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Rosabella

When I get on an idea, I'm kinda like a bloodhound on a scent. Anticipation and excitement thrums through me, like, if I close my eyes and concentrate, I can actually feel it building, humming, under my skin. And right now is no exception.

And, yet, uncertainty burns there too. This is a huge idea—world-changing—implementing a system-wide change and giving everyone in The Game creator magic. But why am I so sure of it—so convinced? Why do I, more than anything, want to wipe the doubt I see in Sparo's eyes away? There's this clenching in my chest—one that almost requires this change to go away. Why does it mean so much to me in this moment? Why do I want this so badly?

I ponder these questions, staring at the folds of lace curtains in my bedroom. They've changed them out since I was here last—it always seems like they're constantly updating and maintaining everything in this place. But the four-poster bed is the same, standing like a fortress of sanity in the storm going on in my head and heart as I lean against it. I run my fingers up and down the grooves in the wood, pretending to study the light pink walls so that I don't have to turn to look at Sparo who's taken a pensive seat in the velvet chair a few paces away. To an onlooker, it'd appear I'm 'zoning out' or 'lost on thought', but a quick dive into my core tells me there's nothing lost about me.

I'm chained.

I've been chained for too long. By these conglomerating fears threatening to choke the very life out of me and the whole Game world.

...So, is that the reason then? Am I being merely selfish with this need to give creator magic to the masses? Is it because I'm so tired of death and destruction and cracking and darkness and Darken that I'm willing to dive off a dangerous cliff into the unknown? Am I tired of bearing the burden of fixing the Game world by myself—the weight of that responsibility? Am I just...giving in? Or...is it more than that?

My mind flashes to Rainer, for some reason, as my fingers play with the ripped material of my jeans. Rainer had wanted so badly to create; he was innocently driven to it. What if that's all that's been happening? People want to make things. What's so bad about that? Tears sting in my eyes and the back of my throat. Am I crying for Rainer or feeling sorry for myself?

Sparo seems to notice my change of mood. I hear him shift in the chair, angling towards me. His dark eyes flash up to meet mine. I see more than a few ounces of concern there. "You know I trust you," he starts hesitantly, "you've saved us all more than a few times but—are you sure this is a good idea?" His hands clench and unclench in his lap.

His tone only breaks my confidence in two even further. I wipe a hand over my face, suddenly feeling the pressure. Where has all the excitement from a few minutes ago gone? "Honestly, Sparo," I whisper, "I'm not sure about much right now but—" My voice breaks off. I don't want it to, but it does.

"But what?" the dragon, non-dragon prods kindly.

He's staring at me with such interest. Even though, I can't seem to muster the saliva to continue. It takes me a minute. My gaze darts back to his as I start to speak, but wavers, resting on the wood floor more than I'd like to admit. "It's just that, well, you and me, we can create. We know what it's like. We have that ability but—to never have that? To be restricted—your whole life? ...Wouldn't that be... terrible?" The words come haltingly, but I watch the man nod with understanding.

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His face crinkles up a little with what looks like will be a joke as he gets up to move closer, "To not be able to make myself sunglasses and machine guns? What would the world be like—"

He comes close...close enough to elbow in the stomach.

Which I do.

"Sparo, I'm serious," I plead.

And his face grows granite again as he stares down at me. His breath lands on my forehead, warm and, strangely, comforting. "You know," he muses, thoughtfully, "The thing about you is that you're always thinking about other people—wondering how they feel—what it's like in their shoes..."

"Does that make me a wimp?" I counter, not wanting to lift my head in case I see the truth reflected in his eyes.

But the man doesn't give me a choice. He uses a dark finger to lift my chin towards his face. "No," his voice is warm, "It makes you a Game Maker. It's what I like best about you—"

"My title?" I huff, rolling my eyes. But his grip on my chin is insistent.

"No, your heart," he says.

And I don't give my eyes permission to connect with his, but they do. And a rush of emotions crashes over my head because there's only acceptance in his eyes. Only love and yearning and unabashed, vulnerable genuineness. And it—it's overwhelming when you've never felt that before. It threatens to knock you straight over.

"I—" I struggle with my tongue, suddenly blubbering. "I don't know what I'm doing. I'm just making it up as I go along," I admit weakly.

And he brushes back a stand of my hair leaning in as his right eyebrow arches upward. His words are so low they're nearly just vibrations on my cheeks, "Aren't we all?"

And he kisses me.

Lips—warm.

Wet.

Needing.

And, for just a second, I forget about the decision—about the knot in my heart and stomach. I just give in to the cascading emotions and his hands—

First, in my hair.

Then, on my neck and waist.

Pulling me to him—our mouths pressing against each other like we can devour the fear in each other's hearts with the warmth between us.

Is this love? Is this life?

Jumping and never knowing?

Winging it just to find out if you were right?

Trusting yourself over the masses?

If this is life, I want it all. I want to be wrapped up in all of it—to dive in, headfirst, and try to forget there can be stinging consequences because...well, living can be scary, but it's certainly better than dying. ...And, given the choice, I'd pick life any day:

Sticky.

Impatient.

Messy life.

Over death.

Over darkness and Darken.

And it looks like life is just giving me another chance at that today—another choice that I can and will make for the betterment of this Game world.

"Do you trust me?" Sparo asks, pulling away long enough to meet my eyes even as his hands push me back on the bed.

"Looks like we're going to have to trust each other," I reply breathlessly, nodding.

And the life and warmth is here too.

As I let him kiss down my neck.

And that excitement is back, zinging under my skin or—is this different?