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Spring in Moominvalley is a joyous affair. There are reunions, old friends brought together by the changing of seasons at last. Buds of May bloom with all their might, swaying in a wind that whispers gentle promises of lush rolling hills and ever flowing streams. They fly kites in the day, careful to not let mischievous little fingers tangle their strings as they are want to do. On cool nights they take walks lit only by the guiding light of the moon. And if their hands brush softly in the shadows perhaps a few more times than they should, there is no one there to tell otherwise.
Summer is much the same, yet different altogether. The days are hotter, spent with feet dipped in wading ponds and napping bodies laid out in the shades of oak trees. The beach becomes their favorite haunt, hours spent amongst the crashing waves, the blazing sand, the sharp cry of gulls. Nights are still spent with walks through the forests, but now they take jars with them to capture some of the fireflies that dance silently through the air. They don’t keep them for long, just a few seconds so that they can better appreciate their glow before releasing them into the night. After all, one teases, nature is not a thing to be kept.
Autumn comes, and brings with it the sort of bitter sweetness only it can. For there are leaves to be piled and jumped into, acorns to gather and roast over the small flame of a flickering campfire, and chilly nights to spend together in a tent over a thermos of something hot and the promise of a good story. The air is crisp and smells of apples and cider, and there is every reason to be content with the world. But beneath it all, there is something that lies in a pit in their stomachs. It grows with each leaf that falls, though they do their best to ignore it.
And so Winter comes. And unlike many others, they do not celebrate the first few flakes of snow to fall from that oh so gray sky, the sun gone as if to say it too knows what must come next and mourns the loss. The cold comes in full force, and for the few days they have left they are spent together, under a quilt that protects them from more than just the chill. But these days do not last long. For in the winter the Moomins must sleep. And as they sleep, Snufkin must go.
They find it gets just a bit more difficult to say goodbye every year, though Snufkin says it makes the return all the more welcoming. Moomin laughs at this, knows that when Spring comes he will awake with a bound in his step as he waits for his friend to come home. In the first few years, they kept their goodbyes simple, as if tomorrow would be another day spent together. Now, they take longer. Their hands, no longer shy, find each other and hold on tight.
“Where do you think you shall go?” Moomin asks the question every year. He likes to know what his friend has in mind for his travels, even if his answers can be quite vague.
“I’m not sure. Perhaps somewhere North. Or perhaps wherever my feet take me.” Snufkin looks up to the sky, squinting against the few flakes that drift down as he does.
Moomin nods in understanding. “I should hope they take you somewhere nice, then.”
Snufkin laughs at this, smiles warm and full at his friend seated beside him as he does his best to ignore the stutter in his heart. They settle into a comfortable silence, the only sound the faint creaking of the porch steps which they sit upon. The others are inside the house, already asleep, having said their goodbyes days ago. It’s Moomin who always sees Snufkin off on his last day.
“They always do, in the Spring.”
Moomin clutches his hand just a little tighter. A blush emerges from beneath his white fur. Snufkin delights in the shade of peach it causes his friend to turn.
“Well, that- that’s quite nice, for you to… to say that,” Moomin stutters, caught between the pleasure of hearing such a thing and the horror of how quickly the air had been sucked from his lungs at it.
“It’s true. In all my travels, there has never been a place I am more happy to see. I don’t think I could stay away if I tried.”
There’s something to those words that gives Moomin a pause. His friend’s tone has shifted into something not quite contemplative or wondering but- something.
“I would say so. The fields are quite beautiful in the Spring, after all.” Moomin offers the words carefully, though unsure as to why.
Snufkin smiles, a nervous sort of thing. “Well yes, that is true,” he concedes, “but I don’t quite think that’s the reason why.”
Moomin keeps going. “Ah. The summer, then? I know how fond you are of the Ocean, Snufkin.”
“I’m fond of many things, Moomin, that is true. But it’s not quite that, either.”
His friend is leading him on, purposefully or not. There is something to the way he speaks, as if he guards a secret he no longer wishes to carry that urges Moomin to press forward.
“Well, I would say it was something to do with Autumn if you hadn’t once told me of your distaste for it.”
Snufkin catches the way his friend smirks as he says this and turns to chastise him with a suffering look. “I complained only once about those squirrels hoarding their acorns in my tent, and you know it.”
“Of course, of course. My mistake,” Moomin apologizes, but the mirth in his eyes is anything but sorry. Snufkin huffs, his breath coming out in a puff against the winter air. Another reminder of the time and what must come with it.
“Snufkin?”
He glances at his friend. The troll looks worried, something clearly weighing on his mind that has suddenly come to light.
“Do you really not come for any of the things I said? The bonfires, the flowers, the forest? Any of it?”
Snufkin finds it a little hard to breathe all of a sudden. How close the troll is, though he may not know it, to the truth. He’s not quite sure if he’d rather lead him away from or towards it. He supposes now is as good time as ever to find out.
“No, I can’t say that I do. I don’t have much that brings me back here, in that sense. Just one thing, really.” He replies in that nonchalant tone that Moomin can never seem to decipher, but hopes his words speak for themselves.
They do quite the opposite, actually.
“Oh. I see.” The words are small and scared, a mouse who has come out of his hole only to be greeted by the smile of a cat.
Snufkin yearns for Moomin’s paw the moment it leaves his.
“Moomin? Moomin, wait!”
The troll has taken a few steps off from the porch, arms clenching his middle as if in pain. His shoulders hunch against the sudden introduction of snow to his fur, tail flicking in distaste. But still, he ignores Snufkin’s call.
Well, that simply won’t do.
He approaches cautiously, unsure of what has happened, how his friend could go from content and curious to- angry? Sad? It’s hard to tell exactly, but it makes Snufkin’s own hidden tail curl in discomfort. He’s not sure what has caused Moomin to be so upset, but he’ll be damned if he lets it ruin their last day together.
“Moomin, what’s-”
The words die in his throat as his friend turns, revealing the tears that threaten to spill from clear blue eyes. A small hiccup escapes the troll, a sound that wrenches Snufkin’s heart as he stops with his arms outstretched.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” Moomin sniffs, “It must be this rubbish weather.”
“Moomin.” And to hear his name said, sweetly as if a song, it’s enough for him to take Snufkin’s outstretched hand.
“What is it I said to trouble you? Tell me, so that I may apologize.” He’s never been one to beg, but in this moment he thinks he might at the sight of his Moomin so out of sorts.
“No! No, it wasn’t anything you said. “Moomin sighs wearily. He shakes his head, as if ashamed. “It’s me. I just- I feel guilty.”
The confession leaves Snufkin even more confused.
“Guilty? Of what?” He questions, desperate to understand.
“Of- of this! Of making you feel bad, of being so upset when you leave,” Moomin averts his gaze as he continues, “Of trying to keep you when you don’t want to be kept.”
Though he’s glad his lecture on not trying to keep creatures of nature as pets seems to have stuck with his friend, he’s not sure that he particularly likes the form it’s taken. Snufkin tries to say as much, as he attempts to take control of this rapidly shifting situation.
“But Moomin, why would you ever think that?”
“Because why else would you come back? If you don’t come back for any of the beautiful things we have here when the seasons change, then it has to be something else. And I’d say you were coming back to see all of your friends, but I know that you don’t like loads of people around you. So that just leaves me, always begging you to come back.” He pauses, eyes clenched shut and head low before he delivers the final blow. “But never asking if you really wanted to in the first place.”
It floors Snufkin, how wrong Moomin could be when he was still so right.
“Moomin… that’s not it at all.”
Moomin doesn’t lift his head, but he does perk an ear in response.
“I do love all the beautiful things in Moominvalley. And I love seeing all of our friends as well. But I always come back for you. Not because,” and here he finds himself tilting Moomin’s chin up gently with his free hand, “I feel obligated to do so. My feet find their way not to Moomin Valley, but to you, my dear. I come back, always, because I love you. ”
The words are hardly out of his mouth before he’s engulfed in a flurry of white fur peppering him with soft kisses. He laughs, so joyously he’s sure he can be heard from the mountains. And what a fool he must look, splayed on the ground with his hat askew and a grin the size of a canyon. But he can hardly find it in himself to care. After all, he thinks as Moomin places one last kiss upon his cheek, there is no one there to tell otherwise.
“Moomin, my dear. Though I can’t say I don’t enjoy your affections,” Snufkin catches his breath as best he can before continuing, “I would very much like to kiss you back.”
“Oh!” Moomin helps him sit up so they’re both standing in the snow once more, exposed to the elements without a thought to the cold, both warmer than a bonfire on a Summer’s day.
They kiss, holding hands. Snufkin bends down just a bit to reach Moomin’s height, and it’s different in a way they can’t describe. It’s not fireworks, not some big boom that sets their hearts ablaze. It’s the whisper of the wind in Spring and the promises it brings. It’s the hazy light of fireflies as they guide them down a midnight path in the Summer. It’s the outline of their bodies pressed against each other as they gaze out at the valley sat upon the branch of an old oak tree in the Autumn. It’s a thousand little things at once that leave Moomin wondering how on Earth he ever came to the conclusion that Snuffkin came back to him out of pity. And when they finally break apart, the look in Snuffkin’s eyes is enough to convince of how very wrong he was.
“I’m not quite sure how I’ll be able to spend my months sleeping, after this.”
It elicits a laugh from Snufkin, but brings with it the reminder that he must go. He must realize it, too, for he looks at Moomin a little desperately and begins to speak with quiet urgency.
“You understand why I must go, don’t you Moomin? You know, how much I care for you. But the valley is such a small part of the world, and I cannot-” Snufkin cuts off, frustrated at his lack of appropriate words. He’s saved, as always, by the kindness of his Moomin.
“I know, you don’t have to say it. I’ve never had a problem understanding why you need to leave, really. Just what brought you back. But now I know.” And if that’s not enough to set heart pattering, as Moomin gazes up at him lovingly from behind shining eyes with snowflake tipped lashes, then Snufkin doesn’t know what is.
“Never have I had the privilege of caring for someone as I do for you.” He whispers. It seems the right thing to say in this moment, whatever perfect thing that now exists between them. It had always been perfect, of course. But never much so as it was now.
Moomin goes to say something equally as loving, but finds himself yawning instead. His head tilts back as he does, eyes watering and tail gone stiff before he finishes, giving himself a good shake. He looks to see Snuffkin as he gazes at him fondly.
“You need to rest, Moomin. You’ve been awake long enough as it is.” Moomin finds himself being guided to his front door as Snufkin wraps an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll be back in the Spring. You won’t even notice I’m gone.” Moomin hears the words, but they sound a little fuzzy as he realizes just how tired his emotional outburst had made him. Moomins weren’t meant to stay up so long past their hibernation, and he’d already pushed it waiting to see Snufkin off on his travels.
It was time to say goodbye.
“I’ll still miss you, Snufkin. Even if I’m not awake, I’ll still miss you.” He promises, the call to sleep slurring his words a touch. Snufkin makes no comment, choosing instead to press one last kiss to Moomin’s cheek.
“And I’ll miss you with each step I take, my dear Moomin.”
They hug, a simple affair not much different than from how they were before. Things had changed between them, but they would always be Moomin and Snufkin.
And with that, Snufkin leaves. He doesn’t turn until he reaches the end of the residential path, which gives way into the wild and untamed one of the forest. And when he does, he sees his Moomin watching him go. He raises a hand in farewell, delighted when Moomin gives one in reply before disappearing into his home.
“See you in the Spring, Moomin.”
Snufkin adjusts the pack on his shoulder. He pulls his hat down a bit further and his scarf a bit tighter before finally making his way into the woods. Where his feet would take him, he did not yet know. But he knows where they will bring him back.
Spring in Moominvalley is a joyous affair. For with it marks the return of Snufkin, who bring with him a light that even the brightest of suns could not hope to replicate. His steps quicken as the sights become more familiar. The pond where he and Moomin swam in last Summer. The tree where they climbed to the highest branch and spent the day amongst the clouds. The field where they held their last bonfire and quietly held hands in the dark as their friends danced around them. It all slips past him as the sign to Moominvalley comes into view.
He pulls his harmonica out of his pocket and begins to play a tune, one so familiar he’s sure he could play it in his sleep. It’s Moomin’s song, and he plays it with a joy he’s missed these last few months.
It doesn’t take long before he’s gazing down at the valley where the Moomin home lies. He’s hardly finished the last note before he sees the door open and a blur of white come barreling down the porch steps.
“Snufkin!”
And with that, he runs. There’d been a few years where he’d let Moomin come to him, greeted his energetic enthusiasm with a collected coolness that makes his tail curl. He’d thought himself so mature, to greet his closest friend as if they were nothing more than good acquaintances. Not even a handshake hello, when really all he wanted to do was run to Moomin as fast as he could.
But those times were gone and here he was, quite literally about to crash into Moomin. But at the last second he stopped, letting the smaller troll come to him those last few feet before he swept him into his arms and spun him around. Moomin giggled, a sound as pure as the pealing of bells. There’d be a whole year for him to hear that sound again. The thought of it made Snufkin smile with joy.
“Moomin.” He murmured as he brought them to a stop.
“Snufkin.”
The two met in an embrace, gentler than the dance-like sway of the surrounding tulips in the wind.
It was Spring.
He was Home.