Chapter Text
Mid January, 2016
Ferran woke before his alarm.
For a long moment, he didn't move, just stared up at the unfamiliar wooden ceiling above him. Morning sunlight streamed through the curtainless window, painting soft golden rectangles across the white walls. Everything smelled different here. Less like the city he'd grown up in and more like earth, old timber, and freshly cut grass.
Home. Well... it would be. Eventually.
Right now, the old farmhouse looked like someone had picked it up, shaken it violently, then dumped the contents of half a dozen moving trucks into every room.
Boxes lined the hallway, boxes filled the lounge, boxes even sat outside his bedroom door because apparently there'd been nowhere else to put them.
He sighed, missing Foios already.
A warm weight shifted against his legs.
Milo let out a sleepy huff before stretching dramatically across the bottom of the bed, every muscle extending until his back legs nearly kicked Ferran's ankles.
At the same moment, Lluna raised her head from the foot of the bed.
The instant she realised Ferran was awake, her tail started thumping enthusiastically against the mattress.
"Oh no," Ferran laughed quietly.
Too late.
She climbed over him without a second thought, licking every available inch of his face while Milo decided joining in sounded like an excellent idea.
"Eugh, stop! Stop, gross!"
His protests carried absolutely no authority.
Within seconds, both dogs had successfully trapped him beneath forty kilos of wagging tails and unconditional affection.
He laughed despite himself.
Maybe things weren't completely awful.
Eventually, he managed to push himself upright, rubbing Lluna behind the ears while Milo leaned heavily against his shoulder.
"You two are the only familiar things I've got."
Milo responded by trying to lick his nose again.
"Yeah, love you too."
Outside, birds sang somewhere beyond the open window.
He could hear leaves rustling in the breeze, a tractor rumbled faintly in the distance. It was... quiet. Too quiet.
Foios had always felt alive. Cars, neighbours talking over garden fences, children riding bikes, someone always playing music too loudly.
Here, there was nothing but fields. Well, fields and raspberry bushes - nearly a thousand of them.
His mother had somehow decided that buying a raspberry farm, despite knowing absolutely nothing about farming, had been a perfectly sensible life decision.
"We'll figure it out," she'd said.
She always said that.
Whether it was fixing a broken washing machine, repainting a room bright yellow because "it felt happier", or uprooting their entire lives to move across Spain.
We'll figure it out. Thankfully, she usually did.
Ferran pulled himself out of bed, slipped on yesterday's hoodie and wandered downstairs, the dogs trotting faithfully behind him.
The kitchen was somehow one of the few organised rooms in the entire house.
Moving boxes had been stacked neatly against one wall while sunlight flooded through enormous windows overlooking endless rows of raspberry plants stretching towards the hills.
His mother stood barefoot at the stove, humming softly to herself while spreading crushed tomato across slices of toasted bread.
Her curly hair had been tied into a messy bun with what looked like a pencil.
"Mami?"
She turned with the brightest smile. "Buen día, mijo."
"Morning."
"Sleep alright?"
"Sort of."
"I figured."
She kissed the top of his head as he wandered over. "I made breakfast."
"I can see that."
She slid a plate in front of him.
Toast with tomato and olive oil, which is usually one of Ferran's least favourite breakfasts. He'd never understood why anyone willingly spread tomatoes onto bread.
But...
These tomatoes looked different: redder, fresher.
"From the farmer's market," María said proudly, reading his expression immediately. "They're local."
"I still don't like tomatoes."
"You haven't even tried it."
"I've tried tomatoes."
"Not these tomatoes."
He rolled his eyes affectionately. "You sound like you're advertising them."
"I practically am." She folded her arms. "Go on."
The tomatoes were sweet instead of watery or acidic.
He frowned. "...Okay."
María grinned. "I knew it."
"They're not awful."
"I'll take that."
"They're... actually kind of good."
She looked unbearably pleased with herself. "I told you."
Ferran couldn't even argue.
Mostly because by now he was starving.
Being sixteen apparently meant eating enough food for three adults every morning, so within minutes the toast had disappeared.
"So," María said casually while pouring herself coffee. "First day."
His stomach immediately tightened. "Mhm."
"Nervous?"
"A bit."
"Only a bit?"
He gave her a look. "Okay, a lot."
She nodded thoughtfully. "That's normal."
"What if nobody likes me?"
"They will."
"What if they don't?"
"I promise they will."
"Mami."
"I'm serious." She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "You're kind."
"I'm awkward."
"You're funny."
"What if it comes off as weird?"
"You rescue insects instead of stepping on them."
"I don't exactly think that's something that's going to help me find people to sit with at lunch."
She laughed. "You'll find your people."
"What if I don't?"
"You will."
"How do you know?"
"Because everyone does eventually." She smiled softly. "It might take a day, or a week, or a year. But they always find each other."
Ferran stared down at the empty plate. "I wish Ara were here."
"I know."
"I wish she'd come."
"So do I."
His sister had desperately wanted to, but she'd already completed two years of university in Valencia. Transferring halfway through her psychology degree would've been complicated, expensive, and would have meant starting over. So she'd stayed.
Which meant for the first time in sixteen years, Ferran wouldn't have her living down the hallway. No late-night chats, no walking the dogs together, no her barging into his room to remind him to eat breakfast or tease him about whatever crush she insisted he definitely had.
It felt wrong.
María brushed a thumb across his knuckles. "She's coming to visit in a couple of weeks, Ferri."
"I know."
"And you'll see her during the holidays."
"I know."
"But it still sucks."
"It does."
She never tried pretending things didn't hurt; she just acknowledged they did, then reminded him life kept moving. It was one of his favourite things about her.
Eventually, she stood. "Come on."
"You've got school."
Reality crashed back down. "Oh."
His stomach flipped again. "I should..."
"Yep."
He trudged back upstairs.
His bedroom still looked like a storage unit, half his clothes remained folded inside cardboard boxes; he couldn't find his other shoe for the life of him (he eventually found it beneath a pile of winter blankets), his school jumper took another five minutes to locate, and his backpack had vanished altogether.
"Mami!" he called.
"Have you seen my bag?"
"No!"
"It was here yesterday!"
"So was the kettle!"
"Fair point."
After another frantic search involving opening approximately seventeen identical moving boxes, he finally discovered it sitting underneath one labelled KITCHEN.
His books thankfully had survived the move together. Pens, notebook, planner - everything seemed to be there. Hopefully.
He headed for the shower. The hot water helped calm him down a little. He took slightly longer than necessary washing his hair simply because standing there meant delaying the inevitable - school, new people, new teachers, new everything.
When he finally got dressed, he studied himself in the mirror. Looking back at him were the same brown eyes, the same dark hair, the same expression he always got when he was nervous, but now in a different city, living a different life.
"Here goes nothing," he breathed.
Downstairs, María had already packed him lunch.
"You didn't have to."
"I know." She handed it over anyway. "I wanted to."
He smiled. "Gracias."
She straightened the collar of his uniform automatically. "You look a mess, chico."
"Mami."
"What?"
"I'm sixteen."
"And?"
"You still fuss."
"I'll still fuss when you're forty."
He laughed. "Probably."
"Definitely."
She cupped his face. "I'm proud of you."
"I haven't done anything."
"You're showing up," she said, smiling warmly. "Sometimes that's the bravest thing someone can do."
He swallowed around the lump in his throat. "I love you."
"I love you more."
"Impossible."
"We'll agree to disagree."
Outside, the January morning was warming up already. The dew on the leaves of the raspberry bushes shimmered beneath the sunshine. A gentle breeze carried the faint scent of fruit and damp soil.
Lluna and Milo followed them all the way to the gate.
"You two stay."
They ignored him.
María laughed. "They're just making sure their boy gets off safely."
Eventually, the dogs accepted defeat after several more goodbye pats.
The drive into Barcelona passed mostly in silence, not necessarily an uncomfortable silence, just one filled with thoughts. Traffic gradually thickened, buildings became taller, and the countryside slowly disappeared behind them.
Ferran watched everything through the passenger window, trying to memorise landmarks. Maybe one day this will all feel familiar too.
Twenty-five minutes later, María pulled into the school's car park.
Students streamed through the front gates laughing together, groups of friends, people who already belonged. Ferran suddenly felt very, very small.
His stomach churned. He gripped the straps of his backpack tightly enough that his knuckles turned white.
María switched off the engine. "You've got this."
He wasn't convinced. "I don't think I do."
"You do."
"What if I embarrass myself?"
"You probably will."
He looked at her in horror.
"But so will everyone else at some point or another. And I mean it. Nobody gets through high school without embarrassing themselves."
"I suppose."
She squeezed his shoulder.
"Go make mistakes, meet people, learn things, and remember, even if today isn't brilliant, there's always tomorrow."
She smiled. "We'll figure it out."
The familiar words settled something inside his chest.
Maybe they didn't know the first thing about raspberry farming, maybe the house was still mostly boxes, maybe his favourite person was four hundred kilometres away, maybe today would be awful. Or maybe this really was a fresh start.
Taking one last steadying breath, Ferran kissed his mother's cheek goodbye and climbed out of the car.
The school gates towered ahead. His heart hammered against his ribs. His first day in Barcelona had officially begun.
🩷
Ferran stood in the middle of the corridor for what had to be the fourth time in ten minutes, turning his timetable over as though the classroom number might magically change if he looked at it from another angle.
Biology. Room S12.
Easy enough.
Except every corridor seemed to split into three more corridors, every staircase looked identical, and whoever had designed the school had apparently believed signs were entirely optional.
He checked the timetable again.
"B214..." he muttered.
A group of students brushed past him, chatting loudly about an upcoming maths test.
He considered asking someone for directions.
Then immediately decided against it.
Nothing screamed new kid quite like getting lost before first period had even started.
He wandered down another hallway.
Wrong one. He backtracked and went upstairs before realising biology was apparently downstairs.
By the time he finally spotted the blue sign reading Science Block B, he'd worked himself into enough of a panic that he was half convinced he'd missed the lesson entirely.
Thankfully, the bell hadn't rung yet.
He let out a quiet breath and stepped into the classroom.
The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and whiteboard markers. Long black lab benches stretched across the room, each with sinks and taps built into the countertops. Microscopes sat neatly stored in cupboards around the walls while colourful diagrams of cells and the human skeleton covered every spare inch of wall space.
"Ah," the teacher said as soon as he noticed him. "You must be Ferran."
"Yes, sir."
"I'm Mr Navarro."
He offered a reassuring smile that settled Ferran's nerves by about one percent.
"You're just in time."
He picked up a seating chart from his desk.
"You're over there."
Ferran followed the direction of his finger.
Third bench from the back.
One student was already sitting there.
The boy couldn't have been much taller than the desk while seated, slim enough that his oversized school jumper looked like it'd been borrowed from an older sibling. Dark brown hair, almost black in the morning light, fell untidily across his forehead, and there was the faintest shadow beginning to appear above his upper lip.
He was completely absorbed in his notebook.
Instead of writing notes, he was carefully colouring tiny geometric patterns around the margins using a ballpoint pen.
Ferran adjusted the strap of his backpack and took a deep breath. You can do this.
He walked over.
"Hola."
The other boy looked up immediately.
His eyes were warm and gentle. "Hi."
Ferran slid into the empty stool beside him. "I'm Ferran."
The boy smiled politely.
"I'm Pedri."
There was another small smile.
Then, just as quickly, he looked back down at his notebook and continued shading in one of the tiny triangles he'd been colouring.
Silence settled between them. More students slowly filtered into the classroom, conversations overlapping as chairs scraped against the floor. Someone near the windows laughed loudly enough to make half the class look over.
Pedri didn't.
He seemed perfectly content filling in the tiny patterns one section at a time.
Ferran wasn't sure whether he should try talking again.
Maybe Pedri just wasn't interested; he probably preferred sitting quietly.
His eyes landed on the pencil case resting beside the notebook; hanging from the zip was a tiny football shirt keychain, red and blue stripes, the number eight.
He smiled. "Iniesta?"
Pedri glanced down before looking back up. "Oh." His fingers unconsciously brushed the keychain. "Yeah."
"He's your favourite?"
His face brightened almost instantly. "I've loved watching him since I was little. He makes everything look easy."
Ferran nodded enthusiastically. "I know."
"My favourite is David Villa."
Pedri's eyebrows lifted. "The striker?"
"Best finisher I've ever seen."
"I used to try copying his celebrations."
"So did I." Ferran laughed. "I wasn't very good at them."
"I wasn't either."
Something shifted. The conversation suddenly felt easy.
"So..." Ferran asked, "do you play?"
Pedri nodded. "For the school."
"What position?"
"Midfield."
"You?"
"Striker."
Pedri smiled properly for the first time. "So you're one of the people who wastes all my good passes."
"Hey, I score some of them."
"I'm sure you do."
"I do!"
"If you say so."
"I had twenty-three goals last season."
Pedri looked genuinely impressed. "Seriously?"
"Mhm."
"What team?"
"Valencia U17s."
"Oh."
"I've heard of them."
"They're pretty decent," Ferran replied proudly, although his chest ached a bit as he remembered all the friends and teammates he had now left behind.
"I'd hope so if you scored twenty-three."
Ferran grinned. "I got lucky."
"No chance."
They drifted into talking football as naturally as breathing - favourite goals, Champions League nights spent staying up later than their parents would've liked, the heartbreak of losing finals, whether passing or finishing was more satisfying.
Ferran discovered Pedri thought a perfectly weighted through ball was prettier than scoring. Ferran insisted there was nothing better than seeing the net ripple. They agreed to disagree.
By the time the warning bell rang, Ferran had almost forgotten he'd spent the entire morning terrified.
Maybe his mum had been right, maybe finding your people really did start somewhere small.
Mr Navarro clapped his hands together. "Morning, everyone."
The chatter faded.
"We're continuing our unit on genetics."
Ferran's stomach dropped.
Genetics?
He hadn't even taken biology this year back in Valencia.
The move had happened halfway through the semester, meaning every science class in Barcelona was already weeks ahead of where he'd left off.
Mr Navarro began writing confidently across the whiteboard.
**Dominant and recessive alleles. ****Punnett squares. ****Genotype. **Phenotype.
Ferran stared. He recognised almost none of it.
His notebook remained empty for several minutes before he gave up trying to understand and simply copied every word exactly as it appeared on the board. If he wrote everything down neatly, maybe he could figure it out later. Hopefully.
Beside him, Pedri filled his page with quick, tidy handwriting without ever seeming to hesitate.
Every now and then, he underlined a heading or added a tiny sketch beside a definition.
Ferran looked down at his own notebook. It was little more than copied sentences with absolutely no idea what any of them meant. Brilliant. This was going well.
Mr Navarro launched into an explanation about inherited traits. Students around the room nodded; someone answered a question correctly, and another student asked something that somehow sounded even more complicated.
Ferran blinked. He scribbled another sentence onto the page. Copy first, panic later - that seemed like a reasonable strategy. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Pedri glance across at his notebook.
His gaze lingered on the pages for only a second before he looked back at the front. He didn't say anything. He just quietly slid an extra worksheet across the bench until it rested beside Ferran's elbow.
At the top, in neat handwriting, were the words:
Everything we've covered this term.
Ferran looked at him.
Pedri was still facing the teacher, almost as if nothing had happened. Without looking away from the whiteboard, he spoke quietly enough that only Ferran could hear.
"You can keep it."
Ferran blinked. "Thanks."
A tiny shrug. "I made another copy."
Then he went straight back to taking notes. For the first time since arriving in Barcelona, the knot in Ferran's stomach loosened just a little.
Maybe today wasn't going to be so bad after all.
🩷
The bell rang through the science block, immediately filling the room with the scraping of stools and the sound of backpacks being zipped shut.
Ferran carefully tucked Pedri's worksheet into the front pocket of his folder before beginning the slow process of packing everything else away.
His timetable was already back in his hands before he'd even stood up.
He frowned at it. "What's next?"
Pedri glanced over while sliding his pencil case into his bag.
"I've got history."
"Oh, me too."
Ferran looked back down at the paper. "Any chance you know where that is?"
Pedri smiled. "I do."
Ferran let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God."
That earned him a quiet laugh.
"I got lost finding biology."
"I noticed."
"You noticed?"
"You looked very relieved when you came through the door."
"I thought I'd walked into the wrong classroom."
"I think everyone gets lost during the first week. Come on." He slung his backpack over one shoulder. "I'll show you."
They stepped out into the corridor together, joining the flow of students moving between lessons. The corridors somehow felt even busier than they had before.
Groups weaved around one another with practised ease while teachers stood outside classroom doors reminding people not to run.
Ferran stayed close beside Pedri.
"So..." He adjusted his backpack. "Thanks again."
"For what?"
"The worksheet."
Pedri shrugged. "You would've needed it."
"Still."
"I didn't want you starting halfway through the term completely lost."
"I appreciate it."
"It's alright."
They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments. "So," Ferran said eventually, "have you always lived here?"
"Not exactly."
"No?"
"I'm from Tenerife."
Ferran looked across at him. "You moved too?"
"When I was twelve."
"Oh."
"My dad got offered an opportunity over here."
"Was it hard?"
Pedri nodded once. "At first."
That was all he said. For some reason, Ferran understood. They climbed another staircase before turning into a quieter hallway.
"Here." Pedri pointed towards a classroom halfway down. "History."
Ferran looked at the sign above the door.
He would've walked straight past it. "You're actually saving my life today."
"I don't think showing you classrooms counts as saving your life."
"It does, because otherwise I would have spent the whole lesson wandering around."
"I suppose."
Inside, another seating plan had already been taped to the whiteboard. Ferran immediately scanned the list.
"There."
He pointed. Pedri followed his finger.
"Oh." He smiled. "We're together again."
Ferran looked.
Same row, same table.
"No way."
"I guess Mr Navarro and Mrs Martínez have similar ideas."
"I am absolutely not complaining."
They took their seats near the middle of the classroom. This time, the conversation came much more easily.
"So," Ferran said, resting his elbows on the desk. "Have you got any brothers or sisters?"
"One brother."
"Older?"
Pedri nodded. "Yeah. His name's Fernando, after my dad, but everyone calls him Fer."
"How much older?"
"Two years."
"So he doesn't live at home anymore?"
"He does."
"Oh."
"He's in culinary school, but he also helps my parents with the restaurant."
"You've got a restaurant?"
Pedri nodded. "Tasca Fernando. My grandparents started it, but my parents run it now."
"What kind of food?"
"Traditional Canarian and Spanish mostly."
"My mum says it's nice having somewhere the whole family works."
"You help?"
"Sometimes."
"Washing dishes and taking orders if they're busy. My brother does more than I do."
Ferran smiled. "That's actually really cool."
Pedri shrugged. "Everyone knows everyone, so I like it. Feels kinda like a second family."
Ferran nodded thoughtfully. "My mum's trying to become a raspberry farmer."
Pedri blinked. "A... what?"
"A raspberry farmer."
There was a brief silence. Then Pedri laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"It just wasn't the answer I was expecting."
"It wasn't ours either." Ferran laughed with him. "My mum decided we needed a fresh start. So we moved into this old farmhouse that came with nearly a thousand raspberry bushes. And do either of us know how to grow raspberries? No, not even the slightest clue."
"So what are you going to do?"
"Mum says we'll figure it out."
Pedri smiled. "Sounds like something my mum would say."
"I think she genuinely believes she can learn anything from YouTube."
"Can she?"
"Honestly? Probably."
Pedri laughed again.
"I hope it works out for you guys."
"So do I."
Mrs Martínez arrived a minute later carrying three folders and an enormous mug of coffee.
The lesson went much more smoothly than biology class. History, thankfully, was studying the same topic Ferran had covered back in Valencia. For once, he actually knew what was happening.
Every so often, he'd quietly answer one of Pedri's questions about dates while Pedri helped him find the correct page in the textbook. It felt easy, as if they'd been sitting together for much longer than an hour.
When the bell finally rang again, Mrs Martínez dismissed them with a reminder about homework. Students immediately poured into the corridor. Ferran checked his timetable again.
Pedri noticed. "You're checking where to go?"
"I was checking if we've got another class together."
"I don't think we do"
"Oh."
"But it's break now anyway. We get twenty-five minutes."
"Oh, right. I forgot."
"You can come sit with us."
Ferran looked up. "Us?"
"My friends and I."
He spoke casually, as though inviting someone he'd only met an hour ago was completely normal.
"You don't have to. It's alright if you'd rather..."
"No, no." The answer came out far quicker than Ferran intended. "I mean..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'd like that."
Pedri smiled. "Okay."
He adjusted his backpack before heading towards the stairs. "They're nice, if that's what you're worried about."
"I'm mostly worried they'll wonder why you've brought some random new kid."
"They won't."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
For the first time that morning, Ferran believed him.
As they headed towards the courtyard together, the knot of anxiety that had followed him since waking up had almost disappeared entirely.
Despite only knowing Pedri for about two hours, walking beside him no longer made Barcelona feel quite so unfamiliar.
🩷
The late morning sun was already warm as Pedri led Ferran out into the main courtyard.
The place was buzzing.
Students flooded out from every doorway, voices overlapping into a constant hum that echoed off the surrounding buildings. Groups claimed their usual spots with practised efficiency. Some sat on benches eating sandwiches they'd brought from home, others leaned against walls chatting, while a handful had already started an impromptu football match with a battered tennis ball.
"There are a lot of students here," Ferran observed.
Pedri nodded. "ESO and Bachillerato have break at the same time."
"Ah."
That explained the crowds. Ferran instinctively stayed close beside him as they crossed the courtyard.
Instead of heading towards the busiest part of the courtyard, Pedri veered off to one side. The noise gradually softened. Tucked away in the far corner stood an enormous plane tree, its branches stretching wide enough to cast shade over a patch of grass beneath it.
It felt almost like a little hideaway from the rest of the school.
"Here we are," Pedri announced.
A boy with messy blonde hair was already sitting cross-legged beneath the tree, his back resting against the trunk while he absentmindedly picked at a scab on his knee.
He looked up as they approached.
"There you are." His eyes landed on Ferran. "Oh. You found a new guy."
Pedri smiled. "Dani, this is Ferran." He looked towards Ferran. "Ferran, this is Dani."
Dani stood up. "Nice to meet you."
"You too."
"I'm assuming Pedri rescued you from getting lost."
Ferran laughed sheepishly. "...Maybe."
"I knew it."
Dani pointed accusingly at Pedri. "You collect confused first years."
"I'm not a first-year."
"You know what I mean."
Pedri only smiled. "He looked lost. And we sit next to each other in bio and history"
"I was lost, to be fair."
"I know."
Dani stuck out his hand. "Welcome."
Ferran shook it. "Thanks."
They settled onto the grass beneath the tree. For a minute, they simply watched the organised chaos unfolding across the courtyard.
"So," Dani asked, "where've you moved from?"
"Valencia."
"Big change."
"You could say that."
Before Dani could ask anything else, two more boys appeared from the direction of the main building.
They were walking side by side.
Their hands were loosely linked together, swinging slightly between them as they talked.
The taller of the two was impossible to miss. He had to be at least a few inches taller than Ferran, broad-shouldered with brown hair that was due for a trim.
Beside him walked a much slimmer boy with dark brown hair neatly combed to one side. Dark glasses rested on his nose, and despite being noticeably shorter, he seemed completely unfazed by the height difference between them.
The taller boy grinned.
"Sorry. Maths teacher kept us back."
"He wouldn't stop talking," the boy with glasses added.
"He never stops talking."
They reached the tree. Pedri stood.
"Ferran." He gestured towards them. "This is Joan."
The taller boy offered an easy smile. "Hi."
Then Pedri nodded towards the other. "And this is Eric."
Eric smiled warmly. "Nice to meet you."
"You too. I'm Ferran."
Joan dropped down onto the grass, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Eric sat beside him automatically, leaning into his side.
"You settling in alright?" Eric asked.
"So far. I've only been here half a day, though."
"That's usually enough to know whether the place is awful."
"It doesn't seem awful."
"Good."
There was a comfortable ease between the four boys that immediately stood out to Ferran. Nobody talked over anyone else, and nobody seemed interested in teasing each other beyond the occasional joke. It felt calm.
"So," Dani looked at Ferran, "do you play?"
"I do."
"What position?"
"Striker."
Dani nodded approvingly. "I'm midfield."
Ferran looked to Joan. "What about you?"
Joan chuckled. "Apparently, I'm only useful because I'm tall."
"You are tall," Dani pointed out.
"I know."
"I'm a goalkeeper."
"It has its advantages."
Ferran looked him up and down. "I'd imagine so."
"I don't have to jump very far."
Eric smiled. "I play wherever the coach tells me. Usually midfield, but sometimes centre-back, and occasionally right-back if we're desperate."
"You make it sound glamorous," Joan said.
"It isn't."
Ferran looked between them. "So, I'm the only striker."
"For now," Dani said.
"The coach has been trying to convince Pedri to play as a false nine."
Pedri pulled a face. "I hate it."
"You complain every single time."
"Because midfield's better."
"I thought passing was prettier than scoring."
"It is."
"There you go then."
Pedri folded his arms. "I'm still right."
Ferran laughed. "I think we're going to get along."
"You probably will," Eric said with a smile.
"We're all football obsessed. You'll fit in just fine."
Something warm settled quietly in Ferran's chest.
He'd expected today to be lonely. Instead, somehow, he'd found himself sitting beneath a tree with four boys who'd welcomed him without hesitation.
For the first time since leaving Foios, Barcelona felt a little less like somewhere he'd been forced to move and a little more like somewhere he might actually be able to call home.