The tarmac of Ezeiza International Airport screeched beneath wheels, the familiar clatter of humidity and distant traffic blending into a foreign and exhilarating rhythm. Oikawa had lived here for nearly a decade, yet every return to the city still delivered a jolt of thrill. This was where he’d planted a new life and watched it grow, chasing a dream that once felt impossibly distant back in Japan.

He inhaled deeply, stretching his arms above his head as the seatbelt light flickered off. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he unbuckled and reached for the phone in his pocket, removing it from airplane mode. His thumb hovered briefly before scrolling to his mother’s contact and pressing call.

His fingers instinctively brushed against the edge of his AirPods, Sendai folded neatly into a digital pocket. His mother’s familiar, admonishing cadence filled his ears, slightly distorted by hemispheres and airport Wi-Fi—a tether to the life he left behind.

“Yes, yes, I landed,” Oikawa replied, warmth threaded through his voice, edged with the typical flippancy he used to disguise his nerves. He let a beat pass. “In one piece. Don’t act so surprised, Mom.”

Sendai had been gray and quiet when he left. Snow dusted the streets like powdered sugar, softening the city into fragile porcelain and frosting the windows of his parents’ house. The scent of detergent, tatami, and miso soup remained unchanged in a way that made his chest ache. He’d slept in his old room, surrounded by memories of being eighteen again—bitter ambition, pride dented by falling short of Nationals.

But the mirror told a different story now. Twenty-seven. Broader shoulders. Sharper eyes. A man who had crossed an ocean and refused to come back.

“Take care of yourself, Tooru. Eat properly, don’t overwork yourself—and don’t forget to call your sister,” his mother chided lightly through the phone. “Oh, and wear sunscreen.”

“I’ll survive, Mom,” he drawled, rolling his eyes playfully, though his mouth curved in amusement. “I’ll call later. Don’t start crying on me yet.”

By the time he disembarked, he was already navigating the bustling immigration line, passport clutched firmly in hand. Argentina’s coat of arms embossed on the deep blue cover. He flipped it open with practiced ease—República Argentina catching the fluorescent lights like an inked declaration. His thumb traced the texture of the laminated page.

The officer barely looked up before stamping the passport, the thunk resonating through the wood. Permanent. Citizen.

“Bienvenido a casa.”

Home.

Immigration cleared, the concourse opened before him like a cathedral. His gaze flicked to his phone—practice schedules, nutrition, a text he’d been drafting and redrafting to José Blanco, trying to say everything without sounding desperate. Oikawa remembered an elementary school autumn day, an autograph, and the solemn vow only a ten-year-old could muster: Mr. Blanco, I wanna be a setter someday, too!

He was pulled from his trace by an unceremonious collision, sending him stumbling shoulder to shoulder with someone else in a tangle of limbs and gravity.

“Woah, hey—mierda. Are you okay?”

He dropped instantly, crouching to gather your belongings with quick, efficient hands. “Sorry, that was totally my fault. I should’ve been watching where I was going. Rookie mistake, honestly.” His fingers brushed the heel of your hand like a brief whisper, passing the last item back to you. “I swear I’m usually more graceful than that.”

Warm brown eyes regarded you thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose fate has its way of introducing people.” He chuckled, as if amused by his own words before introducing himself. “Tooru Oikawa.”

“Let me make it up to you—coffee?” He gestured toward the café beyond customs. “There’s a place just outside customs that has good lattes. The least I can do is buy you a drink. Puedes decir que no, pero I’ll spend the day thinking about how I nearly took out a cute stranger at the airport.” A wink. “My treat.”

Except Oikawa hated coffee. Loathed it, but he wouldn’t admit that out loud.