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Tintin had always been young. Was still young, even now, sitting near the hearth with wrinkled hands wrapped around a mug of cocoa and reading glasses upon his nose. His book lay open upon the armrest; forgotten for the moment. Instead, Tintin stared at the wall (now blurry); the pictures and news articles and portraits that told of a life living, a life caring, a life loving. Just never quite in the right way.
He had first been too young at 10, when he had confessed to the older boy assigned to help him with his reading that he did not understand why his classmates kept sneaking to the girl’s school across the street. He had gotten a laugh and a “Just wait a while, kid. You’ll understand why soon enough.” in response.
Tintin had waited. Or, rather, he hadn’t really waited, most of the time. He was preoccupied with practicing his handwriting, reading newspapers, perfecting his spelling. He rode his red bicycle through Brussels, looking for lost children and escaped kittens, for stories. It popped up in the back of his mind, every now and then. A mild worry about being abnormal. A slight sinking feeling in his stomach.
He had been too young at 15, showing up at indicents and asking questions, pen and notebook ready. People smiled at him, didn’t take him seriously.
When he was 17, a priest asked him about licentious behaviour last Carnaval.
“I’ve… I’m not interested in that kind of thing, Father. Never have been.”
“You can be honest with me, young man. I will not judge; only God can do that, and He is ever Forgiving.”
Tintin swallowed hard. “I’m not lying. There really is no one.” It sounded weak even in Tintin’s own ears, but what else was there he could say? He left the bench, feeling small and invisible between the huge columns. He did not return to that church.
He traveled the world instead. Morocco, Scotland, the Amazon, China; wherever his latest case happened to take him. After a few successes, he started to become more well-known. He was still too young, but in this profession, he managed to turn that around in his advantage. He kept his round face clean-shaven and soft with creams, kept his little ginger tuft of hair and light blue jumper and practised his most innocent smile. Let them think him young and inexperienced; if that made people underestimate him, all the better.
He met a lot of people on his travels. Some became enemies. Many of them became friends. A few became family. Snowy literally never left his side.
But having breakfast in the kitchen with the now completely grey-haired Captain, Tintin found out he was still too young.
“You need not stick with Cuthbert and me, with us old men.” the Captain told him. Tintin stared at his plate. He knew what Archibald and Cuthbert were to each other. He was happy for them, he really was. But he himself was… well, different. “You are yet young,” the Captain continued. “We love having you around, lad, but you really don’t have to feel obligated to stay with us. We don’t want to hold you back. Go, look for your own partner. Find happiness for yourself like I did.”
“I’ve never wanted any of it,” Tintin said, looking up at the Captain gravely, urging him to understand. Tintin thinks he never entirely did, though he tried.
His colleague journalists did not keep their thoughts to themselves, either. The first time Tintin saw himself referred to as ‘Belgium’s most eligible bachelor’, he groaned and let Snowy chew on the page. When his (quite considerable) patience runs out, he calls up a local newspaper for an interview, if only for the sake of others who feel the same way as he does - there must be others, surely? He does his best to explain, carefully, friendly, even though it makes him uncomfortable. The article makes the frontpage, headlining, ‘Much-admired hero Tintin chooses to remain unattached for now’. He sighs, and just stops reading the articles. A few letters find their way to him, though, anonymous, telling him about experiences much like his own. He cries through each one of them.
His days continue to be filled with reading, traveling, writing. Adventure continues to find him wherever he goes. At night, if there’s the luxury of a bed, he curls up in it alone - tired, warm, content.
“I can’t help but notice that you’ve got a persistent fear of settling down,” his psychologist tells him. Tintin is here to discuss his fear of flying again after barely surviving a plane crash, but the conversation has turned to this, because that is all that seems to matter isn’t it, in the end. You’re just afraid. You’ll change. You’ll figure out I was right about you all along.
Even after Tintin retires, he still gets involved in the occasional squabble. Sometimes, there is just no time to put another one on the case. He sometimes thinks about what those he brings before court think of him - his greying hair, his first wrinkles. Has he finally grown old enough for this life?
Over time, his energy and strength lessen, a little. His memory isn’t as sharp anymore. He can still follow a suspect around without being seen.
Life slows down. Each new book is its own adventure.
Tintin is interrupted from his thoughts when the nurse knocks on the door for her daily check on him. Tintin proudly tells her when she asks about the photos on the wall he’s looking at; his dear friend Chang, who still writes him long letters from Shanghai. Snowy, his smart, loyal first dog. The captain, who had passed away many years ago, his love for whiskey and ships alike, his most creative curse words. The professor, adorable with his hat and umbrella, deaf, a knack for innovations and a terrible head for details. Tintin had buried him beside the Captain. There was Bianca Castafore; General Alcazar and his rabble of children; Thomson and Thompson. Other names; other photos; fond memories both recent and long ago.
No partner. No children. The absence of them fills the living room.
“You never know, mr. Tintin. My grandmother got a new date when she was already 83.” Her smile was kind. Tintin had a whole lifetime to perfect his eye-roll.
Being too young does not stop him from dying, funnily enough. But maybe it is enough to stop him from leaving earth completely - he does not have another explanation for why he is still around, unsubstantial, watching his own largely attended funeral and then reading all the articles that follow, full of his triumphs and mistakes and ridiculous speculations about his love life. Photos of him smiling at a girl, of his arms around Chang, him dancing at a ball.
He pays a visit to a particular creative journalist, and leaves him pale and shaking.
This is unexpected. But maybe not unpleasant. There are, after all, new adventures to be had. And he is definitely still young enough for those.