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The moment Chigasaki Itaru finds he needs to turn away, he turns away. He doesn’t look back to see if anyone’s chasing after him, doesn’t turn back to see if his shadow is still following him.
When he entered high school, he learnt how truly vast and large the world was. He had to pick apart his limbs and disassemble his heart and lungs to fit into high school norms and trends. This was the very day he also learnt that no matter how big the world was, he’d never find his own place. It was frustrating.
Itaru was smart. Not the kind of smart that he’d be able to top the class or ace every subject. He was smart in the sense of if he were to live out on the streets he’d survive and maybe even ascend to godhood. He’d find things he’d like and if it made him doubt himself he’d throw it away. Just like that.
So when he finds himself in the middle of gym class, alienated from his peers, what does he think? He thinks this: it is so, so, so easy to also throw this away. He had nothing to lose. So when he finds that his sickly and humble made-up image gets exposed in the class by his only friend, what does he think? He thinks this: This is also easy to throw away.
But if he were a little more honest, he’d say it hurt like fuck.
-
Years later, he doesn’t find himself looking forward towards anything anymore. All that pubescent angst dissipated into nothing more than dust that piled up on books from college he never was able to throw.
But he does find himself joining a troupe. It seemed fairly easy: he’d breeze his way through acting, find time for his games, and he also had a place to stay.
Finally something good, he thinks.
The thought disappeared as fast as it came.
“I want to know more about performing,” Sakuya breathes out one night they decide to sleep on stage. “I want to get better and better at performing.”
Itaru nods in response as others shared their own sentiments. In front of him were people passionate for their craft, and what right did he have to breathe the same air as them? He remembers high school and the video games and the image he set up. He feels sick.
“What’s wrong, Itaru-san?”
Everything is wrong.
“Nothing,” Itaru replies. He wants to admit he’s not cut out for this, admit he’s not certain in theatre, admit that all that’s left of him is a shadow of desire that once walked over his mind years and maybe eight Knights of the Round installments ago.
But he can’t say that — not in front of Sakuma Sakuya who sure as hell was shit at acting but had enough drive to strive for betterment and excellence, not when Sakuya was an actor through and through — so he just opts to say it’d be bad if they stayed up late.
-
He meets Tonooka in quite a funny way.
(Many years later he won’t find it funny. He’d find it cringe, or any variation of the word, and then shake his head in disgust.)
It’s a normal day for Itaru, he pieces together personalities from bland main characters in games he has played before, names it Chigasaki Itaru, then goes to school. The uneventful part of the day follows many hours later, after class is dismissed.
Life for Itaru, for the most part, was filled with denial. It was never an issue of cannots. It was an issue of will nots. He can, perhaps, learn to be honest with himself for once and drop the whole act—but he will not. Because this was the easy way. Perhaps those were two sides of the same coin but he does not know this yet—not until he drops the sweet, sweet, humble Chigasaki false facade in front of his classmate as he drops a Knights of the Round keychain.
Footsteps shuffle behind him. He freezes.
“You dropped something,” a voice calls out. Itaru’s scared, but he does a great job at concealing it. This guy was Tonooka, and how could Itaru not recognise him? Not when Tonooka had always been part of the groups Itaru was so intent on avoiding back in grade school.
Itaru makes a small noise and turns around to face Tonooka. “Ngh—”
“Huh?” Tonooka picks up the key chain and holds it close to his face that lights up with recognition. “This is... it’s Sir Round Table Knight, isn’t it?!”
Itaru stays silent, perhaps bewildered. Who was he talking to again? Tonooka comments on the rarity of this kind of key chain and in that moment, Itaru feels like he’s staring at a mirror. Tonooka. Knights of the Round. Sir Round Table Knight key chain in hand. Warmth in eyes. Itaru forgets to breathe.
“Do you like games, Chigasaki? That’s a surprise!”
Later on, they’d become good friends and they’d play together. Much later on, Itaru grieves the death of Gareth and ponders on the brief feeling of betrayal Gawain experiences with Tonooka. Much, much later on, to Itaru’s dismay, he finds the same bitter feeling of betrayal brewing in the pit of his stomach.
He had always liked Sir Lancelot. Except for maybe, today.
-
Itaru is 23. He is, from Sakuya, Masumi, and Tsuzuru’s point of view, a grown up. The guy they’d turn to and look for when faced with an obstacle. Izumi, to Itaru, is his Itaru.
“I’m going to quit the troupe.” He says.
Izumi doesn’t buy it, not when his voice is almost inaudible, not when he can’t lift his head to meet Izumi’s eyes. Not when Itaru shows up for morning practice even though he knows no one will scold him for not going.
“Do you not care about standing on-stage with everyone?”
Oh. He does. That’s why he wants to turn away.
-
“If you’re not gonna try, leave this stage now.”
-
As a child, Itaru never really had an affinity for anything other than games. He did not excel that much in studies but he did not fail either. He was content with how things were. All he ever really needed was games, and games, and games, and Gwen.
As Itaru played KoTR, he found a lot of things in Lancelot that he liked. He’d place Sir Lancelot on a pedestal and then offer a piece of his ribcage to him. That was who Lancelot was to Itaru—a god.
Childhood was bugs, KoTR, consoles, and naivety. Itaru found joy in pretending he was Lancelot, in pretending Gwen was real. Maybe Gwen was real. He finds comfort in confiding to a figure only he sees and believes in and faith is a very fragile seed that soon blooms in his heart. Faith, like many other things, die soon.
Gwen dies shortly after Tonooka spits shit in his face. He doesn’t need Tonooka, nor Gwen, nor the false Chigasaki Itaru his sister plotted for him.
Instead, what he wanted was this: he wanted games and Gwen and Lancelot and friends and connection and acceptance and acceptance and approval and approval. He wanted all of this and now he thinks it’s too much. Too ambitious of him to want this much. What the fuck was wrong? He remembers thinking that day.
He wanted the teasing and the backhanded comments about how he was skinny in grade school to stop. He wanted a real, live Gwen—he wanted friends. Were these things too much to ask for?
Itaru finds no answer. He discovers many things that day. One, he is not allowed to want. Two, the world is too big and he is too small. Three, the world is too big but he cannot find a place for him to stay and call home. Four, this is what a panic attack feels like. Five, he will not look for a place he can call home anymore. Gym made him feel like all that ever defined him was his lanky body so he kills the subject in his schedule. Tonooka made him feel so stupid for being so trusting so he kills the image of Tonooka in his mind. He hates whatever he is feeling now so he decides he would be killing whatever made him doubt he was alive.
If he needed to turn away, he would do so in a heartbeat if it meant this was the last time he would feel sorry for himself.
Ultimately, Itaru carried this sentiment until he graduated college, found a job, and joined a troupe.
If Gwen were still alive maybe he’d say he was scared. Maybe he’d say despite all of what happened he still can’t help but want things.
Gwen isn’t around anymore, but a theatre buried in debt in Veludo Way is. Gwen isn’t around anymore, but the Spring Troupe is.
-
“I take that something is wrong, yes?” Citron walks over to Itaru before slumping himself on the wooden floor. Itaru doesn’t say anything yet but his face shows it all.
Itaru messes with his hair—for a while, Citron forgets to breathe—and he settles himself on the floor across Citron. “I can’t play Lancelot the way I want to.”
“You have built Lancelot to be the perfect hero in your brain, and so you are not happy with yourself as Lancelot.” Citron says softly. He doesn’t say it but Itaru understands the implication—as long as it is Chigasaki Itaru who plays Lancelot—Itaru himself will never be satisfied.
Itaru doesn’t reply so Citron continues, “You cannot stand even being a little different than your ideal Lancelot.”
Itaru nods. “Yeah, and... and I know it’s silly—” Citron shakes his head— “But I want to get as close to the real Lancelot.”
“I understand.”
Citron talks about the idea of a perfect king from his perspective and little by little, Itaru thinks he understands why he feels this way. Citron had always been so kind and patient, and Itaru had always been grateful for that.
“... I tried so very hard,” Citron’s voice noticeably drops lower, “but it only became painful to keep trying.
“But because I have this ideal in my brain, I keep trying. Because I believe I can become a better king someday.” Slowly, Citron looks back up to Itaru. He smiles—Itaru forgets how to breathe—and he makes a confident pose. “It is important to have ideals.”
“... So we have something to work towards?”
“You work just as hard as I do, yes?”
“Yeah... I guess I do. I’m the one who’s the pickiest about his portrayal and the one who expects the most from it.”
“And because of that, you act him in a way no one else can.”
Itaru staggers. Lancelot, him, portrayal, a way no one else can. There is an influx of something in Itaru as Citron smiles beside him. Citron does not say it directly, but this is Itaru and he is Citron. There are words not needed to be said to be understood. This was one of those.
You’re doing well, you’ve been doing well. All that’s left is to practice, practice, practice, and maybe kiss away your anxiety because you’re doing a great job.
Itaru says thanks.
-
He can’t kiss his anxiety away.
Anxiety and loneliness were two of Itaru’s closest friends. It talks to him at night, sometimes in the middle of the day, and then gnaws on everything he’d been trying so hard to conceal. On some days, the chaos was comforting because Itaru never knew how to deal with feeling well (he does not know, because it’s an odd emotion), but on some days it betrays him.
Anxiety and loneliness reminded him of Tonooka.
“Did something happen in the past between you and Tonooka?”
And it’s back. The sick, disgusting feeling from back when Tonooka told everyone about how he liked games and how everything about him was just a stupid mask made to keep out stupid people who would only break him in the end.
“Yeah.” Itaru replies, and he’s a little out of it. He backs down to sit on the couch and tries hard to regulate his breathing. He looks up and he wishes he never looked up.
What is this. What is this?
He had never looked at someone and think, this is home. This is family.
And then Spring Troupe happened. Citron and Tsuzuru had matching expressions on their faces, both were never shy with being concerned with other people. Sakuya had a small smile on his face, looking at him expectantly. Chikage nodded at him, and then Masumi... well, he’s Masumi. Pensive face and all. But he’s listening. That’s what matters.
“It’s a lengthy story. Will you all listen?”
What he hears—he can’t register all of it. But he’s sure everyone’s teasing him. His senpai gets the last word and he scoffs in response. Again, this is Itaru. This is the Spring Troupe. Where words aren’t enough to get the message across, then you’d have to either listen closely in case it’s in the tone of their voice, or squint, in case it’s in the miniscule motions. Language was not an issue. Where words fail, all they had to do was create a form of communication on their own. And it goes like this: when Chikage is smiling he’s planning something. When Chikage doesn’t speak he’s thinking of something. When Chikage says something about Itaru and, what, attention? And then offers a small smile, almost unnoticeable, it means he cares. He will listen.
So Itaru talks.
-
“I want you to go out there and express yourself without any reservations.”
Vulnerability and honesty did not come easily in Itaru’s vocabulary as it should. He needed people to pick apart his ribs and then rearrange his bones so they would be able to find flowers in the streams of his consciousness, in the spaces found in his chest. And it’s fine. He’s found people patient enough to admire the garden in between his lungs.
What Itaru did learn however, in the span of the months (has it been a year? He can’t recall) he’s been here, he had learned to associate belonging with the Spring Troupe. Understanding with Citron. Caring with Tsuzuru. Sanguine with Sakuya. Reserved with Masumi.
Chikage? He’s all sorts of things. Pretty boy Gawain. Senior. Workmate, troupemate, roommate, dormmate. He had learned to associate Chikage with friendship—the very thing he used to be so afraid of now gave him comfort. He finds he no longer has any reason to keep people out.
“... KoTR was also what got me through hell that was middle school, when I was being bullied and had to tiptoe my way through life.”
It stung.
“And in high school, KoTR was what made me my first ever friend.”
It was bitter.
“It was KoTR that taught me the fun of gaming with other people.”
But despite it all, where was Itaru now? Here. Home.
“What I hope you walk away from this play with and what I want to share with you today is that very joy we all experienced.”
I hope you walk away smiling.
-
Once upon a time, in a small school in one of Japan’s busy cities, lived a boy. Like all stories that start with ‘once upon a time’, said boy is miserable. In the midst of trying to survive, he founds he is given the blessing of KoTR, and that he is able to see Gwen. Gwen, the lovely fairy. Gwen, who listens well. Gwen, who was always there when he needed it.
Boy moves on with middle school quick. He enters high school, and Gwen’s starting to fade away, but he’s in high school and that’s fine. Boy plasters different traits on himself and calls it special. Calls it different. It is not.
Boy meets another boy and he forgets he is in high school. This is what he remembers: footsteps, a keychain, a child-like sparkle in another boy’s eyes, and how he almost forgot to breathe—only to discover this is the most freeing exhale he’s ever done. He forgets how pathetic his life is in reality, and offers to remove his mask and strip down walls made to shut himself from everyone else.
Boy is filled with regret.
Many years later, boy is still boy. Perhaps taller, more matured, but he is still the same boy who longed for companionship back in first grade.
Boy finds family in the most unlikely places to do so—in a small theater company in Veludo Way, maybe barely worth even batting an eye at. Who cares. He doesn’t.
As he leaves the stage with a smile plastered on his face, he does not forget who he is anymore, or where he is, or that he’s no longer in high school.
He remembers that this will always be where he is meant to be. He remembers this will always be home.