So, he's starting a new term at school, at a new school, in a new country, that speaks a new language - well. He's had enough Japanese to get by with his fluently bilingual mother all his life. This is, he is acutely aware, not enough Japanese to get by in a full-immersion context. So he's been brushing up. His parents did offer to send him to an English immersion school, but he pointed out that that would be an actively crippling move, under the circumstances. (His parents also very obviously wanted to send him here and nowhere else. There are reasons for that, and he accepts the reasons, even though he hasn't been told about most of them.)

He consciously refrained from looking up blueprints of the school building, because it didn't come out well in the rankings of derangedness vs. benefit of preparation method. The biggest one was the language, honestly. The language looms large.

He takes his first step onto school grounds five minutes earlier than Mother told him to, with a backpack full of neatly organized binders and a head full of neatly organized vocabulary. His uniform is crisp and lightly tailored, just a few tweaks here and there to get it to hang a little better. It'll be fine. It'll be fine. It'll all be fine.