Ten minutes before the cosplay contest, Yuki's sword snapped in half.
She had spent four months on the costume – a warrior queen from a game she had played since she was fifteen. Hand-sewn cape, foam armour painted to look like old silver, and a two-metre sword that was now two one-metre swords.
"No, no, no," she whispered.
"Is that," said a voice behind her, "a medical emergency?"
She turned around. The guy from the next table – the one selling hand-painted miniatures – was holding a hot glue gun like a surgeon holding a scalpel.
"I'm Sam," he said. "I've fixed worse. Probably."
Surgery
He worked fast. A wooden dowel from his display stand, three layers of glue, some black tape, a bit of silver paint from his kit. Yuki held the pieces and tried not to notice that his forearms were covered in paint and that he hummed when he concentrated.
"Done," he said with four minutes to spare. "Don't swing it. Don't lean on it. Don't let anyone hug you."
"That's my whole performance."
"Then improvise."
She came second. She held the trophy up towards his table across the hall, and he cheered louder than anyone.
Day two
She brought him coffee the next morning as a thank-you. He gave her a miniature he had painted overnight: a tiny warrior queen with a tiny broken sword, taped together.
She looked at it for a long moment.
"When did you sleep?"
"I didn't. Worth it."
They spent the afternoon walking the convention floor together. He knew every game she mentioned. She beat him at an arcade machine three times in a row and he pretended to be devastated. People kept asking her for photos, and every time she glanced over to see if he was still there. He always was.
The after-party
The convention's after-party was in a hotel ballroom full of fog machines and people dressed as elves. Yuki had changed out of the armour into a simple black dress and suddenly felt shy without a costume to hide in.
Sam found her by the window.
"You look different," he said.
"Worse?"
"Like the real character. The armour was the costume."
It was a ridiculous line. It also worked. She laughed, took his paint-stained hand and pulled him onto the dance floor, where a DJ was playing video game music remixed into something you could dance to.
Later, in the quiet corridor outside the ballroom, she kissed him against a poster of a dragon. He kissed her back like he had been thinking about it for two days – which, he admitted, he had.
"My room is on the fourth floor," she said.
"Is the sword there?"
"The sword is there."
"Then I should check on my patient."
What happened on the fourth floor stays on the fourth floor. The sword survived. Mostly.
Day three
On the last day they shared his table. She sold his miniatures with ridiculous enthusiasm and he sold more in one day than in the whole previous year.
They live in different cities. They have a plan. Next year's convention, matching costumes – a warrior queen and the blacksmith who forged her sword.
He is already building it. It will not break.
