Archive of Our Own

Muddler apologized again over his short-lived fire. He’d tried too many times to light it only for the wood to be too damp and splintered, and struck another match to no avail. Joxter seemed not to mind. He simply sat watching the snowfall and pocketed the matchbox Muddler gave up with.

"Don't worry about it," he said, grabbing a mymble boy nearby and lifting him onto his hip. "I should be going, anyway. I'm taking Snufkin to see his great aunt."

Muddler dropped a new stack of logs, which were equally as damp, and abandoned them to follow Joxter.

"Great aunt?” he asked. “The Mymble's? The dreadful one?"

"The very same."

"What are you visiting for?"

"She wants to see Snufkin. I agreed to take him so she won't visit us herself."

"Oh. Then why'd you take my matches?"

"I've run out—if I can't light my pipe, I may not make it through at all." Joxter sniffed. "You look worried. You'll be fine with Fuzzy, won't you?"

Muddler's face fell; he’d been hoping Joxter would stay another night, but he was looking too busy now. "Yes, of course!" he said anyway. "I'm sorry I couldn't do more—I meant to make you something to eat, at least."

"Don’t be sorry. Once Mymble's back with good wine, we'll give you a proper housewarming. I'll be home by dark tonight. You could visit me, though I can't promise I'll be awake for long."

"Oh, I shouldn't…you've got a full house already."

Snufkin then squirmed out of Joxter's arms, falling onto the snow with a thud; his coat was damp at the hem. "Rascal…." Joxter said, watching as he hitched his coat and ran in the other direction in a hurry. "He can't stand anyone walking for him. I should tie a string around his middle to keep up." He turned back to Muddler indifferently. "Just enjoy some time with your wife. You can visit me soon enough."

Of course, Joxter did have a growing family of his own to take care of. Though the children weren't his, Mymble was grateful for what he did to help, whether it be taking them to see their aunt or simply tying their shoes.

He tried to play the part of a father, but truly, he was worse than the Mymble. Muddler once saw him carrying four children (two in each paw) by their tails—swinging them about as he freed himself from the bramble and mumbling, "runaways". The mymble children had great fun, but parent life didn't suit Joxter well. It seemed only to extend his days until there was little time left for anything else, let alone Muddler. But if only he asked, then of course—

"What about tomorrow?" said Muddler. "Fuzzy and I will go out for more food—then we'll have something much nicer!"

"She won't mind?" Joxter took one of the matches and struck it for his pipe.

"Not at all! She'll be glad to have you visit…but you need to go to the aunt's, so I won't keep you." Regardless, he touched Joxter's shoulder lightly, just enough to keep him there.

"Yes, I should go. She'll have me by the tail if I wait any longer. Quite the old hag…" he added with a smokey chuckle.

"Hag?" said a small voice.

"Snufkin," Joxter tutted, taking off his hat. "Your auntie will throw me in the snow if she hears you say that."

"What's it mean?"

He bent down— "It means she's like an old, ugly witch." and put the hat over Snufkin. "Stay there. I'll let you walk by yourself if I can get a word with Muddler."

Snufkin waited under the hat, and Joxter turned quickly to Muddler, slipping his paws beneath his ears. "We'll make time," he said, leaning into a kiss. The handle of Muddler's pot swung around; Joxter caught it and pulled him closer in—a sight Snufkin was hardly interested to see. He simply freed himself from the hat, shook the snow from his coat, and bolted toward the woods. Begrudgingly, Joxter pulled away.

“Got to go after him," he mumbled. "Suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.”

"Yes! Tomorrow!"

Perhaps it was silly to hope, but Muddler thought if he’d convinced Joxter to stay a minute longer, and then another, they'd soon find themselves inside amongst the clutter—Muddler searching for food and Joxter waiting with his pipe. Instead, he watched as his hat pushed through the leaves and disappeared. It was the last he saw of him for a very long time.

* * *

Muddler and Fuzzy stayed in the city for quite a while, despite the troubles they ran into. They watched it become noisy, and crowded, and bleak, all while polluted clouds blocked the sun. Soon, there was nothing to do but breathe the same air, see the same sights, and fill their monotonous lives with meaningless things. It took a lot to move out of their old home, but eventually, they did. With Hodgkins' help, they built a new house in the countryside.

The walls, nicely rounded and pumpkin-like, were painted to Fuzzy's favorite shade of yellow, and the roof’s shingles matched the frame around the flowerbeds. It was always quiet, the way they liked it. The windows let in a slight breeze, blowing through the vines that wrapped the house, and a waterwheel heaved against the currents downriver.

As their second spring arrived, Muddler found himself going through old boxes in the spare room, or as he called it, “the collection room”, which was stale and dust-filled, the walls and shelves lined with boxes, and a stack of records lay across the floor, most of which were cracked from moving (Muddler bought them so many years ago that he couldn't remember the music anymore, though he remembered dancing to them not quite as horribly as his uncle and friends).

Clouds of dust flew at the opening of each box, collected after a year of neglect. Muddler figured if he hadn't missed his old things, he could bear to part with a few of them (very few, as most brought dear memories). He tossed everything too broken and unrecognizable into a waste bin that Fuzzy came by to empty.

Just then, a scrap of paper caught his eye. Wedged between two boxes, he pulled it out, seeing an envelope full of pictures. His old friends smiled at him from the top photo—Moomin on the rungs of the Oshun Oxtra, Joxter sitting on the ramp, and Hodgkins blurred from trying to run in-frame before the timer ran out. Muddler was there too, grinning, with an arm around Joxter.

The photo made him a bit queasy. Not sick, but the feeling one gets when drinking too much coffee or having too many sweets. All things considered, it was a happy photo, but he slid it back into the envelope and tossed it onto another box.

The smell of cardboard and dust became uncomfortably stronger—heightening as the sun beamed into the room. It was a burning orange, which told Muddler that he’d spent nearly the entire day there. For some time, he sat looking out the window.

Hodgkins would be arriving at dusk in the Oshun Oxtra—after months (two seasons, to be exact) since he paid his nephew a visit. He was expected to be busy as he traveled the world—meeting inventors, trading parts, improving his latest designs, and demolishing old projects, but he always returned before long. He announced himself a month ago, writing from France, and his arrival in the Oshun Oxtra was greatly welcome.

“Dear?” Fuzzy called from the doorway.

“Yes—what’s the matter?”

“The river’s rising, I think your uncle's on his way. Should I get the food ready?"

“Please! Do you mind? I want to see him sail in.”

Muddler bolted out the front door and through the garden, treading on rogue cabbages in his wake, and stumbled to the river’s edge; the water was overflowing, spreading down to the waterwheel.

Then several foghorns symphonized the distance—almost an orchestra. Hodgkins was merry like that. After years of doing what he loved, he enjoyed a touch of grandiose, and soon the ship’s bow peeked from between the trees, bright red and careening toward Muddler. It was going much too fast.

“Wait!” Muddler cried, running toward it. He flailed his arms. “The waterwheel! Slow down!" He pointed downriver where the waterwheel heaved against the rising water, unoiled axel producing a metallic shriek. He shouted until Hodgkins ran to the window and pulled the latch.

“What is it?” he called.

“Stop!”

Finally, Hodgkins saw it in the middle of the river and wrenched the emergency lever beside him. Steam rolled out of the engine. Still, it barreled on, shooting past Muddler groaning against the current. It came to a halt just a few, painful feet away from the wheel. Hodgkins dropped the anchor.

“Great booble,” he mumbled. “That wasn’t there before!” He dropped the ramp and clambered toward Muddler, tail dragging behind him which was more disheveled than ever (it began to bald in his old age and was also wet at the ends, likely from sea spray).

“Yes, it’s brand new!” Muddler replied. “Fuzzy and I built it in the fall.”

Hodgkins marveled at it, running his paw over the cleanly cut wood. “It’s remarkable," he said. "Does it generate electricity?”

“It does! We have an electric oven, heat, and lights, and we haven’t cut any trees since building it. It saves the trouble of gathering firewood."

“That sounds wonderfully useful. I know rich inventors who use electricity for everything, but of course, they still need the wood to build with—hello, Fuzzy!”

Fuzzy came from behind them, carrying a dish of baked cod with her, and greeted Hodgkins with a wave.

“Glad to see you enjoy the wheel,” she said, “The Oxtra’s looking better than ever!”

“Well, I’m glad you think so. I had her repainted recently; there was a certain stowaway—” (He gave Fuzzy a strange look) “who thought it too much trouble to ask himself aboard. He gave me quite a scare showing up in the galley, and I told him to help me finish the job. Fair, considering he ate his way through half of my food supply."

“A stowaway?” Muddler asked curiously, craning his neck to see onto the deck. “Is he still there?”

“Yes, and he’s no stranger. He’s sleeping now, but I expect you'll be surprised to see him—”

It was quite without warning. When the cabin door opened, a dark-haired someone stepped out, arms stretched above his head and smock frayed. “Anchored already?” he yawned, expecting to see Hodgkins below deck. He wavered as he circled the mast.

“Over here!” Hodgkins called.

“Joxter,” whispered Muddler. “What is he doing here?” He slid behind his uncle, but Joxter had noticed him.

As he came down the steps, he was unlike himself. His walk was slow and solemn, his features aged in a way that made him look tired, and the ends of his hair were peppered gray. He was without the fervor that Muddler always saw.

"Well, it's good to see you," he said from afar. “You look nearly the same." Somewhat cheerily, he jumped the final step and extended a paw.

Good to see me, Muddler thought. It was late to be saying so. And a handshake—possibly the coldest, most un-Joxter-like gesture Sourly, Muddler clamped down on his fingers.

“Hm," said Joxter. "Tight grip, that's new." He nodded upward. "It’s strange seeing you without that pot on your head.” His tone was absent-minded and comfortable—as though he knew Muddler still.

Muddler didn't take his absence as lightly. "The handle got caught in doorways," he explained.

“Right! I'd forgotten you wore that,” Fuzzy laughed from behind them, easing the nervous tension. "I haven’t seen it in years! It looked rather good, but he hit his head one too many times. Now—if you'd all like to come in, I'll have dinner ready for all of you."

“Sure!” said Hodgkins. “Muddler said you got up to a bit of spring cleaning—you must show me. I can't really believe he’d part with anything.” He muttered something else as Fuzzy led the way, Muddler hurrying after.

Inside, the table was set with an array of yellow and white dishes, all fixed with baked cod, bread rolls, butter tarts, boysenberries, and cheese. Despite Joxter arriving unannounced, there was plenty to go around.

“Right,” Fuzzy said, satisfied. “Let’s catch up, shall we?”

* * *

Despite Fuzzy's knack for small talk, dinner was quiet. Muddler had kept his eyes on his plate since he came inside, and he ignored Fuzzy's attempts to save the conversation. He was worried, even determined, not to let anything slip—as if a moment of honesty would awaken something too buried to see.

“Where were you staying before you found Hodgkins?” Fuzzy asked Joxter, keeping an air of absentmindedness.

"Most everywhere," he said shortly. "I never properly settled down; not since I saw you last, anyway."

"Funny how that happens," said Fuzzy. Distracted, she spooned an excessive amount of berries onto Muddler's plate rather than her own. "I suppose some are always called to adventure. It's hard to keep that kind tied down."

"I'm not sure I would have called it adventure."

"He looked worse for wear when I saw him!" Hodgkins pitched in. "He hasn't been under a roof for some time, and I barely convinced him to wash before coming."

"I had a tent until I camped near a village," Joxter replied. "Someone took off with it."

"That's unfortunate…"

Joxter chuckled and leaned back in his chair. "Sleeping outside isn't so bad—not with a good tree. I wouldn't have been bothered, but my tobacco was taken along with it."

"You, without tobacco?" Muddler sniffed.

"Like you without your hat."

They fell silent and listened to the subtle orchestra of crickets as it rose, and the sun dipped behind the trees. Joxter was stiff against his chair, ears pricked in unnatural anticipation, and Muddler could tell he didn’t feel at home.

"How's your son?" Fuzzy asked, leaving the table to check on their dessert.

"Snufkin? I didn’t know you'd heard of him."

"I met him, if you remember! And saved photos of all of us—though I suppose you didn't know he was your son at the time.”

“How do you know?”

"My mother," she said simply. "She's friends with the Mymble's aunt. Said they spoke of 'the Joxter's son', and I knew that must be Snufkin."

Joxter looked slightly paler as he wiped his paws on his lap. "I haven't heard from him in a while."

So, he'd been as neglectful to his family as he had been to Muddler—at least to some degree. This seemed not to bother anyone else. Even Fuzzy, busy with the dish of pudding in the oven, didn’t say a word.

"I'm surprised you never had any children," said Joxter. "You'd make a fine mother."

At that, the room fell quickly into silence. Everyone looked at each other—Fuzzy at Hodgkins and Joxter at Muddler—until Muddler began choking on his food.

Calmly, Fuzzy asked, "Would you please excuse us?" and led him down the hall whilst he coughed. She pushed him into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Muddler threw his weight against the dresser. "Dear, can you stop choking?"

"He…said—" sputtered Muddler.

"He said I would have made a good mother! He didn't mean anything else by it." Fuzzy paused for a moment to pat Muddler on the back, though it did nothing to help. "He didn't know about Sniff," she added.

"He would have known if he were there!"

"I'm sure he wanted to have been. You haven't asked him a thing, you know! Sometimes things take one by surprise, and for all you know, he had a good reason to go."

"After all this time?" cried Muddler. "Who knows where he's been? You didn't seem bothered to let him in, and he's acted like nothing's wrong!"

"I knew he was coming," Fuzzy admitted. "Hodgkins told me in a letter."

That certainly quieted Muddler.

"He knew Joxter's an old flame of yours," she continued. "He wanted to be sure I was all right with him coming."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"Yes, because you'd act like this until the moment he arrived. I love you, dear, but you're better off without the anticipation. And I didn't say yes for nothing—I hoped you two would talk."

"He hasn't said another word to me!"

"Take some time alone, then. With Hodgkins and I around, he's likely—"

"Alone?!" cried Muddler. He looked quickly over his shoulder before lowering his voice. "We can't be alone! We can't, else I could—I shouldn't…"

"Muddler." Fuzzy took his paws and held them to her chest. "Just talk to him and see what happens."

Without another word, they went back to the kitchen. Hodgkins and Joxter were in quiet conversation, which stopped immediately, and sulkily, Muddler sat facing the stove.

"Thank you," Joxter said quickly, standing up. "For dinner—best I've had in a while." He set his napkin down and left what was left on his plate." If you don't mind, I should go. It's been a long day.”

"Where are you going?" asked Fuzzy.

"With me!" said Hodgkins. "I told Joxter he could stay in the Oxtra for the night, and I'll leave by morning. As for tomorrow, I think he'd rather stay with you than go to my convention if that's all right."

"That's no problem," said Fuzzy. "If he's comfortable enough in trees, he shouldn't mind our sofa."

"Take care, then," Hodgkins smiled. "I'll see you before too long."

* * *

The next morning, Muddler opened the door to Joxter, who was sleeping on the bottom step of the porch—his legs sprawled over the grass and hat beside him. He was a quiet sleeper, and a sound one, too.

Muddler passed him, walking through the garden to pick up the cabbages he'd stepped on the day before. They were solid and bitter, weeks overripe. The last cabbage on the row, oddly enough, already had bite marks along the edges.

“No good, are they?” said Joxter from behind. He rose from the steps and put on his hat as if he’d been awake the entire time.

"Joxter!”

“Or maybe that isn’t fair to say if I dislike them in any case.”

“Did you sleep out here?”

“Only for a bit." Joxter scratched his ear as if it were nothing. "Hodgkins left early and I never stay awake for long in the mornings.”

Muddler passed him, stepping over the carrots, beets, and potatoes, and said, “Well, come inside if you'd like. I suppose you’re quite hungry if you’ve started eating cabbages.”

Opening the door, he offered the sofa and Joxter sat, comfortable but in odd juxtaposition to the decor. Muddler spotted the pot of coffee on the stove, ready-made.

“Coffee,” he said, rather than asking. He knew Joxter would want it and poured him a large thimble-full. Then the two looked at each other, not quite sure what to do.

Gently, Fuzzy could be heard humming in the next room as she put on a floral perfume (Muddler recognized it as the one she wore to visit her mother) and her purse was missing from the hook next to the door. She’d been planning to see her mother soon, yes, but surely not at a time like this. After all, she'd promised to be there for Muddler.

Joxter waited, blank-faced and relaxed against the sofa cushions. He seemed lost in his coffee, so Muddler said apologetically: “Excuse me!” and darted to the next room.

Fuzzy looked as though she’d been waiting for him. “Is Joxter here?” she asked. She corked the perfume bottle and slid it against the back of the dresser.

“You’re leaving!” cried Muddler.

“Of course, I’m going to see my mother. I promised to ages ago, and she's only getting older. I trust you’ll take care of your meals until I’m back?”

“But—you can’t go! I told you this," he sulked. "You know I shouldn’t be alone with him!”

“You certainly should! As I said, Muddler, I wanted you to work things out. You should get to know him again, seeing as he's come all this way."

"What if—" said Muddler anxiously. "Well, surely you remember how we were. Things are different now, as they're supposed to be!"

“What things, exactly?”

“I’m with you now! Married—and I love you dearly—”

“I was never the only one,” Fuzzy softened. "There’s no need to forget it. So what if you get to liking Joxter again?"

“That’s the problem!” Muddler rocked against his heels. “I don't want to like him—those sorts of feelings are supposed to be gone! It took me so long to stop missing him, and now he’s back, I don’t know that they are! I wish you’d stay and remind me, I need you here…”

Fuzzy reached up and kissed him on the forehead, quieting him as she always did. “I know, dear. You're daft, sometimes. Why do you think I’m leaving? If you get to liking Joxter again, it’s all right."

“It is?”

"Of course it is; you had both of us before, didn't you?"

Muddler blinked slowly, tears pricking his eyes. He was nervous and thankful, even relieved, but still unsure.

"He never kept you from me," Fuzzy added. “And if you love me too, there’s nothing to lose. Now, really, I must see my mother. I’ll be back tomorrow if she doesn't keep me.”

“I love you.” Muddler took her by surprise, pulling her in for a proper kiss and throwing his arms around her neck as he said it again.

“See?” she giggled. Her ears were pinned back cheerfully and she took her purse off the dresser. “You've got enough to go around. I love you, and please be nice while I’m gone. I'd rather not come back to pick up the pieces.” Her paw brushed Muddler's before she left.

* * *

Muddler thought long about the talk they'd had. It wasn't enough to instill confidence within him, but it at least rid him of guilt. Still, he didn't want to get his hopes up. Joxter had likely married Mymble...and if anyone could let an old flame die out, it was him.

Muddler hardly gave Joxter the chance to speak as he made his breakfast, rushing from stove to table. By the time it was ready, he was halfway out the door. "You'll have to excuse me again," he said urgently. "There's something I need to take care of. You can help yourself to anything." With that, he stepped into the chilly air and snapped the door shut behind him.

It was bright outside. The sun glared over the woods and reflected dancing specs of light on the river. The grass, overgrown and damp with frost, flicked his ankles as he wove through the trees.

They were tall and spiny, needles barely high enough for him to pass without brushing his head. They interwove and shaded the forest floor, creating a cave-like canopy above, and everything was moving beneath it. Flecks of light revealed ants crossing sodden leaves, and birds fluttered to the clear spaces on the ground.

When he and Joxter were younger, they'd take walks like these to keep busy, sometimes scouting for seashells or feeding birds. Naturally, they were responsible for the flock of seagulls that overtook the Oshun Oxtra, hardly to Hodgkins' amusement. He was adamant to make them work after that.

He once sent them to the engine room, telling them only to tighten the bolts on the back panel. And perhaps they could have, as Joxter knew his way around the engine, but it was the waves' fault for pushing them together.

Soon, Joxter's paw caught Muddler's waist and pinned him to the side, pressing the wall as the waves knocked them together. He muttered something as he smiled. Muddler wrapped his arms around him and they kissed, keeping balance as the waves rolled beneath them. It didn't last long before they both fell, sprawling out over the planks and laughing. Upside down, they saw Hodgkins, looking perplexed.

Before then, Hodgkins hadn't a clue they'd been "running around together", as he put it; and though he wasn't surprised, he was more concerned than deemed necessary. He was too worried about the way Joxter was with his partners—in one day and out the next. However, Joxter did nothing of the sort with Muddler. Bored of him was the last thing he could have been.

When Joxter disappeared, Muddler realized that he’d had everything. Every day was new…and though he wasn't as brave or adventurous as Joxter, they never tired from each other. Their moments spent together were timeless. It was the midnight talks, the naps in Joxter's fruit tree, the treks alone, and rainy days inside that bound them together. Some time ago, they truly knew everything about each other.

Muddler slid further down the trunk he sat by and crossed his legs, pressing his back to the ground. Already, he was fond of the forest. He wished Joxter was with him now.

The memories hurt as much as they healed, and still, hope flickered at the thought of his return. He wasn't gone anymore—that was something to get used to.

For Muddler, it became routine to push everything down and spare himself the pain, because if he thought of something else, he wouldn't dwell on regret. He blamed himself for the longest time. After all, he fell in love with Fuzzy, and Joxter with Mymble.

Everything seemed all right between them—they carried on as they had before, if only less regularly, but nothing else had changed. They were still in love. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out where he'd gone wrong.

He asked around for Joxter, worried he'd run into trouble. He wanted to know that he was safe, and vague news of his well-being would be enough. However, if Joxter left of his own accord, that meant he wouldn't want to be found. Soon, Muddler stopped looking altogether.

It was a hard few months in the beginning. It would have been unbearable without Fuzzy, but she managed for the both of them—there through the blue and gray. Once Muddler was quite happy with his life, or at least enough that he held himself together, the news came that they were having a son.

They named him Sniff, and he was an earnest fellow—always curious and looking to collect things. In the time they knew him, he loved what was shiny and hated only what tasted bad. They thought he'd go after the sun or the stars if he took a liking to them.

They took him out to the forest one day—not unlike the one Muddler sat in now, except it was filled with rocks and bramble and thicket. There was a moment where he was lost in thought—Fuzzy too—and neither was quite sure which way they'd been. The forest seemed to grow emptier.

In a moment's time, Sniff was lost. He disappeared somewhere in the brush without a sound, leaving Muddler and Fuzzy tearing through the woods searching for him, calling his name, and sending for help to everyone they knew. Upon their return, the whole town had known they’d lost their son. They were quicker to ostracize than help.

After years of looking and waiting and grieving, they couldn't stand living in the same place anymore. They gave up for their own good. That, for a while, made them feel even worse—though it was clear Sniff wasn't coming back. All alone, they feared the worst of him.

That was the greatest blow to Muddler—failing to be a father. If it weren't for Fuzzy, he wouldn't have kept himself together. When he found himself spiraling, she showed him the ground. They found solace in each other, and joy in their collections.

In his spring cleaning throughout the week, Muddler found Sniff's memorial—a collage of old photos, buttons, and an array of objects he used to play with (corks, bottle caps, pens, and thimbles).

He cried over it, both dearly and distraught until Fuzzy came to his rescue. They had a long talk about it—both tearful, some smiling, and a lot of uncertainty in-between. In the end, they decided to put it over the fireplace in their bedroom, across from where they slept. Sometimes it made them happy to see it, other times mournful, but they kept it regardless. They owed it to Sniff to remember him.

Soon orange light fell over the trees, and Muddler began the trip home. He’d spent the whole day thinking and remembering—things he needed more than anything, but could never do. Now, Joxter wasn’t a memory. He was here, waiting alone, and Muddler had wasted the day on himself.

He returned at last to the house, throwing the door open.

"Joxter!" he called toward the sofa, which was now empty. "Joxter?"

He wasn't anywhere in the den, nor the kitchen from what Muddler could see. Had he gone? He tore through the house, searching the bedroom, the closet, and knocking on the washroom door. He called for Joxter several more times without a sign of him.

Had he driven him away so soon? It hurt so badly to be back where he was before—to be taken away in so little time that it could have been a dream. But then something rapped on the window.

Muddler shot up, ears swinging as he ran toward it and slammed his palms into the frame. A dark paw holding a half-eaten carrot reached up from the garden and pulled the shutter open. Blue eyes glinted in the bedroom light.

"Joxter!" Muddler cried.

Joxter hoisted himself through the window. "Worried?" he asked indifferently, knowing the answer. "I haven't been out for long. You were gone for a while."

A while.

"I wouldn't go on about what's a while," Muddler sniffed, nose upturned. He noticed the carrot, which was full of shallow bite marks. "Are you eating that?"

He seemed to be, though Muddler couldn’t imagine him liking it much.

"I thought it couldn't be worse than cabbage." Joxter set it on the dresser as he passed. "I was wrong."

Still a dreadful houseguest, Muddler thought mirthfully. At least he meant well.

Once in the kitchen, Muddler turned the stove on and set a pot on the burners.

"I can cook beans," he said, "and there's bread somewhere. I think I can make something decent."

The burner clicked as he turned it and he poured the dry beans into water. Joxter hopped onto the counter in front of him.

“It was good of your wife to let me stay,” he said. “And she gave me this before she left.” He pulled a small drawstring pouch from his pocket, which was frayed and velvet-colored. It smelled of hay and held a rather strong assortment of tobacco leaves.

“Goodness, I thought she got rid of that!”

“Well, it seems not.” Joxter took a pinch of the leaves and thumbed them into his pipe. “Did you smoke?”

“No! Well—only once. I thought I’d understand why you and the others liked it so much, but really, it’s awful.”

Joxter chuckled and took another pinch. “I'm not surprised. These are ligero. By themselves, very bitter. Do you have a light?"

“I think so.” Muddler reached for the drawer beside Joxter and found a matchbox. "Will you smoke outside, please? It's hard to air out the room."

"All right." Joxter slid off the counter and made his way to the door. "Join me?"

"Yes, uh—in a minute! I'll come with the food. Excuse me."

Strangely, Muddler took note of Joxter's walk—slow and calculated where he’d once been confident and relaxed. He prowled without menace like a well-fed cat. Perhaps it was age catching up with him.

Meanwhile, the beans were heating painfully slow. They bubbled and steamed, fogging up the glass on the overhead cabinets.

If Muddler had any wine left, he’d have shared it with Joxter, seeing as it made him a better talker. Now, their meal would be quiet at best. He shuffled through bottles in the pantry, none of which were drinkable: cooking oil, lemon juice, cough syrup (which he’d put there by mistake), olive juice, vinegar, tomato paste, and—raspberry juice! There was half a bottle of it, still fresh-smelling when he removed the cork.

He’d brought it out the last time Fuzzy’s mother visited, seeing as she didn’t drink, and simply forgot to have the rest. Joxter would probably like it—Muddler was sure he remembered him drinking it once after the Oxtra ran out of wine.

When the beans looked soft enough to eat, he spooned two bowls full. “Here you are,” he said, bringing it to Joxter outside. He set bread rolls beside him on a napkin. “I’ll take your pipe now.”

As they ate, they were immersed in the woodsy chirping of frogs and crickets, little to say between them. Joxter draped his tail over the steps. Muddler turned toward the garden. Somehow, it was all right that way.

Sitting together, they didn't feel the need to ruin the silence with babble. If Muddler wasn't mistaken, they had all the time in the world to do so, and Joxter would stay—for a while if it wasn't too much to hope for. He let his imagination take him into the fantasy of making Joxter at home—putting a hammock outside, and a fruit tree. He would make room for more collections, like tins of tobacco and racks of wine. Where Joxter would sleep, he supposed time would tell.

"I'm beginning to wonder if I should have come," said Joxter, setting down his empty bowl.

Muddler spun around. "What do you mean?"

"I don't want to upset you. I came to make things right, but I see you're happy here—as you should be." He took his pipe back. "You have a wonderful wife and home, and I believe I've only stirred things up."

"Nonsense!" Muddler jumped up from the steps. "Come with me, please."

“With you where?”

Walking gave Muddler the excuse not to meet Joxter's eye, and he'd be more true in speech that way. They walked along the shallow edge of the forest, Joxter smoking as they went.

"I'm upset because I missed you," Muddler said. "I missed you more than anything—all those years we were together and you were gone without a word! I almost hated you for it." He wrung his scarf between his paws. "I always hoped you'd return, but never believed it. And I knew if you'd gone, you wouldn't want me to follow."

Joxter nodded slowly, hanging his head. He strafed deeper into the woods under the cover of pine needles. "I promise I'll explain everything," he said, "but going about it, there's no good place to begin—Muddler?"

"Over here." Muddler grabbed his wrist, a gentle gesture, and pulled him deeper between the trees.

"This is very unlike you."

"What is?"

"You're out in pitch darkness. In the middle of the forest, no less. You were afraid of your own shadow when I knew you."

When I knew you, Muddler thought. He supposed he didn't anymore, but it was a sorry realization.

"Is your wife brave?" Joxter asked.

"Well…yes. More than anyone."

"She seems to have taught you a thing or two." Joxter hummed, puffing out a cloud of smoke. "I never could."

"You must be remembering wrong. I wasn’t quite afraid of everything." Muddler ducked under the smoke. "And speaking of wives, I should ask you about Mymble."

"Mymble…hardly a wife at all."

"Sorry?"

"We're not married. Really, we haven't seen each other in a while—she's not one to be tied down."

"Really? You haven't been seeing her?"

"Well, sometimes I went back. I visited her, helped with the children… Months ago, we spent a short night together, but I was gone by morning. That's the last I saw of her."

"So...that’s why you’ve come back." Muddler's ears drooped.

"No…I had the fortune to run into Hodgkins. Couldn't have found you, otherwise. I’d never find you somewhere this remote, nor expect you to live here. It seems unlike you."

"Not really! Well—it's quiet. We like that. No city noises, no construction, no money—there's nothing to worry about. It's all quiet."

"Quiet can mean dull."

"You never thought so! You sat in fruit trees all day, nothing else to do."

Joxter chuckled. “It wasn't dull when you always came to steal my fruit."

Joxter could see Muddler clearly as he stumbled through the darkness, his crescent pupils enlarged.

Past the fir trees was a grove of oaks clinging to the last bit of winter, leaves barely sprouted and ice lining their roots. Small droplets dripped from the leaves, and the low branches snagged Muddler's coat, but he pushed through until he made it to the clearing. For a moment, he stood in place, turning to see all the trees. He stepped toward the largest.

"Yes, this is it!"

He hooked his arms around a branch and hoisted himself up, scraping the trunk with his tail outstretched. He began to slide and Joxter pushed him by the small of his back.

"Come up here," said Muddler. "Tell me what this reminds you of."

He held out his paw, but Joxter took the trunk, scaling it with his claws unsheathed. He sat beside Muddler on the branch.

"A tree, if you'd believe it." Smoke escaped his lips when he chuckled.

"Joxter… Yes, a tree, but look at the way the branches bow! And the canopy! Doesn't this remind you of your pear tree?"

"Not really," said Joxter amusedly. "Seeing as it isn't a pear tree."

Muddler looked indignant.

"Oh, well, I suppose this reminds me." Joxter put an arm around him. "You were so afraid of falling that we sat like this. I think you would have been if we were inches from the ground, but that's the only way I got you to stay."

There was light upon Muddler's face. It reached him dimly through the leaves, coming from a faint glow off in the distance. A drop of rain hit his nose.

"I remember."

"But this one’s brittle, almost," Joxter continued, swinging his tail upwards to brush Muddler's ankle. “I’d say it’s very old.”

“We’re old…” said Muddler. He looked suddenly upset and pulled his legs away. “It’s been that long, really…”

“Maybe so.” Joxter picked at a tuft of fur on Muddler’s ear. “But a gray hair or two never hurt anyone. You don’t look so bad, yourself.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” When Muddler spoke again, his voice barely sounded like his. "You shouldn't have gone," he whispered.

"I know."

He leaned further from Joxter. "You had a choice, didn't you? Couldn't you have stayed if you wanted?" He leaned until the branch bowed.

"I couldn't have. I'm sorry."

"Then tell me the truth! Please! You've been here day and night and haven’t said a word about it—no explanation, apology, or anything! And you left without saying goodbye. I didn't know if you were angry with me, or lost, or if you'd died—I didn't know if you'd ever come back, Joxter, and I loved you!"

Gently, Joxter took Muddler by the coat, which was damp with drops of rain. His pipe fell from his lap.

"I loved you, too," he said softly. "I didn't think I'd be lucky enough to speak to you again, let alone be here. You're right to yell, but don't think for a second that I didn't love you."

"Then why did you leave?"

"I lost my son." He let Muddler go.

The rain came suddenly, a light pattering that filled the air with the scent of wet earth. It sprinkled over leaves and dampened their hair, soaking into their scarves and Joxter's hat. Joxter sat still and watched it.

"Snufkin, if you didn't know."

Muddler nodded. His paws were knit tightly, tail tucked beneath him—out of all things, that wasn't what he'd expected.

He was hit with a familiar pang, one of grief and guilt. "I lost my son." He'd lived those words. So had Joxter, and now he knew…

"In a moment, off in the woods," Joxter explained, "he was gone. I couldn't find him there, nor the town—I wasn't sure which way, or how long it'd been. I called for Mymble and neither of us got anywhere."

Muddler buried his head in his knees as he listened. It was all familiar—the dread of losing Sniff in the woods, the time passing, knowing he was alone, and panic that stretched on for weeks. It all settled into guilt in the end.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Joxter's hat tipped over his eyes, heavy and dripping from the rain. "We moved around for years. But then assumed Snufkin was gone and couldn't keep dragging the other children with us. Mymble wanted to take them to the valley."

"What—Moominvalley? You saw Moomin?"

"Yes, a small reunion. Moominpappa, he's called now. Did you know he has a son?”

“I think I’d heard…”

“He looks after other children from time to time—his son's friends. One of them had come back from a hike when I visited…he was about as tall as me. Had a hat like mine. Moomin was almost grinning as I introduced myself."

“Why's that?”

“He'd given the boy an idea of his past—read stories about our adventures and all. He said he began to look up to me."

Muddler felt something rise in this throat—perhaps a pang of hope, or even envy. Who...was the boy?”

“Snufkin."

Joxter cleared his throat uncomfortably. Even under the cover of leaves, he was soaked; he looked almost as somber as he felt.

"Was he pleased to see you?”

“I’m not sure. Moomin said he enjoyed stories about me, but you can hardly tell what he's thinking. I'm glad he seemed to like me." Joxter wound his tail between his legs. "I think, all things considered, that he was better off being raised by them.”

"You don't mean that, surely!”

“Wouldn’t be fair not to admit. I didn’t know a thing about being a father. I wasn’t much help to Mymble, and you see what happened in the end.”

“But it's good you found Snufkin again! You're…I suppose…giving up a lot to be here. And I think—” he began shakily, “I owe you an apology.”

“No, you don't."

"Yes I do…all this time, you were after your son. I didn't know, but I feel so guilty for being angry with you—"

"You shouldn't. I could have asked you to come with me. I know you would have, but you'd just settled down with your wife. I didn't want to take that from you."

"She would have come too." Tears beaded in the corners of Muddler's eyes, subtly at first, then fell down his flushed cheeks.

"I'm not here to dredge up our past," Joxter said gently. "I'm here to apologize. I'm happy for you and your wife, and when you want me to go, I will."

"No!" Muddler fell into him, tipping as the branch bowed. "Stay," he said. "Please, stay as long as you can." Embarrassed, he wiped his nose on his scarf. He felt small, pressed against Joxter's body with his feet tucked beneath him, and lifted himself uneasily. "I used to wish you were unhappy without me. I was selfish…and just wanted you back."

The branch splintered at the trunk, straining beneath them.

"Muddler, move!"

"What?"

Joxter pushed him toward the trunk, but Muddler missed, panicking as his weight further tipped the branch. It let out a loud, crackling, snap and fell beneath them.

Both flew downward, landing dangerously close to the roots below, winded and gasping. Joxter planted his paws beside Muddler's head where the ground had softened into mud.

"You alright?" he asked, pushing himself up. He picked up his hat, which had fallen on Muddler, and saw that he was crying again. "Are you hurt?"

Muddler's eyes were squeezed shut; he grabbed Joxter's wrists. "I still love you!" He sobbed. "I've loved you, Joxter, all this time! I've always thought of you…"

"Muddler, don't—"

"I always have, and now it may be too late! I would do anything to change it—"

"Not anything," Joxter said. He wiped tears and rain away with his thumb. "I'm not going to take you from your wife. That’s not what I’m here for."

"You won't!" Muddler moved beneath him; his clothes were stuck to the mud. "She said it was…alright. That…I loved you both, and she hoped—for me—that there was a chance that something like this would happen."

"Like what?"

"A moment," he said, and he let go of Joxter’s wrists. He’d longed to be with him again, holding his gaze as that certain, familiar smile spread across his face…and there it was.

"I love you too." Joxter wove his fingers between Muddler's and leaned in, kissing him with rain pouring down his face. He squeezed Muddler's paws with a smile. “Lucky bastard," he chuckled. "You've got a good wife.” He quickly kissed him again. “Lucky for both of us."

"I know it," Muddler sniffed, laughing nervously. His eyelids fluttered at Joxter's touch.

Joxter lifted him off the ground and sat beside him, pressing his thumbs into his cheeks; he kissed him again and again, stunning him into an unmoving silence. Muddler was taken by the motions, holding the folds of Joxter's scarf—just to keep him there. He shivered as the cold seeped into his clothes, but relaxed at the curve of Joxter’s smile.

"I really missed you," he breathed when they parted.

Joxter brushed his thumb over Muddler's cheek. He was happy, bringing him in and ruffling his ears. He held him earnestly in a way that was familiar, like the days they were swept out to sea—yet new, as though they were young again.

Soon, Muddler couldn't see anything at all—not even the faint glow that was behind the trees. The light had flickered and gone out.

“Joxter?” he said in a hushed voice, patting him on the shoulder. He squinted through the rain, pointing where the light had been. "That light has gone out,” he said, tucking his knees to his chest.

“Your house lights?”

"House?"

"You left them on before we took a walk," said Joxter as if it were obvious. Since they'd been interrupted, he moved Muddler’s leg to where it wasn’t pressing his (and finally noticing his pipe on the ground, he pocketed it). “We circled the woods, you know."

“I had no idea!” Muddler pulled himself free and stood, lending a paw to help Joxter up. “Excuse me! We should see what happened…the lights don't turn themselves off.”

He kept Joxter’s paw in his own and let him lead the way through the trees. His clothes gave him chills down his back (wet and stinging as they ran) and soon they were back under the moonlight, stepping carefully through the garden.

The door was shut—not a single light inside. Joxter opened it first.

Everything looked the same…the porch littered with dishes, the pot on the stove, and the living room full of golden straws, painted jars, and an array of odd decorations.

“Everything seems all right—”

“The stove!” Muddler cried, running to it. “I forgot to turn it off!” He turned the burner down, but it made no difference; the power was already out. “I suppose I left it on too long… We've never had an outage before. And close the door, please, it’ll only get colder! Oh—!” Muddler clapped a paw to his forehead. “The windows! I left them open in the collection room.”

Joxter slinked after him down the hall, tracking water, and the room looked just as he'd imagined—cluttered, dusty, and filled to the brim with well-loved, meaningless things. Muddler ran to the windows and latched them (a bit too late, as the room was already drafty and wet) and stepped carefully over his things.

“What’s this?” Joxter asked, picking up an envelope.

Muddler stumbled into a box without reply.

“Well, it’s open, so I’ll see.”

“Wait, it could be anything!” Muddler swiped for it, scattering the photos inside. They slid in every direction, some catching the moonlight and others too dark to see. The envelope landed on a frayed picnic basket.

“Ha!” Joxter barked suddenly, his voice echoing. “I recognize this picture. I took it, didn’t I?”

“I can’t see a thing.”

“It’s at the table outside Moomin’s old house,” he chuckled. “You’re sitting there, looking terrified.”

“I was not! I didn’t know you were taking the picture!"

“My mistake—you must always look frightened.”

“Joxter!” Muddler struggled through the clutter quickly, determined to grab the rest, and reached for Joxter’s sleeve. “Ah, this isn’t fair when you can see!”

Joxter dodged him and ran off with the handful of photos. “I should like to see these! I’m in them after all.” His laugh echoed down the hall and he picked the closest room to disappear inside. He could hear Muddler fumbling for the wall.

The pictures were glossy, almost new, and they’d aged well after being taken care of. But they looked surprisingly out of date. The grain looked almost like sand…

There was the Oshun Oxtra and the beach, Moomin’s first house where he was perched on the eaves, and the forest. Joxter saw a blurred photo of himself crossing over rocks on a stream, Muddler’s finger pressed in the corner of the lens, and another after he’d jumped in. The crooked ones he took himself, the blurry ones from Muddler, and the low-angled ones from Moomin. Hodgkins’ were decent, but he seldom set the camera with enough time to get in the frame. One would think he’s a ghost with all the times he’d been blurred.

Looking up, Joxter noticed he was in Muddler's bedroom.

There were curtains and a rug of olive green, the walls off-white, and the bed a color too dark to tell. Across from it, an empty fireplace. The mantle was cluttered with as much junk as the other rooms, as well as the dresser, which had more pin buttons than Joxter had seen in his life.

"Joxter!" Muddler hissed, stumbling in. "What are you doing?"

"Just taking a look." Joxter pushed the pictures against him, which Muddler scrambled to catch.

"How can you possibly see anything? Joxter? Where are you?"

"Hm, seeing as it's cold anyway..." Joxter murmured to himself, "why don't we light a fire? You'll be able to see."

"But we don't have any firewood. Not since building the waterwheel."

"Good thing there's some nearby. I'll be back."

"Wait!" Muddler reached in the direction of his footsteps, but Joxter slid past him. "What do you mean?"

"Just wait here."

"Joxter, you ass!” Excuse me—" He felt along the walls toward the door. "Don't leave me here! What if someone had turned off the lights?"

He knew Joxter wouldn't turn back, so he sat on the floor near the wall, straightening his photos into a stack. He hated feeling like a coward in his own home.

As for Joxter, he was being Joxter. At last, his old, devilish nature began to peek through. Muddler missed it, as troublesome as it was.

Moments later, he clattered down the hall, scraping the floor and walls.

“Joxter!” Muddler yelled, fumbling for the door. “What are you doing? You’ll tear up the wallpaper!”

“Your wallpaper’s no good, then." Joxter scraped the door frame with what sounded like the entire branch. “How much do you want?”

“What?”

“Well—do you want the fire burning until morning, or shall I break off a smaller piece?”

“Smaller piece!” Muddler cried. “How will you fit it through the door?! Am I in the way?”

Without answering, Joxter angled the branch against the doorway and threw his weight, snapping it with a horrible, crackling sound. Pieces of bark fell away and scattered over the wood flooring. He then snapped it again—a piece smaller for the fire. He left the rest strewn about the hallway.

“This should do,” he said. He struck a match, and orange light flashed across his face.

“Where did you get that?”

Joxter tossed him a matchbox, which he caught by its battered edges. It was too faded to make out the lettering, but a red-ink bear was stamped onto the front; Muddler recognized it vividly. It was a matchbox he'd given to Joxter years ago.

“Oh, dear…” He squeezed it gently between his fingers. “You kept this?”

Joxter hummed in reply.

“All these years?”

Perhaps he carried it with him. He must have for some time to have brought it here.

“I’m...sorry to have made you use the last one. I suppose I would have shown you where to find the matches—” Muddler stopped, noticing a smile beginning on Joxter’s face.

“I won’t be needing it,” he said, slumping onto the floor. His wet clothes soaked into the carpet. “I don’t need keepsakes when I have everything I want.”

Muddler blinked at him. “What do you mean you have everything you want?”

"Well...close to it. Your food’s dreadful, but I’ll manage.”

He poked the fire, burning leaves under the bark, and yellow flames crept over its surface. They lit his face dimly, lighting the grays in his hair. Something glinted on the mantle above him.

There, in a large picture frame, were glittering beads and ornaments, all dancing in the light.

Joxter tilted his head to see the photos—a small boy centered in each of them. Brown fur, long snout, ears wide as banana leaves, and paws like Muddler's. In the first picture, he was in Fuzzy’s arms with a wooden button held between them, and in the next, he was learning to walk with Muddler.

Muddler curled into himself as he saw them. His eyes were glassy again, and he buried his head in his paws. Joxter pulled him closer.

“Is that your son?” he asked quietly. Muddler’s forehead brushed his shoulder as he nodded. “What happened?”

“Same as you…lost him in the woods.” This time, Muddler was too exhausted to cry. “We looked for months and months and never found him. That’s why we moved. We couldn’t stand seeing his room in the old house, all his things...”

Joxter touched his chin to Muddler’s head. “I’m sorry…"

“My conscience still eats at me and…I don’t know if it’s right to remember him. Sometimes it makes everything worse. I do try to miss him, but Joxter, I barely knew him! I just feel guilty.”

“I know…” Joxter agreed solemnly. “I was glad to know what became of Snufkin. It was good to meet him again, see how he's grown…but he doesn't need me. I wasn't there to raise him and never got to know him."

Muddler wiped his face with his scarf.

"We were both robbed of time we could have spent." With a last nod, Joxter let Muddler go.

"Some fathers we are."

"Well, what can you do…"

"More, I wish." Muddler slid off his vest and leaned closer to the fire. "I don't know what I'm supposed to feel."

"No one should tell you."

"But I'm almost afraid I'll go on like this forever. I don't want want to be sad about it—I wish I didn't have to be, but I'm afraid it isn't right not to—"

"What was your son named?”

Muddler looked up at the photos as if remembering. “Sniff,” he said quietly.

"Sniff," Joxter echoed. "If you want the truth…maybe you aren't grieving for him. You must have missed him for a long time, but after so many years…it sounds like you're living on the guilt of losing him. That isn't grief at all."

“But that's horrible—"

“There comes a time,” Joxter interrupted, “When you forgive yourself. Else you'll always keep the weight.”

“Why should I forgive myself? Nothing's fixed...no matter what I do, he's gone, and I can't change it.”

"Exactly—you can’t." Joxter tipped backward onto the rug and lay against it. “There's not a thing you can do.”

“And what about you? Did you stop yourself grieving for Snufkin?”

“No,' he said. "I didn’t know that he was my son, if you remember. My months of searching—and going away…it was all for Mymble. I thought of her, and I thought of what I'd left behind."

The fire cracked sharply and sent sparks into the flue, sputtering, meeting the dampened parts that wouldn’t burn. Muddler’s pupils shrank in the light.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

* * *

That night, neither left their spot on the rug. Muddler was beside Joxter, picking at threads until the fire went out, and darkness engulfed them once more. By then, their clothes were dry, and Muddler was grateful for the arm that slipped around his middle. Joxter's breathing slowed to a steady rhythm against his back; they fell asleep that way.

The next morning, Muddler woke to the sound of cooking. Joxter's hat lay beside him and the door was ajar, displaying an ugly mess of splintered wood strewn about the hallway. Chipped paint from the doorframe peppered the floor.

In the kitchen, Joxter was leaning over a recipe book, tail flicking behind him and face flushed with heat. Whatever he found to cook was sizzling in a pan.

"Take a look, will you?" he asked as Muddler arrived, sliding the cookbook out of the way.

A half-cooked pancake took up the entirety of the pan, doughy and brown around the edges.

"That looks wonderful!" Muddler placed both his paws atop Joxter's shoulder. "What's this for?”

"Just trying to be useful,” Joxter said, flipping the pancake. “Your wife doesn't normally cook for three." The curtains flapped in the open windows, letting in wafts of heat…it had warmed up considerably since last night. He flipped the pancake again.

“It’s alright for a minute, you know.” Muddler took Joxter’s arm and guided it over his head to stand in front of him. "Really, I ought to teach you how to cook," he smiled.

"Oh?"

"So you can't say the food's dreadful." He closed his eyes and leaned in for a kiss, moving his fingers gently over Joxter's cheeks. He felt paws slide over his waist, which left a moment later. “Wait,” he whispered to Joxter. He held his face and kissed him again; clumsier but earnestly, standing on his toes even though he could reach fine.

"Well, hello!" said a voice from behind. "Don't mind me."

Muddler jumped so suddenly that his knees buckled. Fuzzy was there at the window, grinning roguishly. She held a stack of cabbages in her arms.

“Good morning, darling.”

“Sorry!” Muddler stood in front of Joxter embarrassedly. "I didn’t know you were home already!”

“That’s all right." She turned with a friendly smile to Joxter. “You were right about these cabbages. I’d hate to uproot the whole garden, but I suppose if they’re no good anyway, well….”

“Compost?” he offered.

“That’d do, but it’s only good for growing more vegetables. I’ve been thinking we should give it up, seeing as we don’t enjoy them in the first place, though I'm not sure what to do about all the land.”

“Fruit would be nicer. Strawberries—maybe tomatoes, and you could eat them without needing to cook.”

“Excuse me!” said Muddler, glancing between them. “How long have you been back?”

“Oh? An hour, maybe. Now, is that old wine barrel still out back? I could use that as a composter.”

“Maybe I should have a word with you!" said Muddler.

Fuzzy looked at him prudently. “All right, then,” she said, leaving the window. “You’ll have to talk along the way. And Joxter—stop turning that pancake! It'll never cook.”

* * *

Muddler walked through damp patches of grass and clovers, following Fuzzy at a quick pace. "I know this all must be strange," he said once he was out of earshot.

"I never said so."

"But you don't have to act for my sake, of course! I didn’t mean to begin everything so sudden…I mean, not that it isn’t all right, you've said so yourself. But I don't want you to feel shunned—or second—"

"Who says I do? I can't feel neglected when it's been only a minute."

"Well, yes. But…if you'd rather us not be so...up close, I’ll tell him right out!"

"It looked like you were the one getting up close," she chuckled.

"Goodness, I'm only saying that if you'd rather I didn't—"

"I thought it over already; remember that Hodgkins sent that letter? I made up my mind—I want Joxter here as much as you do. For my sake, Muddler, please let it be a good thing." Seeing the look on his face, she added: “You’ve waited so long…you deserve time to be with him.”

"Excuse me,” said Muddler hesitantly. “I just feel as though I should worry about you.”

"You should care for me, not worry about me." Fuzzy reached for the empty wine barrel and pulled it out of the mud. The metal rim left a rusted stain on the house. "I'd take a page out of Joxter's book if I were you. Let things come naturally. And remember, you're not choosing between us. That's the point, isn't it?"

“I suppose…"

“You still look worried.”

“I can't help that it’s…so uncertain."

Feeling that she'd be there a while, Fuzzy set the barrel back down and sat on it.

“I’ve no idea where Joxter will sleep!” Muddler began. “And there’s hardly enough room for his liking—or perhaps too much… What will we do for breakfast when there are three of us? Or all the other meals? What'll we do about the evenings when Joxter smokes before bed?”

“Anything, Muddler,” she said simply. “Why not do whatever we’d like? We could clear out the spare room and put everything in the cellar—or he could sleep in the cellar. We could build him a shed outside; perhaps he’d like that… Then you could visit him in privacy. And I don’t mind cooking for the three of us, it’s by no means difficult. As for smoking—” She pulled a small bag of tobacco out of her pocket. “This kind should smell much nicer. I bought it on the way back from my mother’s. Is that all?”

When she looked up at last, Muddler looked as though she'd hung the moon.

"Muddler?"

“You're the greatest wife—really!” He beamed, lifting her beneath the arms. “You think of everything and I don’t deserve you a bit!” He kissed her on the cheek.

"Oh, you're too much..." Fuzzy wrapped her arms around him incredulously. "I do love you, dear. I know you wouldn’t let a thing change between us." And patting his face, she said, "Help me get this barrel around the house, will you?"

* * *

It took the rest of the day to clear a space in the cellar, and still, there were many boxes to go. They filled the spare room to its brim, balanced precariously over each other and all the baskets, tins, and sacks on the floor. In the cellar, water dripped from overhead pipes, making everything a mess. Muddler set decorated pales below them.

He knew Joxter didn’t need any place too tidy but cleared enough space for him to stretch out and put his things (which now consisted of his pipe, a toothbrush, and a change of pajamas). Fuzzy made him a nest of pillows and blankets in the corner, and soon he had a sort-of-room behind the wall of boxes. He noted that he’d quite like a shed, but of course, it would take days to build; the cellar would do for now.

"What about light?" asked Muddler, fussing over the way the pillows were stacked.

"I’ll give him a lantern." Fuzzy had an oil lantern, half-used, and set it by Joxter’s bed. "We'll give him enough matchboxes to light it and his pipe."

Muddler was so concerned with everything, keen to make Joxter at home, that it'd nearly driven Fuzzy mad. He often stopped to undo what she’d done, and in the end, she left him to fix everything as he liked.

He busied himself by arranging, dismantling, and decorating—setting out dishes full of sweets and tea bags, scrubbing mold off the baseboards, and lining the floor with rugs. Admittedly, it looked a lot nicer, and the tapestry next to the cabinets was a nice touch.

By evening, Fuzzy returned with a dinner of rye bread and jam. Joxter trailed behind her, carrying a small table down the cellar steps. “I don’t know that Muddler’s ready, but we can eat, at least."

“Just a minute!” Muddler yelled.

They heard a sharp series of clattering, cabinet doors slamming, then footsteps over the bed.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “Have a look!”

Expecting very little, Joxter was surprised to see a bedroom—or perhaps a den, being big as it was—made on his behalf. There were knickknacks all around, some useful and some decorative, most out of the way enough to not be a bother. Amusedly, he hung his hat upon a coat rack.

“For your scarf, as well!” Muddler added.

Joxter bore a crooked smile as he looked around. "You've outdone yourself." He chuckled at the decor. "It's good to see I'm welcome."

"More than welcome," said Fuzzy, "seeing as he's put up a tapestry."

Embarrassedly, but rather happily, Muddler tangled his paws in his scarf.

* * *

The rest of the week was long, but between leisurely walks, they felled trees for Joxter's shed. Joxter himself wasn't in a hurry; he was happiest doing nothing—for him, it was easy to fall into a way of living.

Fuzzy was a different story. Though she was happy to have Joxter in the family, she often became restless, talking of their old friends and missing a bit of adventure. She felt their absence in Joxter's reunion—as if a piece was still missing. "Why shouldn't we, after all?" she'd said. "Now Joxter knows the way, we could make a trip out of it."

Muddler admitted he'd been hoping to get everyone together again; it was he who wrote to Hodgkins. Before long, he came back with the Oshun Oxtra, arriving in the river (slowly this time, as he looked out for the waterwheel). He helped them pack their things just before sundown—all thirteen suitcases and a rucksack for Joxter.

"Are you sure you'd rather not bring the house?" he chuckled.

"If there was a way…" said Fuzzy. She dragged the last trunk over the ramp of the Oshun Oxtra.

"Hopefully we can still move with all this. Joxter, get the engine started, will you? And Muddler, go with him—make sure he does. I was hoping we'd be off before dark."

"Sun isn't gone yet!" Muddler said cheerfully.

In the bridge, knobs and switches lined every space around the wheel and trailed in rows beside it—there were more than the last time he came. The colored labels had faded over the years, but Joxter navigated by memory, flipping small ones here and there. Some started a whirring inside the ship while others lit up, shining specs of light across the wood. Finally, the engine came to life.

"I'll have to steer as well," he murmured. "Hodgkins really can't see at night."

"How long do you suppose the trip will be?" Muddler sat beside him on the floor. "Surely you won't have to steer all night."

"Weeks," said Joxter. Seeing Muddler's look of surprise, he added: "It'll pass quicker than you think. You've got enough luggage to get you through, don't you?"

"Oh, that's not it," said Muddler, scooting closer. "It's just…nice being back here. I missed it more than I thought."

"So did I."

The ship cut through the waves, leaving trails of foam in its wake, but aboard, she sailed smooth. The subtle rocking made Muddler drowsy before the sun was down.

"Do you suppose Moomin misses me?" he asked.

"Moominpappa?" said Joxter. "I should think so. He talked a lot about you."

"Oh, but—he doesn't miss me too much?"

"He'll be happy to see you…if that's what you mean."

"Yes! That's good." Muddler leaned against his knee. "I was angrier than I meant to be. When you first came back... Though I don't suppose Moomin feels that sort of way about me."

"Thank the booble for that."

They both laughed.

As night fell, the moon shone between branches on the water. They rounded river bends, veered through forks, and passed slowly through the trees, barely clipping branches above. Muddler stayed by Joxter's side, head resting on his knees. He drifted off soon after.

* * *

"Coffee?" Fuzzy asked from the doorway.

"Is it morning?"

"No, sometime past midnight. But you may need it to stay awake."

Gratefully, Joxter took a cup. "Just the one. Muddler's been asleep for the past hour."

"I thought he would be." Fuzzy slid her fingers beneath his head and lowered him onto her lap.

"Reunions… " she smiled. "I've missed the others. The Moomins...and Mymble. I suppose you're ready to see Snufkin again, aren't you?"

"I think so."

"I know he'll be glad to have you back."

Joxter nodded reproachfully.

"He will. Everyone misses their father sometimes."

He found it hard to imagine, as Snufkin didn't have reasons to miss him... He loved to hear Joxter’s stories, but it’s been said that he thrives on his own.

"Sometimes…” Joxter said thoughtfully, “it's kinder to leave people be.”

"That's what you thought before." Fuzzy nodded at Muddler before brushing his ear gently. "He was cross, but you know he loves you no matter what. He needs you."

That much was true, though Joxter knew Muddler to be forgiving. Snufkin could be any which way, and he wouldn't know.

He set his coffee beside the wheel and slumped to the back of his chair. "If you had the chance, what would you have done? With Sniff…if you saw him again," he asked quietly. "Would you have tried to right your wrongs or leave him be?"

Fuzzy inhaled deeply, her smile suddenly looking difficult to bear. "Neither," she said simply. "I can't right the wrongs; not when he's already been lost…but the thought of leaving him again wouldn't cross my mind." She set her coffee beside Joxter's. "You may have had a rough start with Snufkin, but it wasn't the end." That was nothing short of a miracle. "Do whatever helps you rest easy. You did that for Muddler…now try yourself."

As the leaves rustled above, a silence hung between them. Fuzzy's eyes drooped slowly, her head falling toward her chest until she lay still. Joxter was wide awake.

He simply looked out onto the water and smiled.