by Ryan La Sala
“Are you in crisis?”
“No.”
“Then no. Bangs are for people in crisis.”
We got nothing done, yet I’m spent.
But I’m smiling. I try not to overthink it.
Like all my projects, I figure I’ll document this one on Ion. But this time, I get to document Luca’s work. Or, rather, his whimsical inability to do any work. I smile as I flip through my photos until I reach the first one I uploaded. It’s the photo of Luca with the yarn, and I cackle remembering the moment’s ridiculousness. When I threw it up to my Ion feed, I captioned it, “Last words: Yarn it all,” which I think is very funny. I check the views and comments on today’s other photos—some reposts of Plasma Siren and a close-up of her makeup. My usual ritual, like tending a small garden plot. I’m up to nearly ten thousand followers, which feels like a major achievement.
Luca, of course, gains me a ton of views. He’s a new person on my feed, and he’s cute as hell. I’ve got a bunch of comments from cosplay friends asking me who the new boy is. A cousin? A friend?
I respond to all of them with mysterious, coy deflection, which I think is a clear indication that we’re dating. This somehow fills me with energy, and I finally detach myself from the couch. I’m extra careful cleaning up this time, and it’s not until after I’m back in the house and freshly showered that I check my phone.
I have sixteen missed calls from Luca. A seventeenth call sets my phone vibrating in my hands.
“Take it down,” Luca says when I answer.
“What? The photo?”
“All of the photos. Take them down.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My brother saw one and told my mom. Take it down.”
“Okay, I will, hold on.”
I delete the photos from my feed. All the comments and coyness are swept away, too.
“It’s done,” I tell Luca. My chest is tight. I feel terrible, but I also feel angry. I’ve never compromised so automatically for anyone. But it’s Luca, and I get it. I have to get it if I’m going to be with him.
But if he can’t deal with this, how will he deal with the cosplay, or with us?
I focus back on Luca. The rage in his voice is not at me and not for me to respond to. It’s despair. Desperation.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I can’t help it.
“It’s fine. I gotta go.”
The call ends, and my screen fills with the emptiness of the photos I’ve just deleted, my gallery showing an error. It reads: Hmmm. Sorry! There’s nothing here.
I sit down on my floor in just a towel, and the wonder of the day yellows like rotting paper. I feel, once again, the impossible balance that holds me together. They were just photos. How does Luca expect me to balance his new fascination with cosplay against his own secrecy?
My anger smolders in me. Ion is my place where I don’t have to hide any part of myself. That Luca’s problems have somehow found a way into that space feels so unfair. And I feel guilty even thinking that, knowing I’m not the real victim here. Still, I feel defensive. Almost territorial.
No, I tell myself. Don’t think that way. No project is automatically easy. You have to think outside of your circumstances, not think deeper into them. You’ve got to design your way forward. Relationships are real. They aren’t always just fun and games. They aren’t always cute.
Cute. Like Evie said. I hate that word.
I’m not cute. I’m real. I’m Raffy, and if anyone can find a way to make this work, it’s me.
Seventeen
Now
For the final announcement of Primes, the judges gather all the competitors onstage. I don’t cry. I don’t even frown. Not because I don’t feel like it, but because I can’t. I’m floating outside myself. All my rage, all my disappointment, lingers in the hot air of the auditorium, buoyant on the swells of cheering and laughter from the crowd. From a distance, I am going to watch myself lose. From afar, I watch May drag my stiff, empty body to a spot marked with glowing tape. We’re placed near the end of the stage, almost completely out of the spotlights. Probably at the request of the poor camera operators I nearly killed.
“My, my, my,” growls the host. “Now that is what I call a competition worthy of Controverse! Give it up again for our cosplayers!”
The crowd booms and claps as we’re led in a final strut across the stage. I stumble my way through, unable to see where I’m going as I continue to watch myself on the monitors all around the auditorium. Then we’re back in the shadows, and I’m thankful I can’t feel anything.
Did Inaya really sabotage us? Did Luca, by handing May the cape? I circle these thoughts without fully thinking them, because I know that the broken LEDs weren’t the problem. The performance was. The fall was all May and me. No one pushed us. No one had to. If I let myself feel even a fifth of my failure in this moment, it’d melt the costume right off my body.
Maybe my mother was right. I wince, remembering her calls. As if tonight isn’t bad enough, I’ll get to deal with her after.
“Thirteen teams competed in Controverse Primes. As with previous years, winners in each of the categories will be individual, but this year’s best in show, runner-up, and second runner-up will be team pairs. This year, we’re also letting the audience’s voice be heard for the first time in Controverse history, using the voting mode on the app. Final scores are determined by the judges, but audience participation will definitely come into play. You just wait and see. Now, are we ready to find out our winners?”
The crowd goes nuts. Armor awards are first. May’s name doesn’t come up. Needlework is next, and I’m ignored. FX is last, and I don’t even bother listening.
“Now it’s time for the big moment. We’re going to bring our four top-scoring teams to the front. Are you ready?”
Now the crowd is hushed.
“Luca and Inaya, please step forward.
“Team Satoh Twins Cosplay, please step forward.
“Team Christina the Winner, please step forward.”
My mind is a hundred miles away, on a plane with my mother, careening toward a career in fashion. My cute little hobby forgotten.
“And Team Crafty Rafty, please step forward.”
May and I nearly miss it, but one of the clubbers is right there to lead us forward, thank god. We exchange a baffled look before managing to smile for the cheering audience. I’m shocked we’ve ranked high enough to crack the top four, but my hope is squashed by the realization that there’s no way we’re going to gain enough points with audience votes to break second or first.
The other teams drift backward, conceding the stage to us. I want to run after them, join them in their misery instead of being forced to stay up here, so close to my goal, forced to watch someone else win my dreams. It seems so cruel.
I stare at Luca on the monitors broadcasting our faces in HD all around the auditorium. For the first time I take in what he’s wearing. He’s costumed as Raiden from Metal Gear, inky-black armor snugly fastened to his muscular body from toe to chin, his hair drawn into perfectly sculpted, gray spikes. Next to him, Inaya is in something totally different: an intricately embroidered blue dress with a slit that goes nearly up to her hip bone, a cloud-white cape, and…is she wearing a straw harvester’s hat? The pairing makes no sense until she tips back her head to laugh, and I see her glowing, blue eyes—some sort of prosthetic mask?—and I get it.
Raiden from Metal Gear, and Raiden from Mortal Kombat. Fucking genius.
Luca and Inaya look confident. Playful. Waving at the crowd and posing for photos. Luca catches the camera broadcasting to the monitors and gives the world a big thumbs-up. I think of how far he’s come. I think of how it should have been us up here together.
All of a sudden, Irma Worthy walks right in front of us. I didn’t even hear her introduction. She’s got a microphone now
, smiling out from under her fluffy dirty-blond hair. Her bracelets and rings clink and jingle as she sweeps an arm across the crowd.
The crowd gasps as they realize who’s taken the stage. Luca and Inaya look at each other in surprise. May elbows me and points into the dark aisles of the auditorium, and I see the shining lenses of the cameras panning across the crowd to capture their awed expressions.
“Something is happening,” she whispers.
Irma shushes the crowd. The monitors go from showing our shocked faces to showing the Craft Club logo, which means we are all basking in the glow of Elizabeth Worthy’s smile.
“Here at the Controverse Championship of Cosplay, we honor ingenuity in all its forms,” Irma says, winking. “Year after year, this stage sees incredible costumes, astonishing performances, and, dare I say, a few well-planned surprises.” Here she turns to stage full of cosplayers, like she wants to drink in our reactions to what she says next.
“And now it’s time for one final surprise. Tonight, there will be no winners.”
The crowd gasps.
I gasp. Not a regular gasp. A gay gasp. A theatre gay, gasp.
“At Craft Club, we believe in the power of creativity and the fun of creation for creation’s sake. That’s why this year, Craft Club is sponsoring a special final round of the Controverse Championships of Cosplay. As we speak, an arena is being set up in the central hall of the convention center, outfitted with an entire Craft Club worth of fabrics, supplies, tools, and gadgets. Everything you could possibly need to create your next, best cosplay.”
As she speaks, the monitors transition to footage of crews setting up shelves of supplies in a section of the hall, curious onlookers held back by clear partitions forming a huge semicircle. Four large tables have been set up like piano keys, each with two sewing machines, two glue guns, scissors, and bolts of fabric.
She turns to us.
“This new third round is a televised, final crafting challenge in which our top four teams will have to create one brand-new cosplay per team. From nothing to something to champions. The final round will take place tomorrow. Those who accept the challenge will have twelve hours to complete a single build with their chosen partner, working under the pressure of a time limit, while the entire world watches.”
Around me, the other cosplayers are whispering with confusion. Some seem excited. Some seem terrified. Inaya looks pissed. Cameras are creeping onto the stage, capturing our reactions. I can feel them zooming in on my face. I don’t know what I look like. I don’t know what to feel in this moment. And then my ambition begins to smolder, then glow. All of a sudden, I return to myself, and I’m smiling.
Coordinators appear onstage, sporting plush cushions in four different colors. Upon each cushion sits a glimmering crystal of the same color.
“Teams, now is your chance to accept this challenge or give up. If one or both members of a team forfeit, the next-highest-scoring team will be eligible. If one member of a team is unable to compete, another can be selected. Finalists may also form new teams.” As Irma’s eyes pass over me, I swear I see a flash of evil.
“Now, step forward if you accept this challenge.”
The stones wink at us.
We can’t do this. I promised May she could have Sunday, and I’ve got a trip with Evie planned.
We can’t.
The Satoh twins move first, taking one of the tokens. I turn to May.
“We can’t,” I tell her.
May marches forward and swipes a token from its cushion, and I join her a moment later. She leans in, her puffs of hair blocking our faces so she can whisper, “We’ll figure it out. Talk after.”
We turn to see what’s taking the other teams so long. Luca is looking at Inaya with shock as she says something to him.
Then Inaya crosses the stage to one of the other competitors. Christina the Winner, an all-star cosplayer from last year. The two girls join hands and whisper to each other. As the crowd makes noises of confusion, they approach the third token, lifting it up together.
“Could it be? Have two competitors dissolved their teams to form a new powerhouse cosplay couple?”
The resulting gasp from the crowd is so loud and so powerful, I nearly feel myself dragged forward into their awe. Christina’s partner storms off stage left. Luca is left alone onstage, blinking at Inaya, who is too busy posing for photos with Christina to care.
I look at the crowd, then at Irma Worthy. She’s got a smug smile on her face, like she knew this was going to happen. I suddenly wonder if my conversation with her wasn’t the only private meeting she held with competitors as she put together her show. If she wanted drama, she certainly got it by letting Luca and me stay. This upheaval also feels like it’s covered in her artistic fingerprints.
It takes a bit longer to figure out who earned the last token. Turns out the next-highest-scoring team is a pair of seamstresses who both competed in the needlework category. They’re dressed in ballgowns made to look like fast food—one of them is Taco Belle (from Beauty and the Beast), and the other is Snow White Castle (Snow White, obviously). They cry and hold hands as they take the last token.
“See you tomorrow morning, cosplayers!” Irma Worthy is beaming at us. I swear her eyes linger on me, locking me into the promise I gave her yesterday. For better or for worse, there will be a show.
“See you in the morning, my beloved Controverse,” she says to the crowd. And the house lights come up behind us as we’re led offstage.
Eighteen
Then
Eight months ago
Luca and I are in the studio on a rare Saturday afternoon when we’re both free, a week into February. The awkwardness of the photo I posted has come and gone. Luca isn’t one for big apologies, but he did apologize the next day. The day after that, too. And then he got me a Christmas gift that was apology themed, and finally I told him to cut it out. His parents’ squeamishness with cosplay isn’t his fault, even if his reaction to the photos I posted felt harsh. And Blitz Con is coming up in May. Blitz is sort of like a preview for Controverse, where all the major players show up and show out for the first time in the season, and we’ve got tons to do to get our own builds ready. I’d rather have him here with me, helping, than afraid to be with me at all.
“This is beyond weird,” Luca tells me as I encase him in clear plastic wrap.
I just say, “Keep turning. I’ve got to get it around your whole torso.”
Luca obliges, stiffly spinning as I draw the wrap over his stomach, over his ribs, over the shallow valley between his shoulder blades. Then I start applying duct tape over the wrap.
“The tape will give us a flexible mold of your body. We use the plastic wrap so that we don’t tear off your nipples,” I explain. Luca considers this as I create a cocoon of tape around his torso.
“I’m not going to be able to get out of this,” he whines. “It’s too tight, Raff.”
“We have scissors.”
“If you’re going to cut it up, what’s the point of doing this in the first place?”
“You’ll see. Just trust me.”
Luca stops spinning. He does that thing where he stares at me quietly until I look back. I hold out a few seconds longer than usual before obliging him with a kiss on his clenched jaw. He smiles and keeps spinning. Minutes of silence go by as I finish taping over his entire torso, even his shoulders. Then I grab a marker and start drawing on the outline of the armor, using a blown-up photo of Phobos as a reference.
“You know,” Luca says into the silence of my focus. “Everyone always says this, but I really did think quicksand would be a much bigger deal in life. You know?”
“What?”
“It’s just…” He drifts from me to take a swig from his water bottle, and it’s a very awkward movement given how limiting the duct tape corset is. “You know how when we were kids, p
eople in shows were always getting trapped in mud, or tar, or quicksand? I swore to myself I’d never get trapped that way. But, like…” Luca gestures around at the sunlit studio, then brushes a droplet of water from his chin. “Where’s the quicksand, Raff? Where is it?”
I know Inaya would ignore this attempt at distraction. May would laugh. But I think about it. I get what he means.
“Whirlpools,” I say.
“What about whirlpools?”
I sit down on the floor, where I’ve got sheets of foam laid out, the shapes of feathers traced onto them so that I can give Luca something to do. We have to get the feathers cut out so we can shape and prime them tonight, then leave them out tomorrow to dry. Evie is gone this week, and I need to make the most of it.
“Whirlpools make no sense,” I say after a long pause. Luca is used to my pauses by now. He teeters over to me, watching me trace more feathers as he attempts another sip of water.
“It’s like your quicksand. Whirlpools used to scare the crap out of me as a kid. I never wanted to be on open water.”
“Huh.” Luca gives me one of those slow, lazy grins of his. I forget what I’m saying, because at this moment the low winter sun is behind him, nestled against the soft curve where his neck turns into his shoulder. As usual, he’s in these little soccer shorts. The sun shows every hair on his legs. It collects behind his ears, ember red. It glows on the fuzz of his jaw.
“Why do whirlpools make no sense to you, Raffy?”
I trace, flip my pattern over, trace again.
“Pirates were always getting sucked into these massive whirlpools out in the ocean, right? Firstly, that’s horrifying. And secondly, are we expected to believe that the ocean just…like…opens up like that? Just forms a big hole? I mean, whirlpools are all suction, right? But they’ve got to be sucking things to somewhere. Like, where is all that water being drained off to? Where do the pirates end up? I can hold my breath for a long time. I’d be okay with getting sucked into a whirlpool if I knew where it went. Like some sort of Oz, but underwater.”