As its brakes released, the coach gave a low hiss, the Arsenal crest glinting faintly under the flood of camera flashes that lit up Heathrow's terminal drop-off.
Inside the front row, Arteta let out a long, almost tired sigh, leaning an elbow against the window.
He didn't have to say why, but the weariness that had suddenly filled his face told most of the story.
Beside him, Albert Stuivenberg shifted, but it was Carlos Cuesta who caught the look first.
He leaned slightly toward the manager, voice low so it wouldn't carry down the aisle.
"You don't really like them, do you?" he asked, tilting his head subtly toward the outside.
Dozens of lenses glared back through the glass, hungry, impatient.
Arteta's lips pressed into a line before curving into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"I don't mind them," he murmured, eyes still on the crowd.
"I just don't want what comes with them. The distraction. The noise."
He exhaled again as the bus rolled into its designated slot.
