The week leading up to GenshinCon was a blur of frantic, domestic chaos.
They spent every spare moment hunched over the Ganyu wig, trimming and styling, their fingers brushing in the small space, sending little zings of electricity through Makoto's body.
They painted and assembled the props, their easy, comfortable banter a stark, jarring contrast to the lewd, explicit nature of their weekend encounters.
It was almost normal.
And that was the most terrifying, most exhilarating thing of all.
Saturday morning arrived, a bright, clear day that seemed to mock the swirling storm of anticipation in Makoto's gut.
The finished costume, pristine and perfect, was laid out on Yuna's bed like a sacred offering.
"So…" he began, leaning against her doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. "You have one hour to finish your makeup and put on that wig and lenses. Do you think that's enough time?"
Yuna stuck her tongue out at him in the reflection of her vanity mirror, her hand steady as she meticulously applied Ganyu's signature, winged eyeliner.
"Please," she scoffed, her voice a confident, arrogant purr as she blended a shimmer of eyeshadow with a practiced, professional ease. "I could do this in my sleep."
She squinted at her reflection, popping in the aqua-blue contact lenses with a practiced, almost casual, grace.
"Though if these lenses start stinging mid-con," she warned, her eyes, now a startling, otherworldly shade of blue, meeting his in the mirror, "you're carrying me piggyback to the first aid booth."
Her smirk turned wicked. "And you'll have to explain to the staff why your 'cousin' is crying blue tears."
With a final, decisive spritz of setting spray, she spun around in her chair to face him.
She was no longer Yuna. She was Ganyu incarnate, from the tips of her perfectly styled horns down to the toes of her thigh-high boots.
"Well?" She did a little twirl, the delicate, white stockings shimmering in the morning light. "Do I pass as your fake girlfriend yet?"
Her grin faltered just slightly as she waited for his answer, her fingers nervously, unconsciously, adjusting the sleeve of the costume they had made together.
He knew she was fishing for a compliment, for a reassurance.
He could give her that. But he could also give her something more.
Something to remind her, and any other man who dared to look, who she belonged to.
"You look lovely," he said, his voice a low, appreciative rumble as he scanned her from top to bottom. "But I think you're missing something."
He stepped forward, his hands finding her waist. He leaned in, his lips finding the faint, faded hickey marks he had left on her neck a week ago.
He sucked, hard, a possessive, proprietary act that made her gasp. When he pulled back, a fresh, angry-looking bruise was blooming on her pale skin.
"Well," he said, a satisfied, triumphant grin on his face. "Now people will know that this is an owned Ganyu, not a wild one."
He giggled, a giddy, lovesick sound, as he pulled away. "Come on. I'll drive you there."
Yuna shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated outrage, and swatted at his head, her face burning a furious shade of crimson. "You!! I spent an hour on this foundation, you absolute animal!"
She scrambled for her concealer, her hands trembling as she grumbled a string of creative, colorful obscenities under her breath.
But when he turned to leave, her hand, small and surprisingly strong, darted out, her fingers closing around his wrist in a grip that was just shy of painful.
"…Idiot," she muttered, avoiding his eyes, her own gaze fixed on the fresh mark on her neck in the mirror.
"At least… hold my hand in the car. So people will think that you're my pathetic simp boyfriend and not…"
Her voice dropped to a whisper, the words a raw, vulnerable confession. "…not my brother."
She stomped ahead, her Ganyu bells jingling with each angry, indignant step, but she paused at the door, waiting for him.
The morning light streamed through the window, catching the fresh, angry mark on her neck, a mark she had purposefully, deliberately, left uncovered.
"…And drive fast," she added over her shoulder, a rare, genuine, almost shy smile playing at her lips. "I want to see how many coomers faint when they see your claimed, personal Ganyu."
The convention center was a chaotic, overwhelming assault on the senses.
The air was thick with the scent of popcorn, body odor, and a faint, electric tang of pure, unadulterated nerd-dom.
Makoto's hand tightened around hers, a silent, protective gesture as they were swept up in the tide of colorful, costumed bodies.
"Wow, it's so crowded," he said, his voice a little breathless.
He had never been to a place like this before. It was a whole different world.
He handed her the convention map, a silent, willing surrender of all control. "This is my first time at a place like this. I'll just follow you, then. What's the plan?"
Yuna's fingers tightened around his instantly, her Ganyu bells jingling as she scanned the teeming crowd like a seasoned general surveying a battlefield.
"First, the merch booth, before all the good shit sells out," she declared, her voice sharp and decisive.
She dragged him forward, her small frame cutting through the crowd with a terrifying, single-minded efficiency.
"Then, we'll do some photo ops with anyone who asks nicely." She shot him a warning glare, her aqua-blue eyes narrowed. "And no growling at the photographers or female cosplayers, you got it?"
Her free hand waved vaguely in the direction of the event map. "Artist alley after lunch, and then..."
She froze mid-step, her entire body locking onto a distant, unassuming booth. "…They're selling a limited edition Ganyu Nendoroid," she breathed, her voice a reverent, worshipful whisper, her eyes gleaming with an unholy, avaricious hunger.
But as she lunged forward like a woman possessed, she suddenly yanked him back.
Her other hand darted out, her movements surprisingly tender as she straightened his collar. "…And try not to look so lost, you idiot," she muttered, her voice a low, affectionate grumble. "People might think I kidnapped you."
Her horns bumped his chin as she rose on her tiptoes to whisper, her breath a warm, tantalizing puff against his ear: "And if you play your cards right, I might even let you take some private photos of me in the parking lot later."
With that dark, thrilling threat-promise, she charged into the fray, dragging him behind her toward the inevitable merch bloodbath, his very own chaotic, possessive, utterly perfect Ganyu.
"Merch first, right? Sure," he nodded, a dopey, compliant grin on his face as they finally reached the queue.
He watched her, his heart swelling with a strange, unfamiliar mix of pride and a deep, possessive love.
He reached into his wallet, pulling out his credit card.
"Here, keep this," he said, pressing the card into her hand. "And this is not… me paying to fuck you. This is just… a brother pampering his little stepsis for the day."
Yuna's fingers froze mid-air, hovering over the card as if it might bite her.
Her eyes darted from the small, plastic rectangle to his face and back again, her usual snark and bravado momentarily stunned into silence.
The crowd jostled and shoved around them, but she stood perfectly still, her Ganyu bells frozen mid-jingle.
"…You're such an idiot," she finally managed to choke out, but her voice cracked, a sound of pure, unadulterated emotion.
She snatched the card with trembling fingers, clutching it to her chest like a sacred, holy relic. The look on her face: raw, vulnerable, and unbearably young despite the intricate, adult cosplay, made his stomach flip.
Then, the moment shattered.
She spun on her heel with a too-loud scoff, her long, blue twin-tails whipping his arm. "Don't come crying to me when I max this out on resin refills!" she yelled over her shoulder, her voice a shield against the overwhelming wave of emotion that had just passed between them.
She was already bulldozing her way toward the limited edition Nendoroid booth, a woman on a sacred, holy mission.
And when the vendor, a tired-looking man with a sweat-stained t-shirt, asked if they were together, she didn't hesitate for a second.
She looped her arm through his with a death grip, pressing herself so close that her horns jabbed him in the shoulder.
"Obviously," she declared, her voice loud enough for the entire queue to hear.
Her smirk was all teeth, a sharp, possessive, triumphant thing.
"He's my simp."