Chapter Text
‘For decades, it’s been a war. Countless battles. A clash of titans. Two giants showing their hunger, passion, and desire to win. A fire that burned brighter than anything La Liga has ever seen.’
The deep, authoritative male voice narrating the video was supposed to inspire confidence. Energize the viewer. Hype up fans and haters alike. But it did nothing to stop Gavi’s frantic heartbeat as his eyes took in the pretty actors and actresses dressed in Barcelona and Real Madrid kits. Across from each other. Then next to each other. Their smiles were practiced. Warm. Reassuring.
‘But what if there was another way?’ the narrator boomed dramatically. The screen cued to the actors interacting. Shaking hands merrily. Hugging warmly. Laughing together. It made Gavi’s stomach queasy. ‘Barcelona, Real Madrid, and La Liga are proud to announce a new initiative. A bridge built not out of a competition, but out of respect. Of camaraderie. Of true sportsmanship.’
Bright, vivid, animated text accompanied each word. The in-video music held a hopeful, inspiring tone. In the background, pictures of the Barcelona and Real Madrid players flashed one by one. Thankfully, they were from matches. Where they looked sweaty, determined, and fierce. The last thing Gavi wanted to see was himself smiling next to the likes of Bellingham or Mbappé.
‘For the 2026-27 season,’ the narrator continued confidently, ‘both Barcelona and Real Madrid will don a new uniform. That of brotherhood.’
Gavi’s stomach made a painful lurch. There was nothing brotherly about this whole arrangement. Behind him, Raphinha huffed indignantly.
‘Key players from both of La Liga’s top teams challenge themselves to get to know their rivals outside the pitch. It starts with the coaches,’ the narrator proclaimed dramatically as still shots of Alonso and Flick graced the screen. The outlines of their figures were marked by bright neon colors that gave Gavi a headache. ‘They will keep in touch and share insights and their expertise to elevate both teams.’
The artificial cheeriness in the narrator’s voice was starting to grate Gavi’s nerves. Across the big conference room table, Flick seemed at least three shades paler.
‘And it continues with the presidents, who put everything aside in the spirit of the game.’ The screen switched to Pérez and Laporta shaking hands. Neither man was particularly successful in hiding their disdain for each other. Their tight grimace clearly contrasted the actors’ wide, radiant smiles.
Sitting down on an office chair to his left, Pedri had to bite back an inappropriate smile at the sight.
‘And finally, of course, the football players themselves who put their careers on the line for one of La Liga’s most daring experiments. One meant to show the goodwill of long-time rivals to amend their broken relationship.’
Gavi cringed at the words before he could even see his own face on the screen. He wasn’t really smiling. Sure, he was sorta showing his teeth and his lips slightly pulled at the corners of his mouth, but there was no spark that reached his eyes. By comparison, Güler flashed a more sincere smile next to him, even as his features betrayed the uncertainty the Turk was feeling. Gavi remembered how awkward he felt during that photoshoot.
‘For this season, both teams will loan one of their players to the rival club,’ the narrator explained with theatrical cheeriness, meant to hype up god knows who. Not Culers. Not Madridistas. Just… someone. ‘On Barcelona’s side, Gavi will switch to a white kit and bring his much-praised defensive skills to the Madrid team.’
The screen filled with a myriad of still shots. Gavi during training. Gavi holding a trophy and celebrating. Gavi working out on an elliptical bicycle. Gavi signing autographs. It was a collage he didn’t really care for. He had to stifle an annoyed groan.
‘While gifted visionary Arda Güler will wear the blaugrana, complimenting Barcelona’s offensive prowess.’ A similar collage with various pictures of Güler accompanied the words.
‘This isn’t about erasing the rivalry. It’s about elevating it. It’s about understanding that the battle on the field is just that — a game,’ the propaganda went on. ‘And off the field, we are all united by our love of football.’
Gavi sighed at the same time as Pedri. Every footballer in the meeting room was tense. Each one of them was unconvinced by the material that would soon set the press and social media on fire. The most ambitious La Liga experiment as they would call it. Gavi just thought it was stupid. The narrator's voice became muted as the actors came back into focus. Much more presentable than himself or Güler. Much more charming. Much more willing to sell the lie that Barça and Real Madrid were buddying up. But after Pérez and Laporta’s public feud last season, they had to find a way to appease the constant bad-mouths. And this was the master plan their PR teams came up with. Tebas was more than excited. He knew the virality the news would generate. How that translated to more money to fill his pockets while Gavi might just lose his marbles this season. Güler probably too, but who cared?
When the video was finally finished, a skinny brunette turned the light back on. Gavi already forgot her name. He knew she was part of the corporate team, and that was enough for him. She began clapping, and it was a wordless invitation for them all to join. Gavi clapped along, wrists held rigid, cupping his palms minimally. He stopped as soon as it was deemed polite enough to do so.
‘What do we think about the presentation?’ the woman asked with unsimulated optimism.
‘I love it!’ a man in a suit replied. ‘The script was good, and the actors were lovely.’
‘I still think we should have gone with players instead,’ another man in a suit clapped back. ‘The actors might not instill the same passion in viewers.’
‘No, no,’ a third man in a suit interjected firmly. ‘This is better. The actresses are young and pretty. We needed something eye-candy to soften the blow of the message to die-hard supporters.’
A murmur of approval filled the room. Gavi was about to tune out of the conversation when the woman spoke again.
‘Thank you for your feedback, gentlemen. I’d like to hear from our team as well.’ She eyed the football players eagerly.
Compared to the corporate team, Gavi and his teammates were less than thrilled. Each member was poised at the edge of movement, staying perfectly still, and waiting for someone to take the lead and answer. Gavi couldn’t even look anyone in the eyes, his gaze lingering on the large table in front of him while his arms were securely wrapped around himself.
Ter Stegen reluctantly cleared his throat. ‘It’s fine.’
Short and to the point. There was no point in saying more. The board had already made up its mind, no matter how often the footballers had protested the idea.
The woman smiled uneasily. ‘We appreciate the feedback. How about you?’ she looked at Gavi. ‘You’re the star, after all.’
’It’s fine,’ Gavi parroted his captain’s words, still unable to meet her gaze.
The woman hesitated only for a split second. ‘Is there anything you would like us to change? During the collage frames? Or maybe you would like us to add…’
’It’s fine,’ Gavi interrupted her. He couldn’t give two flying shits about the video. If he would have had it his way, he would have never laid eyes on that cursed thing.
Pedri gave the quietest scoff while the woman grimaced. She clearly wasn’t used to the less-than-enthusiastic approach that wasn’t common in the sterile corporate world.
’Well,’ she began tentatively, tone high-pitched. ‘I’m glad everyone is in agreement. This means we can cut the meeting short,’ she continued, checking the watch on her wrist. ‘In that case, I will free up your time and give you the remaining twenty minutes back.’ She straightened her spine and bounced on her heels. ‘Thank you all so much for taking part in this meeting, and I hope you all have an amazing rest of your day!’
The men in suits began clapping again. Gavi sighed and reluctantly clapped twice before he saw Flick stand up. It was a good enough cue that he could leave the meeting room too. He shot up from the chair like a spring released, and unceremoniously made his way to the door. He felt weirdly exposed. As if everyone was watching his every move. Waiting for him to slip up. Do something to betray how much he hated this idiotic arrangement. He didn’t say anything. He just pressed his lips, and made his way to the locker room. He would miss Camp Nou. Would miss his teammates. Would miss Barcelona. Would miss playing for the right club.
The room was empty. Not that he expected anyone to be here. He ripped the locker door open, the metal clanking violently against the adjacent door. He picked up his duffel bag, and stretched its mouth wide. He snatched his personal belongings one by one and crammed them haphazardly into the bag. The silence was filled only by the occasional sounds he produced. Slamming boots against the bench. Having a water bottle slip from his hand and fall with a loud thud on the tiled floor. Throwing some old blisters with expired painkillers in the trash can.
Despite the noise he made, Gavi could still recognize the faint creaking of the door. The softest footsteps let him know someone was approaching him. He’d recognize that walk a mile away.
’You don’t need to say anything, you know?’ Gavi muttered through his teeth to the intruder, not bothering to turn around to face him.
’You know I don’t like seeing you upset,’ Pedri replied, his voice considerably more steady. He moved slowly towards Gavi.
Gavi scoffed, and took his kits off the hangers. ‘Why does it matter?’ His voice quivered with barely suppressed fury. ‘It’s what everyone wanted, no? Not have you win the season for those Madrid fuckers?’ He bundled the shirts together, jamming them unelegantly into his bag. With that, his locker was free. Free for this season’s number six. He reached out tensely.
But Pedri had already wordlessly settled to Gavi’s left, extending his hand and grabbing the locker door before Gavi got the chance to. With an almost unnerving gentleness, he pulled it shut.
Gavi’s hand froze in mid-air for a brief second before he quickly snapped it back on his side. His jaw clenched, and he turned an angry glare onto Pedri, who remained perfectly still.
‘You know it’s not what I wanted, my dude.’ Pedri’s voice was soft and pleasant, and it wasn’t what Gavi needed right now. Gavi wanted someone to yell at him. Make it just a bit easier to unleash a wave of verbal abuse at someone. Anyone. Anything to make the ache in his chest go away.
’You voted for me to go,’ Gavi retorted, his tone filled with bitterness and anguish.
Pedri’s eyes softened. ‘I didn’t have a choice. You know Flick would have crucified me if I hadn’t,’ his voice was seeping with regret.
But Gavi couldn’t focus on that. Not with the overwhelming sense of impending doom that threatened to consume all rational thought. He scoffed and hastily zipped up the bag. He placed the duffel bag securely on his shoulder and intended to turn around. But Pedri was quicker. His hand found Gavi’s free shoulder, forcibly holding him in place. Gavi glared at his friend.
‘I don’t want you to go to Madrid.’ Pedri spoke firmly, gaze betraying nothing but hurt and honesty. ‘I don’t want you to play for them. I don’t want you to train with and assist a Madridista. Not while we’re not with La Roja. But it’s for your own good.’
Gavi scoffed again, and bit his lips hard. He hoped the measly pain would distract from the prickly feeling he felt in his eyes.
But Pedri didn’t back down. He continued steadfastly. ‘Yes, it's a great chance for you to gather minutes under your belt. You’re guaranteed a spot in the starting eleven because of this bullshit PR stunt. You can prove you don’t deserve to have the injury-prone label slapped on you and sidelined.’
The words landed like a physical blow. Gavi felt nauseous again. His lower lip gave a tiny tremble, despite it still being rigidly wedged between his teeth. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply like he would do when he tried to wake himself from one of his nightmares. Except this time, when he opened his eyes, Pedri was still there.
‘And besides,’ Pedri spoke more softly now. ‘You need some time away from everything that’s happened.’ His eyes gained a glistening quality to them. ‘I’ll miss you like hell. But this isn’t about me. Or Barça. You need a break, my dude.’
Gavi let a tired sigh slip past his lips. He could feel the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He bit too hard on the soft tissue, clearly. ‘I don’t…’ Gavi trailed off weakly.
’I know you hold it against me, and I don’t blame you,’ Pedri filled in the silence. ‘I just…’ His voice cracked and he immediately cleared his throat. ‘I wouldn’t want this to be goodbye. With you angry at me.’
Gavi looked deeply into Pedri’s tired eyes. He clearly hadn’t been sleeping much again. The light inside them had long flickered and died. Pedri. His friend. The man who had been there for him through everything. Barça’s wins. Barça’s losses. Gavi’s surgeries. Losing Fermín. Losing his mom. Losing his spot in the squad because of his injuries. Missing matches because of injuries. Fans constantly calling on social media for him to be sold off. Pedri had been there for him through it all. Gavi knew he would regret it if they parted on bad terms.
’I can’t forgive you,’ Gavi’s voice sounded hoarse from disuse. ‘Not yet.’
Pedri’s shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes for a single, agonizing beat, silently absorbing the weight of Gavi’s words. His hand squeezed harder on Gavi’s shoulder. ‘I get that,’ he mumbled weakly.
’But I will miss you,’ Gavi continued, fighting the tears that threatened to form any second now. ‘And I want us to keep in touch. I don’t want us to drift apart. Not over this bullshit.’
Pedri nodded. His lips formed a weak curve, lacking the conviction of a true smile. ‘We will. I promise. I’ll text you.’
’You’d better,’ Gavi threatened jokingly with a feeble smile. He sighed before lifting his arms up, wordlessly inviting Pedri to a hug.
Pedri didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Gavi’s shoulders. Gavi patted his friend’s back soothingly a couple of times.
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ Pedri pleaded softly and eased himself slowly out of the hug. His eyes bore into Gavi’s. ‘Please. I know it’s a shitty situation, and I want to be there for you.’
Gavi was beginning to feel bad. As much as Pedri’s betrayal stung, it was obvious his decision weighed heavily on his friend. He was torn between feeling sorry for himself and resenting his only friend, who enabled this situation. He knew he would forgive Pedri. But he couldn’t extend that grace now. Not with everything so fresh in his mind.
‘I won’t,’ Gavi promised. ‘I’ll get better, it’s just… I need some time.’
A flicker of patient understanding crossed Pedri’s features. ‘I’m sorry. For everything. Truly.’ The sincerity was there.
‘So am I,’ Gavi lamented, suddenly unable to look into Pedri’s eyes anymore. He turned his head slightly to the right, focusing on the locker door. ‘I wish things could be different.’
‘Me too,’ Pedri replied immediately. ‘Trust me. If I could just…’
They were interrupted by the door clanking loudly against the wall. Both Gavi and Pedri’s heads snapped rapidly towards the source of the noise. Flick. With the same haunted look in his eyes Gavi came to associate with the German. Flick stopped abruptly for a split second and regarded the two players as if he hadn’t expected to find them there. But he quickly came back to his senses.
‘Well, I’m happy to see you’re already cleaning up here,’ the coach began brightly, gesturing towards the locker. A large smile formed on his face. It was not genuine.
He spoke in English like he usually did with the squad. Neither Gavi nor Pedri spoke English. But somehow that didn’t impede their communication. They always replied in Spanish, and Flick always picked up their words.
‘Yes,’ Gavi replied, unable to hide the disappointment in his tone. ‘It’s ready for Güler.’
‘Perfect, perfect.’ Flick rubbed his hands together nervously. ‘We’re going to have a camera crew there tomorrow. The whole squad will be present to see you off.’
Gavi’s muscles coiled defensively. Not only will he have to play the buffoon an entire season, but he’d have to act like a clown in front of his teammates too. He’d be paraded like a circus freak for the whole world to see. The thought brought the nausea back. He had to swallow the lump in his throat before nodding unconvincingly. Pedri eyed him with a mix of concern and regret.
‘Okay,’ Gavi replied dejectedly. ‘I should go in that case. Get some rest for the big day.’ He almost sounded sarcastic. Almost. Thankfully, he managed to control his voice towards the end. He shot Pedri a knowing look.
’Yes, yes. Of course,’ Flick threw his hands up in a gesture Gavi couldn’t decipher. ‘I’ll see you both tomorrow.’
With that, the coach turned around on his heels and left the room.
Pedri cleared his throat. It was a loud sound in the awkward quietness that followed Flick’s departure. ‘I’ll walk you to your car,’ he proposed tensely.
Gavi was about to protest, but the words died on his tongue. Pedri was right. They shouldn’t part on bad terms. So instead he nodded. ‘Okay.’
Back home, Gavi’s thoughts spiraled out of control. The day’s events played out in his mind on a loop. The video. Pedri. Flick. His nerves frayed with every worrying scenario his brain conjured up. Him having to call the Bernabéu his home. Him having to fight for Los Blancos. Him having to be away from everything and everyone that shaped his identity on the field.
Worry made his heart beat erratically as he packed his bags. Everything that was Barcelona-branded had to be left behind. He had to strip away everything that made him the player he was today. He felt empty inside. He loved the club. He loved his teammates. He loved everything he had accomplished with Barça. And now the board was throwing him away like trash. Forcing him to live out a lie with a rival team for the entertainment of the masses. For Culers to feel betrayed. For Madridistas to scrutinize his every move. For pundits to have the time of their life with the outrageous theories they would spew.
That night, his eyes were clamped shut with a furious effort, willing sleep to arrive, but his racing thoughts wouldn’t offer him the reprieve. He shifted around restlessly, punched and crumpled the pillow, and checked the clock display on his phone with a grim hopelessness. It was way too late when the quiet finally took over.
He was in Madrid. There was nothing comforting about the city. It was way too crowded with faceless people dressed in pristine white t-shirts. Gavi hated crowds. Anyone could hide among unsuspecting passersby. Anyone could hurt Gavi.
He eyed each individual with clinical precision, trying to single out any suspicious behavior. But nothing stood out. The collective moved rhythmically together. Monotone. Sluggish. Lifeless.
Gavi simply stood in the middle of the unfamiliar crowd like exposed prey. He was on edge. He didn’t belong here. He had to go back to Barcelona. Back to Camp Nou. Back to Pedri. Back to Fermín.
Fermín? No. That couldn’t be. That all it took for all the immaculate white clothing around him to gain distinctive red vertical stripes. No. No, no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. Panic surged over Gavi, dissolving all rational thought. He heaved, and burst into tears, and fell to his knees. His hands flew up to his head, and his fingers clamped down fiercely into his hair, grasping the roots desperately. His eyes couldn’t settle in one place and instead switched focus from one faceless individual to the other. No one paid him any attention. Everyone walked past him as if he were a mere bug on the pavement. Everyone except…
He saw it. In the distance. Those doe eyes staring at him. Intently. Unwavering. No, no, no, no, no.
Her…
Gavi shot straight up in bed in a single motion with a choked gasp. The surge of adrenaline brought with it an unbearable rhythm against his ribs, but it helped bring his world back into focus.
His room. The drapes closed. The door locked down. The quiet, rhythmic beeping of the security system. The thin, cold film of sweat on his forehead. He wasn’t in Madrid. He was home. He wasn’t safe. But he wasn’t among strangers.
Gavi exhaled sharply, desperately trying to steady his breathing. He pulled his phone from the nightstand, bringing it to his face to unlock it. The light from the screen hurt his eyes. He stubbornly stared at the 6:28 clock display. He didn’t feel rested. But it didn’t matter anymore. He knew he couldn’t go back to sleep. He should make better use of this time.
So, he got up, legs cracking in protest. He didn’t turn on the lights. He didn’t need to. He knew every nook and cranny at his place. And the darkness offered a comfort he didn’t have the luxury of giving up. He only turned on the light of his bathroom. The room that had no windows. The room that wouldn’t betray the fact that he was awake to the outside world. He locked the door behind him. It was instinct by this point, his mind barely registering the gesture.
A suffocating weight settled heavily in his chest, but he had to get ready for the day. The day that signaled the biggest change in his career. The warm shower water provided him no comfort. But likely nothing could help soothe his nerves. Stop the helplessness and despair that manifested as a physical ache.
Gavi got dressed and spent a long, agonizing minute watching himself in the mirror. His eyes held a pitiful contempt no smile could mask. The dark circles under his eyes were almost as prominent as Pedri’s. He was a mess. A shadow of his former self. A broken man fueled only by the perverse wistfulness that something would happen and pull him out of this endless nightmare he’d endured the past two years. Madrid wasn’t it, that was for sure.
He had breakfast and killed time in front of the TV until the clock finally struck down. Barcelona staff came to pick him up. Despite locking every room in his house, securing every drawer and cabinet, and arming every possible state-of-the-art security system, he still felt uneasy leaving everything behind. Still felt like he left a part of his world too exposed for his liking.
As Flick said, a large camera crew awaited him on the tarmac. Barcelona staff handled his luggage, so he could focus on putting on a show. He gave a smile as he got out of the car. He hoped to god it looked like a confident one on camera. The squad was there, each player trying hard to hide their discomfort at the situation. Pedri looked incredibly tired. It made Gavi’s heart ache. But he couldn’t do anything besides hug his teammates one by one, accept their rehearsed warm wishes, and utter some meaningless sirupy words he knew their social media team would use for thumbnails and highlight reels. It wasn’t what he wanted.
He wanted to say something sincere. To let his teammates know how much he hated this. How he’d work hard to sabotage the rival team. How him playing in a white kit wouldn’t take away from the love he bore for Barcelona and the people here. How he desperately wished they wouldn’t view him as a rival this season. But he couldn’t. He just let a camera be shoved into his face and be the trained monkey this experiment would have him be. He couldn’t help but wonder if his teammates resented him for this too.
The cameras followed him as he boarded the plane. They zoomed in on him as he waved everyone goodbye. He had to keep that stupid smile in place. He had to look presentable. Well put together. Confident in Barcelona’s decision to loan him out. But in the privacy of the plane, he could finally relax his facial muscles. He could finally allow himself to brood. He placed his AirPods in his ears and tried muting the world around him. As if a simple song could shield him from the brutal reality of entering a rival territory. How would the Madridistas treat him? Would he be ridiculed? Would he be bullied? Will they hold up their part of this stupid agreement?
Time went by much too quickly. Way too quickly for his own liking. His heart skipped a beat when the plane landed. The sudden, heavy jolt brought a fresh wave of worry and anguish over him. The realization that there was no going back now sent a cold shiver down his spine. His hands made a quick, nervous swipe down the sides of his thighs, but they still felt clammy. He sighed and made a conscious effort to control his facial muscles again. His lips pulled back into the same confident smile he tried projecting back in Barcelona, and slowly descended the steep pitch of the stairs. He took the final step onto the flat tarmac.
He was in Madrid.