Chapter Text
Arda stood at the edge of the asphalt, his Adidas shoes faintly making a squeaking sound each time he jumped anxiously on his heels. His hands were firmly clasped behind his back keeping his posture straight. Almost unnaturally straight. The tarmac felt endless, offering nowhere for his nerves to hide. Every few seconds his fingers twitched in a nervous rhythm.
‘Arda, what food are you most excited for in Barcelona?’ one of the men had asked. He was aiming the camera straight at Arda. Behind him, Tarazona, the security guy, narrowed his eyes attentively.
‘Crema catalana,’ Arda answered a bit too hastily with a practiced smile.
‘Arda, do you plan on visiting Playa de la Barceloneta?’ a second man had asked, his camera trying to capture a different angle of Arda.
‘My work comes first,’ Arda replied, jaw too tight for the bright tone he hoped to project. ‘But if I have the time, I would love to.’
But the questions just kept coming. ‘Arda, do you…’
‘I think it’s enough for now,’ Tarazona intervened, voice low and gravelly. ‘Enough for your videos, no?’
The camera guys tensed visibly. Their smiles disintegrated on their faces almost theatrically. It would have been a funny sight, but Arda was grateful. Tarazona was a man on a mission.
‘Do we have to do something…’ Arda trailed off, not finding the right word in Spanish. How did one say flashy? Ostentatious? Performative? Arda’s hands shot upward and he threw his fingers wide in a series of rhythmic, starburst patterns. His eyes were glued to Fede’s, hoping his captain would be able to translate the pantomime.
But Fede wasn’t easily intimidated by language barriers. Interviewers? Sure. Scripted social media videos? Maybe. Bridging communication with his teammates? Never. Fede did everything he could to be a good captain.
‘Something loud?’ Fede probed, settling on a simpler word. ‘Crowded?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Arda smiled in relief. ‘I don’t want a lot of people.’
Fede’s brow knitted. Not out of disapproval. Just pure focus. ‘Let me make sure I understand right.’ He brought his hands together as if he were praying. ‘Do you want to be without the camera crew there?’ His voice quivered. ‘Because it’ll be hard to convince…’
‘No!’ Arda interrupted him, scratching the back of his head in a nervous gesture. He knew it was an unorthodox request. ‘You. The team.’
Fede paused as Arda’s demand sunk in. Arda wasn’t sure if Fede seemed hurt or not. ‘You want to be alone with the camera crew? Without us?’ He watched Arda nod. ‘Why?’
Arda sighed, giving himself the time to find the right words. ‘I don’t want Barcelona to see how much my team means to me. I don’t want him to use it in front of me (No quiero que lo use frente a mí).’
The mistake slipped by, but Fede didn’t so much as blink. The corners of his mouth didn’t betray even a hint of a smirk. The man was as committed to building up his teammates’ confidence as he was to helping them. ‘I see,’ he nodded calmly.
‘And I don’t want to cry,’ Arda insisted, ignoring his pulse that for some reason began quickening. ‘With you there… With Dean, I… maybe…’
‘That’s fine,’ Fede gently interrupted the stammering. His bottom lip caught between his teeth, skin pulled taut until it turned a ghostly white. ‘If that’s what you want, I’ll see to it,’ he promised. ‘I’m happy to see you stepping out of your comfort zone, but I’d like to send the security guy with you. If anything feels like too much, he can step in for you. And you don’t have to give any explanations to anyone. How does that sound?’
Arda went silent for a couple of seconds as he thought about it. No chance of crying in front of the cameras. No seeing Dean upset. No burdening Fede. And some protection in case things went south. ‘I’d like that,’ he smiled.
The camera guys seemed to go limp under the weight of Tarazona’s words. They only perked back up when the plane landed on the tarmac. The one bearing obvious Barcelona branding. They were now careful to capture every millisecond on video. The heavy cabin door hissed open. The stairs unfolded with a mechanical whine. Then, Barcelona’s Pablo Gavi appeared. He paused for a heartbeat at the top of the stairs before descending.
Arda instinctively lifted his chin. He wanted to be polite. He wanted to be welcoming. He wanted to be genuine in their little forced meeting. But something pulled at his muscles, making them feel impossibly tight and rigid. By comparison, Gavi moved surprisingly fluidly. And despite the glint of hatred in his eyes he bore for everything Real Madrid, Gavi seemed quite confident. His gaze was locked on Arda from the moment his feet hit the ground. His stride across the tarmac seemed almost purposeful. At least until he came close enough.
‘Hi. How are you?’ Gavi asked quite coldly, and extended a hand.
Arda shook his hand. The best outcome would be to hug. The cameramen could better capture a warm rivals-to-comrades moment that would have viewers go wild in the comment section. Sell the lie that Tebas’ experiment had willing participants. Arda didn’t want the contact. He reached out with jerky hands. To his surprise, Gavi got the message and leaned in. It was brief. But enough for the cameras.
With that out of the way, Arda just needed to focus on his pronunciation. They were words he uttered hundreds of times before. This should be easy. ‘Fine, thank you. And you?’
Shit. Not only did he sound painfully foreign, but his voice also quivered. Like he talked without sufficient air in his lungs. Gavi must have noticed. That contempt in his eyes flickered for a couple of seconds. Almost as if he pitied Arda. People usually pitied Arda. People that were nice pitied him, while those that were not nice took whatever they wanted from him. And those that tried to break this mold ended up being burdened by Arda. Like Dean. Like Fede. Like Carva. Like Jude. Like Aurel. Like Kylian. Everyone.
‘Also fine, thanks.’ Gavi’s voice did soften ever so slightly. Like he was speaking to a child. A scared, fragile child that was lost in the world. He truly did pity Arda. ‘The plane’s all yours.’ He pointed behind him. A clear signal their little banter should end.
‘Thank you,’ Arda replied, no longer bothering to hide his accent. It was pointless either way. ‘Good luck in Madrid!’
Gavi grimaced as if Arda had just insulted him and his entire lineage. ‘You too, have a good season in Barcelona!’
Barcelona. Where Fede insisted he’d go to think things through. Being away from all the bullshit on Valdebebas might do you good. It’s better than being out on a loan god knows where. Where Carva insisted he’d have the time to focus on himself. You don’t have to play for them. Give ten percent effort, focus on yourself, and come back stronger to us. Where Dean tried to be encouraging despite not liking the idea. You have my support, no matter what. I’ll text you every day, I promise.
Arda tried to smile politely. Of course, Gavi wouldn’t have the patience to deal with his bullshit. ‘Thank you! Bye!’ He waved goodbye, and he could swear Gavi was about to burst into laughter before he returned the gesture. Was Arda this pathetic?
He spun on his heels, and waddled toward the plane, desperate to hide the uncomfortable heat that began to stain his cheeks pink. Gavi shouldn’t see that. The cameras shouldn’t see that. But the cameras followed him. They had to. Madridistas would want to analyze every shot of him departing for Barcelona. Check if he looked sad enough. If he looked remorseful over Tebas’ stupid decision. If maybe… just maybe Arda cracked a smile that proved he was actually unhappy with Real Madrid.
Arda had seen the speculation online. That he fought with Jude over the same spot in the starting eleven. That Xabi tried to mold him into a wonderkid like he had Wirtz. That Fede hated him. That Kylian bullied him. And now, a single chip in the armor could launch the rumors anew.
Arda focused on keeping his facial muscles as relaxed as possible as he approached the plane. Panic flared for a second when the camera guys made a move as if they’d join him for the trip.
‘Guys, guys!’ Tarazona roared impatiently. ‘That’s far enough! You’re paid to film him boarding the plane, not fly him to Barcelona yourselves.’
Arda had to smile in relief at the man who looked so stern, it was scary. He merely nodded in acknowledgement. Tarazona looked like the type of guy that didn’t know muscles could be used to express feelings on his face. Or that his voice could have various inflections, including ones that didn’t express disapproval.
Arda stepped into the cabin and felt the embrace of the recycled air inside. He stood in the center of the aisle, looking at the empty seats and the gleaming walnut tables. A surge of selfish joy followed him. He was finally alone. No cameras flickered. But the sweet silence of the cabin turned deafening at a dizzying speed. Arda sank into a leather seat. This freedom felt like a theft. One that he took from Jude. And one that might cost him more.
Arda pulled his phone from his pocket. He thumbed the device awake, and found the message he was expecting.
Dean
pls text me when u arrive 🤍
Arda felt a hot, pricking itch behind his eyes. A coward’s tear. He couldn't cry.
Arda
I will 🤍
Arda
Are you sure you won’t forget I? (¿estás seguro que no me olvidarás?)
Dean replied in English.
Dean
i promised u this won’t change a thing between us
Arda pouted in the glow of the phone. He stubbornly continued in Spanish.
Arda
Did I make a mistake? 😅
And it worked. Dean reverted to Spanish.
Dean
i wanted to make sure u understood 100% 😘
Dean
i’ll miss u
Arda
I’ll miss you too 😘
Talking with Dean didn’t only help steady Arda’s nerves, but also pass the time. In Barcelona, things got wild quickly. He didn’t expect to find the entire Barça squad waiting for him. Even Flick was there.
‘Arda! Welcome to Barcelona!’ Flick beamed and extended his hand quite theatrically.
Arda would have expected him to speak Spanish, not English, but replied in kind. ‘Thank you!’ He shook the manager’s hand. ‘I’m happy to be here.’
‘Welcome! Welcome!’ Barcelona captain ter Stegen also spoke English and practically lunged to greet Arda and pull him into a friendly hug. Arda’s muscles stiffened instinctively.
Smiling faces kept greeting him. Everyone he was familiar with from Clásicos. Araújo. Raphinha. Ferran Torres. Lewandowski. Eric García. Yamal. De Jong. Bernal. Szczesny. Balde. Cubarsí. Joan García. Koundé. Martín. Iñaki Peña. Pedri. Casadó. Dani Olmo. Each gesture warm. Each word kind.
But the second the cameramen lowered their rigs, the performance shattered. It was a eerily efficient metamorphosis. The warmth evaporated and was replaced by the sterile, busy energy of a boardroom. They began talking over Arda. Around Arda. And through Arda. Like he wasn’t even there. Like was a prop that had served its purpose and could be discarded. The hands that had just been shaking Arda’s hands were now busy with phones. Faces were illuminated by the cold blue light of phone screens. Arda was left standing on the tarmac, still wearing his practice smile, while the world around him turned into a blur of indifference.
‘Here,’ Flick handed him a duffel bag. ‘It has your kits, schedules, papers, key to your new house, car, and whatever else you need,’ he waved dismissively.
Arda’s fingers wrapped around the bag’s handles with white-knuckled force. He felt a sickening lurch in his gut. The kind someone gets when they fall and realize a second too late that the safety net was never there. He forced his spine to stay rigid and upright, even as his ribs felt like they were shrinking and crushing the air out of his lungs. ’Thank you.’
But the manager no longer paid attention to him. ’Now, let’s go,’ he addressed ter Stegen. ‘It’s getting late.’
It was weird. He was still speaking English with the Barcelona squad. Most of them replied back in Spanish.
‘What about the…’ Raphinha opened his mouth to say something.
‘The crew will handle everything,’ Flick interrupted. ‘We don’t need to bother with this.’
Arda watched as the words came out of Flick in a series of sharp bursts. He wasn’t shouting. But the cadence with which he spoke made every sentence sound like a closing argument. Behind the manager, Bernal looked quite calm. Martín bored. None of them seemed alert at the tone, which made Arda believe this was Flick’s natural way of speaking. But it seemed like such an exhausting way to communicate.
‘Right. In that case, see you all tomorrow!’ Flick finished answering questions in what seemed like a rebuttal.
‘Right, bye, everyone!’ Araújo said in Spanish, already turning to leave.
‘See you tomorrow!’ Raphinha followed suit with a lazy waving motion.
One by one, the people that were gathered there turned and left. The silence that followed the dispersal was like a physical weight pressing down on Arda’s shoulders until he felt small. This was a bad idea. This was such a bad idea. He came here to think about his future. Away from influences that might impact his decision. Should he leave Real Madrid? Should he return to Türkiye? Should he try his hand in a Premier League team that was willing to offer him a contract?
But now, staying exactly where he had been told to stand, his feet felt rooted like any movement would break a rule he didn’t fully understand. He was alone. In a new city. With new people. With a new manager. With a pile of suitcases and bags at his feet. And he already felt discarded. He needed Dean. If he were back in Madrid, Fede would… Fede! He would help!
Arda dashed, clumsily dragging all the luggage behind him, after Barcelona’s captain and luckily caught the man just before he could enter his car. Arda tried calling after him, but the words died in his throat. This felt like his first days with Real Madrid all over again. How would he address those with more seniority? Just like he couldn’t say Luka and Karim back then, Arda couldn’t say Marc right now. Marc? André? Marc-André? What was his name really?
So Arda resorted to the stupidest option. ‘Uhm, sorry!’ he yelled, clutching the bag tighter against him.
The goalkeeper thankfully turned around. The spark of curiosity in his gaze was quickly replaced by something colder. Something that betrayed annoyance. ‘Yes?’ The word was in English, but somehow felt cut in the middle. Like he was too impatient to let his mouth produce sounds fully.
Did everyone think Arda was too stupid to speak Spanish? Why did everyone speak English to him? Best not to force it now. ‘What do I do now?’ Arda resorted to English too.
‘Go home. We’ll see you on Joan Gamper,’ the captain replied like it was obvious.
To a point, it was obvious. But Arda felt so lost, it almost seemed ridiculous to focus on anything but the smaller details. ‘Where’s home?’
‘I don’t know,’ the German shrugged, unphased. ‘Check the document in the bag.’
Arda should have checked the bag, but his mouth kept running like it had a mind of its own. ‘And how do I get there?’
‘Take an Uber,’ the man replied, sounding utterly bored. ‘That should be the easiest way.’
Arda felt a hot, pricking itch of shame climbing his neck. He focused on the rhythm of his own heart. A frantic, humiliated thud he used as a metronome to keep his breathing steady. ‘Thank you,’ he replied politely, smiling. His voice thankfully carried none of the dread that threatened to overwhelm Arda any second now.
The captain gave a firm nod and a fleeting smile. ‘Have a good one! See you during practice!’
‘Yes, see you!’ Arda said with a gasp.
The words likely didn’t reach the goalkeeper that was already inside his car. With a final wave goodbye, he drove off.
Arda felt his consciousness retreat, pulling back into a small corner where Dean was with him now and would know what to do. From a safe distance, he watched the neutral mask on his face crack and disintegrate. His heart was racing. He felt completely unanchored in a world too hostile. He expected some disdain from a rival team, but nothing to this extent. Arda placed the duffel bag down, and buried his hand in his pocket. His fingers began dancing against the folded paper. The rhythmic crinkling felt like a ground ritual. Dean wouldn’t be happy about this.
‘Do you need a ride?’ A question in Spanish cut through the stillness.
Arda spun around only to be met with Pedri. The Spaniard approached him, looking half-embarrassed, half-curious. Inside Arda’s pocket, the hand that had been cradling the paper suddenly spasmed, crunching the delicate fibers. Dean definitely wouldn’t be happy about this.
Arda forced his features to relax. He had to smile again. ‘Oh! It’s fine. I don’t want to bother,’ he said automatically. A phrase he had repeated so often, he didn’t even worry about accent or pronunciation.
Pedri frowned ever so slightly. ‘It’s no bother. I’d like to help.’ He paused for a second, confused at Arda’s silence. ‘Can I see the address?’
‘Oh! Yes, of course.’
Arda leaned down to the bag. The zipper shrieked as he yanked it back, the teeth catching twice on the lining before finally giving way. He dug through the bag like a scavenger. Flick was right. Kits. Training attire. But it was a single printed piece of paper that he was after. He pulled it out with a triumphant jerk. Pedri just watched. His calm was so absolute it almost felt like a judgement on its own. Arda’s fingers clasped the paper, hand hovering in the empty space between them and shaking violently.
Pedri took the piece of paper and took his time reading through the information. ‘I don’t know it. Let me check on Maps.’ He seemed quite serene as he pulled out his phone and typed in the address on the paper. ‘Oh! Okay, now I know it!’ He smiled and met Arda’s eyes. ‘It’s quite far from here. Are you sure you don’t need a ride?’
‘I don’t want to be a burden (no quiero ser una carga),’ Arda blurted before his brain had registered the words. As if on cue, he heard Dean’s voice.
‘Stop saying that,’ Dean chuckled lightly. His hands felt so warm over Arda’s slick palms. His thumb gently ran over Arda’s pulse point as he tried to calm him down. ‘That sounds really dramatic in Spanish. You didn’t do anything wrong.’
Arda still struggled to breathe normally after that panic attack. But focusing on Spanish grammar weirdly gave him something better to focus on. A fucked up sense of purpose. Translating word for word from Turkish made his brain drift away from those feelings. ‘I… I… I’m hurting you.’
‘You’re not,’ Dean assured him calmly. ‘I promise you. You’re not. But don’t ever call yourself a burden again. Okay?’
Arda nodded.
If Pedri noticed the mistake, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t even smirk. His eyes kept traveling between his phone and the paper.
‘I’m sorry,’ Arda didn’t want to give Pedri the chance to speak. ‘My Spanish isn’t very good.’
‘Your Spanish is fine!’ Pedri said with a small chuckle. Arda didn’t join in the laughter, and instead chose to lower his gaze back to the bag. ‘I can’t speak much English, but I can understand a bit if you’d rather speak English,’ Pedri continued, voice wavering with uncertainty.
‘No, no! I’m trying to learn,’ Arda hurried to add.
‘Okay.’ Pedri smiled and knelt down to be at Arda’s eye level. ‘How about this? You have a lot of luggage.’ Pedri’s eyes wandered between the suitcases. ‘It’s easier if there’s two of us. How about I take you to this address here?’ He gave the paper a shake as if to accentuate his words. ‘And we’ll see where we go from there.’
Why? Why would Pedri go through the effort? Arda wasn’t that familiar with Barça’s seniors, but he knew Pedri was pretty far down the line in captaincy. But maybe refusing Pedri’s help wouldn’t be the best idea now. He had no one in Barcelona. Arda could only hope the price he would have to pay for Pedri’s pity wouldn’t be too high. He couldn’t hurt Dean again. The contents of his pocket felt too heavy all of a sudden.
‘Sounds good. Thank you!’ Arda’s voice sounded way more shaky than he would have liked.
The drive to his new home was fairly tense. Only Pedri seemed to have the energy for chatting.
‘Barcelona’s way prettier when it’s not so dark outside,’ the man said wistfully, his eyes glued to the road in front of them. ‘There’s a lot of places you can visit when you wind down. Good restaurants, too.’ He spoke quite pleasantly and enunciated and it was easy to follow him.
‘Oh.’ It was all Arda managed to reply. His throat seemed to constrict every time he wanted to reply to the Spaniard.
But Pedri didn’t seem to mind. ‘I think you’ll get used to the place quite quickly. It takes a little bit of getting used to around the city, but it’s not that bad. I got lost a lot when I first came here,’ he chuckled softly. ‘I think all of us did back in the day.’
‘I think I will too.’ It was the only pathetic attempt Arda was capable of.
‘Think of it as a tradition!’ Pedri laughed. ‘Except the guys from La Masia, it’s something we all went through.’
In the passenger’s seat, Arda couldn’t get his muscles to relax. Once arrived, Pedri helped carry Arda’s luggage up to the entrance door. The house wasn’t a very large one. Definitely smaller than the one he had in Madrid. But it couldn’t be much worse than a hotel, could it? Pedri also wanted them to exchange phone numbers.
The interior was quite modern and nice. Nothing too fancy. Nothing too flashy. But it didn’t matter. This wasn’t home. And it was never meant to be. Just a final station before he would make his decision.
Arda went to the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of water. He gulped it down and sat at the kitchen table. His hand shakily found his pocket and pulled out the object inside. The paper flower was all crumpled. The tulip’s petals were wrinkled. One even ripped at the side. Dean wouldn’t like this. Arda sighed, and placed it on the table. The lighting was good enough, so he snapped a picture of it.
Arda
I got here
Dean
in barcelona?
Arda
No. My new home
Dean
great! 😊
Dean
🌷?
Arda sent the picture of the mangled little paper flower. But neither Dean, nor Arda had the time to say anything else. Not with the incoming notification.
Committee for Arda
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Fede added you
Group created 02.08.2026 by Fede
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Fede 🦅
hey everyone! 😁
Fede 🦅
i made this group just for us so we can discuss privately
Fede 🦅
the purpose of this group is for us to make sure arda has the support he needs in barcelona
Dani Carvajal
good thinking! 👍
Dean
🙌
Fede 🦅
so arda… any issue u run into, let us know here! 🤗
Fede 🦅
and we’ll discuss how we can best help u
Arda
Thank you! I’m sure you have enough problems 😅
Fede 🦅
don’t we all?
Fede 🦅
but we’re here for u 🤗
Dean
💯
Fede 🦅
tarazona told me the camera guys were sons of bitches
Dean
oh no 😥
Arda
Tarazona was very helpful. It was all okay in the end 😅
Dani Carvajal
Arda, if you’re ever uncomfortable, you have to tell us upfront. You can be honest here. We’re on your side
Fede 🦅
actually no, fuck that
Fede 🦅
arda, if u only feel comfortable to tell dean, do it
Fede 🦅
and dean can talk to me or carva or both
Dani Carvajal
Yes 👍
Dani Carvajal
Just please let us know you’re ok in Barcelona
Arda
They hate us here 🥲
Dean
barça?
Fede 🦅
the players?
Arda
Yes. I feel bad
Arda
Like a bad person
Dani Carvajal
Goddamn dickheads
Dani Carvajal
You did nothing wrong
Dean
fucking club rivalry 😤
Arda
Pedri helped me find the house
Arda
But everyone else left early 😅
Fede 🦅
i’ll handle it. i promise
Fede 🦅
even while u’re away in barcelona, u’re still one of us 🤍
Fede 🦅
i’m here for u no matter what
Fede 🦅
so pls reach out if u need help 🤗
Fede 🦅
dean can be the middle man if u don’t feel comfortable talking
Dean
yes sir! 🫡
Arda
Thank you, everyone! 🤍
Arda woke up to a sudden, jarring awareness of his heartbeat. The room was flooded with a measly light that made the shadows in the corners look like the shadows that had plagued his dreams. He instinctively reached for his phone. The screen was now a cold mirror, and catching his reflection brought a wave of nausea over him. The hours spent texting Dean last night hadn’t saved him from the dread that consumed him now.
Because staring at the latest message sent in the middle of the night filled him with an irrational urge to throw his phone across the room.
+34 699 669 222
good morning! 👋 ronald araújo here. i hear u’re having a bit of a rough start in barcelona. how about we meet today and i can take u around? we can go together to camp nou for the signing and everything? 😊
Arda wasn’t stupid. He knew Fede had put Araújo up to it. Likely after their group chat. Likely after Arda whined and complained to the only people willing to listen. Even 600 kilometers away, Arda was a burden to the people who cared about him.