Work Text:
I.
Unai finds comfort in practice drills and routines. Not once has he found them boring or taxing. Necessity outweighs spontaneity, as they can’t afford to deviate from certain practices. But the stretching and warm ups have never felt tedious to him. They woke him up, got his blood pumping. Maybe it’s a sign of moving into a more professional mindset.
Or maybe it’s just the guy across the line from him, who’s been following him along, an excited look on his face even though his breaths are measured and deep.
“How was last night?” Pedri asks, galloping from foot to foot.
“Fine.” Unai brings his knee up and out with every step, stretching the limb before swapping to the other. “Finally slept better.”
“That’s good. Do you always have trouble sleeping the first week?”
“More than that,” Unai admits. “Takes me too long to adjust to a new bed. How about you?” He stops for a moment, twisting his torso. “Sleeping okay?”
Pedri laughs. “Like I've died. I think I could sleep anywhere. Maybe even standing up.”
“As long as it’s not the field.” Unai grasps his shoulder. “Ready to split?”
“Yeah.”
They part because they’ve done all they can together. Otherwise, Unai doesn’t mind doing his warm ups with Pedri. Pedri brings good energy to the field. He wakes him up with his conversation and his antics. Unai wonders if that effect is Pedri or Pedri’s age; at 18, Unai was still wallflowering himself at events, keeping quiet beyond the two teammates that he felt comfortable with. Pedri is the exact opposite; a handful of practices later, and he’s already comfortable with the entire team.
Watching him practice isn’t a sore sight either. Whenever Unai can catch a glimpse, he sees that Pedri moves swiftly, dribbling the ball here and there before passing it to someone else. His focus is sharp and ready. It’s a stark difference from their warm ups, but then again, stretching is a lot different from running drills.
Unai admires him. He takes one last look at the midfielder before bringing his attention to another goalkeeper, signaling him to begin.
Hours later and Pedri jogs over to Unai. Before he can say anything, it’s Unai who stops him in his tracks. “How are you still running? Wasn’t practice enough?”
“Sure it was!” Yet, Pedri is still reaching down to touch his toes before resuming jogging in place. “I have too much energy today.”
“Be careful. Don’t over exert yourself, or-”
And as if right on cue, Pedri’s foot catches on absolutely nothing, sending him sprawling forward.
Unai catches him before he hits the ground, gloved hands holding him tightly. Pedri’s frame startles him as much as his fall does: of course the midfielder is quick on his feet. He practically weighs nothing.
“...you’ll trip.”
Pedri laughs, his hand against Unai’s chest. “Sorry!” Then, Pedri is jogging away. “Come on!”
Don’t be.
“Don’t fall,” Unai calls after him, unsure if he’s speaking to himself or Pedri.
II.
Time slows down, unbearably so, when the match ends. He’s not sure what to do, even though he’s been here before. Or, at least, he thought so. Losing is inevitable. He’s not delusional; he’s not arrogant. He knows not every game of his career would end in their names being shouted from the rooftops.
Unai kicks the ball towards the celebrating team. Fuck knows he’ll probably get shat on for doing that too, so he trudges along, staring at the green because looking up is going to ruin him, gonna make him see red.
It was a great shot. Even he can’t deny that. And that’s all anyone has to know to see how today turned out this way: a good goalkeeper versus a great shot. The math is simple.
He was only good. Not great.
What he should be doing is replaying the last two hours in his head to see where he went wrong. What he could have done better. But instead, he goes straight to their game against Croatia. For some reason, that humiliation has cut itself open again, alongside the bleeding wound of today’s loss. Unai holds his head in his hands. The two games aren't connected, but the illogical part of his brain has convinced him otherwise. And that’s not even the worst thought, which hits him next.
They will not be going to the finals.
Disappointment takes a backseat to rage. He wants to scream. He wants to curse at someone, at the other team, at his teammates, at himself, at the media crews that flood the field. He needs these damn gloves off. He needs to get out from under these fluorescent lights. He needs to find something to break. Something to shatter. Someone to-
One of reporters, hair stuck to his face, shirt sodden with sweat, camera in his hand is right at his side, shouts his name.
Fuck you fuck you fuck you-
And he's about to reach for him, about to make another mistake, until someone catches his eye.
He turns. His heart gives out when he sees him walking, then running, across the field, past their teammates, to him.
Watching him transports Unai to their long hours of practice, their chats in the locker rooms, the jokes they shared when they sat together on plane rides. How Pedri walked away even from the most brutal days and moments with a smile on his face.
Now, his expression is totally unreadable. He's a flash of white in the dark, a light that Unai reaches for while his throat becomes tight. He swallows his anger down as Pedri slows. It's not the time for lashing out. Not now, not in front of him.
Before anything else, Unai pulls him into a hug. Pedri doesn't say a single word. He buries his head into Unai’s chest, tears dampening his jersey.
It doesn’t have to be said. It just has to be done.
Next time, it's ours. Believe me. Next time, it's ours.
III.
Some time has passed.
Unai can't say that he is, for certain, a better goalkeeper than two years ago, but he is 100% ready to compete. And also not kick the ball into his team’s net.
People have changed. He has too. He's older now, and when he looks at himself in the mirror on most days, he's watching himself evolve in real time. More facial hair. More lines, even though those damn skincare products allegedly work. He's leaner, maybe even stronger. He hopes.
Unai walks towards a small huddle of men. Some more familiar than others, though he’s met the new blood prior to their break. In fact, the most familiar person is standing at the edge of the group, and Unai does not miss the million watt smile on his face. Dare he say that has changed?
He introduces himself to the new blood and it's one armed hugs and handshakes all around. And just to tease, he starts to walk away.
“Unai! What about me?!”
He turns, trying to keep a sly smile on his face, only to fail miserably, because this will be no quick hello.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there,” he grins, walking past the others.
“Shut up.” There’s not a drop of malice in Pedri’s voice when they hug. “How have you been?”
Unai keeps an arm around his shoulders. “Where do I even begin?”
It’s not that they haven’t seen each other since the qualifiers. Their lives are so busy, and it’s hard to keep track of one another, especially when the holidays come around. There really is so little time for rest when interviews, photoshoots, appointments, meetings, take up most of their time. And whatever is left should be spent with family. Pedri, too, must’ve gone home and continued with his physical therapy. An occasional text message and funny bit on Instagram kept them connected, but seeing him here, well and smiling, is a sort of relief.
“You sound awful,” Pedri snarks, holding no punches back.
“Ah, no, it was a mild bug. A bit tired, but fine. How was your holiday?”
Pedri starts rambling away, and Unai, feeling a bit awkward standing next to him, can’t figure out where his hands ought to go. First in his pockets, then adjusting his outfit, then back in his pockets. The conversation is easy, even when the next few months won’t be.
“Remember, which is our net again?”
Oh, I’m going to kill him.
Unai grabs him, and it’s a quick shake as he laughs. If anyone else had made that joke, he might have lost his temper.
He supposes Pedri is special like that.
“Nooo,” Pedri feigns hurt. “One of these days, you're going to pull me and we’ll bump heads.” He holds onto Unai to brace himself through his throttling.
“Prepare yourself then.” Unai’s hands linger on the midfielder’s back. He really ought to stop, so he safely tucks his hands away as Pedri speaks.
Some things don’t change at all.
IV.
“This… is a bad idea.”
“Oh, relax. You’ve never wrestled with people?”
“Of course I have.” Unai impatiently taps his foot. “Just not with someone so-” He stops.
“So? So what?” Pedri glares at him. “Say it.”
“So short,” Unai says, biting his lip from laughing out loud. Pedri folds his arms, nose in the air, but that hasn’t changed the goalkeeper’s mind. “Don’t give me that look! It’s not fair for you, that’s all.”
“Are you sure you’re just not scared?” Pedri challenges.
“I’m scared of Coach.”
“Coach?”
“And what he’ll do to me if I break your leg,” Unai chokes out, finally falling into a full bellied laugh as Pedri rolls his eyes. “Wrestle with someone else.”
“No one else wants to,” Pedri whines, flopping himself onto the mat. “I didn’t think you’d be scared- hey!”
Unai reaches over and grabs him by his shirt, practically lifting him off the mat to sit him up. “Fine. One round.” Pedri fist pumps in the air as Unai sighs and positions himself on the mat. “This is a bad idea,” Unai repeats, for posterity, just so Pedri knows what he’s doing. Not that the midfielder is being foolish, but Unai swears that some days, Pedri must be naturally high on sunshine or something because, like today, there’s no end to his energy or antics.
Not that Unai minds.
They take opposite ends of the mat, facing each other. Pedri looks like he’s ready for a hunt as dives first, latching onto Unai’s body by hugging his waist. Such a tactic would have knocked any man of Pedri’s stature down, but not him. Unai doubles down on his stance, locking them in place. They struggle for no more than a few seconds before Unai moves him, then pins him chest down, Pedri’s arm behind him.
“That was fun.”
“No,” Pedri scoffs, quickly getting up from the mat. “Again.”
“You said once.”
“One more.”
And once more, Pedri is pinned: this time, on his back. But yet again, he gets up. “Again.”
“Too aggressive?” Unai asks with a grin.
Pedri sharks his head. “I can take you.”
Unai smirks at the joke. He turns his hand and gestures to Pedri to come at him again.
Except this time, Pedri half dances towards him, narrowly dodging away from Unai’s hands. Unai shifts his weight, moves right into the air where Pedri is. Was, a moment ago. He’s gone again, just barely out of reach. It happens again, and again, until Unai realizes the smaller man is spinning him in circles.
It works. The next time Pedri strikes, it’s at Unai’s side, and Unai is flat on his back, his head dizzy. In the next second, Pedri has successfully pinned both of his arms to the sides of his head. He’s wearing a triumphant smile, one that makes his eyes gleam when Unai finally meets them.
“You were saying?”
Unai grabs his shirt. “Still got you down twice.”
Pedri smirks. “Best out of five?”
V.
Unai doesn’t mean to, but lately, he blinks and he’s, somehow, gravitated towards Pedri. There are others there to help him: teammates, his health aid. No one asked Unai to help: certainly not Pedri. But whenever they’re out as a team, he’s seated on Pedri’s side. When they’re going in and out of practice and Pedri insists on baking in the sun while they train, he’s the one escorting him. If Pedri says something about going somewhere, Unai’s ears catch it, and in an instant, he’s helping Pedri to his feet.
He hadn’t noticed at first, until someone else had randomly said, “Don’t worry, Unai’s got him,” when they were walking down for dinner. Pedri had given them a sheepish laugh, but there wasn’t any doubt; as soon as they all got up, Unai had an arm around the midfielder.
Unai told himself that he’s just that sort of teammate. At the start. After the comment, he learns that it’s unconscious, second nature, to keep his focus on Pedri. Like now, from across the room: he decided to sit at another table after getting Pedri settled. He does, after all, have other teammates to talk to. But his eyes wander over to check on their injured friend. He has his leg propped up as he chats, and from the look of him, everything is fine. Pedri is laughing. He’s joking , his dinner plate set aside and forgotten despite having more than half of his meal remaining.
He really ought to finish. He needs his energy to recover.
Unai considers saying it, but he doesn’t, instead turning back to his own. In fact, most of their plates are only half eaten, too consumed with the thoughts of what could happen tomorrow. Tensions are high. They always are, when it comes to these moments: qualifiers, waiting for injury reports. The night before the final. They’re not hungry for meat and potatoes; they’re hungry for victory. For himself and Pedri, this craving is like none other.
He opts for a text message. “Eat. Recover well.”
Unai watches Pedri fish his phone out from between his leg and the sofa. Pedri looks up at him with a smile, mouthing something to him that may be, “Thank you.” Unai nods back before picking up his fork. He succeeds in pushing his food around the plate before calling it a night.
“Unai, can you-”
Pedri doesn't have to say more. Unai is there, grabbing onto his waist, helping him up.
“Thanks.”
“Your room?”
“I got the rest.” Pedri starts to walk, a much slower pace that leaves him and Unai behind. “I'll need to walk on my own for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“What, you thought I wouldn't come?” Pedri scoffs. “No one can keep me from going.”
“I know.” Unai walks with him until they're at Pedri's door. “We need you there.”
Pedri gives him a tight smile. There's something unsaid behind the midfielder’s expression, but still, he beams brightly at him. “Goodnight, Unai.”
“Goodnight, Pedri.”
I.
The roar of the stadium could bring a man to his knees.
It does as the rest of his team floods the field. Unai hits the ground as the crowd breaks into song. He’s only alone for a moment before he’s up and running towards a pile of bodies, launching himself into celebrations. This sort of behavior is out of character for him, but he finds that there is so little room for embarrassment; he’s one part of the whole lot of them, and they’re all a mess of tears and hoarse voices and skinned knees and unrestrained joy.
Someone tackles him into a hug. Someone else shouts his name alongside Olmo’s. A spectacular last defense that ensured their win: you’d think they would’ve scored with the way the voice in his ear sounded. Someone else drags him by the hands, spins him into a hug before running off. Unai turns, not sure where to go next because he’s being pulled in all directions. The noise is so loud that his hearing dims, and the sweat in his eyes with the flashing lights blind-
A sharp pinch on his arm cuts through everything. Unai whirls around, ready to knock a bitch out-
“Are you fucking kidding me?!”
It’s Pedri. Everything, the celebration, the rage, the pain, the happiness, all drains from him.
How the hell did he get on the field-
Pedri grabs his face. “You did that! You!” He starts to shake him, and Unai lets him, because it dawns upon him that he’s right.
It's ours.
“It’s ours,” Pedri shouts. “It’s ours, it’s ours-”
Emotion and opportunity seize him, the same way Unai seizes Pedri by the shirt.
When their mouths meet, Unai freezes in motion. Because on one hand, he didn’t exactly plan on planting one on Pedri, but on the other hand, God, is Pedri’s mouth soft, supple, and so very hard to pull away from. From Pedri’s reaction, he knows that the midfielder is just as unprepared as he is: rigid, shocked. But then relaxed, and then Pedri’s hugging him tighter, opening for him as if he’s waited all this time for this one kiss. And Unai’s not quite sure if they’ve made history: with the game or the kiss. After all, it’s just a kiss. They can’t possibly be the first teammates to snog in the heat of a victory. But he’s never really cared about the books or the legacy or the teammates who’ve stopped to stare. What he cares about, who he cares about, is right in front of him.
“I can’t say I didn’t see that coming.”
They break apart, except Pedri is attached to Unai, hanging onto him and wearing an annoyed glare. The remark comes from Álex, who’s sporting a shit eating grin.
“Where’s my kiss, Unai?” Álex pouts, obviously in jest, but Unai rolls his eyes. Though, he can’t deny his heart soaring into his throat when he hears Pedri bark:
“Get your own goalkeeper. This one’s mine.”