“With a sewing machine, yeah.”
“You have a sewing machine?”
“Not here.”
“Where? Your studio?”
I nod.
Luca scratches at the gold on his neck. He makes me watch him as he considers what I’ve offered. What am I offering? I don’t even know. But I am hoping with every stitch that makes me up that he’ll say yes.
“You could show me,” he finally says, rubbing at the paint on his hands. “I could learn. How to make stuff, I mean.”
I nod.
“Should we go now?” he asks.
And, smiling, we do.
Seven
Now
The stage vanishes behind the doors, and then we are through the concrete hallways and back on the con floor.
The brightness and noise of the con makes it feel like we’ve waltzed through a portal and into another world. I should feel relieved, but I’m not. I should feel accomplished, but I don’t. Between Luca and the promise of even more surprises, my rigorous preparation now feels subpar, and my glorious daydreams of winning Trip-C are coming undone. Reality right now feels a little ruined.
We head to coat check first so that May can extract herself from the Pinehorn costume. As I pack it into the suitcase, I remember how the judges looked at other people’s costumes: with derision, doubt, and dismissal. I find that focusing on that brings me a dark joy and settles my nerves. I’m not proud that I’m resorting to the dark magic of gloating to make myself feel better, but part of me knows I’m also being logical. Not everyone got the applause we got. Not everyone should have. We worked hard.
I worked hard. I always work hard.
So how come I never feel like I’m working hard enough?
“You’re brooding. Why?” May asks as she stretches, newly freed from her stilts and helmet. Moss still covers her face, but it’s not the weirdest look on the con floor, and she for sure doesn’t care.
“I’m just confused. I don’t know what that was.”
“That,” May says as she hands some cash to a vendor selling popcorn, “was high production value. Did you see the cameras they were using? They looked like rocket launchers.”
“I guess Craft Club’s going big this year,” I say.
“Here,” she says, handing me the popcorn. “I’m gonna go pee, but then can we swing through the Art Mart?”
“Sure.”
“Are we free for the rest of the day?”
I shrug. “I think so? Those coordinators told us they’d be emailing the finalists tonight.”
May scratches at the fake moss on her face with reckless indulgence, and I wince as my work is ruined.
“Fucking finally. Oh my god.” She hisses with relief. “Are you keeping Pinehorn intact, or will it also be cosplay composted?”
May knows I have to be very careful about holding on to cosplay, because each piece has to be kept hidden from Evie. I have a few bins of costumes I store at May’s place, but I deconstruct most of the larger builds and keep the reusable parts, then trash the rest. I try to think of a scenario in which I’ll need Pinehorn or Spring Keeper again. I’ve already done my making-of videos. We did our couple photo shoot during our makeup test last weekend. I did detail shots this morning before we left May’s house. I should be good to deconstruct both, yet I feel like I’m missing something big. Then it hits me.
In my mind, there is a memory I have yet to color in. A plan I have yet to realize. It’s a picture I’ve looked at a million times in my head, a picture of two boys dressed in moss and flowers, sitting beneath the brushing fingers of the willows in the Boston Public Garden. Luca and me, in full cosplay, together.
A picture like that would absolutely rock on Insta. But it’s not even worth thinking about anymore. It’s never going to happen.
“We’re all done with these builds,” I tell May. “You can take off the rest of your makeup if you want. I’ll meet you at the Art Mart. But let me take the coat check ticket so I can grab everything later.”
May whoops in relief, slapping her ticket into my hand before skipping toward the bathrooms.
I stand still, pure sadness crashing over me. My green-stained fingers clutch the ticket. May left her popcorn with me, too. Gross. It’s one of those immense plastic tubs that people only eat a few handfuls from before their bones begin to disintegrate from the salt. May will absolutely be able to finish it, and she will absolutely vomit some of this up tonight at my place.
I am suddenly very annoyed to be holding May’s future upchuck. I shove it under my arm and start pacing through the crowd. It’s midday, and the crowds are clogging up the aisles, looking at books stacked in teetering towers and figurines in lit-up glass cases and taking photos in front of the large, bright displays. Instead of going directly to the Art Mart, I swing through Controverse’s core, where all the food vendors have set up shop, and then out into the open area where photographers buzz around cosplayers. Here, the crowds crush and swirl, backing up to clear space around the cosplayers so people can take turns snapping pictures. It’s hard to focus on where you’re going when there are so many wonderful costumes.
Many people recognize Spring Keeper, and as I wave back at the ones shouting for my attention, I begin to forget my anger and anxiety. Eventually, I have to put down the popcorn because a few people want pictures, and soon I’ve gathered my own crowd. I’m not huge on performance usually, but right now I play along. I pose for the photos; I give the cry. I throw myself into it, and I’m rewarded by a few photographers asking me if they can take some portfolio shots.
They mean for their own portfolios—a lot of photographers come here to build their socials. They offer me cards in return for my poses, and I throw them in my bag. I will try to remember to follow up online, introduce myself and so on.
There are a million reasons for a cosplayer to want to be on the floor, but none of them are why I’m here, and I know it. I’m hoping to see Luca. I want him to know his presence hasn’t fazed me, not one bit. And soon I am rewarded.
“Raffy!”
I hold my pose and glower into the lens of a camera. It lowers, the photographer shows me the shot, and I nod in approval.
“Raffy!” Luca shouts again.
I was an idiot to come here, I realize. I just wanted Luca to see me, not talk to me. But there’s no going back now. He appears all at once. In the glow from the skylights, I can see every detail of his work.
(Well, Inaya’s work.)
He is wearing nearly nothing, just hide shorts with a flared tuft of a tail that quivers as he slips through the crowd. Someone asks him for a photo, and he pivots like he’s never not ready, and I get a full view of his back. Soccer, I reason, should be considered a performance-enhancing drug in the world of competitive cosplay, because it has absolutely weaponized Luca’s body in a way that cloth and foam cannot match.