Chapter Text
What Makes a Mymble - Chapter 1
It's undoubtedly and wholly Little My's fault. He isn't completely sure how, yet, but it is, and when asked to prove it, he most likely will be able to.
As it is, it's a perfect day, late spring stretching its floral cape over the fields surrounding the Moominhouse. The grass tickles the underside of his knees as he lays back to watch the clouds. A few feet away from him, Snorkmaiden (not so) patiently tries to teach Sniff how to make more intricate flower crowns than the simple daisy chains they all usually make. His new business idea, apparently. Little My is running around trying to catch butterflies. He really doesn't want to know what she plans on doing with them.
Snufkin is noticeably absent on the ground next to him and, while Moomin would love for him to join them, he respectfully pushes the thought to the back of his mind. His friend said yesterday that he had some pressing matters to attend to today, so he surely needs his space. It would be awfully unkind to impose his presence on him against his will, not unlike he used to do when they first met. Mamma once told him that some people need more space than others when he first overwhelmed Snufkin with constant company to the point of the mumrik leaving before the trees even turned their leaves yellow, let alone dropped them.
So he waits and cherishes the time spent with his other friends. Just as he thinks that, he feels the grass right next to him dip a little, along with the feeling of fabric brushing against his side. Something giddy, akin to excitement, builds in his stomach. The feeling flutters not unlike the butterflies My has been chasing all afternoon, but he can't exactly put a paw on why.
For a brief moment, he feels out the atmosphere, trying to decide whether to acknowledge his friend's earlier absence or not. Eventually, he pushes himself to sit up. "All affairs settled?" he asks casually, trying to project the unspoken question of whether Snufkin's social battery is recharged again. What other affairs would need to be tended to?
"Wouldn't call them settled, but as much as they can be, yes," the mumrik hums. Most of his face is obstructed by a hat from this angle, but Moomin catches a lazy smile quirking up his lips, so he assumes whatever occurred was good, as he seems rather content.
Moomin doesn't say anything for a moment, instead choosing to smile back, satisfied with the answer. Then a butterfly flies in between them, Little My jumping after it with a battle cry. Snufkin effortlessly catches her mid-air. It's rather impressive. "Mom's in the area, you know. In case you want to visit," he says to her, completely unfazed by the little mymble’s wild thrashing, and Moomin freezes, confusion replacing the blood in his veins. After a few seconds, he forcibly relaxes because no one else seems even mildly surprised.
Little My scoffs, "Obviously. She usually is around the Valley in the spring. The only time when she can be somewhat sure of your whereabouts." Then, she lunges to bite Snufkin's hand and promptly misses, as he drops her, looking rather unimpressed.
The world tilts on its axis a few inches to the left, and Moomintroll feels a bit out of balance. He hopes it doesn't show and glances at his friends. Sniff looks up from the falling-apart flower crown he's making.
"You know, I always forget you two are siblings," he whines, and two daffodils slip out of his wreath.
Snorkmaiden tuts in disapproval and picks the flowers up. "You'd have to be blind to forget that, Sniff," she says. "They look so alike."
He suddenly feels very stupid for not knowing. To be fair, Snufkin never talked much about his family. Moomin knew about Joxter, partly from Pappa's memoirs, partly from a few and far in between visits when he was a tiny moomintroll. So, he was distantly aware that his friend had a father (even though, if someone said that Snufkin just appeared one day in a forest and simply grew from the ground, Moomin might have believed them). It never really occurred that the mother might be in the picture as well.
He glances at the siblings. Little My has taken off with Snufkin's hat and is trying to use it as a makeshift bug net. Snufkin watches her with quiet amusement, his auburn hair fully on display, messy strands curling slightly near the ends. It's slightly darker than Little My's copper topknot, but the resemblance really is there. His scarf is loosened up, revealing the gentle slope of his neck, too hairless for a pure-blood mumrik, if any mumrik can be called pure-blooded in the first place.
Of course, it was somewhat apparent before that Snufkin was most likely only half a mumrik when he didn't quite grow up to look like most mumriks did. Moomin never really wanted to presume, though, and felt slightly too shy to ask about it. What if it was something Snufkin was insecure about? Now, he kind of regrets keeping quiet for so long. He would have never guessed, after all, that his friend was also half mymble! A son of The Mymble , no less!
It's so terribly embarrassing, to learn that only now, that's for sure, especially since both Snufkin and My act as if it's common knowledge. However, he feels something else, edging on curiosity, overcoming him. What else doesn't he know about his very best friend?
With new resolve, he decides to watch Snufkin more closely from now on and carefully catalog anything he might find unusual. Maybe compare some things he notices to what he knows of Mymble and Little My. Just a little friendly observation.
What could go wrong?
***
His secret mission is supposed to start with Snufkin's face. In the evening, as he scribbles out Operation Snufkin in an old, unassuming journal. He kind of regrets not beginning his research when the hat was off earlier that day, back when the revelation was thrust upon him, but he guesses another opportunity will arise soon enough.
No rush, really, he thinks. He'll have done plenty of research by the time fall arrives, and then he'll sleep on that knowledge and wake up in the spring with all the answers he needs, as well informed about Snufkin as all their other friends. He'll be able to claim himself as Snufkin's very special, very best friend without any doubts plaguing his mind anymore!
The next morning he wakes up to the first heatwave this year has to offer. It's that kind of a hot day that can only exist in late May or early June, one that creeps up on you after a few months of a brisk, barely-there spring warmth when you're not used to the heat yet.
Throwing off his bed covers in a desperate attempt to cool down, he realizes that he doesn't quite know what he's looking for. ‘Face’ is, after all, a pretty loose concept. He sits on his bed for a while, trying to come up with what exactly he wants to find, and comes up empty, until the smell of pancakes reaches him.
Moominmamma! She's sure to know something if he asks.
He rushes downstairs, nearly welcoming the ground with his nose when he misses the last step. He rights himself and walks into the kitchen, a bit more carefully.
“Good morning, Mamma!”
“Morning, dear. What's got you in such a rush?” Mamma raises her brow in a question, pouring another batch of batter onto the pan.
After checking for Little My in the teapot and idly scanning all the known to him nooks and little corners, he finally answers, “So, you know Mamma, I’ve been wondering recently,” he pauses. “What makes siblings similar?”
She looks at him, deep in thought, “Well, that's an... interesting question, dear. What brought this on?” There’s a moment of silence during which Moomintroll plays with his paws, not sure how to answer without giving away his lack of knowledge. Mercifully, Mamma continues, “Let’s see… Upbringing aside, children take after their parents a lot, both in looks and personality. As it happens, when there are more children, even if they inherit different characteristics, some will always overlap.”
He opens his mouth and immediately shuts it, not knowing what he wanted to ask in the first place.
Mamma, as if sensing the cause of his jumbled thoughts, smiles knowingly. “Snufkin and Little My both take after The Mymble a lot, don't they?” Until recently, Moomin would say no, but he's not quite sure of anything anymore, so he stays quiet. “Don't get fooled, that sense of mischief didn't come from Joxter, no matter what Pappa might say.”
The conversation continues like that for a bit, but eventually dies out, and Moomin doesn't feel any closer to what he's looking for than he did before. At a loss, he decides to seek out Snufkin and continue the original plan of subtly staring, while hoping his friend doesn’t notice. He sets out for the campsite and fortunately finds Snufkin fishing on the bridge.
He slows down upon seeing his friend and gives himself more time to take in anything he might’ve missed before.
Snufkin, to be completely honest, looks about the same as he always does. He's sitting cross-legged with both his coat and shoes off, appropriately for the weather. The too-big undershirt hangs loosely from his shoulders, his wiry frame for once not covered by several layers of baggy clothes.
He doesn't exactly have mumrik paws, but Moomin knew that already. How daft he’d have to be to miss even that . Upon closer look, he figures out that they are in fact mymble hands, though not all that similar to Little My’s. The shape is roughly the same, though, maybe save for nails. Thank Hobgoblin that Little My’s aren't as sharp as Snufkin's or she'd surely use them for evil. And there's also the fact, that where her short grabby fingers are just bare, frankly boring skin, right below Snufkin’s knuckles starts growing dark, auburn fur, thickening around his wrist, trailing lazily on the outer side of his forearms and trailing off just above his elbow.
It's a good thing that he usually keeps it covered, he thinks distantly. There would be no escaping Snorkmaiden’s ire once she connected the dots and realized that Snufkin, with his rather liberal approach to what counts as a bath, still has shinier and softer looking fur than she does after what she calls a ‘spa day’.
The research is briefly suspended when Snufkin starts fidgeting, probably sensing that he's being watched. His tail starts swishing nervously from side to side, and the fur that Moomin so carefully studied fluffs up.
Moomin, for some reason and against all reason , has unexplainable trouble looking away and all too soon is faced with endless embarrassment when his friend finally catches his eye. Snufkin raises an eyebrow in question and waves awkwardly. Unsure how to proceed, Moomin waves back and reasons with himself that the research will be more accurate if he comes closer. He also sits on the bridge, albeit a little bit closer than usual, wondering if Snufkin's fur is as soft as it seems or not.
“...Should I ask?” his friend inquires after a brief silence. He's hiding behind his hat, but his tail is still betraying—nervousness? Displeasure? Embarrassment at being watched? Hard to tell really, but Moomin doubts it's positive.
Ultimately, he can, of course, explain that he's conducting research, but that might alter the results (and the thought of explaining… that makes him oddly anxious). So instead, he shakes his head wordlessly, and Snufkin, like the wonderful friend he is, does not ask. Instead, he quietly tells him of an abandoned town he explored last winter. He feels affection swell in his chest at the unspoken understanding and support he's given.
It probably won't be any good to stare right now, when Snufkin expects it, so he settles for watching the water and listening as his best friend talks. He can't think of a way he could compare it to either Mymble or Little My, but he finds himself taking note of how it sounds, regardless. It's very smooth and melodic, softer than anyone's in the valley, yet somewhat compelling.
He thinks that if sirens have voices even half as nice as Snufkin's, then it's no wonder so many sailors have jumped to their doom. A giggle escapes him when a wild idea enters his mind.
Absent-mindedly, he blurts out, “Remind me to take you with me if I ever decide to sail through siren-infested waters, they couldn't possibly sound bett–” he stops abruptly once his mind catches up with what just left his mouth, and he slowly turns to his friend.
Snufkin has frozen mid-sentence, mouth opening and closing without a sound, and is turning red at an alarming speed. He seems too stunned to even pull down his hat, which speaks volumes about how badly Moomin has messed up.
With no excuse coming to his mind that would diffuse the situation without offending Snufkin terribly, he settles on digging his grave deeper and just telling the truth, “You just have, um— a very nice voice, Snufkin,” he trails off awkwardly, looking at his tail, which he's started wrangling nervously between his paws. He berates himself for clearly making his best friend so uncomfortable with that thoughtless remark about his voice that he doesn't even want to say anything now.
Eventually, after what feels like forever and then some more, Snufkin answers.
“Thank you. That's a very thoughtful compliment,” he says simply and when Moomintroll glances at him from the corner of his eye, his hat is pulled down so that the only thing visible is a small, private smile.
Moomin feels slightly nauseous, but weirdly enough, not in a bad way. Letting out a breath of relief, he decides to postpone his research until tomorrow.
***
He does not, in fact, get a chance to continue the research the next day, or the day after that, because Snufkin disappears without a trace.
It's not really an unusual occurrence, but Moomin still nearly worries himself into a frenzy thinking it's his fault. What if Snufkin doesn't return until the next spring? Or even then? (He thinks to himself that if Snufkin didn't return in the spring, he'd set out himself to search for him by the time summer arrived, but the reason why seems to elude him.)
On the second day, Little My approaches him. “Did you two have a fight?” She doesn't so much ask as demand. “You haven't been this anxious about his mid-year trips in at least four or five years.” He doesn't answer her, and she, for once, backs off, as she does when deeming something too serious for her to make a ruckus about.
Snufkin returns on the third day. At first, Moomin decides to put a pause on any information gathering, so as not to disturb their careful balance further. Somehow, though, once he started looking in the first place, he can't simply stop now! It's almost as if he accidentally put himself in a mode where it's just physically impossible not to notice everything about his best friend.
What's even worse, now, is that Snufkin, for some wild and unknown reason, started looking back. And it's nearly unbearable. Sometimes he feels eyes on him, like a tickle on the back of his neck, and when caught in the act, Snufkin simply gives him the same small, private smile he had on the bridge. The worst part, though, is that Moomin likes it.
The other shoe drops for him just as the summer starts for good. June makes way to July, and something inexplicable shifts in Moomin in turn.
They're sitting in the same field of flowers as they did when what Moomin has started calling The Revelation was thrust upon him. The flowers are slightly different, given the change of seasons, and he can hear bees buzzing around. For one reason or another, they’re alone today, as it seems to keep happening recently.
He's in a predicament, to be honest. The research has never been officially resumed, despite his newfound inability to keep his eyes off Snufkin. And it still would be, really, should his friend not be asleep right now, with a hat off his head, serving as a makeshift pillow instead. They were up late chasing fireflies late into the night, and Snufkin usually wakes up way earlier than he does.
To be fair, it might be his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, he thinks, giggling to himself at a soft snore that escapes his friend. It can't hurt to finish what he started, can it now?
According to all logic, he should start somewhere, but he doesn't know where. Mamma once mentioned that Little My and Snufkin have the same nose, so he guesses it's about as good a start as anything. It's - well, it's certainly a nose. It's small when you compare it to an average moomin, snork, or even a hemulen one. It's smaller than Joxter’s, too. When he thinks about it a bit longer, Snufkin's nose is actually an average size for a mymble. It is, in fact, button-shaped and slightly upturned, just like Little My's is. So Moominmamma was right about that one, as she usually is.
It's right where countless, tiny freckles that stretch along his cheeks and even forehead seem to start. They trail, in varying intensity and quantity, even under Snufkin's jaw, some disappearing below his scarf. Moomin remembers seeing them on the shoulders as well at some point.
He wonders, in the back of his mind, how can someone even be so pretty all of the time? Well, being beautiful obviously must be absolutely exhausting , considering Snufkin is currently sleeping and - oh. Oh.
He might have a new thing to call The Realization now...
Well, that definitely explains a few things.