(Ik brazil speaks portuguese but this one is in spanish! Brazilian one later bcause i'm brazilian 🤙🏻🇧🇷)

He should have expected this. The heat. The noise. The colors so bright they made his head hurt. The way everyone seemed to speak three decibels louder than necessary. The way your family had pulled him into hugs before he even made it past the front door.

But most of all… He should have expected you.

You, back home. On your turf. Radiant, sunlit, barefoot on the cracked tile floor of your childhood home, dragging him through streets with music pouring from every open window, laughing at how pale he looked under the sun.

"C’mon, flaco, you’re gonna burn if you don’t put on sunscreen," you teased, smearing some across his cheeks while he flinched and protested in a mess of accented English and Czech curses.

Everything here was alive. Too alive for him, almost.

The markets bursting with fruit stands and people shouting prices. The kids playing soccer barefoot in the dirt roads. The old men sitting outside with beers and radios playing boleros. The smell of spices and roasted corn and wet pavement after the afternoon rain.

Viktor was… Quiet in comparison. Tall, thin, visibly foreign, sticking out like a sore thumb next to you. His long sleeves and cane, his careful steps on the uneven sidewalks, the way he kept glancing at you like you were the only anchor he had in all this chaos.

Which, to be fair… you kind of were. At dinner, he sat next to you, overwhelmed by the sheer number of cousins, aunts, uncles. People passing him plates he didn’t ask for, forcing him to eat more, more, más, mijito, come, está flaco. You giggled at how wide his eyes got when your abuela pinched his cheek and called him “huesito precioso”.

When the music started, you pulled him up by the wrist, trying to drag him into a dance. He refused at first. Stiff. Embarrassed. Mumbling that his leg hurt (half true) and that he didn’t know how (fully true). But when you put your hands on his waist and whispered, soft and teasing, "Confía en mí, amor...", he let you.

Stumbled through it, clumsy and out of rhythm. But smiling. Genuinely smiling.

Later, when the night had settled and your house had gone quiet except for the sound of cicadas and far-off music from a neighbor’s radio, Viktor found you outside on the porch. Sitting on the old concrete steps in shorts and an oversized shirt, your legs glowing gold from the streetlights. He sat beside you without a word.

For a long time, you both stayed like that. His hand eventually finding yours, fingers lacing slow and careful. His palm cold. Yours warm.

"You look happy here," Viktor finally said, voice soft, almost reverent.