Work Text:
They crept upon him at times, the pains; always inconvenient, sometimes half-expected, but not always. If he held his elbows in a certain position for too long while fishing or playing his mouth organ, or leaned on his left arm too long, or spent too much time working his right wrist - it'd start with a tingling, a sensation that something was fundamentally wrong, and then, suddenly, it would overwhelm him.
Embarrassing as it was to admit it, the pains sometimes grew so overwhelming that Snufkin couldn't help but cry, in pain or frustration with himself and his body or both. After all, it wasn't like he could just stop fishing, or playing harmonica, or leaning on his arm. He tried bracing it to make it stop; bracing his elbow straight out, bracing it bent, letting it free of his brace because everything he tried only seemed to make things hurt worse. Eventually, when the pain had grown severe enough to flare up every night, the Moomins wrangled him into seeing a doctor - an effort born from both their care for him and Moomin’s own worries. The doctor, in his opinion, did very little to actually help, just saying that he'd probably pinched a nerve and needed to relax the arm - right before prescribing pain medications that were technically meant to relax the muscles more than soothe nerves.
Still, perhaps the doctor was better than Snufkin would ever acknowledge, because this medicine had helped more than any other pain medicines he'd tried. Every night, as the pain grew too much to bear, he'd take a pill, and slowly it would ebb away - not completely, but at least enough that he wouldn't cry about it. It probably helped that, perhaps emboldened both by their success in dragging him to a doctor and the doctor's specific orders to relax the arm, the Moomins started helping him more in their day to day lives. Moomin would come out to fish for him, telling him to lie back while he did - a reversal of their usual roles. Moominmamma invited him around every mealtime to share their food, but always let him take his meal out to the veranda so that he would neither feel overcrowded nor lean too heavily on his aching elbow. Moominpappa came around every so often with extra wood for his campfire.
And so, eventually, the pain in his elbow eased away until Snufkin almost forgot what it felt like. He knew it would be back though, in some way or another; the pains always were. Perhaps he'd fish until his wrist was sore and clicking next, and he would have to brace it straight to stop himself from overworking it.
The arm pains were always bad, and always inconvenient - but also, strangely tolerable. If he put his mind to it, he could work through the pain, or at least find a way to switch tasks to the arm that was not pained. Even if he just had to curl around his arm and whine about how it hurt some nights, he always knew he could cope with it.
The leg pain, however, was a different story.
It was always the right leg, though Snufkin never knew why. All sorts of theories about it ran through his head: that one leg was simply just a little bit longer than the other; that his paws were always facing inwards a little too far; that it was this leg in particular that he sat on, or stuck in odd angles the most. After his parents had been found, he'd wondered if it was just a result of a mumrik and mymble offspring, for mumriks stood on their paws alone while mymbles used their whole foot - the mix of the two could be why pain occasionally flaired through his lower leg.
None of these theories could be proven, though - and when the pain flairs up again one late autumn day in Moominvalley, the doctor is already busy between patients and plans for hibernation. Snufkin pulls the half-buried pill bottle from his bag, and decides to use the remaining medicine to ease this pain. No need to bother the doctor about it. He spends the rest of autumn with Moomin, traveling the valley with his friend one last time before his annual winter departure. After all, Snufkin hadn't hibernated since his first year in the valley.
Sometimes on these trips, he thought about telling Moomin the one other winter he had hibernated, before their first meeting. He thinks that he wouldn't mind unravelling that story and putting it to rest. He could spin it so that he sounded all the more like the wise wanderer who could withstand anything the wilds had to throw at him, and not a scared preteen with a shooting pain in his leg that left traversing snowy woodland paths out of the question. He doesn't need to tell that he slept with the hope that the pain would be gone come spring. He wouldn't need to tell that it wasn't, and how it would take several months for the pain to truly leave him. He had forgotten how it felt, a while after it left him. All he remembered was that it had hurt, and that it had been so nice to run about and bounce from foot to foot again when something exciting happened, like two strangers approaching his tent on a raft.
But then, if he told Moomin that story, it might have made him worry instead. Snufkin can't have that.
The first, light dusting of snow begins before autumn truly ends. Snufkin stays in or near Moominhouse the entire night; he refuses to admit that he's not equipped for this weather right now, and passes it off as wanting to spend even more time with Moomin before his departure. When the sun has set, and his friend's parents are safely tucked away in their bed, Moomin confronts him.
“You should leave tomorrow, I think.”
Snufkin scoffs at the notion. “Tomorrow? Autumn isn't over yet, Moomin. You know that I won't leave you until you start to hibernate, so you won't have to miss me too much.”
Moomin shakes his head vehemently. “Tomorrow,” he repeats, firmer. “Snufkin, if it keeps snowing like this, you won't be able to make it over the Lonely Mountains passage before it's snowed over.”
“I can make it,” Snufkin says, arms folding over his chest with a huff. “I've made it before, when the snows started early.”
Moomin looks at him for a very long time, saying nothing. “Even if you're having a flair up in your leg?”
It's Snufkin’s turn to fall silent now, dumbstruck over how Moomin had known. He'd taken his medicine when he needed it, he'd never complained once about it, he had been doing so well at keeping up with Moomin on their adventures-
Moomin sighs. “You kept lagging behind me,” he explains. “Even when you shouldn't, or I know the road is easy for you. You say you get lost in your thoughts, but you don't usually get so lost that you start to trail behind. And you kept making tiny squeaks about it when you thought I couldn't hear. You know you can just tell me when you're in pain, right?”
The tips of his ears turn red, and even Snufkin hadn't been aware that he'd been making noise about it - but he turns it around quickly into questioning. “If you knew even without me saying anything, then why didn't you try to stop me, make me rest?”
“To spare your pride,” Moomin begins, and Snufkin’s eyes widen slightly in horror as he realizes that the troll is counting off his fingers, that he has a numbered list of reasons. “Because I assumed you knew your body best, and would know when you needed a break. Because stopping you from doing anything you want to do is nearly impossible, and trying would just end with you getting cross with me about it. And I did try to make sure we took more breaks than usual, just in case you needed them but couldn't or didn't want to ask. I thought you'd find it easier to accept if I was the one asking for them.”
To Snufkin’s rising horror, he realizes Moomin is right, that they had taken more breaks than usual on these trips. He had just assumed Moomin wanted to spend more quiet time together, just in each other's presence and taking in the scenery.
“Oh,” he says, very quietly. Moomin stares evenly at him.
“So, tomorrow - tomorrow you head out early, so if you need extra breaks or resting time, or if you're going slower, you'll still make it.”
Snufkin shakes his head. “I won't leave you early,” he protests, unable to stop the rising emotion in his voice. “You know that, Moomin. I don't like to see you so sad when I leave.”
“I'll be sad even worse if something happens to you, because you left too late,” Moomin points out. Snufkin gapes at him, mouth opening and closing several times like an undignified fish. He can't figure out a response to that.
“Nothing will happen,” he says, finally. “I'm a wanderer and a vagabond, Moomin. I have been all my life. Pain or no, snow or rain or sun, I'll be able to make it.”
Moomin drops the subject, after that, but it's clear from the look in his eyes that he doesn't quite have his usual amount of faith in Snufkin.
Still, Snufkin stays. He stays the whole rest of the week, dividing his time between indoors and out, the soft dusty snow and the warmth of the stovelike Moominhouse. He continues making excuses about spending time with Moomin, and pretends not to notice the soft and knowing looks Moominmamma and Moominpappa share over how most of that time is “sleeping in the same bed” time.
If neither he nor Moomin acknowledge it, it's not real, after all.
Eventually, the trolls do sleep, and Moomin's last words to him are a very tired good luck. His eyes are soft and sad, brows creasing together as he says it. Snufkin plays him a song on mouth organ to soothe him to sleep, a last refrain to this year's spring song. When the song is done, Moomin seems asleep, and so Snufkin leaves.
It's a cold and lonely road to the mountains. All the other creatures of the valley are either sleeping already, or tucked away someplace that Snufkin isn't. Snow crunches beneath his boots; it's already deeper than he'd have liked. His coat is soft, and usually warm enough, but this weather is too cold, and he shivers incessantly. It was only until the mountain passage, he reminded himself. Past that, it'd be warmer, and grow steadily moreso, until he reached places where he needn't worry about the snow or cold of winter. His tail lashes behind him at the thought, and he presses on, trying to ignore the tiny, tingling sensation of pain shooting up his leg with every step.
It only grows worse. The tingling turns into something more solid, until every pawstep feels like stepping on a knife. The pain begins to linger, even when he's not moving his leg, or putting weight on it; he can feel it even as he leans on his other leg while he finally sets down his pack to rummage around and find the pain medicine. He finds the bottle. He also finds, to his dismay, that it is empty.
A feeling akin to despair wells up in his chest, and he paces on his aching leg to let it out, one paw tugging at his hair. Eventually, he sits down next to his pack, puts his chin on his hands, and considers what to do next.
He's not prepared to hibernate. He hasn't eaten enough for it, and besides - his tent, his clothes, nothing is fit to protect him against the frigid chill of winter. The only thing that does is going south.
His leg is in pain. He can't do anything about that. If he stays here, he thinks, the cold will make it worse. The cold, along with all this walking, had to be why it's as bad as it is now. Once he's over the mountains, he can rest it longer. For now, he has to get it out from the cold.
With this thought in mind, he fishes his blanket from his pack, slings it over his shoulders, and continues on his way.
By the time night falls, and he needs to set up camp, he's not where he'd like to be, this time of year. Nor is he the second night. Not even sleep does much to ease the pain, now, and the third day, he trudges to the mountain in snow deep enough for his whole boot to sink into, his leg protesting every step of the way.
It snows that day, too. It snowed every day, really, still nothing more than a light dusting, but even a light dusting built up over time. By the time he reaches the mountains, the passage is, indeed, snowed in.
If this had been last year, he would have laughed. He would have clambered over the snow, or dug his way through, because he was Snufkin, and nothing kept him chained or imprisoned.
This year, though, his leg hurts. Even standing with his weight off it, he can feel a vague tingle of pain working through the paw.
Much as he's loathe to admit it, Moomin had been right. He won't make it over the mountains. Not like this.
He finds the nearest stump, and sits down on it. Claws of panic and anxiety knead into his stomach, but most of him just feels - tired. Dead. He is trapped in the valley for the winter. He is not prepared to be trapped in the valley for winter. His rations can't hold him over, his clothes and tent aren't meant for weather so cold that it snows, and he has no means to replace them. Unable to get to the other side of the mountains, he'll eventually freeze from lack of a place to go - and then Moomin will have been right. He should have left earlier. Trying as he had for so long to avoid making Moomin any sadder than he had to be will, in the end, just end up backfiring in his face.
...Moomin.
The thought strikes him, and he's back on his feet as quickly as they'll let him be. He heads off immediately, taking as few breaks as he can manage. He doesn't make it back to his first campsite the first night. The second, he wonders if he'll even make it to Moominhouse. Everything is so cold, and his leg hurts, and he wants to sleep. He barely sleeps that night at all, shivering in his tent and under his blanket, for fear that if he does sleep he will not wake.
The third night, he makes it there. The house is tall, and stove shaped, and though its occupants sleep, Snufkin finds when he steps inside that it is warm. He's grateful for that warmth, and he spends the first ten minutes there simply soaking it in, letting his snow-covered clothes drop to the ground beside him and yanking off his boots. The next thing he does is limp to the pantries and start foraging, searching for the surplus food Moominmamma had stored away in fall so that it wouldn't be missed come spring. He finds a jar of jelly, and takes more than a few spoonfuls of that. He washes up carefully after himself, returning both jelly jar and the spoon he'd used to eat it to their rightful places once clean.
The next step is to sleep. He shakes out his coat and scarf outside so he can take those upstairs with him, even if he doesn't plan to out them back on until they've dried properly - he feels strange without them nearby at all, and he'll definitely be waking again before spring to eat. His hat is left on the rack by the door.
Then, up he goes, creaking up the steps to Moomin's room. His leg aches with every step, but it's no worse than it's been the past few days, and besides, he'll soon be able to rest it for a long while. Distantly, part of him worries that he'll wake the Moominparents with his tramping and creaking, but in the end he's too sore to bother muffling himself, and the door to their bedroom doesn't open anyway.
After what feels like an eternity, he finally makes it to Moomin's room. He enters, closing the door quietly behind him, and makes his way to the troll’s bed; his coat and scarf are left discarded over the back of a chair. Moomin takes up most of the space in the bed, and he's curled on the side Snufkin likes to sleep on most, so the wanderer gives him a gentle push, trying to roll him over so they both have enough room to sleep. Just as he's about to give up and climb into bed anyway, taking the slightest sliver left to him, Moomin's eyes blink open.
“Snufkin…?” he asks, brain dull and slow with sleep. Snufkin nods. “Is it spring already…?”
Snufkin shakes his head, and attempts to push the troll over once more. “No,” he says, as Moomin takes the hint and makes room for him; he climbs into bed and tucks himself under the covers, curling until he's toasty warm. “We're not even a week into winter.”
“Then why are you back, so soon? Not that I’m complaining, of course, but-”
Realization sparks in Moomin’s eyes, and Snufkin sighs, curling tighter. He had wanted to lie, if it came down to it; he could always have used some half-truth, like apparently I just missed you too much this year or I liked it, the first year, and thought perhaps I could try it again. But Moomin seems to have already guessed the truth, and Snufkin decides it’s easier to just go with that.
“You were right when you said I should have left earlier, Moomin. By the time I reached the mountain pass, it was already snowed in. I misjudged my own limits and abilities, and I'm stuck here for it.”
“I wouldn’t say that!” cries Moomin, suddenly sitting up in his bed. “You knew your own limits well enough to come back, rather than trying to climb over, and that was what I was most worried about. I'm glad you didn't try to push through anyways.”
“I did consider it, briefly,” says Snufkin weakly, but it's with a smile this time. “Thank you, Moomin. For caring. And letting me stay here.”
“Of course!” exclaims Moomin. "I wouldn't dream of turning you away. You're welcome to stay as long as you need, and if you end up taking your seasonal travel in spring instead, to make up for not being able to leave now, well. I will try not to miss you too much. You still do deserve to have your space, Snufkin."
Snufkin’s smile warms, and he sinks even further into the sheets. "Thank you for thinking that way, then. I suppose we shall see, when it comes down to it."
“Mmhm! And, just think! In spring, I bet by then you’ll have rested it enough to feel better, and if not we can get you to the doctor again, and if you need food in the meantime the pantry is always open, and when spring comes, we'll be so much closer, too!”
Snufkin laughs, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? How so, pray tell?”
“Well, we'll be spending almost the entire winter sleeping next to each other, and mamma says that sleeping together builds trust, so by the time we wake up next season, we'll be super duper trusting, even moreso than even now!”
And Snufkin laughs again, but as he settles for sleep beside Moomin, he has to admit that that's a very nice idea indeed.