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In about a day's work, the front garden below the tall blue house has been transformed; long rows of tables, adjourned with colourful flowers and plates of all shapes and sizes. The napkins, too, are a variety of sorts, adding to the vibrant display. Mamma doesn't believe in conformity, what is the joy in that? While this setup might irk the propriety of, say, a certain Miss Fillyjonk, it seems to be most fitting for the rest of the valley, each creature merrily finding a seat to their liking. Take, for example, the small whomper picking the largest of plates. Those small hands can barely carry it when loaded with food, but why deny them?
Mamma has been camping in the kitchen for the past week, but she has thoroughly enjoyed it. Midsummer is a favourite in the moomin house, so despite the hard work required to make it into the festive event that it is, the entire family partake in the preparations with joy. Pappa was in charge of music and drinks. Initially, it had been entertainment and drinks, but that started spiraling into wild ideas of an impromptu play with extravagant sonnets and it all seemed just a bit much, so with careful coaxing, Mamma convinced him to save the play for a later date. Besides, after a few glasses of Pappa's homebrewed brandy, no creature would be able to perform much of anything.
As per tradition, Midsummer needs a bonfire. Moomin has been in charge of that, gathering twigs and logs. An easy enough task, often helped by Sniff and Snufkin. At first, Moomin had seen it as an opportune solution to get more secret time stolen away with Snufkin, but when Mamma had almost enforced that they bring Sniff along, he couldn't object. And perhaps, this was fair; they had spent an awfully short amount of time together with Sniff this year. With any of their friends, really. And while that thought nags at the back of his mind with a hint of guilt, he can't make himself feel too bad, because the time spent with Snufkin has been delightful. Besides, it's Snufkin who wants the secrecy, not him.
With all of the preparations in order, the party is finally ready to commence.
Soft music fills the garden as the guests arrive. Minute by minute, the volume of creatures chatting grows louder and louder, the music soon a faded backdrop. Moomin is dutifully greeting all the guests, genuinely happy to see them all; it is rare the entire valley gets together like this, after all. However, out of the corner of his eyes he keeps a sliver of attention locked to the small bridge connecting to Snufkin's campsite. He promised he'd be here and Moomin can't wait to see him.
“Missing your boyfriend?” The nasally voice is unmistaken.
Moomin smiles politely at the hemulen he just greeted, before dropping the facade in a huff as he faces away from Little My. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
Little My hums and you can clearly hear the smirk plastered on her lips. “Sure. It's a shame, I was such hoping he would show.”
With a frown, Moomin twirls around to question what that cryptic comment means, but the small mymble is gone. Suddenly, he's enveloped in a hug from Snorkmaiden, Snork standing a few steps behind waving awkwardly. With most guests having arrived, Moomin takes one final glance at the bridge, swallowing his disappointment as he leads his friends over to the drinks table; might as well get this party started.
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Dinner is a bustling affair, voices booming and laughs overpowering the soft tunes from the gramophone and the clinking of silverware and glasses held together in cheers. There is always someone at the buffet, not once are all creatures sat at the same time, but it's a delightful kind of chaos. And it's perfect for someone arriving late and wanting to remain undetected.
A seat had been made vacant next to Moomintroll, and he doesn't even register when someone sits down, engrossed in a tale spun by Mymble. She is a wonderful storyteller, very different from how Pappa does it; he's all theatrics and drama. Mymble is subtle, her deliveries poignant and believable, even when the story itself is outlandish.
Suddenly, his glass of brandy is snagged from his paw, and this might be his second glass, but his delayed response has nothing to do with the slight buzz settling beneath his fur, no sir. It takes him a second to register that the glass is indeed gone when he looks at his empty paw, eyes trailing in the only logical direction of where it might have gone. The warmth that spreads through him at the sight of Snufkin, innocently sipping his glass of brandy, has nothing to do with the alcohol, but Moomin pretends it does.
Dark brown eyes lock with his, as Snufkin sets the glass back down, lips curling in the faintest of smiles. “Moominpappa brought out the brandy this year, I see,” Snufkin licks his lips, re-tasting the drink. Moomin ignores how his eyes are drawn to the movement. “Is it rhubarb?"
Moomin's lips spread into a wide grin. “Yeah,” he affirms with a small nod, although he’s fairly certain there is more than rhubarb to the homemade recipe, but it seems unimportant at the moment.
And just like that, Snufkin has joined the party, seamlessly blending in, as if he had been there from the start.
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Pappa and, surprisingly, Miss Fillyjonk are the first to take to the dancefloor. Soon, the party is buzzing with bodies swaying to the upbeat music. Moomin has a few swings with Snorkmaiden and once he's on the dancefloor, it's difficult to leave. Not that he is actively trying to; dancing is quite fun. The Hemulen even takes Moomin for a spin, his dress twirling as the older hemulen moves in ways Moomin didn't think he was capable of. His joy is contagious and Moomin laughs as he lets Hemulen go to dance with his next partner; the mail officer standing to the side of the dancefloor, looking decidedly uncomfortable with the idea of dancing. Yet, somehow, Hemulen manages to pull him along, colouring the poor mail officer's cheeks pink from the attention.
Escaping the clutches of a new dance partner, Moomin manages to break away for some air, doing a quick scan to locate Snufkin. Off to the side, hidden somewhat behind the barrels of liquor, sits Snufkin, talking casually with Too-ticky. The pair is so contained in their movements, less animated than the lively party that they easily blend in with the background. And probably, that's just how Snufkin wants it. Yet, that shade of green has imprinted itself behind Moomin's eyelid, eyes trained to spot it in any location, no matter the distractions around him.
With a fond smile, Moomin approaches them, plopping down on the log beside Snufkin, not interrupting what the two are talking about. He earns a quick and subtle smile from his friend, Too-ticky greeting him with a cheer of her half-empty glass. Moomin doesn't listen to their conversation, instead letting his other senses carry the load for a little while. The air is poignant with sweetness from the brandy (a rhubarb and anise mix, his pappa informed) and the desserts still lingering on the mostly abandoned buffet table. To no one's surprise, Sniff can still be found stealing strawberries off the cakes, always finding that bit of extra space in his tummy when sweets are involved. And to be fair, Mamma's fresh strawberries are a league of their own. Too bad the season is so short.
It's a warm evening, the weather having presented itself on its best behaviour. It does put a damper on the festivities when it rains, and while June is not the worst in terms of downpours, it does occur. So Moomin sends a silent thanks to the skies for gracing them with a sunny day. However, it will set soon, and once gone, the chill air blowing in from the sea will undoubtedly lower the temperature. But it's Midsummer; the bonfire will take care of that. Feeling satisfied that the night is far from over, Moomin sinks down to the ground in front of the log, resting back against it and breathes deeply, a pleased smile forming as he exhales.
He takes another sip of brandy. His fourth drink, perhaps? It ought to bother him a little that he has lost count. However, senses buzzing delightfully from the intoxication, he finds it doesn't matter. He's having fun, enjoying himself and, so far, remaining upright on steady footing with no issues. So what if he's a little drunk? So are most creatures tonight. His pappa is talking jovially with a group on the outskirts of the dancefloor, all sipping brandy, cheeks flushed and movements sluggish. That's very on brand for Pappa; he will get drunk, strain himself while dancing or while enacting a story from his youth, only to remain stubbornly at the party until the last guest has left, then limp back to bed. And while licking his alcohol induced wounds the following day, he will swear to never do it again. Until the next party.
Less often has Moomin seen his mother get drunk, but he figures it's because she hides it better. Tonight is a good example. Mamma acts much the same, ever the cordial host, ensuring no one is missing anything and having fun. Her behaviour is no different, but you can spot it in her appearance; her cheeks will appear with a constant tint of pink, pupils blown wider under her heavy-lidded eyes. And then she never stops smiling. Not that Mamma rarely smiles, quite the contrary, but when she's tipsy, it's as if the smile can't physically be wiped off her face. It's endearing and Moomin thinks it is so fitting for his sweet mother. His heart swells thinking about it and he tries to spot her through the crowd, taking yet another sip.
He's taking in everything; the sounds, the smells, the sights. He feels how the subtle breeze ghosts across his fur, sees it making the colourful lamps dangle from the wires. He thinks he tastes the subtle hint of anise in the brandy, knows he can still taste the cream and strawberry from the cake he ate earlier, flavours dancing on his tongue. He hears the soft lull of the music, sees how pairs are swaying from side to side to the beat. He hears his father's voice booming with another grand tale, his mother's soft giggle, Snufkin's gentle voice, droning on about something meaningful, he supposes. He feels the hard log against his shoulder blades, the soft grass where he sits, the indirect warmth coming off from Snufkin's leg beside him, the direct warmth coming off from the hand on the back of his head–
Sluggishly, his mind registers that thought. Repeats it once. Then twice…
Snufkin is petting the back of his head.
Fingers gently carting through the fur, as it has done many times now, but only in very different circumstances. Only when they were alone. In private, where no one can see the act of affection, which is not an uncommon occurrence between them, but still different enough to raise suspicion. To announce, without words, that this kind of touch is different from what is normal between these two friends, at least. Most of all because it is instigated by Snufkin.
Moomin doesn't move an inch, all his attention suddenly lingering on that specific touch. This is so unlike Snufkin, especially recently. Since they started being… whatever they happen to be now (Snufkin refuses to put a label on it), it's usually Moomin who initiates contact. It used to bother him a bit, but ever since he jokingly pointed it out, Snufkin did actually make an effort to improve.
However, despite Snufkin trying to reach out more often, he has never done so in public; they had agreed not to, haven't they?
Maybe Moomin is just overreacting. He's just petting his head, anyways; it's not a romantic gesture by any means. Still, Moomin can't help but wonder if it’s intentional, considering pointing it out, but also afraid to make it stop and–
“I seem to be needing a refill,” Too-ticky suddenly says, standing up. She shakes her glass, the half-melted ice cube clinking against the sides. “You boys need anything?”
Moomin turns his head at the attention, sure that Snufkin will now move his hand, but instead, he lets it drift down to his neck, pausing as Snufkin replies with a polite, “No, thank you,” before continuing his ministrations on the fur there. Moomin thinks he mumbles a similar reply when Too-ticky walks away, but he's not too sure, entirely distracted. Strangely, after she has left, nothing changes. Snufkin just continues to pet him.
“Having fun on the dancefloor?” Snufkin asks after a moment and Moomin can hear him take another sip of his glass.
“Uh-huh,” is the intelligent response Moomin manages, baffled by the situation.
Snufkin's fingers dig deeper into the fur then, nails scratching delicately against his skin. “I'm glad,” he hums, sounding genuinely pleased. The pleasant touch sends shivers down Moomin's spine; this is almost a massage. Snufkin is massaging his neck at the Midsummer party. Is this a dream?
They sit in silence for a while, Snufkin never ceasing his caress and Moomin still not daring to move a muscle.
A soft chuckle flitters from Snufkin. “Why are you so tense, Moomintroll?”
Moomin jumps slightly at being called out. “What do you mean?” he manages to say without much of a stutter.
Then, Snufkin's fingers tighten against his skin, digging into the muscle, and yes, sure enough, even Moomin can feel how tense he is. “See?” And suddenly Snufkin is right in his ear, having leaned down. “Just relax.”
Moomin can feel the rush of blood in his cheeks, and suddenly feels very compromised in the open space of the party. Does Snufkin not realise what he is doing to him?
“Snufkin, what are you doing?” His voice wavers a bit.
Snufkin, the bastard, hums in his ear, parroting his question from before. “What do you mean?”
To prove his point, Moomin dramatically leans away from him, hand trailing after his neck. “This,” he says, grabbing Snufkin's hand. “We're at a party.” Gesturing to the crowd around them. “Everyone is here.” He returns his focus to Snufkin and squeezes his hand. “Are you okay with that?”
And just like that, Snufkin seems to snap back into reality, realising his actions with wide eyes. “Oh,” he mumbles intelligibly, cheeks turning redder by the second and he yanks his hand back, bringing it up to fiddle with his scarf. He looks away, purposefully avoiding eye contact.
Not the outcome the young troll had hoped for, but not unexpected, he supposes. With a quiet sigh, he heaves himself up from the ground and sits back down on the log next to Snufkin.
“I'm sorry,” Snufkin mumbles, still refusing to look at him.
“No no,” Moomin is quick to reassure. “I don't mind.” Then, after a short pause, with a quieter voice he adds, “You know I don't.”
As expected, this elicits no further response from Snufkin, having clammed up and closed himself off entirely. Moomin ought to just let it go; they're both a bit drunk and he doesn't want to get into a fight. But with the shock settling, he's left disappointed. It had been nice with the open show of affection. The petting itself was nice, too, sure, but he was more hungry for the unfiltered version of Snufkin. The one who wasn't so damn scared for one reason or another.
It would be a lie to say Moomin wasn't upset about this agreement in their situationship. He couldn't help but feel Snufkin was ashamed of him, regardless of the reassurances he provided. It's not that Moomin wanted to parade him around; Snufkin is not and has never been some token for him to win over. It isn't like that. But Moomin isn't one to hold back his affection; it's loud and honest, a trait he, honestly, quite likes about himself. It's how he manages to make so many friends. It's why Snufkin comes back to the valley, year after year… or so he likes to believe, Snufkin has never stated outright that Moomin is the explicit reason he returns. But Moomin would like to believe their friendship at least had something to do with it.
Unwelcome frustration bubbling in his core, Moomin tampers it down, as he speaks with his most gentle cadence. “Snufkin, it's okay. Nobody even noticed, because nobody cares.” He pushes his luck and leans into Snufkin's space, trying to catch his eyes. Snufkin just turns his head away, averting his gaze. A snippet of irritation manages to slip through. “Heck, even Too-ticky didn't bat an eye and she was sitting right next to us!”
At the almost-swear word, Snufkin narrows his eyes at him, before they quickly dart away, cheeks growing a shade darker. That manages to soften Moomin a bit and he can't help the small chuckle. “Snufkin, come on.” He leans back into his space again and considers it a win when Snufkin doesn't pull away.
“I bet Too-ticky is already spreading gossip about us,” Snufkin mutters, sounding bitter and like he doesn't even quite believe his own words. Moomin smiles, stomach fluttering when Snufkin refers to them as us, but he doesn't comment on it. He lets his eyes scan the crowd to spot her.
“I think she is chatting up Mymble after refilling her drink,” Moomin points with his glass in Too-ticky's direction, Snufkin following his gaze. And whether that is true, Moomin doesn't know, but surely Too-ticky seems far more preoccupied with Mymble's sweet laughter, than the two boys still sitting on a log at the back of the party.
Snufkin's cheeks grow hotter as he huffs, gently. “I think you are delusional.” He takes a sip of his drink before adding, “Mymble's clearly not interested.”
At that, Moomin laughs heartily. “As if you'd know!” He elbows Snufkin playfully, making him spill his drink, but Moomin catches the small, much-adored chuckle. Whether it's the alcohol or Moomin's efforts softening his friend, he's not sure, but he'll take it. Snufkin glances at Moomin carefully, a genuine smile grazing his lips, almost reaching his eyes, and Moomin acts on a thought before he can overthink it. Lowering his paw, he lays it atop Snufkin's resting on the log between them. Snufkin jumps at the contact, eyes darting to their contact point and Moomin recognizes the instinct to pull away.
“Snufkin,” Moomin says with soft urgency. Snufkin looks up, eyes wide, frozen. Then, in a whisper, holding Snufkin's gaze and squeezing his hand, “Nobody cares.”
Snufkin's eyes dart around Moomin's face, searching for something; a hint of uncertainty or deceit, perhaps. But despite his rapid heartbeat, Moomin's resolve is solid. He's unwavering in his belief, willing it to show on his face with a gentle smile.
And, gradually… slowly… whatever fear etched into Snufkin's mind seems to ease as he blinks, eyes returning to their normal size. He swallows once, takes a shaky breath and then nods quickly, subtly, but enough for Moomin to know that Snufkin has given the green light. That holding hands is okay.
Heartbeat skyrocketing to a new speed, Moomin grins, trying and failing to contain the pleased breath of air escaping him. He can't even help himself from squeezing Snufkin's hand again, the action unconscious. Which is why it comes as a surprise when Snufkin starts turning his hand. It's hesitant, the move broken up in staccato beats, but it's definitely deliberate. When Snufkin has flipped his hand over, palm meeting Moomin's, Moomin wastes no time intertwining their fingers. Snufkin hesitates curling his fingers, staring at their clasped hands. Moomin glances down too, heart skipping a beat from the excitement, but he needs to be sure.
“Is this alright?”
Giving Snufkin's hand a squeeze, he brings his attention back up and rather than seeing startled eyes, Snufkin looks fond, albeit a little scared. He wraps his fingers around Moomin's. “Yes,” his voice is resolute, despite the definite waver. And Moomin doesn't think he has ever heard that word sound lovelier.
“Okay,” Moomin says with a grin, trying and, once again, failing to hide how excited he is, as he turns his head back towards the crowd, a satisfied warmth settling in his cheeks. Suddenly, he's feeling drunk on both alcohol and affection.
“Okay,” Snufkin parrots, mirroring Moomin's pose.
Just like that, something major changed in their whatever-they-were. Strangely, holding hands shouldn't have been that big of a deal; they have done so countless times before, when being friends too. So Moomin feels assured it's not a big deal in the eyes of others, because it really isn't. But it's a big step for Snufkin and he recognizes that, realizing that makes it a big step for them.
Moomin is so wrapped up in their important moment, that he fails to see the storm coming. Doesn't recognize the menacing clump of fiery-red hair landing on the veranda roof, a stack of familiar looking letters tucked underneath her arm. Doesn't hear it when she clears her throat and announces her business, seated on the edge of the roof, looking beyond mischievous. Doesn't notice when the crowd pauses their own business to pay her attention.
He only manages to notice the commotion when the music is cut abruptly, but then it's already too late.
“Dearest Snufkin…”
An ice cold shiver travels down his spine at the familiarity of those words. Written repeatedly on crumbled up paper, smudged and stained from a winter that feels long forgotten in light of the following spring.
“The winter frost will not settle this burning heart,” Little My barrels on, speaking loudly from her elevated spot. “The tinder of your words, your voice, your beautiful harmonica – it echoes in the very depths of my being. I yearn for you, I fall for you.”
At this point, the crowd is looking rather invested, excitedly murmuring about who this potential admirer might be. Moomin remains frozen in place, horrorstruck, knowing what is about to come, but unable to move to stop it. Beside him, Snufkin has become equally paralyzed, his fingers tightening their grip.
“You have my heart, my dear. You have given me yours and unbeknownst taken mine.”
Suddenly, Mamma is by the veranda. “Little My, come down please,” she urges with a tone that leaves no room for argument.
But Little My ignores her, raising her voice for the conclusion.
“A genuine kiss from spring itself! Oh, what have you done to me!” She swoons dramatically, making the crowd chuckle. Then, for the conclusion, her eyes snap to the two friends sitting on a log at the back of the party.
“Forever yours, Moomintroll.”
All eyes turn to look at them.
In less than a second, Snufkin has wrenched his hand free and scooted over to the far end of the log, looking paler than a ghost. Moomin whispers his name, looking between Snufkin and the crowd and Little My, frantically trying to figure out how to do damage control.
“Those weren't for you to read, Little My,” Mamma scolds in a low voice.
Little My cackles mercilessly to herself. “Secret's out, Moomintroll! Now everyone knows you two are sweethearts, and you don't need to–”
In an act of foolish desperation, Moomin decides maybe the best course of action is to be brave.
“So what if we are?!” he calls back as loud as he can muster, clearly hearing the tremble in his voice, but he powers through. “That's none of your business! Or anyone's!” His face is burning and he’s shaking. He glowers at the guests, trying to convey his message; most glance away, some even looking embarrassed.
Mamma gives Pappa a look and he immediately clears his throat loudly. “Right.” He claps his paws together. “Right, let's give the boys some space–”
Mamma sighs. “Just put the music back on, dear.” Finding her best hostess smile, she addresses the guests and gestures to the dessert spread. “How about some more cake?”
The guests resume their murmuring, either pretending that the whole debacle didn't occur or whispering about the new gossip in secret, but Moomin doesn't pay attention to any of it. He sends a last hateful glare in Little My's direction, now looking obviously thrown off because her plan didn't go as expected, before turning to Snufkin with something between pleading and apologetic eyes.
“Snufkin, I–”
But the spot on the log is empty, the shade of familiar green gone.