Chapter Text
Snufkin is running and stumbling through the snow, more of the latter than the former. He will become a soggy mess soon enough, his green coat dark at the hems and seeming heavier for each tumble he takes. It’s no surprise; the snow goes to his knees, and as much energy his son has, even Snufkin can’t grow longer legs simply because he wish it.
Joxter hums and puffs his pipe, calmly walking behind as Snufkin scrambles ahead of him. It would be easier, of course, if the little one walked behind Joxter. Less resistance.
But Snufkin has never been very fond of easy.
Joxter watches as his son faceplants; then he steps over him and keep walking. His kit is tiny enough that Joxter does not even have to take a large step. It’s endearing, and brings to mind other little ones that are sleeping instead of valiantly fighting the snow.
“Da,” Snufkin gasps, snow crunching as he catches up, one tiny paw clutching at Joxter’s cloak, “Da, is Moomin waking?”
“No,” Joxter replies and uses one hand to pull Snufkin up by the scruff; up and over a rock in the way, and Snufkin giggles as he dangles in the air before being let back down. “Not until Spring.”
“He’s missing lots,” Snufkin complains.
“It is the way of all moomins, to miss the Winter,” Joxter reminds him, because they have spoken of it many times. Still, he can’t resist peeking inside his own cloak, at the pocket he has sewn in there.
White, fuzzy ears peek out of it but nothing else. There is only a warm, soft weight and little if any movement. Still asleep then, which is good. Even if Joxter is aware enough to know he rather miss the presence of the little moomin.
“I’ll tell him all about Winter when he does wake up,” Snufkin decides, and Joxter lets go of his cloak, hiding Moomin from view once more, “All ‘bout the snow and how it glitters, and how it’s white! Like his fur!”
“I am sure he will be very happy to hear it,” Joxter replies.
He wonders if his Moomin ever did see snow. Likely not, but he can never be sure. It is not like they ever spoke of it.
And now they won’t ever speak of it, or anything else.
Joxter sighs and glances up to the sky. The sun has begun to hang low. He and Snufkin can see in the dark, of course, but it does get a fair bit cold when there is nothing but moonlight shining upon them. Not enough to bother Joxter- but Snufkin still shivers easily, winter coat or not.
“Would you like to pick out a resting place for tonight?” he asks, and Snufkin perks up, smiling wide enough to show off his little fangs.
“Yes!” he gasps, turns around to run off-- and faceplants into the snow.
Joxter chuckles and reaches down to tug Snufkin back onto his feet. The kit is scowling, more from the snow stuck on the tip of his nose than anything else. Once Joxter lets him go, Snufkin only shakes it off and runs off once more.
This time with greater success.
Still, the snow remains high and Snufkin remains little. The ‘run’ is a slow and clumsy struggle and more than one fall back into the snow. Joxter carefully makes sure he stays behind Snufkin- it would be rather silly, to walk ahead of his guide.
Despite this, Snufkin does find a good place for the night. It’s a small clearing, protected from the wind by thick bushes and tall trees. There is even the remains of an old campfire, and so Joxter ruffles his son’s hair before he begins to set up their tent. It’s a dull brown and patched twice, but it remains a good shelter.
Joxter never liked sleeping in tents, but fatherhood changes things. Tents are safer and better for little ones that freeze easily. That, and Joxter only tried to sleep in a tree with Snufkin once. It was a frightful experience, and one he won’t try again.
He lets Snufkin arrange the blankets inside into a perfect nest while Joxter starts a proper fire. Night comes quickly, and the moon hangs over them in its crescent shape.
It always does during the Winter. But it is fine; the fire is crackling, Snufkin is dozing off in Joxter’s lap and Moomin is snoozing against his chest. Their bellies are full, and Joxter assumes Moomin’s is as well, for the little one has not woken since the first snow. It is a good night, with the stars shining brightly above them in a twinkling shimmer.
He stares up at them and tries to remember the constellations which his Moomin, as well as Moominmama, so very much liked to tell him about. He is not sure he manages, and it has his heart aching something awful.
“I wanna say g’night to Moomin,” his little one mumbles.
Joxter blinks, then smiles around his pipe and nods. He opens up his cloak enough that Snufkin can see the heavy pocket inside, but not enough that the cold air will bother Moomin too much.
Snufkin stands clumsily in his lap and leans closer. He peers into the pocket and the white ball of fur inside, and then he pats the furry head before giving it a little kiss.
“G’night Moomin,” he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, and you’ll see me soon!”
“Should be but a month left now,” Joxter murmurs, rubbing one thumb against a tiny ear and using his other hand to stroke Snufkin’s mess of a hair. “But for the moment, it is time for bed.”
It still feels odd to say such things. He never quite planned to become a dad, and he definitely did not plan to have two little ones to look after.
But as he curls up inside the tent, two warm lumps pressed against him, one purring and one making those odd little sounds all moomins seem to make, he can’t say he minds.
They are his, after all.
Joxter closes his eyes and sleeps.