fouroclocks-art:

Lightweight

Although they had progressively changed with time, growing with him as he slowly turned from small and insecure leveret to full-fledged hare, his steps had always been familiar to him. Sometimes, he would detest them because they were weak; sometimes, he would thank them because they were fast. Regardless of the case, they were unmistakably his, and he knew all about them, for better or worse.

But he didn’t know whom those present steps belonged to. The weight of the life he had stubbornly chosen to lead that day of fifteen years ago, against all odds and his father’s wants, wasn’t burdening on him anymore. His legs, accustomed to move forward in spite of carrying it, were light now. So light he could hardly recognize them; so light it was almost unbearable.

“You’ll get a headache, if you keep frowning like that.” In some strange, perhaps a bit cruel, trick of events, the voice unmistakably coming from behind him sounded like it was reverberating right inside his head, as though his very conscience had just spoken.

In fact, Jack considered with a bitter smile – which, lucky for him, couldn’t be seen at the time – it wouldn’t have been so odd if the will of his heart was voiced by Cynthia Walker. “How can you possibly know that I’m frowning, if all you have access to from that position is my back?”

“Because, when you’re in a mood, every part of your body works together so that this fact is perfectly apparent to whoever gets to interact with you.” A feather-like touch reached him between his shoulder blades, one that made his guts silently twist in a sailor’s knot. “Here,” she tapped twice, “you’re stiff as a board. I highly doubt your face is any better.”

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