail in the headboard of my self-loathment. Being your friend was becoming a way of self-torture more than a friendship. So, genuinely, perhaps that makes me a sh*tty toxic person, but I thought it was better not to be friends at all.”

"We're still friends," Pedri reminded him, with a softer tone than Gavi probably deserved.

"I know," Gavi said, pressing his forehead to Pedri's shoulder. He continued stroking the hair on the back of his neck. "I still love you and you're still my mate, but I know it's not the same and it probably won't ever be. And that's my f*cking fault—I know. And I'm so f*cking sorry."

"You don't–" Before Gavi went into a stream of meaningless apologies, Pedri pulled on his sweatshirt to sit him upright, forcing him to look at him. "You’ve got nothing to be sorry for."

"But I ruined our–"

"Comparisons happen, Gavi," Pedri stated weakly. "They’re part of this world. And they suck, yes, but they’re inevitable."

"Exactly," Gavi insisted. "I shouldn't have let them get to my head. If I let something like that get to me, how am I–?"

"You're a kid!" Pedri cut him off, and before Gavi could feel offended, he added: "You're nineteen years old, Gavi! You don't have to be familiar with this whole... cutthroat bloody world."

"No one seemed to crumble under the pressure but me."

Pedri clicked his tongue. "Well, we've indeed been the only ones they've put in a pack," he mumbled, "Pedri and Gavi, you can't have one without the other— Yeah, and why the f*ck not? Neither you have to compensate for my lacks nor do I need to compensate for yours. We aren’t two f*cking matching medallions of Ying and Yang, we’re not incomplete without each other—they should’ve never put us as two halves of a unit."

Gavi grimaced painfully. His eyebrows were wrinkled, meeting in the middle of his forehead. " You didn't stop being my friend."

"We are still friends," Pedri repeated. Gavi rolled his eyes. "No, don't dismiss me— we are." He grabbed his arm to make sure he didn't look away from him. "You didn't stop talking to me, you didn't start treating me like sh*t. You just distanced yourself—that's like, the most selfless thing you could do when you're feeling that way about someone. I'd rather we distanced ourselves than have our friendship become a pit of mutual resentment."

"You had no reason to resent me, you're better than me–"

"Don't give me that, Gavi," Pedri interrupted, now with a certain tone of severity. "I'm better than you in some aspects and you're better than me in some other. Okay, maybe you don't have the same vision of the game as me—I don't defend like you either. I might be calmer, but you're more explosive. Damn, don't you realise that you're as unattainable to me as I am to you?”

Gavi narrowed his eyes at Pedri sadly. He looked rather adorable. "Why are you able to look at it with such maturity and I'm a kid who stops playing when he’s no longer winning?"

Pedri made an amused face, feigning thoughtfulness. "Because you're indeed a child who stops playing when he starts losing," he mocked. "And I'm a mature and rational person —Ouch! "

Gavi smacked Pedri on the arm again while he grabbed his wrist to stop him, letting out laughter. Gavi also eventually joined him. "You're a twat," Gavi spat, though there was an unmistakable fond tone in his voice.

Pedri reached for the back of his neck with the palm of his hand to push him, playfully. "And hey," he added, as if he didn't want to end the debate. "If that bastard told you that you are worse than me and that the only way to get away from my shadow is to leave the team, he’s a c*nt and a loser.” Gavi lost his smile, almost as soon as that bastard was mentioned. He brushed his bangs away from his face, effectively stopping looking at Pedri. "And if he was the one who just made you cry–"

"I've told him to leave me alone," he asserted, coldly.

Pedri licked his lips without knowing what to say, nodding. "f*ck him."

Gavi made a gesture with his eyes, hiding an ironic tone. "Yeah. f*ck him. "

Fermín came to look for them, after a little more empty small talk between them. He asked Gavi if everything was okay, and he winked at Pedri after saying yes, as if asking him to keep the secret.

Pedri did so without question.