Work Text:
Moomintroll,
Wintertime is upon us yet again, and again I wish you a refreshing sleep. I’m not sure when I’ll return, but keep your spirits up – when you awake, you’ll still have the splendour of spring waiting at your doorstep.
You’ll find that I’ve left an attachment alongside this note. I’m sure you’ll find a good use for it through the wait. Be sure not to drop it! It’s fragile.
Snufkin
Moomintroll studied the words over and over, again and again, and one more time for good measure. These wintertime letters were one of his favourite yearly traditions, and he cherished each and every one that ended up in his paws. He clutched the little yellowed paper tightly as he lounged atop his comfortable bed, all fluffed up and ready for hibernation.
This letter was different than most, however: This letter came with a peculiar attachment. It wasn’t too unusual for Snufkin to leave him some sort of trinket in his farewell notes – some came with a pressed flower, or a funny-looking shell, or any number of other purposeless treasures. But this particular, apparently fragile attachment, which was laying an arm’s length away atop the bed, was completely different from any of those.
It was a square, brown paper sleeve spotted with light stains and bent corners, and it held a small vinyl record inside. It was quite the surprise to find it nestled away in the mailbox by the bridge, and Moomintroll was very, very excited by the thought of what exactly the disc could possibly contain. A message? A recording of his favourite song? Or something entirely unexpected?
His mind buzzed with possibilities as the disc just sat there in its sleeve, taunting him, begging him to play it and quench his curiosity. But he remained resolute, determined to wait until his family was sound asleep. Snufkin valued his privacy greatly, and so Moomintroll was sure that whatever the record held was only meant for his ears. Even if the anticipation was killing him, Moomintroll would wait – he had grown quite good at it over the years, after all.
Eventually, Mamma and Pappa said their goodnights and Little My scurried off to who-knows-where, and once a deep silence had drenched the entirety of Moominhouse, Moomintroll just couldn’t hold in his excitement anymore. So, he rose to his feet and snuck his way out into the corridor, tip-toeing past his sleeping parents’ room, slinking down the curved staircase, and slipping right past the doorway to the kitchen. There, he found Moominpappa’s old record player, shoved into a lonely corner on the floor and covered in a dusty sheet. He grabbed the bulky thing and lugged it all the way back up to his bedroom with enthusiasm. Then, he brought it over to his mess of a desk, shoved aside some old junk, and carefully plonked it onto the rightmost edge.
From there, he pulled the tantalising record from its sleeve and slotted it right into place on the turntable, his tail swishing and swaying along the wooden floor eagerly. Then, all he could do was wait.
The faint sounds of a crackling fire sputtered from the worn-out speaker, and then, after some long moments that felt more like minutes, the gentle strums of a guitar rose above and drowned out all other noises. Moomintroll’s face lit up at the sound. It was a tune! Snufkin always made the most lovely tunes.
The light strumming gave off a calm, intimate sort of sound, which was only enhanced by the old, crackly speaker transmitting it. Then, most unexpectedly, a voice came into the mix. It was very surprising, for it wasn’t often at all that Moomintroll got to hear Snufkin’s singing voice. Most of his tunes were purely instrumental, whether through his harmonica or his guitar. He was a good singer, Moomintroll decided. His voice wavered at times and he struggled to hit the high notes, but Moomintroll liked it as it was. It blended in seamlessly with the softness of the guitar, exemplifying that aura of calm that the tune seemed to exude. It certainly suited Snufkin very well.
What really surprised Moomintroll, however, was the tune’s lyrics. At first, he didn’t pay much mind to anything beyond the pleasant tones gracing his ears, but as the tune went on, something slowly dawned on him.
It was subtle, but the words seemed to insinuate all sorts of profound, funny feelings – the sort of feelings that were only ever destined to dance around the air between a pair of best friends. Snufkin’s voice sang of a melancholy and a fondness the likes of which Moomintroll had always felt very deeply, but could never properly articulate, not even in his own thoughts. And here was Snufkin, doing exactly that! His words were eloquent and poetic as if he were funnelling his train of thought through the speaker, and his delivery sounded sincere and relaxed in a way that implied no sense of rehearsal or performance.
It felt bizarre to hear such an open fondness from him. It almost felt like Moomintroll was intruding on a private moment, reserved for no-one but Snufkin and the forest around him. But it wasn’t a private moment. He wanted Moomintroll to hear it. And that felt deeply reassuring, in a way that was often very hard to feel with as fickle a friend as Snufkin.
Moomintroll stood by his bedroom window and stared out at the gentle snowfall as he listened, his chest slowly pounding with a deep affection. As he watched the tall, snow-topped pine trees swaying in the distance, he wondered where Snufkin was right then. He wondered what Snufkin was thinking, wondered if Snufkin was thinking of him in much the same way as he was thinking of Snufkin. For once, he felt as if he could answer these age-old wonderings with some level of confidence.
The tune trailed off with a final little riff, before it all ended with the shaky sound of a paw turning off the recording. Immediately, Moomintroll lunged over and restarted the song. His chest bloomed with a joyous energy as it all started over again, so much so that he could have burst from it. It was simply too much for him to stay still! Before he knew it, he was twirling and skipping around his bedroom, kicking his legs vibrantly and waving the letter around joyfully as Snufkin’s song looped again and again and again. Its gentle tones filled the room with a warmth that could melt the thickest snow, and it resonated deep in Moomintroll’s heart as he laughed and sighed and sang along to the chorus.
He rode this high for as long as his legs would allow it, but eventually, all of his prancing was bound to tucker him out. And so, he gave one big, finishing twirl and plopped down onto his bed, gazing up at the ceiling and sighing a deep, contented sigh. All sorts of thoughts whirled around in his head as he pressed Snufkin’s letter right up against his chest, but one particular thought snagged him like a stray branch.
He loves me. The thought stuck out with an unbearable clarity. He really loves me!
It felt a bit obvious when he stopped and thought about it. Of course Snufkin loved him, the two of them were best friends. But it had never felt entirely real until right then. It was always one of those things that one mustn’t say aloud, especially with such a rootless wanderer as Snufkin. Such words of affection were like a snare to him, and Moomintroll was all too cautious in his efforts to dance around such a minefield. To hear such a sentiment so clearly, in a private little tune meant only for his ears… needless to say, it made him feel unbelievably happy.
He sunk into the cushiony softness of his bed, basking in the wonderful feeling as the dozenth loop of the song came to an easy conclusion. He took this quiet moment to re-read the letter in his paws again, holding it high above his head with outstretched arms. Its words were chaste and straightforward, like they always were in these wintertime letters, but reading them now, they felt so much more meaningful, as if every word held its own secret little bit of affection. Moomintroll had always loved a good secret.
Of course, he couldn’t just lie there on his bed forever, as much as he wanted to. With a huff of exertion and some wobbly footing, he leapt up onto his feet and sauntered his way over to the lifeless record player. He took a wavering moment to run a fingertip along the grooves of the disc, slowly taking in every little evenly-spaced bump. But eventually, he brought himself to pack the disc away, leaving its now-occupied sleeve on the desktop alongside its accompanying letter.
…Something didn’t feel quite right, however. Moomintroll found himself just standing there as the moments stretched on, staring down at the two bits of paper on the desk, his fingers tapping restlessly on the wood. His chest still burned with the remnants of that bursting feeling, much calmer than before, but still far too strong to just sit with.
His gaze got caught on something right at the corner of his vision, then – an old, dusty, crumpled little book that was shoved to the side with all sorts of other clutter. It was a remnant from the time when he had endeavoured to learn how to draw. He had practiced quite a lot, but had simply ran out of inspiration after a while, and so the book was left all sad and abandoned on his desk, seemingly never to be used again.
Suddenly, he felt a very strong urge to draw something.
And so, he plonked himself down on the wooden chair, grabbed a pencil, and pulled the lonely book to the middle of the desk. Upon opening it up, he was faced with pages upon pages of nothing, an entire book plagued by the absence of inspiration. But that didn’t matter to Moomintroll right then. He flicked right back to the very beginning of the book, and brought his pencil to the page.
He drew a pointy, jagged, triangular shape. Then, a round, friendly semi-circle beneath it. Then, two shy eyes peeking out from under the triangle, and a big (though not so big by Moomin standards) triangular nose. And then finally, a nice, warm smile, stretching from cheek to cheek.
Then, he drew another. And another. And another.
This very quickly became a habit. Whenever his thoughts grew sentimental and longing, Moomintroll would pull out his old little book and draw. He would draw whatever came to his mind first, his heart commanding the strokes of his pencil just as much as his paw itself. It was remarkably comforting.
By the time the snow blanketing the valley had began to melt, he had a good few pages of Snufkins calling his book home. Some of them were crude stick figures, others had the detail of a fully finished piece. Some were close-ups of his paws, others of his face, or of his old, weathered hat. Some were of him and Moomintroll together, others were of him being one with nature. But all of them were Snufkin.
Spring had fully sprung, with the bluebirds singing their springtime songs, and Moominhouse returning to its warm and lively glory, and Little My making all sorts of rambunctious commotion somewhere in the rooms below. Moomintroll had woken with a spring in his step, his song-filled dreams bleeding into reality to put him in a truly good mood. All was as it should be – all but the long winter grass sprouting from where Snufkin’s tent should have been. At once, Moomintroll reached for the book on his desk.
And so, his habit continued. His little book went wherever he did – when he foraged for fresh ingredients with Moominmamma, and when he picked flowers with Snorkmaiden, and when he took time for himself amid the forest’s towering pines… At some point or another, pencil would be brought to paper once again, whenever something about these adventures inevitably reminded him of his best friend.
On one occasion, Little My had caught a glimpse of a particularly detailed Snufkin drawing, and hadn’t stopped teasing him about it for the rest of the day.
“I draw other things as well, I’ll have you know!” Moomintroll indignantly told her, making sure to cover up the many other pages of Snufkins resting inside the book.
“Sure you do,” Little My deadpanned, dripping with sarcasm. “And I’m taller than a pine tree.”
On another occasion, while lounging in a vast field of daisies, Snorkmaiden had seen him sketching away, and just about demanded that he draw her next.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have a muse to inspire you?” she cooed, lying back and striking a demure pose among the thin stems and bright blossoms.
Admittedly, Moomintroll was hesitant to break his routine. But he gave in eventually – Snorkmaiden could be utterly unrelenting when she wanted to be, and it was difficult for him to say no to her at the best of times.
To have a tangible reference to work off of, sitting right there in front of him… It felt very foreign. He could incorporate all sorts of little details he couldn’t have thought to include otherwise, like the particular sway of her fringe, or the faint little scratches on her anklet. The finished sketch stuck out like a stray buoy amidst a sea of vagabonds, but with all those little details, Moomintroll still thought it turned out quite nicely. He made a mental note to stick the drawing to his bedroom wall, just so it would feel like less of an outcast.
On yet another occasion, the book had gone completely missing – swiped from right under Moomintroll’s bulbous nose. He almost had a meltdown trying to find it, but after a whole day of searching, it turned out that Sniff was trying to pawn it off, along with an assortment of much less important junk.
“Sniff! You can’t just take things that aren’t yours!” Moomintroll scolded him, not even bothering to try and hide the panic in his voice. “Or sell those things to complete strangers!”
Sniff, on the other hand, seemed more annoyed than anything else. “Pff, I couldn’t sell this silly old book if I tried! Everything else flew off the shelves!” He grabbed the book, held captive amid piles of unsold clutter, and cracked it open. At once, his face lit up, as if he had made a groundbreaking discovery. “Oh, well, that explains it!” he cried out. “It’s all just drawings of Snufkin! Who in their right mind would waste their money on something like that?”
Deciding it to be useless, he tossed the book over Moomintroll’s way, who lunged for it like a ravenous animal. One would expect a shopkeep to check the contents of a book before putting it up for sale, but Moomintroll was so utterly relieved that he didn’t feel the need to point that out. He just scurried away with his tail between his legs, the book clutched tightly to his chest with a deepened protectiveness.
Life continued on like that, one little moment at a time. Soon enough, spring had blown by and summer had come and gone, with no sign of Snufkin outside of Moomintroll’s increasingly occupied book. A melancholic chill hung in the air – the sort of chill that seemed to blow through one’s very own soul – and it seemed that Moomintroll wasn’t the only one feeling it.
Before anyone could anticipate it, all of Moominhouse had grown frenzied with preparations for a spontaneous journey, at the behest of a very restless Moominpappa. Everyone in the family played their own little part in packing up the entire house, weeks ahead of when they would typically bunker down for hibernation. When would they see Moominvalley again? Moomintroll had no idea.
All he could do was rummage through his bedroom, picking out what to take with him and what to leave behind. Swimming trunks? Yes. Oddly-shaped rock he found in the woods? No. Embarrassing baby photos? Definitely no. Little sketchbook?
…He stopped everything when he reached that well-used book resting on his desk. Its cover was adorned with all sorts of weird little scratches and marks, and the edges of the pages had grown frayed and warped with use.
He could use a break from all of this packing and preparing, he thought. So, he sat himself down on that wooden chair and opened up the book for what felt like the thousandth time. He slowly, thoughtfully flicked through its crowded pages, taking in all of the Snufkins that lined each and every one.
He… really drew a lot of these.
The early drawings looked amateurish compared to the more recent ones. The proportions were all off, and some of his attempts at straight lines were far too wobbly to be considered “straight”, but there was a certain charm to their wonkiness. Looking at these old mistakes was a little embarrassing, but Moomintroll still felt a warm surge of pride when he thought of the little ways in which he had improved over the months.
He still had his fair share of weaknesses, though. A few times, he had tried to draw Snufkin playing his guitar and oh, he had never known how to draw guitars properly. They always looked wonky and disproportionate. Perhaps what he needed was another reference to work off of. There was only so far that his imagination and memories could take him, after all.
Some of the drawings were clearly scribbled in a rush, during those moments where he didn’t want Little My or Snorkmaiden to see him drawing. These Snufkins were reduced to simple triangles and circles, but they were still recognisably Snufkin. Other drawings spared no expense when it came to details, drawn in moments where Moomintroll had all the time in the world to flesh out every little detail his heart desired. And a few drawings, scattered across some pages here and there, held a distinctly… self-indulgent sort of quality to them. Moomintroll would flush and quickly turn the page whenever he got to one of those. He had certainly drawn quite the variety of Snufkins over the months, and he marvelled at how many of them brought vivid memories along with them.
…Such as the one that he had drawn during that year’s midsummer bonfire party, huddled over his book while watching the festivities from beneath the shade of a nearby tree. The Snufkin on this page had a detailed shading to it, a dark hatching running all along its form and a stark absence of shadow lighting up its face among the scratchy lines of pencil. It was as if it was watching the bright light of the bonfire as well. Just by looking at this sketch, Moomintroll could feel all those same forlorn feelings he had felt that night.
He stayed there for a few more long, thoughtful moments. Then, he continued his journey, until at last, he had reached the very end of the sketchbook. He stopped on the most recent drawing, one that was drawn as he sat on his favourite bridge and watched the sunset. It was a grand piece spanning the entire page, with a Snufkin emerging from the depths of the woods. The skyward points of the surrounding pine trees lined the darkly-shaded, moonlit sky above, and roughly-drawn trunks and branches and bushes framed the triangular silhouette as it advanced from the background.
Moomintroll admired the drawing for a while, absentmindedly running his thumb along the edge of the page, his gaze growing more and more fixated on that comforting little silhouette.
…When would he get to see it in person again?
It had been such a long time – almost an entire year, now. He almost couldn’t remember what it was like to have Snufkin close at hand, telling him grand stories by the campfire, or whisking him away for some thrilling adventure… The tender memories grew vaguer and more distant by the day, but that little silhouette on the page forwent the fogginess of time and lived on through the stroke of the pencil, ever-present and ever-near. Moomintroll’s fingers clutched tightly to the edge of the book. A desperate little part of him wanted to reach deep into the paper, grasp onto whatever he could find in there, and never let go.
But a bigger part of him knew better.
For the longest time, a terrible little fear thrived in the back of his head like a nasty weed: a fear that one day, Snufkin’s wandering nature would fully overtake him, and the valley would never see him again. It only ever seemed inevitable, and Moomintroll’s chest would ache terribly whenever he thought about it. But now, whenever that thought reared its ugly head, it would be drowned out by the gentle tones and fond words of Snufkin’s tune, the one he had left behind this time last year. It always reminded Moomintroll that no matter how distant, or frigid, or absent he could be, Snufkin cared. He cared enough to procure a record from who-knows-where just so Moomintroll would feel less alone, and just thinking about that fact always cut back that weed in his head to nothing but a stub.
His stifling grip loosened, the hard edge of the book resting gently in the palm of his paw. It was only a matter of time before the scene on the page became a reality.
He took one more long, wistful look along the drawing, and then finally, he moved on. And very promptly realised that there was only a single blank page left in the entire book.
A blank page holds an endless amount of possibilities. Moomintroll now knew that all too well – he could draw just about anything on this page, any kind of Snufkin that his heart desired. But what would be worthy enough for the very last page?
Instinctively, his gaze trailed over to Snufkin’s letter and record, sitting pristinely on the raised upper portion of the desk. At once, he knew what to do.
So, he ripped out the blank page, grabbed his trusty pencil, and began to write.
Snufkin,
If you’re reading this, then I’m currently away with my family, and haven’t made it back home in time for your return. Apologies for such spontaneity – you know how Pappa can be sometimes! I hope your travels have treated you well.
I’ve left an old, thick book beneath this letter. (Unless Sniff has snatched it behind my back!) It’s been such a long year, but I’ve passed the time by drawing in this book. Whenever I’ve found myself wanting the days to go faster, I would sit and draw whatever was on my mind. I’d say I’ve gotten quite good! I know you’re not one for things, but I hope you’ll at least take a look inside. Promise me you won’t leave it out in the rain!
Moomintroll
He read it over and over and over again, ensuring that each and every word was perfect. Then, he folded the paper in half and delicately placed it on top of his closed book of sketches.
…Of course, he couldn’t help the mighty wave of hesitation that soon smothered his heart. Was such a gesture too much? He had truly made far too many of these drawings, and the sheer adoration seeping through each and every page was enough to make anyone uncomfortable, surely. Perhaps he should rip out the self-indulgent ones, at least…
But then he remembered Snufkin’s tune again, how sincere and personal and… much it was. If Snufkin could speak the unspoken in such a way, then surely Moomintroll could do just the same.
And so, he left the book as it was, sitting there on his desk with the note resting atop it, all of his raw feelings and longings encapsulated in its pages.
“Moomintroll!” a loud, screeching voice suddenly called out from somewhere downstairs. “Hurry up, you big lump! We’ll leave without you in a minute!”
“Coming!” Moomintroll called back, clumsily rising from his seat and turning to leave the room.
But before he could take a single step further, he quickly turned back and grabbed Snufkin’s record, along with its accompanying letter. There wasn’t a chance he could leave this behind!
He held the two sleeves close to his chest for a long moment, sighing deeply and feeling the slow beat of his heart through the paper. And then, he finally left his bedroom for real, leaving his labour of love to sit and wait for its beloved vagabond’s return.
