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Is he good enough?
He knows he's not a bad player or even an irritating team-mate, let alone a selfish companion. But faced with Pedri, all these assertions and certainties seemed to melt like snow in the sun. The older man was, for the Sevillian, the most perfect thing God could have created, and he's not even a believer. But when he stared a little too intently at the black man, he detected a little divine something, perhaps it was in his brown eyes, or even his three-day beard. On a less physical note, the Tenerife native's voice enchanted him, as much as his laugh or his pout. And he hasn't even mentioned his game yet. His passing, his dribbling, his shooting, everything was both precise and instinctive, creating a magic he had rarely seen in the sport he loved so much.
He trained with him almost every day and yet he still couldn't understand how Pedri did it. Everything about him exuded talent, this reading of the game could not after all come otherwise, a divine gift given only to the most deserving. And Gavi could attest to this, the two players sharing their long and gruelling training sessions, he could see the sweat beading, the tension building and the fatigue accumulating on his team-mate's face. Yet the man had something more, a flame that seemed to glow, a singular attitude that allowed him to do things Gavi could only imagine in his wildest dreams. And against this magic, the Sevillian knew he was no match.
It was a simple and unequivocal observation. Despite all Gavi's willpower and hard work, he would never reach the level of his elder.
That was one immutable certainty.
And the midfielder didn't need to accept it, it was obvious, a statement that matches had made unshakeable. He never complained about it, never even thought about it, after all there was nothing to complain about. This constant feeling of inferiority wasn't even bad in itself, Pedri was a generational talent, Gavi was a good player. A simple but important distinction. His dedication to the club wouldn't change a thing. Nor would his dedication to Pedri.
And perhaps therein lies the problem.
Gavi never felt inferior to Pedri, at least not in the most pessimistic view, they both contributed to the club, complemented each other, harmonised. His evil was more subtle but deeper. He wasn't good enough for Pedri. Not for the club. He knew that his loyalty to Barça was rewarded, that his play was appreciated, and that the fans adored him. But that didn't matter, a mere grit of sand in the desert that was Gavi's ego and confidence. What mattered was Pedri. How his team-mate spoke to him, looked at him, complimented him or even touched him.
All this attention Gavi was overflowing with, revelling in it, while at the same time dreading it. For Pedri was like the tide, it came and went, the Sevillian being only a poor believer who hoped that it would never go out again. But the sea was indomitable and if it didn't want you, it would spit you back towards its deadly rocks, leaving you to be torn apart by the threat you were enjoying earlier. Fortunately, the youngest had not yet experienced this. In fact, he was in the opposite situation. Actively drowning in the love and appreciation of the older man. He hoped to sink a little further every day, perhaps allowing himself to die, happy to be surrounded by everything that distracted him from his shattered ego. But he still had a lifejacket to pull him relentlessly back to the surface, a last glimmer of sanity to keep him from falling into that sweet ocean of attention.
And that reason was a simple fact:
Gavi wasn't going out with Pedri.
But the Sevillian intended to do something about it, despite his flagrant lack of qualities:
1 - He can't cook.
Squatting in Pedri's kitchen every week in the hope of scrounging up a few treats, he'd end up with a recipe he knew was impossible for him, and a ration of his favourite dishes that would be enough for a whole battalion.
2 - He can't drive.
The only time he was allowed to drive was under the supervision of one of his team-mates, despite the fact that he has a driving licence. The Tenerife native often took on this role, letting him have access to his car on clasico days, to, and I quote, "give myself an adrenaline shot by experiencing a near-death experience".
3 - He holds a grudge.
He's already almost fought with the older player over pranks that were months or even years ago. He didn't even do it to amuse the gallery, Gavi's memory causing him to have flashes of memory at the worst possible moment (he once remembered a particularly teasing expression from Pedri during a funeral).
4 - He's possessive.
He knows that some people like this trait in their partner, but it certainly wasn't the case for Pedri. What's more, Gavi had a deep attachment to innocuous objects. For example, he loved his shoelaces and hated having to wash them, even though they reeked of mud. The same went for a simple bracelet that he had refused to give away with his youngest cousins, who were barely 5 years old (sorry, but Pedri gave it to him, no one else had the right to this treasure).
https://archiveofourown.org/works/64711093/chapters/166258837
SUMMARY :
"- So what? If I were a prince, I'd have allocated all the funds for culture to rebuilding the Camp Nou! And on top of that I'd have been called Sir! Just imagine! Sir Pablo Gavira, thank you for saving Barça, that's really stylish, isn't it? Gavi tried to explain with a conspiratorial air.
- That's not how it works, it would have been funnier otherwise. sighed the older, smiling at the younger's crazy ideas. And anyway, being a football player is better, they'd have called me Pedri instead of 'Prince' everywhere, and I could have stayed in the family restaurant with my brother and my parents.
- Mhmmm.... So, I don't think I can take you back to your parents straight away, but at least I can call you Pedri! "
Or Gavi, who falls in love with the most unlikely person in Spain, Prince Pedro González López, aka Pedri.