Blood Runs Thicker than Water

       Who knew that returning home would be just the start of the hardest part? A week had passed, and Moomintroll was already worn to a frazzle. First, how had Mamma managed all this alone? And so well that neither he nor Pappa had ever guessed the weight she carried. He vowed then: when she visited (what a strange word—visited!), he’d thank her properly and help with everything. Learn to make pancakes, too. His first attempt hadn’t just been a lumpy mess, but a full-blown disaster involving fire and flood. At least the other valley dwellers pitched in. Fillyjonk descended with her mop as promised; Sniff, though his visits dwindled without Mamma’s baking, still offered help (politely declined, since everyone knew his paws were more hindrance than help). Stinky was another nuisance; he’d only come to pry information on Mamma’s whereabouts. Well, Moomintroll left him to Pappa’s care, assured that Pappa wouldn’t spill it because the older moomin seemed absolutely displeased that some shady dude fretted so much about his wife. Then, the Hemulen next door shared fish and joined Pappa for firewood trips. They’d need extra wood this winter, since the Dire Straits doctor strongly dissuaded Snufkin from proper hibernation (“Anything goes wrong—and you don’t wake up in the spring or ever!”). Naturally, Moomintroll had volunteered to stay awake with him. And without Snufkin (and Snorkmaiden), the Moomins might’ve starved. Snorkmaiden managed passable baking (Moomintroll lied brightly that it was nearly as good as Mamma’s), while Snufkin conjured soups and stews out of garden scraps and fish. Oh, Snufkin. Why was everything so complicated? Moomintroll knewhow his friend prized independence, space, freedom. He tried to give it. He did. But— He couldn’t not leap to help when Snufkin’s fingers grazed for a dropped cup, or when a crutch clattered to the floor (so that’s what he’d asked Pappa to make), or when he lingered too long on the damp veranda. How could Moomintroll not bring a blanket? Or wince when Snufkin’s bad leg bumped a table, his face vanishing under his hat brim to hide the pain. But what help could he really offer? A steadying paw? "Let me carry you?" Snufkin would refuse and glare up from under his hat. His flinches at Joxter’s name were even worse. Pappa, blind in his self-chastising trips, would evoke it too often. At that first night, Moomintroll had barely kept from snapping that Pappa’s true fault was dallying on the way to the King’s Island—or the Adventure could’ve caught up with Snufkin’s boat, they’d meet earlier and… probably, they’d escape all together, stealing Hodgkins’ airplane, and Snufkin would’ve still believed that Joxter was a decent person, and got betrayed some time else, in winter, in a far southern land, too far away from the sleeping moomins… No, it was definitely a good idea not to blame Pappa, but still, for the first time Moomintroll didn’t want to take after him. All his life he had been looking up to Pappa, while Mamma was… she was just a perfect Mamma. Now he wanted to be more like her. Wise, skillful, perceptive. Adept at steering conversations away from fathers—or mumriks—or that other subject. It had taken Snorkmaiden pointing it out on their very first day back for everything to click into place. Why it hurt so much to watch Snufkin leave each autumn, why Moomintroll’s heart leapt at the first distant notes of a harmonica in spring, why he longed to tuck Snufkin’s hand in his, or better yet, sweep him right off his feet—and move mountains for him. It was obvious now. That didn’t make it any easier. Because freedom and personal space, of course. Because Moomintroll remembered too well how Snufkin had confessed haltingly, gaze averted, to missing him during that winter trip to the Lonely Mountains. Because he’d seen the panic in Snufkin’s eyes over the seashell flowerbed, when Moomin had nearly blurted out the truth and had had to hastily reinterpret Mamma’s gesture. He didn’t want to burden Snufkin with his babbling, uncouth feels. This second-guessing every word and gesture was exhausting. Sooner or later, Moomintroll would slip up. He wasn’t Moominmamma, after all. No wonder, then, that one rainy evening, when Moomintroll couldn’t resist checking if Snufkin, stranded at the veranda as usually, needed a blanket or if the damp had worsened his leg, Snufkin heaved a sigh and gestured for him to sit in the wicker lounger. Moomintroll obeyed. Snufkin—oh, for goodness’ sake—had somehow hoisted himself onto the veranda railing, crutches propped aside. The sight sent Moomintroll’s paws twitching with the urge to yank him down to safety. Dusk had settled, the lantern by the door painting sparks of gold along the rain dashes. Snufkin’s hat cast his face in shadow, leaving only the twitch of a grass stem between his teeth. A new habit, one Moomintroll had come to recognise as a substitute for smoking. "Please," Snufkin said at last, voice nearly lost beneath the rain’s hush. "Stop fussing over me so much." "I’m trying," Moomintroll admitted. Then, because he couldn’t help himself: "But you never say what you need. Or when you’re hurting." There, he’d done it again. Pushed too hard. A pause. Then, Snufkin muttered, oddly flat: "What’s the point? It always hurts. And will for a long time yet. And it’s normal." The dratted hat and darkness made it impossible to tell if he was just serious or seriously irritated. "I just… don’t want to remember this time as nothing but pain and inconvenience. Let’s fill it with something else. What would we be doing in an ordinary autumn? Fishing? Nut-gathering? Beachcombing after storms?" A wry tilt of the stem. "Not that I’m shirking chores. But it’d be easier if you just… acted like always." "Alright," Moomintroll mumbled, properly chasticed. So, he was right about not dumping all his stupid love on Snufkin. That would definitely fall into the inconvenience category. "I’ll try." "And the same goes for Joxter," Snufkin continued, his voice steadier now. "Yes, it still hurts. But I must live through it, and I don't need shielding from every mention of him. Say what you want. I might even learn something useful. Take Little My. Blunt as a brick, but she's got a point sometimes... Oh. Sorry. Didn't mean that as a dig at you." A small hand ruffled the fur between Moomintroll's ears, startling him. Snufkin turned fully toward him at last, his hat tipping back to reveal a sheepish smile. Moomintroll couldn't look away. "That was me... trying," Snufkin muttered. "Speaking up when I need something. Like you said I should. Not very good at it yet. Don't want to be a bother." "You're never a bother!" Moomintroll scooted the lounger closer, desperate to make him understand. "I like helping you. I know you could manage alone, but—but I really enjoy fetching you a mug or offering a paw." Snufkin fell silent, gaze drifting to the rain again. Moomintroll fumbled for normalcy. "We usually play cards on rainy evenings," he offered, hopeful to lure the mumrik indoors. "Hm." Snufkin stared into the glistening dark. "I want to stay just a bit longer out here. And..." He pulled out his harmonica, listened to some silent tune in his head, then played a new song. It started melancholic, then swelled into such pompous grandeur it tipped into absurdity. "What's it called?" Moomintroll asked when the last note faded. Snufkin lowered the harmonica with theatrical gravity. "'The Half-Rotten Potato That Got Tossed in the Compost but Sprouted and Took Over the Entire Heap.'" Moomintroll snorted, and in a second they were both laughing, shoulders shaking, until tears pricked Moomintroll's eyes. When he wiped them away, he found Snufkin had gone still again, grip tight on the railing, face hidden under his hat. Biting back a "Does it hurt?", Moomintroll managed: "Home, then?" "Mm." Snufkin didn't look up. "And... help me down?" Moomintroll nearly levitated. He schooled his face into something less ecstatic as he scooped Snufkin up bridal-style, now a practiced motion, and tried not to beam when Snufkin's arms looped automatically around his neck, even after the startled "Oof!" "Straight to the sofa? I don't mind! We Moomin-trolls are strong, you know. Pappa can still carry Mamma from the beach in his arms all the way home. Hell, even Mamma can catch Pappa mid-air from a somersault—" *** Snufkin made a curious discovery: other creatures’ breathing didn’t bother him that much. Not when he’d spent the day outdoors with Moomintroll, minding the garden or combing the beach or sky-watching under the already skeletal trees of the grove. And it wasn’t as if Moomintroll slept in the parlour every night—only sometimes, complaining insomnia, and then Snufkin would share his herbal tea. Some mornings, he’d simply find a mattress at the foot of the sofa, a hump of blankets, and the tufted tip of a white tail poking out. And Little My never made a sound in the teapot while sleeping. Then there was the brandy, just a finger at the bottom of the glass, which turned out to be an excellent sleep aid. Moominpappa had unearthed it from his private stash, declaring "Just this once!" to celebrate the long-awaited day the splint could come off. (The only occasion, that had ever compelled Snufkin to mark a calendar. Whole damn three weeks.) The hardest part had been shooing away the moomins, who had hovered around, too eager to help. Little My solved that with her teeth to their tails. Getting rid of her, of course, was impossible. But that was fine. She wouldn’t fuss or faint, and helped snip the stitches. The scar was unremarkable: a lurid bullet hole, edges puckered from the burn, bisected by the surgeon’s neat slice. He still couldn’t lift his foot properly, but his toes wriggled on command. At last, he could wear his other boot (thank Moominmamma for not losing it on that wretched island) and hobble through the garden alone on crutches. Doc’s orders still forbade putting full weight on it, and Snufkin intended to obey. And, at night, he could curl up properly on the sofa. Which was why he woke abruptly hours later, a careless twist sending a bolt of pain up his leg. He lay still, listening past the wall clock’s ticking and the wind in the bare branches outside, praying he hadn’t disturbed Moomintr— A whimper. Moomintroll’s breathing had quickened into uneven hitches, then quiet, distressed whines. Snufkin propped himself up on one elbow, peering into the dark. The troll was curled on his mattress, twitching under the blanket, trapped in some unpleasant dream. Poor thing. Probably missing his mother. Then Moomintroll jerked violently, paws flailing under the covers, and moaned, muffled but unmistakable— "Snufkin..." Snufkin hesitated for a moment, then reached out to pat on the quilt bump on the floor. Little My had dragged him out of nightmares, so why should he leave his friend alone? Moomintroll jolted upright with a gasp. "It's alright," Snufkin murmured, hand lingering. "It’s only a dream." Moomintroll clutched his wrist blindly. "What? Oh—sorry I woke you, I'll go back upstairs—" His whisper trembled. Despite his words, he didn’t move, shoulders shaking in the gloom. "Tell me what frightened you," Snufkin urged, hauling himself to lean over the sofa’s armrest. "Say it, and it’ll lose its power." "I—" A wet sniffle. "I want you to feel free. To come and go as you please. But I don’t think I can bear it now!" He thunked his forehead against the sofa edge, voice cracking. "Before, when you left in winter, I’d worry, but it was like a storybook worry to me. Hazy. Imaginary. But now I’ve seen what you face out there, and… I’ll go crazy with fear, right after you disappear behind a road turn. I know you want to return, but what if—what if next time you just don’t make it? Today, seeing you walk away in the garden, it scared me so much!" Snufkin’s stomach lurched. Idiot. So wrapped in his own struggles, he had missed Moomintroll’s quiet terror. "Oh, forget I said anything," Moomintroll babbled, trying to stand. "Must be the brandy. By morning I’ll forget it and calm down—" Snufkin yanked him back, nearly toppling, and wrapped both arms around Moomintroll’s neck, burying his nose in that fluffed crown. "It’s not so bad, really. Most of my scrapes are really just adventures. This time was..." He lost all safe and unobliging words, hit by a memory of a glimpse of the sky he had deemed his last one. "But you—" Another hiccup. " It’s not just this time. I—I’ve seen your scars. You never told me about any of those.” For a heartbeat, Snufkin thought Moomintroll meant the fresh bullet trace—but plural? Oh. He flinched back. Was Moomintroll present in the Dire Straits infirmary? This was exactly why he never undressed around his friend. The nomadic life left its marks, and he had carefully curated his travel stories, softened edges, omitted dangers precisely so that Moomintroll wouldn't dread his departures. "I only tell what matters.” He said at last. "The colour of sunsets. Bird calls. Pebble-gleam and fog-tongues. Not... skin-deep things." Moomintroll didn't relax. Instead, he seized Snufkin's hand in both paws, clinging like he already feared letting go. Snufkin couldn't promise to stay forever. Not honestly. Right now, Moominvalley felt vast as the sky after prison walls. But in a year? Still... The fear in Moomintroll's silence was unbearable. "Or..." The words left him before he could reconsider. "We could go south together next winter." Moomintroll went still. "Really? Are you sure?" "Well." Snufkin wasn't sure at all. "We could trial it this summer on short trips. To find ways to survive each other. I’ll need solitude sometimes, but we’ll work out signals." Moomintroll's ears shot upright. "Yes! Or—or maybe I'll be braver by then. Like my great-grandmother who let Selkie go, even after finding him half-dead. If she could, then I..." "You're every bit as strong," Snufkin agreed. "Now sleep. Stay here, you're not a bother." Moomintroll fumbled with hauling his mattress to the sofa’s front. Without night sight, his tail and rear were bumping into the chairs and table. Snufkin lay back, stifling a hiss, then hesitantly slid a hand from under the blanket, meaning to offer comfort. Instead, a velvety snout pressed into his palm. It felt nice and easy to curl fingers over the thick fur. Judging by the quiet breath warming his fingers, the comfort was mutual. The faintest click of a teapot lid settling shut came from the table.