Work Text:
Three Quarters, Roughly
Moomin wakes up, four weeks into Spring, and Snufkin’s tent is gone from its place on the riverbank. He blinks at the abandoned campsite for a few seconds and rubs his eyes blearily. Sleep is still tugging at his limbs and thoughts, which makes them a bit slow. He gets ready. Bumps around the room and glances out the window once or twice more just to be sure it's really gone and not the vestiges of a vague nightmare he'd already forgotten. Snufkin truly isn’t there, he decides. It's no mystery, or even any real worry—Snufkin’s off on one of his trips.
“Took him long enough,” Little My huffs at the breakfast table when he says as such. “He’s been edging out of our adventures for days .”
“I wish he’d told me in advance,” Moominmama hums as she sets a new platter of pancakes on the center of the table and the top three are immediately scooped away by Moominpapa. “I would’ve packed him some biscuits and jam for the journey.”
“He never tells anyone in advance.” Moomin reminds her, someone sulkily, and takes two pancakes for his own plate. “I think he’s worried someone will try and come with him.”
“You would too, wouldn’t you!” My crows. “Remember that time you tried to go with him for his Winter travels? That would sort of ruin the idea of getting away, wouldn’t it?
“That was years ago!” Moomin protests, cheeks aflame beneath his white fur in a way he knows shows all too well. “I didn’t understand what it meant to him then! And besides,” He prods at his pancakes for a moment. “He probably wouldn’t mind if I joined him for parts of it. He just wouldn’t be able to tote me around for the full season.”
And it’s true. They’ve talked about it, not so explicitly or in practice, but… Snufkin tells his stories and it comes up. Snufkin hardly needs a full season to himself, at least not all at once. He’s said more than once that by the time midwinter hits he’s got enough stories and seen enough new faces to be eager to start his return to Moominvalley. (Once he even said that he could begin to miss Moomin himself as soon as two weeks after leaving). But no one besides Too-Ticky and a few winter creatures are awake to return to , not to mention the danger of the Lady of the Cold, so of course he takes the time to explore the farther reaches that he used to frequent. (He’s also said that he doesn’t mind the tether, that he can only travel half a season away from the valley before needing to turn back, and Moomin isn’t certain he believes that but he also doesn’t doubt that Snufkin is being honest in his own way.)
If he’s ready to return after just a few weeks, the remainder of the season doesn’t do much good for his alone time. After all, that’s not the sort of thing you can store up in jars and leave in the cellar till you have need for more. It’s perishable.
So yes. Snufkin spends Spring, Summer, and most of Autumn within their little valley home and wanders the South when the snows come hard and fast in the Winter. But also, not exactly.
“I just hope he’s alright. These past few years he’s left for a few days at three weeks into Spring—if he’s left at four and a half just now, and has been antsy as My says, he might be away longer than usual. Hopefully, he hasn’t been too uncomfortable, oh, I’m such a dreadful friend for not noticing!”
“Yeah, how many years and you still can’t tell when he’s itching to pack up and go!” My sneers but Mama rests a paw on her head to silence her and refills her teacup as a distraction.
“It’s not your fault dearest. You understand and accept him and that’s enough. Snufkin knows himself and his needs so I’m sure he’s just fine. If he needed to leave sooner he would have.”
“I’d hate for him to miss our plans for that sailing trip next week.” Moominpapa muses, “Though perhaps that was the whole idea. Take his days now so he can stand the confined space on the ship without difficulty.”
That does sound very much like Snufkin so Moomin perks up enough to finish his breakfast in peace and run outside to check on the abandoned campsite before the sun rises too high in the sky. The fire pit is completely extinguished and the log they often use as a bench is swept clean of the mess they’d made the day before when crumbling stale bread into bird feed. The pieces of wood Snufkin usually sets up to dry the fish he catches into jerky are dismantled and set in a neat pile.
The mumrik has never been a neat or clean sort, but few people realize that that doesn’t mean he’s not organized or efficient.
Moomin ducks behind the trees closest to where the tent would be if Snufkin were set up at that moment and wilts at the empty space at the base of one of the trees. As a general rule, his best friend only owns the essentials, but if the trip is short enough sometimes even that is nonessential. He’ll leave behind the cooking pot, or the plate or the pillow and bedroll. On occasion even the tent. And when he does so he’ll always be back in a day or two. But with nothing in the usual place of temporary storage so Snufkin doesn’t have to carry it, the absence is sure to persist for at least three days, perhaps even a whole week.
You still sleep every night in the Spring, Summer, and Fall. This is like that. Snufkin had explained once, long ago. You sleep all winter long but you still need more at other times. I may travel all winter long, may have my own space, but I still need a little more in between stretches. To tide me over.
For Snufkin, personal space is as necessary as breathing or breakfast. Without it, he’d run himself into the ground, miserable, antsy, and possibly unwell. If a few days without Snufkin every few weeks means Moomin gets to spend time with him for the remaining warm moments, three seasons out of four, well, he’ll take that compromise.
The day is in that difficult part of the evening when dusk is just starting to fall across the land but night still seems very far off. Shadows are longer and more solid while the edges of everything start to blur into the background without anyone being the wiser. It’s only noticeable in contrast.
Snufkin, whose night eyes keep those edges sharp and clear and prevent any kind of surprises from bothering him in this time when most creatures are so vulnerable, limps along the trail, heavily favoring his left leg and determined to keep Moominhouse at his back. It’s not just embarrassment that keeps him pushing forward. He sighs as he remembers how, just that morning he’d been packing up some things to take a day away from the excitement Moominhouse always hosted. Yet when Moomin had run up to him, bouncing on his toes with an eager invitation on his tongue, what did he do?
“You silly Snufkin,” he scolded under his breath. “You must think these things through!”
Snufkin had been pushing boundaries as of late, annoyed with himself for needing the space that he did. Trips into the woods were, of course, enjoyable. They refreshed him, helped him pay attention to the world as a greater being. But where in the past he had longed for these things because they made him tick, he now had to make time for them outside of the outings he planned with his friends. No matter what he wanted, trips for time to himself were what he needed. The fact that the two interests didn’t always line up was still a novel idea for Snufkin.
And so he’d been stretching himself thin chasing Wants while Needs beckoned. Here again, he was caught at the crux of it, and his will had bowed before Moomin’s plea. Still, he’d made his fair warning.
“If I have to leave early you’ll let me, won’t you, Moomin?”
“Of course Snufkin! Are you ready for a trip?”
“I think so. But a picnic sounds nice indeed.”
“It’ll be a send-off picnic then!” Moomin had decided and held out his paw for Snufkin to take. “We were going to go out by Jansson Meadows but you know all the best places so pick somewhere good for us!”
It had been a fun day. The weather was kind and the food delicious. Still, Snufkin was grateful when Little My announced her interest in a game of some kind and subsequently suggested hide and go seek.
Splitting off had been like taking off a wet coat once coming in from a rain storm. Snufkin could breathe easier, smile wider, and in general felt as though a weight had been removed from his shoulder. Sniff and My followed him into the forest as they all fled from Snorkmaiden who was counting by the picnic blanket where the Moominparents were enjoying another round of tea.
“Where are you going to hide Snufkin?” Sniff asked, panting. “You’ve always got good places.”
“Hey, what about mine?” My demanded.
“You’re the only one that can fit in yours!”
Snufkin chuckled to himself, not bothering to answer and looking up at the trees for a limb he could grab and a canopy that could hide him. Even with the pair of them bickering behind him he felt better here. If he shut his eyes and listened hard enough he could hear a new tune floating through the branches, waiting to be transposed into harmonica tabs. He hummed, letting his feet carry him forward until suddenly his boots lost their traction. His eyes flew open and he threw his hands out to catch himself but his weight shifted in his ankle and the pain flared out in a gasp of breath and frantic nerve endings. His knees thudded into the rocks and his elbows jammed up against tree roots. Stunned, he lay there, mind whirling with shock and pain.
“Haha,” My laughed and jumped over his outstretched leg. “Snorkmaiden will find you real quick if you hide there Snufkin.”
“Are you alright?” Sniff asked, tentative.
No stranger to trail injuries, Snufkin knew his ankle was sprained and that he’d gotten some nasty scrapes. He felt foolish and frustrated and he knew already that he’d be best off resting but he couldn’t possibly. The itch in the back of his mind insisted he stop socializing and return to the wilderness. It had gotten harder to ignore since that morning and now? It would be unbearable if he didn’t start acting.
“I’m fine.” He got to his feet and brushed off his coat, very carefully not looking at the damage. My, however, turned back around to fix him with a scrutinizing look. “Fine.” He repeated. “But now that I think of it, I‘d best be going.”
“What about the game?” Sniff asked, askance.
“You’ve still got plenty of players.” He said. “I’m going to head back and get my bag.”
“You should ask Moominmama if she’s got anything for those scrapes.” My suggested, voice stiff with insistence. “Maybe she’ll even walk you back to your tent.”
“I’m not going to my tent.” He said over his shoulder, grabbing onto a tree and pushing himself through the first couple of steps, relying on the heavy sole and stiff neck of his boot to keep his ankle operable for just a little longer.
Right then he didn't absolutely need to be by himself or around something new, but in a day or two he would. If he went back to Moominhouse for a handful of bandaids and wrap to stabilize his ankle there was no chance he'd be leaving without a full splint, probably a collection of ointments and soothing teas, and probably a very clingy and concerned Moomintroll.
If Moomin tried to keep him at the house while Snufkin was itching out of his own skin, regardless of good intentions, no one would be happy. It was better to keep moving forward.
“Snufkin!” Moominpappa greeted him when he’d come back to the picnic blanket to collect his things. “You’ve been found early on, haven’t you, my boy?”
“Actually, I decided not to play.” He said and gritted his teeth before shouldering his pack. It wasn’t too heavy since it only had the essentials, but his own body weight was more than his ankle wanted to hold. “I’m off for a little time to myself. Enjoy the rest of the picnic.” His whole body lit up in complaint but he managed a smile and nod to the Moominparents.
“Hold on a moment, Snufkin dear,” Moominmamma asked and he stopped, turning back to meet her gaze. “Your pants have a hole.” She pointed and he looked down. Sure enough, there was a new hole in his pant leg. A few, actually but only one that was very noticeable. Luckily, the scrapes he could already feel stinging didn’t show through it. “When you get back, remind me to fix it for you.”
“Thank you, Moominmamma.” He nodded to her and she smiled.
And then he was off. Now he’s been hiking for hours, stubbornly refusing to stop moving.
He doesn’t even think about stopping and preparing a meal. As dusk edges onward into night, his legs are aching with fatigue and his stomach begins to cramp with want. The vague buzz of discomfort emanates from the scrapes and bruises. It isn’t until the moon tips over from its peak and spills into descent that he tugs his weary feet from their steady cadence and into a clearing just off the trail. The sky is clear and his limbs uncooperative so the only effort he makes towards setting up a camp is to lay his sleeping mat down for the barest inch of cushion. The stars glimmer far overhead, only just visible through the canopy, and Snufkin feels he is in good company—perhaps not better than what Moominhouse provided, but what he needs just now. He feels accomplished at last, as though he’s struck a balance.
Now, all there is to do is let his ankle and knee heal a touch before heading back to Moominhouse. Sleep would be just the thing.
Except when he closes his eyes sleep doesn’t come. He waits and his whole body aches persistently the entire time. Even after he’s drifted off it is light and non-committal. Fitful. In the morning, when the birds and ambient forest noises and rising sun become too much to ignore, he feels as though nothing has changed.
He shoulders his pack and limps on in search of a stream. He needs water to refill his canteen and something to rinse away the mud streaks and to cleanse under scrapes already scabbed.
The water tugs at the dirt and he rubs till the tender scabs fall away to let the flow reach the dirt that had been streaked across his limbs from the fall. The mud dissolves but his skin remains multicolored, blue and purple and edging toward yellow in some places.
It is clear that going back to Moominhouse like this isn’t an option. The bruises alone would make Moomin’s face twist into something Snufkin would much rather not be responsible for. And with the threat of prolonged care and attention? No. Much better to wait for them to heal a little more before going back and letting the family fuss. Another day and he’d be able to stand it.
Except he aches as he sets up his camp, and he aches as he sits down to rest. The swelling doesn’t go down as much as he’d like and night comes and goes but he’s still tired.
The colored bruises fade back into tan or dark shadows that look like he missed a spot scrubbing when he last washed. He fingers the hole in his pants and thinks about Moominmama’s needle and thread stitching it back up and setting it right. Thinks about Moomin’s soft paws holding his and soothing the sting in his palms.
Snufkin doesn’t want to spend days or even hours on bedrest back at Moominhouse… But he does want to be there. He wants to be somewhere comfortable and, more importantly, among people that can keep him company and distract him from his frustrations. He’s had his time away, though it had been less rejuvenating than he’d hoped, it’s time to go back. It’s time to go home.
It’s a long walk.
When the blue tower peeks out from behind the trees and Snufkin rounds that final corner he almost wants to drop his pack and sit down with it. He’s close enough, isn’t he? The other part of him whispers to turn back just half a mile so he’s out of the way and give his injuries more time to fade. But his ankle throbs and his palms sting and something assures him that this is the right course of action.
“Snufkin!” He hobbles out a half-turn and sees Moomin and Snorkmaiden coming down the walk behind him. Their arms are laden with flowers and Snufkin’s thoughts flit briefly to how nice it would have been to sit in a sunny flower field with the two of them for quiet company. Moomin’s face shifts from excited surprise to earnest concern and he picks up the pace, petals dropping from his arms as he rushes closer—and Snorkmaiden is barely a half step behind him. The warmth from the thought dissolves too quickly, like a sugar wafer on his tongue, and Snufkin misses it at once. “Are you okay Snufkin? What happened?”
“Nothing to be so concerned about,” He dismisses. “I tripped while…” playing hide and seek and then I ran away. “... hiking and didn’t quite realize the severity of it.”
“The severity of it?” Moomin repeats, incredulous, as he ducks under Snufkin’s arm to take some of his weight and bends to peer at the mud-crusted hole in Snufkin’s threadbare and already muddy trousers. “Snufkin!”
“Oh dear,” Snorkmaiden appears on his other side, fiddling with the buckles of his backpack straps. He blinks at her, a touch surprised that Moomin had swallowed so much of his attention that he didn’t notice how close she’d come. “You look like you’d do well with some of Moominmama’s remedies. Here, let me carry this.”
Abandoned flower blooms drift and sway in the summer breeze as Snorkmaiden pulls his pack from his shoulders and Moomin more or less pulls Snufkin onto his. He’s still moving his feet along the path, but Moomin has all the weight, controls all the direction, and chatters enough for them both as they move down the hill, across the bridge, and up the path right to the front door of Moominhouse. Snufkin is quite certain he has all his wits about him but still feels as though he’s blinked and missed a development as the whirlwind continues around him. He’s passed into Moominmama’s capable paws and before he knows it is resting in the big armchair in the living room with his worse-off leg propped up on a mismatched ottoman. Not only is he already relieved of his hat but there is a cup and saucer of tea in his slightly shaking hands.
He frowns at them until they still and then takes a sip as Moomin frets beside him.
The tea is soft and warm, in his mouth, in his throat, in his stomach. Moominmama makes a pointed comment about the apparent age of the injuries (it’s a pity, this infection looks like it’s been festering for a day or two) but never says that he should have come back and Moomin dictates a few of the adventures they’d had in his absence (you will have to come see the tree we found, Snufkin, I’ve never seen so many mushrooms growing on one! I bet you can tell us what kinds they all are) but never says he should have been there. Snorkmaiden returns with an armful of slightly ruffled and dusty flower blooms and dumps them into his lap. He fiddles with them and begins braiding the stems together before he even registers that she must have gone back to collect them for him.
“Thank you.” He says and they all smile like it’s no trouble in the slightest. Like they aren’t all disproportionately worried for him over such slight scrapes and swellings.
As though they’re not all wishing to have whisked him away days ago when he wasn’t ready to be cared for. Now, when he is, they are ready with their kind words and gentle touches and he lets it sweep him away.
One moment Moomin glances at the window and Snufkin is there. Head tilted as he leans against the window frame and watches the room’s occupants. His eyes crinkle a little with the edge of a smile when he catches Moomin’s eyes on him. The next time he checks, perhaps a little more than a minute later, the space is empty and Moomin’s voice stutters to a stop as he contemplates the weight of an absence.
Had his friend been frowning? Clutching his arms? Glancing away from all of them or just staring blankly in that way that meant he was longing for a little quiet and withdrawing into himself?
He hadn’t, Moomin is certain. He had smiled. Everyone is somewhat confused at his sudden pause until he gestures vaguely at the empty window and starts for the door.
“Oh, did Snufkin leave?” He hears Snorkmaiden exclaim—just before he throws the door open and dashes down the front steps—as everyone turns to look at where the Mumrik had been. He wants to shout: Yes! He’s gone again! He didn’t say a thing, never does, just disappears like a day or two isn’t reason enough to say goodbye.
And of course it is. An hour or two is enough for Moomin to wish dearly to grasp his best friend’s hands in his paws and give him a short but earnest farewell and ‘safe travels’ because this is Snufkin and he gets into trouble with and without meaning to and thinks himself very capable until he’s not and can go quite far and do quite a lot in the time Moomin isn’t around to watch his back.
He may go wherever he likes whenever he pleases. Moomin wouldn’t dream of stopping him, at least not anymore, but he’d like a moment to do this much.
Snufkin is already more than halfway through packing up his campsite when Moomin staggers to a stop by the still lightly smoking fire pit. The Mumrik hardly pauses in sliding the fabric of his tent free from the poles that keep it upright and Moomin watches it deflate like an irritated souffle while he catches his breath.
“You’re leaving.” He says and despite his best efforts it sounds accusatory.
“Just for a few days, I think,” Snufkin explains without batting an eye. “It’s been bugging me for a while. You already saw that I’d been relegated to the windowsill.”
“We could have pulled a chair out for you if you didn’t want to stand back there!”
“I relegated myself, Moomintroll.” The tip of the smile is there in his voice, fond and placating. It’s hard to be frustrated with him when he’s like this.
“Usually you leave at night.” Moomin huffs, ignoring the twitch to his tail when Snufkin uses his full name. It doesn’t mean anything. Snufkin just likes to use the longer one sometimes. And Moomin certainly doesn’t mind but that doesn’t mean he likes it or anything either. “You have to leave right now? Not later in the day? Or tomorrow morning? I think it’s supposed to rain.”
It really is supposed to rain but not very hard. Definitely not hard enough to keep a seasoned traveler like Snufkin off the trail.
“I’ve really got to be going right now,” Snufkin confirms and folds the tent canvas into the top of his pack. “I’ve nothing against traveling at night, or in the rain for that matter, and I need a different place to sleep tonight. And some different conversations or at least a few new voices. Please excuse my rudeness, Moomin. I have nothing against yours, of course, just.” He's turned his back in the course of his packing and Moomin can see the tension in his shoulders as they bunch up and then loosen as he sighs. With careful movements, he rearranges the way things are settled inside the pack, focusing on his task while he speaks. “Everything has become too simple and familiar. I’ve seen your living room from every angle three times each. We’ve discussed Moominpapa’s most daring adventures and picked the same berry patch and I’ve gone to sleep with the very same view before I close the tent flap each night and if I do any of it once more I just might explode.”
Silence settles between them. Not uncomfortable or cloying, though certainly a little hotter to the touch than what they usually support in these sorts of lulls. Still, it is not uncommon or unwelcome in the way most find silence. Truly, Moomin is grateful. He isn’t sure what to say yet and if there was a rush to get rid of the silence he might say something foolish.
“Do you understand, Moomin?” Snufkin finishes because he hadn’t been done before. He’s just been choosing his words. Trying not to get tangled in them.
“No,” Moomin says, trying to be honest and accepting at the same time when he really can’t fathom how his living room can become a tiresome sight to Snufkin when Moomin’s seen it almost every day of his life without issue. (It’s a rather nice living room. Every angle is nice.) “But I get that you’ve got to go regardless. Now, I suppose. Just, if you must leave in the middle like this let us know! You already disappear overnight, if you’re going to be gone between one moment and the next and I’m right there watching give me a chance to wish you well. Please.”
At this (at last) Snufkin’s face shifts into a gentle smile. He turns his back to the pack and hefts the whole load, his entire campsite, onto his back. He looks at Moomin properly with his fingers wrapped around the straps of the backpack and the brim of his hat tipped just high enough that Moomin can meet his eyes.
“What else would you call this, dear Moomintroll?”
There’s not even a second of silence before Moomin is across the few feet between them and hugging his friend tight enough that he’ll be able to feel the pressure for days.
(And that truly is something Snufkin could never get tired of).
The Joxter pulls to a stop right at the edge of Snufkin's campsite, or rather where Snufkin's campsite should be. It is not there, and Joxter tilts his head, as though a different angle will allow reality to warp back into its proper shape.
That is reality, after all. His son can be found here at this spot, just across the river from Moominhouse, any time in the Spring, Summer, or Fall—or at least his camp can be while he spends the day out with his friends.
But the space, while well-used and only recently abandoned, is not occupied by any sort of Snufkin, nor Snufkin camp. It's strangely jarring.
Joxter is used to being the flexible and unpredictable part of his own life, while other figures, such as Moominhouse, such as the march of the seasons, such as his Mymble's smile, remain still and solid. Snufkin could have been predictably unpredictable in the same way Joxter himself was, but he'd found a schedule and was therefore subject to the Joxter's expectations.
Expectations which were being disappointed.
He turns on his heel and pads his way across the bridge and up the hill, wondering idly if there's been a fight or a trip or a treasure or a loss, but finds his feet shifting course before he even notices young Moomin stretched beneath a tree in the field behind the house.
"Hullo," he calls, and the troll starts, lifting his head to watch his approach and scrambling to his feet when he sees who it is. He looks poised for a pleasant greeting, perhaps some idle chit-chat, but Joxter rarely finds himself moving with a purpose and when he does he prefers to meet it so he can go back to drifting like a seed in the wind. Much more restful that way. "How is it that Snufkin is out of the valley this time of year?"
Moomin cuts off his own greeting at the interruption and glances toward the abandoned campsite—though he can't see it from this spot. He doesn't look concerned or surprised, though perhaps a bit bemused.
"I don't think he is out of the valley," Moomin explains. "It was only a two-day hiking trip to keep his wits about him. He even took Little My with him. Once she promised that she'd leave him alone if he asked, anyhow."
"Hiking trip?" He repeats. "Why aren't you along with him?"
"Oh, well, Little My is one thing, she's liable to go off on her own anyway, looking for trouble," Moomin explains. "But if I went, Snufkin would feel like he had to spend time with me, and I wouldn't tell him no because I love spending time with him, and then we'd be back where we started because Snufkin is looking for a breather."
"I thought the only time he left aside for trips with you Moomins was for winter." Joxter frowns, confused. "Why would he need to get away from you all if he likes you enough to spend three-quarters of the year with you."
"It's not a full three-quarters. More like five-eighths, really. He's like you, Joxter. He can't stay in one place for too long."
"He's not like me," Joxter argues immediately. "I only come to the valley when the urge strikes me, sometimes once a year, sometimes for a whole month, sometimes not at all. Snufkin doesn't have to move as I do, or he wouldn't spend so much time in the same place with the same people."
Moomin bristles. Not the same way that a Joxter or Snufkin does, but gently—and a bristle all the same.
"Snufkin doesn't have to be constantly moving to need space to himself. You need to spend time with people too, on occasion. If he needs more than you it doesn't mean he's not allowed to be without company except in winter."
Joxter opens his mouth to reply, something along the lines of how there are people like Joxter and there are people that aren't and people don't really fall between, but Moomin barrels over him with one more point.
"And even so, Snufkin is allowed to do whatever he likes! He needs space and time to himself and even though I don't understand it I respect it! Whether you understand it or not, you have to respect it too!"
Joxter is fairly certain that he could argue back and win but it seems like it'd take an awful lot of effort to get there and at once he decides to back off and let the matter deflate. He can toss a final remark over his shoulder as he leaves if he'd really like to still make his point. Until then—
"I only wanted to see him, Moomin." He folds his arms behind his head and leans back on his heels. "Can't a father want to spend time with his son from time to time?"
"He can." Moomin replies shortly. "Just like I can want to spend more time with my best friend. But you and I just have to wait until Snufkin is ready for us. Just like everyone else"
And that he supposes does make sense. It's an unwritten rule and if Moomin, who is genuinely closer to his son than Joxter himself, is subject to it then Joxter should probably consider himself lucky to be considered at all. If there are a thousand rules he would love to break, this is one he will at least hesitate before fracturing.
Understand him he may not, like all the other things Joxter has not bothered to understand all these years. But the penance for this particular crime is not one he is willing to pay.
Moominmmama taught him when he was very small to never go to sleep or say goodbye when he was angry. As a child, Moomin had found this tiresome. Anger was most easily quelled by time, and here time was something he could not have. He had to make his peace before he could go anywhere else!
But as with most things, Moominmmama was quite correct and Moomin built the habit into his life. The key was learning the difference between releasing anger and releasing an argument. A problem could go unresolved while tensions cooled, as long as any resentment was snipped off at the start.
“I’m telling you that it was a very foolish thing to do!”
“And I said I did it anyway, because I wanted to and because it was right!”
The wind is brisk and not helping matters as it ruffles Moomin’s fur and flaps Snufkin’s torn scarf around in the air between them. He hasn’t taken it off yet, which is driving Moomin crazy! He itches to pull it out of the way and make sure his friend is alright, but even when he’s angry with him, Moomin knows better than to touch Snufkin when he’s not in the mood.
If he had to guess, Snufkin won’t want to be touched for several days at least.
To be fair, Moomin wouldn’t want to be touched either if a Park Keeper had grabbed him like that. (Perhaps that wasn’t true. Moomin liked Snufkin hugs far too much to reject one ever.)
“You know I support you in your values, and I like to help you! But we could have always come back another time to tear down the last few signs. And we certainly should have stayed together!” Moomin tries once more. Snufkin stubbornly avoids eye contact and tugs the brim of his hat down, ostensibly to keep it from blowing free in the breeze.
“If we’d stayed together we both would have been caught.”
“I’d much rather that than just you, Snufkin! Don’t be foolish!”
“It wasn’t foolish!” Snufkin says just slightly louder than he says most things and the way he stills afterward tells Moomin just how much he means it. Snufkin doesn’t shout, but he feels just as loudly as the next person. He’s quicker to come to it these days than usual too; just as the cool fall weather quickens his steps when they walk together this time of year whets his anxiety. Moomin tries to take a breath and reign in his temper (which is just thinly veiled concern and a taste of frustration anyhow) but Snufkin turns away before he can get very far with it. “I need some space to myself, Moomin. I think I shall go on a walk.” And he’s gone before Moomin can come up with a way to make him stay.
“Snufkin!” he mutters irately under his breath. His friend is wonderful and incredible and one of Moomin’s favorite people, but he can still try Moomin’s patience!
What was he thinking? They had known it would have to be a quick break-in. The moon was too bright to go too far unnoticed into a raid on the park two towns over. So why had Snufkin insisted on doing more than they planned? And then telling Moomin to run on ahead and then waiting too long himself, letting the Park Keeper catch his scarf in their paw and pull too hard. And why wouldn’t Moomin turn right around and try to help? What else could he possibly do? And now it is as though Moomin is in the wrong! As though Snufkin isn’t being quite unreasonable and storming off into what will likely be a drab and chilly mid-autumn night...
Moomin stills at the thought. Slowly, he turns back to the woods where Snufkin had disappeared and stares, thinking hard on the dates and the weather predictions from the almanac that year and the way Snufkin had recently been staring at the skies and the snow that gathered and melted off the caps of the Lonely Mountains.
Snufkin wouldn’t leave, would he? He wouldn’t go on his winter trip, would he?
Surely not without a goodbye?
Moomin turns towards moominhouse and walks as fast as he can. Snufkin doesn’t have much of a headstart but he’s far faster than Moomin. Still, perhaps Moomin can catch him collecting his things from his camp and issue a proper apology before he gets too far off. Whether he’d really leave or not, the thought of it being possible has set such a scare in Moomin’s chest that he doesn’t have much anger left to fight his need to apologize. All he needs to do is get there and see if the campsite is gone. If it is, he can panic then, and if it isn’t then Snufkin really did just take a walk, like he said.
Moomin tugs his own scarf tighter around his neck and hurries along the forest path. He jumps over a stream and the water that splashes out of the stream bed and across his paws stings bitter cold through his fur. Moomin’s chest sinks further with every passing step.
He bursts out of the woods and into the meadow where moominhouse rises like a castle tower. He swivels immediately, looking right past the bridge and the house and the gardens to focus on—
Snufkin. Pacing back and forth in the packed dirt of his regular camp with three-quarters of his belongings strapped neatly onto his back.
Moomin stops in his tracks and when Snufkin looks up a second later, he does too. They stare at each other and Moomin feels very far from his friend even though he is only a few feet away.
“Good,” Snufkin says shortly, but his voice is tight. “I have to go but I didn’t want you to think… I wanted you to know I don’t really hold anything against you Moomin.”
“I know,” Moomin says on reflex because he does.
“I can’t have this conversation properly tonight, but I wanted you to know that much.” Snufkin hikes his bag higher up on his shoulders and nods once to himself. “I know you get especially sad this time of year and you shouldn’t have to worry needlessly for days because I was too impatient to at least settle things.”
“I feel the same way!” Moomin says hastily. “I was so worried about you worrying over what I thought the entire time you were gone. It wouldn’t be much of a break if you did that.” He hesitates and then admits, “I can’t talk about this properly yet either. I’m still really upset that you did that and I don’t understand why, but I can talk about it later as long as you know now that you’re my best friend and I always just want to help!”
Snufkin smiles. He seems tired and fidgety and if Moomin didn’t know before he knows now that Snufkin is in great need of some time to himself. Maybe it was the altercation with the park keeper. Maybe it’s just the season. Maybe he doesn’t need a reason, he just needs to say it is so. Either way, Moomin loves him too much to ever let him leave without saying how important he is.
“I feel the same way about you Moomin,” Snufkin tells him softly. “I really must be going, but you should never doubt that you are my best friend.”
Moomin waves as Snufkin turns back to the forest and heads out onto one of the paths he’s worn in for himself. As usual, there’s the dull thrum of sorrow to know he’s leaving, and the soft surety that he’ll be back eventually. Besides those is the wriggling concern over his rash behavior and the resulting hurt Moomin is sure remains, but that too is tempered by the reassurance they’d issued each other.
Space between two people is not a bad thing. Sometimes it is necessary. And being able to part on good terms is something of a specialty of theirs.
Still, Moomin takes a deep breath once Snufkin has disappeared fully into the green, and releases it slowly with a low groan of exhaustion. Emotions are taxing sometimes. He turns slowly towards Moominhouse and trudges up the walk, thinking longingly of a piece of bread with jam and a warm cup of tea to soothe his nerves and calm his lingering anxiety. Moominmama would know what to do with all these feelings, he was certain.
They weren’t bad feelings, not at all. But just like good and bad feelings, they needed to be tidied or Moomin would never be rid of them. Just like Snufkin and his walks. If he didn’t take them when he needed to, they didn’t just go away. The needs weren’t bad, they simply needed care.