Moss (Crossposted from AO3)

In Which Snufkin Discovers

Between the occasional meal taken at the house and the brief nightly visits from Moomin, Snufkin had spent most of his time over the following week by himself. He needed it. Needed to make sense of, while not necessarily the dream itself anymore, at least what feelings he had been left with.

Of course he had been feeling raw and fragile, as one does when reliving the worst days of his life. As one does in those quiet moments where too much has been said and there is nothing else spoken so as to provide contrast or perspective. As one does in those lulls in the morning where one is known but not seen for long enough to mislead, just enough to guard oneself.

This all would have been enough to disprove whether this dream meant much of anything, something that could be safely written off as just what might happen if the mind was left to untangle something without guidance. And yet it had felt so specific, and so pointed, so much more cutting to wake up to the canvas of his tent once again with the knowledge of what he had surrendered. Even in dreams, it seemed that all he could do was carry her to the linden to rest.

He wanted to wake up to something different. He wanted that weight in his arms. He wanted the peace that had been offered to him in those tiny, delicate paws.

Wanting. That was what frightened him, now.

The grass outside of his tent rustled underfoot and Snufkin lazily hooked a paw beneath a door flap, lifting it open.

"Hullo," Snufkin said to the pair of feet, and then knees, and then the large and soft face that greeted him as Moomin crouched to enter the tent.

"Hullo, yourself," Moomin said pleasantly as he crawled into the space that Snufkin opened for him, shuffling to the side. "How was your day?" Snufkin shrugged at that. "Well, then," Moomin pressed on. "Did you do anything today?"

"Thinking," Snufkin replied, very quietly. "Are Mamma's roses blooming? I think I can smell them."

"Yes. Vermillion Mymble, I think she said." Moomin slumped onto his side, jostling Snufkin just a bit as he settled. Snufkin sometimes wondered how intentional it was when such things happened, whether it was simply an excuse to be close and to touch without being imposing, whether it was even intentional at all. Moomin then propped his head on his paw, cautiously bringing the other arm across Snufkin. "Though, I'm not much for roses."

"Nor I."

Snufkin dreamed something after running off, he had divulged the other day. He offered no more detail than that, and in this moment he still seemed to have no interest in elaborating further. Whatever it had been, Snufkin seemed more at peace than he had in several weeks, even as the knowledge he seemed to carry back with him seemed heavy. Perhaps not unlike sleeping under a quilt, Moomin thought. Something that made one feel weighed down, but with no particular desire to free oneself. Something compellingly gentle in its heaviness.

Snufkin was sparing in his words, but his acceptance of Moomin's arm around him said enough. All was well. There was simply thinking left to do.

Neither spoke for a while. Snufkin's reticence was expected, at least. Moomin still seemed hesitant to break that silence, already feeling as though he was intruding by virtue of his evening visits. Snufkin's paws came up to meet the one that Moomin had lazily placed on his chest, and they tangled together as if by instinct. Moomin's large, pale paws were unmistakable as anything but those of an adult troll, but the way his paw framed Snufkin's smaller, ruddier thumbs threatened to bring forth the thoughts he hoped he had successfully put away. Tiny paws. Peaceful faces. And fear.

Moomin broke the silence, finally.

"Mamma said she might invite Emma and her niece to our midsummer party this year."