Outside it was dark and a little chilly, but inside in the court it was warm and bright. And yet there was a slight chill against Kyoutani's bare arms, as he stood, the weight of the volleyball heavy in his hands, in the unfamiliar court.

Although by now he had come to enough of these things for it to start to become familiar, there remained a lingering sense of that intimidation he had first felt looking in at the sports centre, when he had stood just before the door and waited, longing to enter but somehow, for some reason, remained rooted to the spot. And on that day he had let the brisk evening wind rush over him, cold, deep and biting as the darkness of the night, and did not enter. Inside, the light of the reception area glowed warmly through the window, displayed before him like a portrait. Ordered, serene, peaceful. Quiet, clinical, restrained. Step inside and you'd be part of it.

And yet for a long time, he couldn't. And he was furious with himself, that it was so close to him and yet so unreachable, and the people walking by, probably wondering why this strange high school kid was just standing there all alone in the night, made him even angrier. His cheeks, stung by cold and anger, burned red. He was angry; at the visitors, for what they were probably thinking, angry because they didn't know a thing about him, angry because they could so easily slip in and out of this building as if it didn't matter, as if it belonged to them, and also a little afraid that they were right, and he really was just an oddity.

But if he didn't go in, he couldn't play volleyball. And that's what gave him the courage in the end.

Outside it was dark and a little chilly, but inside in the court it was warm and bright. He revelled in its warmth, it's familiarity. Familiar - the weight of the volleyball in his hand. The familiar length and breadth of the court. It was intimate to him, it whispered to him, invited him closer, and closer. You and me, we know each other, said the court, we are friends, we understand each other. And he understood it, and he could see it, the flow of the game, his chance, the perfect time to strike, and he would run up and leap with all his strength, his heart leaping too, and yet they wouldn't always toss to him; they did not trust him, he was a stranger.

Still, they grew accustomed to him with time. They grew to expect him. He no longer had to ask if he could play, because they knew why he was here, and without even speaking, they would make room for him. Although he could never express it this was something he deeply grateful for.

And so there he stood, the weight of the volleyball heavy in his hands, in the familiar unfamiliar court. The adults gathered at the side of the court. He tried to get in as much extra practise as they could while they chatted and greeted each other. Soon they would begin, and he would join them. He was part of their game but not part of it. They tolerated him, but he was not one of them. The court was where he belonged, but here he did not belong. It was familiar, but always unfamiliar. For now, he was nothing but a wanderer, a rōnin, destined to wander from court to court without a place to call his own. Unless… The image of a gym flashed before his mind, light and ethereal. Shadowy figures – his classmates, his…teammates…. practising, gesturing to him.

But this vision, raised unbidden in his mind, crashed suddenly as he remembered his own words, his own anger he had poured out upon them. They didn't want him there.

And so he wandered.

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