Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Looking for the Joxter is no easy task, most of the time. For a creature who prefers to do not much of anything, he makes himself annoyingly difficult to track down.

Moomin's been keeping an eye out, but it seems the only thing that one can expect from a Joxter is for him to be as inconvenient as possible, including not being around whenever one might wish to find him. Or…something like that. It all makes Moomin's head twirl a bit. Snufkin can be hard enough for him to understand sometimes; his father is almost a complete mystery.

Almost. Moomin thinks that he understands the Joxter well enough to finally be able to search him out, at least this afternoon. This is because of three things that Moomin knows to be true:

1. Joxter's visits to the valley are becoming more frequent. It's true that he never stays for very long, and oftentimes doesn't even announce his presence to his old friend's family. (He has been offered a long-standing invitation to drop by Moominhouse anytime, so naturally he makes a point of not doing so.) But Moomin pays attention, or at least he pays attention to Snufkin, and he's noticed that there's a particular look that his friend gets whenever his father has been lurking around the valley.

It's somewhere between nervous and fond, half excitement and half exasperation. It's a mix that speaks to the slow, occasionally awkward process that is Joxter and Snufkin getting to know each other, trying to figure out how to settle into each other's lives in a way that suits them both. The way that Snufkin describes it sounds very tangled-up and inscrutable to Moomin, whose own family seems to gain new members frequently and seamlessly, but if Snuf is happy then so is he. And it is a happy look, even if the feelings behind it all sound a bit messy.

It's a look that Moomin has been seeing a lot of, these past few days.

2. Mrs. Fillyjonk, upon meeting the Joxter for the first time—now there's a moment that Moomin is sore about missing—immediately fell into such a tizzy that she had to be given smelling salts and carried home. He's only heard the story secondhand, but he has it on good authority that she was loudly declaring all the while that if a ruffian ever set foot on her property, she would call the police at once, make no mistake about it! Moomin has seen for himself the sign that's since been hung on her fence, with the words 'NO TRESPASSING' written in big, bold red letters.

3. Moomin is standing in front of her house right now, and can see that her sign has been knocked down and the words scratched out. A line of muddy bootprints leads from her garden around to the back.

It's all very logical, really. Still, Moomin breathes a sigh of relief when he walks around to the back and sees that he was right: a trail of scuff-marks and dirt leads right up to the Joxter, curled up asleep in the sunniest spot on Mrs. Fillyjonk's roof.

Now for the hard part.

He tugs nervously at the hem of his jacket. The suit he's borrowed from Moominpappa is a little too large, but Moominmamma had told him that he looked very handsome and respectable, even though the sleeves come to halfway down his hands and the hat dips over his forehead if he doesn't keep his head stiffly tilted back. Little My had been too busy laughing to say anything, which he thinks may have been a blessing.

Hopefully Mamma was right. Taking a deep breath, he points his muzzle upward and calls out, "Hello, Mr. Joxter!"

There's a long, heart-pounding pause. Moomin wonders if Joxter heard him, or maybe if he's being deliberately ignored. He's dithering between calling out again and slinking off with his tail between his legs when one sharp blue eye cracks open, fixing him with a slit-pupiled stare that absolutely roots Moomin to the ground.

For a moment, all he can do is stand there, sweat rolling down the inside of his too-big jacket. Then the other eye opens, and the Joxter's head lifts up to take in Moomin in full: standing on the ground in an ill-fitting suit, with mud from Mrs. Fillyjonk's garden mussing up his freshly-washed fur, and one of his father's hats in danger of tipping entirely off his head.

This was a mistake, he thinks. The urge to turn around and run is increasing. Snufkin's dad won't want to talk to me. How could I have thought this was a good idea?

But there's a smile spreading over Joxter's face, and while it does look amused, it lacks the cruel edge of Little My's earlier laughter. "Hello, younger Moomintroll," he says, with a genial flick of his tail. "Going to a party, are you?"

"Er—actually," Moomin says. At some point his own tail has curled up to meet his fingers, which are now twisting nervously around the tuft. "I was looking for you. I've, um, if you have a moment, I've got something I'd like to ask you?"

It comes out like a question, high-pitched and embarrassingly squeaky at the end. One of Joxter's brows raises. He gives Moomin another up-and-down look, lingering on the top hat.

"…Bit old for you, aren't I?"

"What?" Moomin stops cursing himself long enough to stare up at him, baffled. Then the meaning sinks in, and he proceeds to choke on nothing. "Oh! Oh, no, heavens no—that's not at all what I meant to—I'm here about Snufkin!"

Strike me pink, he thinks, miserably (he may already be, with how hot his face has gone underneath his fur). It's been thirty seconds and he's already screwed up.

He almost doesn't notice that Joxter has moved. It's just another shock when he leaps suddenly from the roof to the branch of an overhanging tree to the ground, all in one movement. He's standing on the ground in front of Moomin before he has a chance to blink.

"I figured it was about Snufkin," Joxter says. His smile is still there, and still very amused. Oh. He was joking, of course. Moomin's distress melts into a more general mix of nerves and embarrassment.

He tries to look on the bright side: at least now he won't have to shout the whole thing at Mrs. Fillyjonk's roof. Now he's just milling about here in her backyard, looking up at Snufkin's dad, whose nap he interrupted to ask him a question that he hasn't even gotten to yet.

This isn't much less awkward.

Pappa's told him that eye contact is important if he wants to be taken seriously, but Moomin finds himself looking everywhere except at Joxter's eyes. That's how he notices that Joxter's hat is on slightly crooked: there's a few tufts of dark hair that have been pushed up around his forehead, and are sticking out at odd angles. It's a very small, very stupid thing for him to focus on, but he can't look away.

It makes him think suddenly of Snufkin, and an afternoon a few weeks back, when they'd gone out into the flower fields in search of…of…something, he doesn't remember. They'd never actually gotten around to whatever adventure they'd started out on. Instead he'd been picking flowers as they went, weaving them together in the way Snorkmaiden had taught him, because he'd noticed that the flowers around Snufkin's hat were starting to turn dry and brown around the edges. Moomin had thought, well, the flowers in the field were so beautiful, wouldn't they look even more beautiful with Snuf underneath them? Except he'd gotten a bit too enthusiastic, and the crown he'd made was too big to sit properly on Snufkin's hat.

"That's all right," Snufkin had said, with that fond, lopsided smile of his that Moomin loves so much (even the memory of it now makes his insides feel as fuzzy as his outsides). Clever as always, he'd taken his hat off and let Moomin crown him directly. The flower ring was big enough that it fell half over his forehead, making his hair stick out every which-way between the blossoms and stems, but he'd just taken Moomin's paws in his own and said, "There, see? It's perfect."

That's what Moomin is reminded of now. It's not so much the hair as it is the memory of Snufkin's smile in the afternoon sunlight, the way his face had turned as pink as the wood-sorrel falling over his eyes, and the feeling of his small paw clasped in Moomin's larger one. Maybe it's a bit weird to be remembering this while looking at his dad, all because his hair is sticking up just like Snufkin's had been—it's definitely weird, when he thinks about it like that—but it does, in a roundabout way, remind him of why he's here.

He's here because he loves Snufkin. He loves Snufkin, and Joxter is Snufkin's father, and…well…all right, he isn't sure if it can be said that Snufkin loves Joxter, not yet. They're working on it, but that kind of thing can take a long, long time, more than the few seasons they've known each other. Joxter is important to him, though. That's good enough for Moomin.

So he keeps the image of Snufkin's flushed, smiling face fixed in his mind, squares his shoulders, and says, in what he hopes is a firm-yet-respectful manner, "I'm here to ask you about Snufkin."

"Yes," Joxter says, smile growing. "I think we've established that this is, in fact, about Snufkin."

"Oh, um, right. Well—" Moomin takes a deep breath. He concentrates on his mental image of Snufkin, and of the hours that he spent rehearsing this speech with Snorkmaiden, worrying over every word. Get back to the script, his mind whispers to him, in a voice that sounds remarkably like her. Right, the script. What was the script again?

He waffles for another moment, trying to recollect his thoughts. Thankfully, Joxter doesn't seem particularly bothered by him taking his time. As Moomin hesitates, Joxter takes the opportunity to sink down into a comfortable-looking heap in the grass, arms folded under his chin, tail curled around his knees. Willing to be patient, but apparently not willing to stand up for any longer than necessary.

(Moomin refuses to admit that he's relieved. He's not intimidated by the Joxter, of course not, he just…never quite realized how tall he is. He's used to Snuf, who's only shorter than him because Moomin's ears stick up taller, and is built small enough that Moomin can pick him up and twirl him around until they're both breathless with laughter. It's a different experience entirely to have someone who looks so like his dear Snufkin standing there and looking down at him.)

Finally he manages, doing his best not to stutter, "As I'm sure you know, Mr. Joxter, your son and I have been c…courting, for some time now."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Joxter murmurs into his sleeves. Moomin plows ahead, undaunted.

"I care very deeply for Snukin," he continues. It's getting easier as he goes. Snorkmaiden would be so proud of him. "I assure you, I'm quite serious about our relationship. His happiness is all that I wish for in the world. Therefore, I've come to you, that is, his father, who is you, to inquire whether or not you might—possibly—giveusyourblessing?"

The last few words come out all rushed and scrunched together. Regardless, he's proud of himself for getting it out without messing it all up. He and Snorkmaiden had spent a very long time trying to figure out a way to ask that might stand up against the Joxter's contrary nature—Moomin doesn't think Joxter would do anything intentionally to hurt Snufkin, but he's listened to a lot of Moominpappa's stories about his old friends, and he doesn't want to take any chances.

He waits, hoping that he's coming across as cool and collected, despite wringing his fingers anxiously around his tail. He tries to remember the rest of the script, everything they've prepared for every possible answer, but his mind has gone completely, inconveniently blank.

Not that it matters, because Joxter hasn't said anything. Oh dear. They hadn't planned for silence.

Moomin fidgets. Somewhat desperately, he adds an improvised, "Please?"

Joxter blinks.

Joxter's tail flicks once, twice in the grass.

Then Joxter says, incredulously, "Give you my what?"

"Your, um, blessing. Your favor?" Moomin struggles to think of how to explain it. In all the stories he and Snorkmaiden have read, everyone just sort of implicitly knows what it means, when one of the characters is asked to give the happy couple their blessing. What is he supposed to say? The words are getting all muddled up in his head before they can come out. He's distracted by the suit, scratchy and hot on his back, fabric bunching uncomfortably at his elbows and slipping over his fingers.

Oh, this would be so much less nerve-wracking if Joxter would just stop staring at him!

Joxter is still curled on the ground, but he's lifted his face enough so that Moomin is suffering the full brunt of his wide-eyed disbelief. "If I understand you," he says finally, slowly. "You want me to give you permission to—court—my son?"

"Ehm, not permission, really," Moomin coughs. For one thing, he thinks, it's a bit too late to be asking for that. "More like…your approval? And I'm not asking you for it, exactly," he continues, thinking of the script. "I'm only asking if you'd be willing to give it. Just your honest opinion, without any, you know, requests."

Joxter's mouth flattens into a thin line. "First of all, don't try to logic at me," he says, with a mildness that Moomin recognizes, from long experience with Mamma, as a warning. "While the effort is flattering, I am capable of thinking beyond my nature, and I care about my son, too. Now…"

His eyes are very blue, and very sharp. Moomin tries to find something of Snufkin in them, but Snufkin's eyes are warm and brown, and never look at him as if he's a mouse on the other side of a trap.

"You say you want my…approval." Joxter says the word like he doesn't quite understand it. "For what purpose? It's my understanding that the two of you have been, as you put it, 'courting for some time now'. Don't see what I have to do with it. It looks to me like Snufkin's already got his mind made up."

The tone he's using is very matter-of-fact. Moomin can pull nothing out of it, nothing that might help him figure out what he can say to make himself clear. "Well," he tries, "of course we're already—that is—it's not about wooing Snufkin."

"Wooing," Joxter echoes. Despite the strange flatness in his eyes, a smile starts to curl back up the corner of his mouth. "Oh, you Moomins."

Moomin doesn't see what's so funny about that, but he chooses to take it as a good sign. "Yes, I've already done that bit. I suppose what I'm asking is to…to just know that you support us, Snufkin and me. Snufkin and I," he corrects, at the prodding of the little voice in his head that sounds like Snorkmaiden. "It would mean a lot to the both of us."

"To the both of…where is my boy, anyway?" The ghost of a smile stretches further, which only makes it more disconcerting. "You'd think that Snufkin would want to be here for this. Is he still getting dressed up? Or maybe he's gotten lost, or distracted? Surely—"  The sweat running down Moomin's back has very little to do with the heat now. "Surely you wouldn't be here talking about him without him knowing."

"I—I wanted it to be a surprise," Moomin stammers. The script, his inner Snorkmaiden hisses. "T-that is, I was also hoping that if you were willing to give us your blessing, you might also—uh—be willing to mention to him, you know, offhandedly, that you think that I'm a very, er, very nice troll, and that we make a fine match, and…"

This all seemed so much simpler back at the house, when he'd been rehearsing it with Snorkmaiden. (He has to admit, grudgingly, that it probably has a lot to do with the fact that Snorkmaiden found the entire thing unbearably romantic, and played her part as Joxter accordingly. Not that he really expected Joxter to flutter his eyelashes and say 'why yes of course, my dear Moomintroll, your sweet young romance has my full blessing and support, and may I mention what a dashing figure you cut in that fine suit'—but it did perhaps give him a misguided idea about the effectiveness of his speech.)

"Subterfuge," Joxter muses. Moomin opens his mouth to protest that isn't at all what he meant, but he doesn't get the chance. "Hmm. I'm not necessarily opposed—all's fair in love and thievery—but, if I may be frank, I still don't see why. You two aren't having troubles, are you?"

"No, sir," Moomin says, shocked at the very idea.

"Don't call me that." Joxter looks so affronted that Moomin nearly falls over himself apologizing. "—yes, yes, just don't do it again. Tell me, young Moomin: if you're already courting, and you're not having troubles, what more do you think I can help with? I certainly hope you're not under the impression that Snufkin will do what I tell him, if I were inclined to tell him what to do in the first place. Even I know him better than that."

He tilts his head, staring up with pupils so thin that Moomin can barely see them. "I should think you know him better as well. You have, after all, been courting since before he and I even knew each other existed—and Snufkin's not a child. If there was ever a time that he needed someone else deciding things for him, I missed it long ago. He certainly doesn't need a father he barely knows interfering with decisions that are his to make, and that he decided long before I was ever a part of his life."

Joxter's voice is still that same mild, neutral tone, but Moomin can sense the precipice hanging behind those words as if it were an actual cliff-face that he was in danger of falling down. He knows it from experiencing the same thing with Snufkin, every once in a while. Snufkin will be recounting some light-hearted story about his latest meeting with the Joxter, and then he'll say or remember something in some particular way that just goes…wrong. Some way that will draw Snufkin's mouth down and his brows together in the same cloud of not-quite-bitter, not-quite-not-bitter funk that he can see on the Joxter now. Sometimes Moomin can pull him back with a joke or a question or a light touch of his paw, but sometimes it just…keeps spiralling down, in a way that Moomin (who's had two loving, always-present parents as long as he can remember, and can welcome people into his life as easily as he smiles) doesn't know how to understand.

Snufkin and his father are both trying so hard. But there's still so many years lost between them, and so many differences that they haven't yet figured out how to reconcile.

Moomin does his best, as he always does whenever Snuf is concerned. There's only so much one troll can do, though. This complicated, deeply personal tangle of emotions is between Snufkin and Joxter, and he's well aware that Snufkin—who can still be so prickly about opening up his heart, even (or maybe especially) to people he cares for—doesn't want anyone else involving themselves in it. Not even Moomin. He's pretty sure that Joxter, who knows him mainly as Pappa's child and has said maybe five words to him before today, would appreciate him sticking his snout in even less.

So he latches onto the one thing that, hopefully, won't send them careening down into a ravine of thorny family issues. "It—it's only been a season, actually."

A crease forms itself on Joxter's brow, right under the stray tufts of hair that had reminded Moomin of another, much more successful afternoon. "Excuse me?"

"Snufkin and I have only been sweethearts for a season, si—Mr. Joxter. Since the beginning of spring, when he came back from his travels." Moomin twists his tail between his fingers. His desperation to change the subject breaks whatever dam was holding him up; the words start pouring out like floodwater. "I'd written a series of dramatic sonnets, you see, all about how I long for him every moment we're apart, and how I spend the winters dreaming of seeing his eyes sparkle like the sunlight off the scales of the fish he catches—I thought that was a very good line; Pappa says you have to add in details like that for a personal touch—and, honestly, I hadn't thought it would do the trick, but somehow it worked. Snufkin read them all the way to the end and told me that he liked them very much, and that he liked me very much, and then one thing led to another and we…" His cheeks are so hot that he's surprised his fur hasn't burned clear away. "…we touched noses."

(The memory still sends a thrill through his body, a shiver that begins at the tuft of his tail and ends at the tips of his ears. What he wouldn't give to be back on the bridge right now, watching Snufkin's face as he leafs through the stack of pages that Moomin had spent so long agonizing over!

…Well, maybe not that moment precisely. He'd actually been worried at first that the sonnets had turned out to be a huge disaster, with the way Snufkin's face had gotten weirdly stiff and frozen, as it sometimes does when he's trying very, very hard not to laugh. Moomin had convinced himself that this had been the worst idea in the world, that he should never take advice from Snorkmaiden again, and that he'd just ruined any romantic chances he might have had.

But the moment that came after more than made up for it. Snufkin had reached the end, the part that gave up on comparing his eyes to fish scales and his freckles to fireflies, where Moomin's writing had just sort of dissolved into scribbles of 'I love you, I love you, I love you'. (Not technically the correct form for a sonnet, but Pappa is always talking about the importance of artistic license.) He'd looked up at Moomin and said, very softly, "Is this really how you feel about me?"

That had been the point where Moomin, deep in the throes of heartbreak, had almost played it off as a joke. If he were lucky, he could at least salvage their friendship out of it. But there had been something about Snufkin's expression, the way the tips of his ears were turning sunset-red and his eyes had gone all huge and vulnerable and golden, that made him think maybe…

"Of course," he'd said, equally as soft. Then, as if he hadn't already written it all over fifty-two sheets of Pappa's good paper, "I love you, Snufkin."

They'd said a few more things, after that, but that moment is the one that Moomin will always remember. And then—well. They'd touched noses.)

Moomin is so lost in dreamy memory that he almost doesn't notice Joxter sitting up. The hard edge is gone from his expression, which is undoubtedly a good thing. It's been replaced with the same look he'd had when Moomin had first asked him for his blessing, which is to say, he looks like he has no idea how to respond to any of this.

It occurs to Moomin, belatedly, that perhaps Snufkin's father doesn't want to hear all the gooey details about Moomin's grand love confession to his son, not to mention the bit about the noses. Not everyone is Snorkmaiden. (Not everyone is Sniff, either, who's willing to listen to anything so long as he has a steady supply of Moominmamma's biscuits. —Oh! Curse his tail, he should've thought to bring some as a gift. Maybe that could have kept this afternoon from going so badly. Not even the Joxter can stand up to the power of Mamma's biscuits.)

He's wondering if it's too late to run very quickly back to Moominhouse and beg Mamma to bake some more, and what the chances are that Joxter will still be here by the time he gets back, when Joxter breaks into his thoughts with a sigh. "You—" he starts, shaking his head. "You Moomins are a very strange lot, indeed."

Moomin glances at him, worried. Thankfully Joxter looks more bemused than anything. "Sonnets," he's muttering. "Though I can't say that son of mine is any better. You've only been—sweethearts—since spring? Really?"

"If I'm being honest," Moomin says shyly, "I've had those sonnets half-composed for, er, a few years now. I didn't think they were very good at first, but Snorkmaiden—" Found them hidden under my mattress, spell-checked them, made it her personal mission to play matchmaker between me and Snuf… "—helped me work up the courage to give them to him. Luckily Snufkin has a soft spot for poetry."

"That boy has a soft spot, all right," Joxter agrees. His tail has curled up around his front paws and is twitching back and forth in short, jerky movements. Moomin wonders, suddenly, if he too is suppressing the urge to to start fiddling with it.

After another moment Joxter says, sounding very close to hesitant, "It would make him happy, if I did this for you?"

"It's not really doing anything, it's really more an expression of support," Moomin tries, one last time. Joxter gives him the same blank stare that he's gotten every other time he's suggested that this is, perhaps, less transactional than Joxter seems to be assuming. "But yes, I really do think it would. I wouldn't be asking you, otherwise."

Joxter hums in thought. Moomin wonders if he should say something else, go through one of the many arguments he and Snorkmaiden had constructed about what an excellent partner he makes for Snufkin, and how absolutely perfect they are for each other…except none of those speeches have been very effective at all so far. He's still not sure if Joxter actually understands what he wants. At this point, he's so muddled that even he isn't sure what he wants.

No, that's not true. He wants Snufkin to be happy, and he thinks—he knows—that if he can win Joxter's approval then it will ease Snufkin's heart, even if only the tiniest bit. That much is more than worth it. He doesn't want to overstep his bounds, he's not trying to get involved in anything that Snufkin doesn't want him to, he's just found one thing he can do that might take away even a fraction of the awkwardness that hangs between his beloved Snufkin and his father.

How can he make Joxter realize?

Love is improvising, whispers his inner Snorkmaiden. Forget what we planned. Just tell him.

Moomin straightens his spine. He drops his tail, adjusts his jacket, tips his hat back into place. He looks the Joxter square in the eye, just as Pappa told him.

"What would make Snufkin happy," he says, firmly, "is knowing that his father thinks he's done well for himself. I know that things aren't always—always easy, between you two—you still don't quite know each other—but Snufkin wants to know you, he's always so excited when you visit. He looks up to you a great deal, you know. He talks all about you, and all the stories you tell him and the things you teach him, and…" He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his jangling nerves. "You're right, Snufkin makes his own decisions, and he's made this one already. But I think he'd like to know that you think it's a good one."

Joxter is staring at him. Moomin has never seen this look on his face before. He never even seen anything like it on Snufkin's, and he has all of Snufkin's expressions engraved into his heart.

Joxter's eyes are very wide, and very blue, and he's holding so very, very still. Even his tail has stopped its twitching.

Moomin scuffs the ground a bit with his toe. "That is," he adds, "if you do think it's a good one. I, er, I do hope—"

It's like whatever tension is holding Joxter upright suddenly collapses. He just about falls over back onto the grass with a sound that, at first, Moomin can't identify—until he realizes that Joxter is laughing.

The Joxter's laugh is an odd one, deeper and more rumbling than Moomin would have expected. Not that he expected a laugh at all. He bristles a little; he hadn't thought he'd said anything funny. It's just the truth.

The laughter doesn't last for very long. Joxter looks back up at him and says, with a hint of that rumble still in his voice, "Of course I think it's a good one. Why on earth wouldn't I?"

Oh. Oh. The nerves drain out of Moomin like bathwater down a drain; it's so sudden that he almost falls over too. His hat does tumble down into the grass, but he can't bring himself to care very much.

"Thank you," he whispers, as if saying it too loud will somehow make Joxter change his mind. "That's all I wanted, Mr. Joxter."

"That's all a blessing is, really?" Joxter looks dubious. "Doesn't seem like it'd be worth much, coming from me, but if it'll make Snufkin happy."

"It's much appreciated, believe me. I know that Snufkin will appreciate it too. …And again," Moomin adds, though he knows he's probably pushing his luck, "if you wanted to let him know that you think I'm very nice…"

"I knew there'd be a catch." Joxter's smile is enough to reassure Moomin that he's joking. Probably. "Very well, I'll tell him all about what a perfectly pleasant young troll you are, even if you do take forever to get to a point. And, what else was there, that I find the two of you to be a good match, and he's done very well for himself? As if Snufkin needs me to tell him that. My son would have nothing less." More softly, half to himself, he murmurs, "Looks up to me, does he?"

He tugs on the brim of his hat, such a familiar gesture from Snufkin that Moomin knows instantly what it means. Sure enough, he can see that the paler skin around Joxter's orange muzzle has gone all ruddy, before it's hidden under the fabric.

Moomin picks his own hat up and replaces it on his head. It still dips over his ears, and his suit jacket is still too big and hot and scratchy, but he feels light enough to float off into the sky. Snufkin's dad likes him! He's going to tell Snufkin how good he thinks they are together! This wasn't a bad idea after all! He can't think of anything that could possibly ruin this, not now.

At least until he hears Mrs. Fillyjonk's shriek of horror from the front of the house.

"My yard! My sign! Who is responsible for this travesty?!"

As they turn tail and dash away (Joxter into the trees, Moomin around the side of the house, narrowly avoiding Mrs. Fillyjonk's furious gaze), Moomin thinks that even this can't make the afternoon any less of a success. In fact, a daring escape is just the thing to top it off—now it's an adventure, just the kind that Snufkin so loves! It'll make for a plenty thrilling story, how Moomin had bravely risked being thrown in jail (or at least a scolding from Mrs. Fillyjonk, which may be worse) just to find the Joxter and implore him for his blessing, all in the name of making Snufkin happy.

He makes it out into the road and then is running home free, coat tails flapping in the wind, holding on to his hat so it doesn't blow right off his head, so giddy that his feet almost aren't touching the ground as he runs.

Snufkin is going to be so, so pleased when he hears!

Chapter Text

Snufkin returns to his campsite to find the Joxter waiting for him.

The hat catches his eye first. A splash of red in the greens and browns of the summer flora, perched like a bird on top of the darker-colored shape of Joxter—himself perched on the log by Snufkin's firepit, back to the path towards the river. He doesn't turn around as Snufkin approaches, though Snufkin isn't stupid enough to think that means Joxter doesn't know he's returned. As if to prove it, his father's tail flicks up in greeting when Snufkin is a few paces away.

"Afternoon," Snufkin says politely, setting his pole and bucket down by his tent. He's not entirely surprised. Showing up unannounced and at random is, after all, the way that Joxter goes through life—if anything's odd, it's that he hasn't already left the valley. It's been almost two weeks now since his first visit of the season, which makes it the longest he's stayed so far.

Not that Snufkin is complaining. Although he's not selfish enough (or hypocritical enough) to wish for Joxter to stay any longer than he's willing to, it's…nice, knowing that he hasn't grown tired of him yet.

"Afternoon," Joxter replies, with an acknowledging tilt of his lit pipe. There's no ash on the ground, so he likely hasn't been here long. It can be hard to guess, given his father's nature, but chances are he'll hang around at least until his light's done. Snufkin is torn between eagerness for a visit with Joxter, and hoping that he isn't expecting to stay for dinner—the catch today has been disappointing.

For a while, those two words are all that they say. Joxter seems content to just sit and watch as Snufkin goes about cleaning the fish (singular) he's caught. It's not a bad silence—there were a lot of those in the beginning, the kind where there are too many words hanging between them that should be said, if only he or Joxter knew how. These days, though, they have more and more silences like this one, for which Snufkin is grateful: just each other's company, with no need to fill it up with anything else.

There's precious few creatures in Moominvalley who are open to enjoying that kind of silence with him. He's glad his father is one of them. Moomin as well, however unlikely that may seem to most everyone else. He's such a cheerful troll, bouncy and excitable and prone to enthusiastic chattering about anything that pops into his head. But Snufkin knows Moomin very well, and he knows that he can also be calm, and comforting, and as peacefully quiet as the mounds of freshly-fallen snow that he so resembles. He's just as happy to sit and do nothing with Snufkin, as he is to do everything with him.

What did he ever do to deserve his dear Moomintroll?

Snufkin is smiling now, as tends to happen whenever his thoughts wander off towards Moomin. He hasn't seen him today, which is a bit disappointing, but there's time yet. The sun is just beginning to sink down into the reddening sky, on the threshold between afternoon and dusk. Perhaps he'll invite Moomin to go stargazing with him tonight.

Yes, that's what he'll do. And he can ask Joxter to tell him more about the constellations that decorate the sky on the other side of the world—he knows more of their shapes and stories than Snufkin does, and later Snufkin can share them with Moomin, too.

He's focused enough on his plan (not to mention the fish) that he's half-forgotten that Joxter is still there, until his father breaks the silence with, "I had an interesting conversation today."

Snufkin can sense impending danger, sometimes. Joxter calls it Forebodings; he calls it survival instincts. If he were paying better attention, he might have felt it now: that particular thrum under his skin, the fine fur along his arms standing on end, as if he were standing too close to a Hattifattener. But right now he's too distracted by his work and by thoughts of Moomin, and how the haze of smoke from Joxter's pipe is starting to make him want a smoke of his own, to immediately register the oddly gleeful note in Joxter's voice.

So all he does is give a questioning "hm?" noise, mildly curious, but still absorbed in descaling the fish. He decides he's scraped the poor thing enough, and dunks it back in the bucket to rinse off the rest of the scales.

"Oh, yes," Joxter replies. Snufkin hears him take another drag on his pipe, exhale it out in a long, long breath. Then: "Heard you like sonnets."

Snufkin nearly upends the bucket.

"You—" He spins around, trying to at once glare at Joxter and hide his burning face under the brim of his hat. At least he'd thought to let go of the fish first. "How did you—you've been talking to Moomin, haven't you."

Joxter's eyes are wide and innocent, though the effect is spoiled somewhat by the grin just below them. "He's a very nice young troll, isn't he? Very well-mannered. Very romantic."

"He told you about this last spring, then." Snufkin pulls his hat down lower. Of course he did. Why shouldn't he? It's not as though it's a secret; according to Snorkmaiden, he and Moomin are still something of a hot topic amongst the gossip-starved valley residents, and probably will be through the rest of the summer. It's frankly a shock that the Joxter hasn't heard already. If he ran into Moomin, who talks about Snufkin all the time anyway, then naturally they'd get on the subject of…last spring.

It isn't that Snufkin didn't want Joxter to know. It's just…

"I meant to tell you," he says, staring at the underbrim of his hat. "Eventually. I only…hadn't gotten around to it yet."

It's just, this thing between him and Moomin—it's so new, and so wonderful, and something that he's wanted for so long, that he…wanted to keep it to himself, a little. To enjoy it without having to worry. Without having to think about why he might worry about telling Joxter, when he doesn't care one bit about whatever gossip there may be about him, and he knows that Moomin doesn't either.

It's not the other valley creatures or their reactions that are the problem. It's not Moominpappa, who'd shouted "jolly good!" and slapped them both on the back, or Moominmamma, who just nodded sagely and slipped them both extra dessert. It's not Snorkmaiden and Sniff and the rest of their friends, who all made a lot of noise to the effect of "about time, already" and "we had bets". Little My…might have been a problem, except she'd been the first to see Snufkin and Moomin come up the hill that day, with their faces flushed and their paws clasped tight together. Snufkin hadn't had enough time to worry before she'd immediately started making retching noises and threatening to bite their ankles if they ever got all mushy around her. Which, from Little My, was practically a glowing expression of support.

The problem isn't even Joxter, not really. Snufkin knows him well enough by now—he hopes he knows him well enough—that he's sure Joxter isn't going to care. Why should he? So it's Snufkin who's the problem, because it shouldn't matter to him, and yet he can't help that little part of him that whispers but what if…?

"Well, there's the thing," Joxter says. Snufkin peers out from under his hat to see that his smile has softened, although he still sounds far too delighted. "You didn't have to tell me. I've known since the moment I first saw you and Moomin's boy together."

He doesn't sound…like what some small part of Snufkin's heart might have worried. He just sounds amused, and pleased, as if this is any other conversation that they're enjoying. Snufkin relaxes enough to let go of his hat, though that small part of him is still hesitating.

"You've known, have you?" he replies, cautiously. He watches his father's face for…whatever that something is that he thinks might be there.

He's seen enough of Joxter's expressions, by this point, to know the signs of any kind of upset. There is, for instance, a way that his nose will wrinkle when he talks about park keepers, in much the same manner as Mrs. Fillyjonk talks about mud. There's a way his eyes will narrow when he reminisces on the ways that adventures can go wrong, with falls from high places, and nature that isn't suited to any living creature, and people that are worse than park keepers. There's a way his mouth will flatten when Snufkin mentions, without thinking about it, some of the things he learned early on. Things like hiding, and hunger, and other lessons that a child out on his own has to learn, with no one else to teach him.

There's another look he's seen, those few times when the two of them have hit the wall between them, but don't know how to get over it—when Joxter is truly, tail-thrashingly upset, and trying not to show it. It's been a long time since Snufkin has seen that one, or had it mirrored on his own face.

He doesn't see any of those things now. Instead there's a fondness to Joxter's grin, a warmth that lights up his eyes and smooths out the sharpness of his features. He looks…a bit like how he looks on the once-or-twice occasions when he talks about the Mymble, actually, minus the nostalgic tint that tends to hang over those. His tail lies still in the grass, with only a few languid flicks of the tip.

The knot that sits half-tangled in Snufkin's chest begins to loosen.

"'Course I knew," Joxter is saying. "All anyone has to do is see the way you look at him, and the way he looks at you, and there'll be no question about it. No, what I thought was interesting was that he said it had only been since spring—as if the two of you haven't been obviously, madly in love for as long as anyone knows—"

"Joxter!" Oh, stars, he's just as bad as Snorkmaiden. Snufkin gives up on hiding inside his hat; at this rate he'll end up suffocating in it. He tries to get back to glaring instead, but it's proving surprisingly difficult.

For one thing, he keeps wanting to smile. It's very hard not to, whenever he remembers that Moomin loves him.

"We just…took our time," he says, finally. "I was waiting for him, and he was waiting for me, and the wait was lovely enough on its own that it never felt like we lost anything for it. Not everyone gets together after an hour at a garden party, you know."

Something in Joxter's expression flickers. Snufkin wonders if maybe he shouldn't have said that—if it had sounded bitter, when he'd only meant it as a joke—but then Joxter laughs, and blows out another cloud of smoke into the red-and-gold sky.

"It's this valley. There must be something in the water that makes everyone here so impossibly sweet." He shakes his head, drifting smoke back and forth. "It's not hard to see that he cares for you very much, this Moomintroll."

Snufkin really is smiling now. "I care for him very much, too. He's a very splendid Moomin."

"Moomins tend to be, in my experience."

Joxter pauses, then. He's not usually the type to put much thought in before he speaks—perhaps it's more effort than he likes to expend—but he seems to be making the effort now, trying to find the right words for what he wants to say. Finally he continues, in a softer tone, "I'm glad to see you so happy, Snufkin."

The knot in Snufkin's chest hitches, ever so slightly. Joxter is looking at him more seriously now, eyes gone dark and thoughtful in the light of the sunset.

"Happiness can be a hard thing to find, for all that everyone's always searching for it. It takes someone who knows the world very well to recognize when they've found what they're after. It takes someone who knows themselves very well to know exactly what they're looking for in the first place. It's a remarkable sort of person who can do both. To have found it, and held on to it, all on your own…"

He gestures, vaguely, in a way that Snufkin thinks is meant to indicate more than just his campsite. "You've found a place you can be happy, with people you love, who love you just as fiercely. I can't think of anything better than that."

The knot in his chest isn't going away. It doesn't hurt, not like it's tightening; it's more like…it's become a core of heat, like drinking a hot cup of coffee on a cold night, or being enveloped in a warm Moomin-hug. Snufkin can't say he minds it, though it's causing a suspicious prickling behind his eyes.

"Dad," he starts, at the same time as Joxter says, "That you've let me be a part of your life is the best—"

"Snufkin!"

Both Snufkin and Joxter about jump out of their skins as Moomin bursts into the campsite. Snufkin hadn't realized how distracted they were, for neither of them to have noticed him approaching before now. Moomin is a lovable ball of fluff, but he still has all the subtlety of, well, a troll.

(His only consolation is that Joxter was just as startled. By the time Snufkin recovers from the shock of Surprise Moomin and glances over again, Joxter has relaxed back against the log, pipe back in his mouth, as though he'd never moved—but there's claw-marks in the wood, and his tail is twice the size it had been a moment ago.)

At least Snufkin's smile returns easily enough. All he has to do is look at Moomin's sea-colored eyes, and he's smiling again without even having to try. "Moomintroll."

Moomin crosses the few steps left between them, reaching to take one of Snufkin's paws in his own. "Snufkin," he says again, happily. He starts to lean forward, dipping his muzzle down towards Snufkin's nose, when his eyes catch on the other figure in the clearing. "Oh! Um, and Mr. Joxter. Er. Hello."

He doesn't seem to know what to do, now that it's not just the two of them. Snufkin takes pity on him and pulls far enough away that it's not quite as awkward, though he's still holding on to Moomin's paw. He loves Moomin with all his heart, but that doesn't mean he wants to kiss in front of his father.

It'd be like kissing in front of the Moominparents. Or, heaven forbid, Little My. (Though Joxter is, marginally, less likely to bite.)

"Hello again!" says Joxter, a little too loudly and cheerfully. His tail is quieting down, though it still looks a bit puffy. "Your timing is impeccable, younger Moomintroll. We were just talking about you."

"Were you?" Moomin's gaze darts uncertainly between him and Snufkin. Now, why should he look so nervous about that? Snufkin wiggles his fingers in Moomin's paw, mostly to see his eyes scrunch up in happiness again. It works.

"I was just telling Snufkin what a very nice troll I think you are," Joxter continues brightly. That gleeful undercurrent has returned to his voice. "So considerate, and so handsome, even out of the suit. What a fine couple the two of you make! Though I rather miss the top hat. Did I mention how very nice you are? Why, I couldn't be happier to see you and my son together at last, even if the at last turned out to be more recent than I'd thought—"

Snufkin sort of wants to pull his hat down again, except that would mean untwining his fingers from Moomin's. He settles for a pointed look at his father. Even that doesn't quite work: Joxter just smiles innocently back at him.

Moomin's cheeks have gotten that faint, almost-invisible rosy tint that means he's blushing underneath his fur. "That's very kind of you, si—Mr. Joxter," he says, though he sounds a little strained. He looks like he very much wants to say something else, which may have something to do with the slightly manic glint that's come into Joxter's eyes.

Snufkin looks between them, brows raising. What on earth had the two of them talked about earlier to cause this? What's this about a hat? All he can think of is Moomin in one of his pappa's big top hats, and the mental image of that is enough to make him hide a laugh behind his free paw. He'll have to ask Moomin about it later, when he isn't eyeballing Joxter in some kind of strange attempt at silent communication.

Or, he realizes suddenly, he could ask Joxter. It's true that it's a more personal question than he normally would ask; they usually stick to safer topics. Adventures and places and people who aren't either of them, things that can be discussed without causing any awkward waves in the emotional ocean that they're trying to ford. But they've already managed to talk about Moomin, normally another subject that Snufkin tends to avoid, without any of the…whatever it is he'd been afraid of. And Joxter seems like he's in an unusually forthcoming mood, this afternoon-turned-evening.

If he's feeling especially brave, he might ask what Joxter had been starting to say before Moomin interrupted them.

He might even tell him what he'd been about to say.

That can all come later. Right now Moomin is looking back at him and saying, "I've come to ask if you'd like to have dinner with us at the house tonight, Snufkin. Mamma's making that soup you like, and there's pancakes for dessert, and Pappa's got some good cider that he says will go to waste if we don't have it tonight. Please say you'll come?"

Snufkin glances over at his fishing bucket, with a single half-prepped fish that's all he has to show for today's work. It's nothing that won't keep another night, but he gives it a good moment of thought anyway just on principle. It doesn't do to become too reliant on Moominmamma's dinners.

…Though it has been a while. Perhaps he's overdue. It doesn't do to pass up a chance to compliment Moominmamma on her soup, either.

"I suppose we can't let the cider be wasted," he murmurs, and is rewarded with seeing Moomin's eyes crinkle back up into a smile.

"Great! That's great, Snufkin, I'll tell Mamma that you'll be up later. Ah, right!" He looks back over at Joxter. "Pappa said that if I saw you again, Mr. Joxter, I was to tell you that you are absolutely forbidden from joining us, that he is most certainly not looking forward to catching up with you, and he shall be locking the doors promptly at seven to make sure that you don't intrude on our otherwise pleasant evening."

Joxter's brows raise. "Does he miss me that much? You may tell your father, little Moomin, that I'll show up or not show up as I please, especially if he insists on being so dratted unsubtle about it."

His tail, back to its regular flatness now, curls like a contented snake, which says far more than his actual words do; he looks positively touched. Snufkin gives a very slight nod when Moomin glances over. If Joxter sees, he doesn't say anything—though Snufkin suspects that he'll be showing up at eight just to make a point. (He also suspects that Moominpappa may have planned it that way.)

Snufkin gets a squeeze of the paw and one more almost-kiss before Moomin remembers, again, that he has to go tell Mamma to expect two more for dinner. Despite the evening chill settling in the air, he feels nothing but warm, watching Moomin's fluffy white back as he races back up the hill towards the house.

He really is a very splendid Moomin.

It's as he's turning back, thinking of wrapping the fish before he follows Moomin up, that he sees that Joxter has stood up. He freezes when Snufkin catches his eye, as if he'd meant to slip away while Snufkin was distracted with staring moonily after Moomin.

(Which is normal Joxter behavior. If Snufkin is bad at goodbyes, then he's even worse. Sometimes, when it's clear that a visit has run its course, Snufkin will deliberately turn away and rummage around in his bag for a while just so Joxter has a chance to leave without either of them having to say anything about it.

So it's a bit weird that this time, it stings.)

"Oh," Snufkin says, before he can stop himself. He manages to swallow back are you leaving already?, as if he were a younger Moomin speaking to himself at the end of autumn. It doesn't matter anyway. He didn't need to say the words, when that one plaintive syllable says them all on its own.

To his surprise, Joxter looks almost guilty. "Thought that—perhaps you'd like to go after your friend," he says. He waves a paw in the direction that Moomin ran off in, in case Snufkin's forgotten that the troll will be waiting for him.

"…Oh." This one comes out less embarrassingly, but Snufkin feels himself reddening anyway. "Need to, ah, pack up my fish."

Now it's Joxter's turn to let out an, "Oh." With that, Snufkin expects him to turn and slink off, but all he does is stand there and stare back at him.

Maybe he's waiting for Snufkin to look away again. It would be the courteous thing to do; he'll see Joxter again at dinner, after all—along with the Moomins, and likely Little My and Snorkmaiden and Sniff as well, if half the valley hasn't managed to get invited by this point—but obviously he's done with Snufkin now, and wants to leave.

Except he's just standing there, and staring, and it almost looks like he…doesn't, not really.

Instead of looking away, Snufkin takes a deep breath. "You could…" he starts, uncertainly. "…You could stay a bit longer, if you wanted to. I wasn't thinking of going up to Moominhouse until later, and the company would be…nice."

Joxter says nothing for what feels like a very long time. He just stares at Snufkin, eyes wide and dark, looking as uncertain as Snufkin feels himself. His tail lashes against the back of his knees.

Then, still not saying anything, he sits back down. Or falls, maybe. It's sort of a boneless crumple, like the strings holding him up have abruptly been cut. It's actually impressive that he manages not to knock the ash from his pipe all over himself.

"…Might as well finish my light," he says, eventually, as if this were what he'd meant to do all along. It might be more convincing, if he hadn't waited half a minute to say it. "Bit of a walk back to my tree anyway. No reason to make it before I decide whether or not I'll be intruding on the Moomins tonight."

Snufkin's chest gets that hot-coffee, Moomin-hug feeling again. He really does need to deal with that fish—it's not going to last much longer in the bucket—but he sits down too, almost as abruptly as Joxter had.

Rather than say anything, as if he could think of anything to say anyway, he reaches into his cloak pocket for his own pipe and tobacco pouch. Equally wordless, Joxter produces a match from one of his various pockets and, once Snufkin's bowl is filled, offers him a light.

It's as he's tamping the tobacco down again after the first char that Joxter speaks again. "Besides," he starts. If his voice is awkward, his lopsided smile makes up for it. "I had something I'd been in the middle of telling you, hadn't I?"

Snufkin blinks at him. Then he smiles back, just as lopsided. "Suppose so."

The sun is all but set now. The sky is deepening into velvety blue-black, stars beginning to twinkle through the haze of smoke drifting upwards. Faint golden points of light spill from the windows of Moominhouse up on the hill; down here, the angles of Joxter's face are softened into purple shadows, blending into darkness as he begins to speak again.

The summer air is thick and cozy, and the hot core in his chest is spreading down to the tips of his fingers, and Snufkin—thinking of soup and Moomin and things his father has said to him, and is saying to him now, instead of things he had worried he might say—feels very, very warm.