***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***
Present (Friday, continued)…
Emma couldn’t hold back her tears as she crouched before the mutilated form of her husband. He’d been stabbed in the chest and through the hand, and his right shoulder hung grotesquely out of place. Blood caked his face and pooled in livid swellings from a recent beating. Red droplets dripped sluggishly off the tip of his nose and splattered, barely visible, onto the rust-tinged burlap on his torso. A haphazard mess of surgical staples did little to contain bone-deep lacerations on either side of his ankle. And a line of slowly oozing punctures trailed their way up both inner thighs until disappearing beneath the sackcloth smock.
She decided to take it as a good sign that everything still seemed to be actively bleeding. Killian did not appear to be moving at all; at first, Emma could not even see any sign of breaths. But as she reached out to seek a carotid pulse, she noticed a slight and labored rise and fall of his chest. Her relief caused a catch in her throat. He was alive… for the moment.
Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and weighed down by the responsibility of keeping him alive until help arrived, Emma fumbled for the phone concealed in her pocket. If ever there was a time for magical healing… Once again, she strained to feel the tingle of light where her power dwelt, a reflex she’d already indulged several times since the Vocivore’s defeat. As before: nothing.
Well, no use bemoaning something she couldn’t change. Her free hand automatically came to rest on Killian’s arm, above the ring and stake, over an unraveling bandage. She was both heartened and dismayed when Killian flinched away from her touch with a whine.
“Killian, hey,” she soothed. “It’s just me.” She hit the button to call EMS, then put her phone on speaker. “You’re gonna be okay.”
She kept a careful watch on her husband while explaining to the dispatcher what was needed: essentially every ambulance and emergency vehicle in the United Realms. As sheriff, she knew they would take her seriously, as well as listen to any special request. So while she did her best to direct them to the scene, she also suggested that they contact David, who knew exactly the route they should take.
In the midst of rattling off her father’s contact info, while also absently holding pressure against as many of the puncture wounds as she could simultaneously reach, Emma felt Killian begin to stir. He shuddered as he tried to drag his eyes open.
“Try and hold still,” urged Emma.
“Swan,” he whispered, wincing.
His recognition of her brought tears to her eyes once more. Another good sign. “I’m here, babe. Just hold on; we’re going to get you all fixed up.”
He shook his head, breathing faster now, trying and failing to reach up and push her away with his stump. “You have to… go…” he groaned. “The monster…”
A flash of extreme pain crossed his face, and the words fizzled out, evaporating into frantic gasps for air.
Emma felt her own breath catch at his obvious distress. “Shhhhh, Killian, shhh… calm down. The monster’s dead; it can’t hurt you anymore.”
Every muscle in her husband’s body stood taut as he fought for air.
“He’s having trouble breathing,” she reported to the person on the other end of the line, as calmly as she could. She listened to the instructions but her attention was riveted on Killian. At long last, he managed to quell the panic and slow the gasping.
“D-dead?” he wheezed, sounding as if he couldn’t even define the word.
“Yep.” She used her shirt sleeve to carefully blot some blood that was trickling into one of his eyes.
Killian finally managed to focus on Emma’s face for the first time, and though he still had an alarmingly dazed look in his eyes, he immediately fixated on a small cut on her forehead.
“You’re hurt.”
He looked as if he were about to raise his left arm despite the blade embedded in his chest. Emma held him down.
“Good to know your keen observational skills are still intact.” She rolled her eyes as he continued staring up at her in concern. “I’m fine. And you’re ridiculous.”
He gritted his way through another wave of intense pain and seemed to forget that she was even there. It was then that she noticed how much he was shivering; whether it was from the practically nothing he was wearing, or from shock, she didn’t know. How was she supposed to lay him flat and elevate his feet with his hand pinned to the frickin’ altar? More importantly, if he stopped breathing, how would she perform effective CPR in this position?
She pushed aside the thought that, with the paramedics at least 30 minutes away, any efforts at resuscitation would likely be futile.
Emma glanced back at Jones, who was gingerly unwinding the costume bandage from his wrist. He wouldn’t be able to provide much assistance, whatever she decided to do.
She felt Killian squirming under her hands and turned her attention back. He groaned and then, as if reading her thoughts, he hissed,
“Please, love… get me free of this… bloody thing…”
His fingers twitched in feeble emphasis. Emma bit her lip, reluctant. “I don’t know, Killian… that may not be such a good idea.”
“Please,” he said again, eyes screwed shut against the pain. “It’ll have to happen… eventually. And I think… it may make it… easier to breathe.”
“It will hurt a lot less after you’ve had some morphine,” she pointed out. But if it really did help him to breathe better…
“Please, Emma,” Killian grunted. “Just do it.”
The dispatcher on the phone asked for an update, and Emma explained the situation while she set squeamishness aside and studied the impaling blade. She had no way of knowing how long it actually was, or how much of it was embedded in the wood. Approximately three inches of sharp steel were sandwiched between the dagger’s handle and Killian’s palm. The heel of his hand and the underside of his forearm glistened with blood all the way down to the elbow. Pulling the dagger free would be inadvisable if she wanted to keep that trickle of blood from becoming a stream. The dispatcher concurred, advising that they wait, if possible. But Emma didn’t know how bad the stab wound to his chest was; he could even have a punctured lung on that side, so relieving the tension on the other side may well be the difference between life and death for him.
As she was agonizing over the decision, she sensed movement behind her, and when she glanced back, it was to see Jones staggering up the steps toward them. He was breathing hard, looked pale and sweaty, but didn’t stop until he reached the top. Grimacing, he knelt, landing hard next to his doppelganger, whose eyes snapped open as he cringed away. Expecting an attack. Emma squeezed his wrist in reassurance.
“Ahoy there, mate,” said Jones softly. He faked a scowl and added, “You know, I haven’t forgotten to be miffed at the pair of you and this insane plot of yours.”
Gratified by the hint of a pained smile on Killian’s lips, Jones turned to address Emma. “Suppose I should offer my help anyway.”
Emma eyed him critically. The Ace bandage was now wrapped haphazardly around his injured shoulder, loosely covering the patch of blood spreading on the sackcloth over the bullet wound. She raised an eyebrow. “Sure you’re up to it?“
Jones only gave a small, unconvincing twitch of his lips. Emma took her hands away from her husband’s injuries long enough to grip the ends of the Ace bandage, which were merely tucked under one another. She gave a sharp tug to tighten it and tied a more secure knot, hissing,
“What the hell happened back there?”
“Not a clue.” Jones closed his eyes in a brief concession to the momentary increase in pain, then nodded his thanks.
The dispatcher on the phone crackled an update in ETA: 20 minutes, give or take. A long time, in which anything could happen. Most of which would be bad.
Emma gave a sigh of resignation. Then she squared her shoulders.
"Think you can help stabilize his hand?” she murmured, and Jones’ gaze flicked to the afflicted limb.
“Yeah, of course.”
Emma shuffled around to the other side of her husband’s legs, closer to the impaling dagger. With a stifled grunt, Jones made room for her. Killian watched, motionless apart from his short, gasping breaths. Forcing herself to turn away from the pain in his eyes, Emma reached for the dagger’s handle. Behind her, the detective gently wrapped his hand around Killian’s wrist.
In response to the hissed intake of air to her right, Emma caressed Killian’s cheek. “You sure?”
Her husband’s eyes betrayed just as much fear and reluctance as anguish, but he managed a shaky nod. Emma tightened her grip on the dagger. “On three, then. One…” She heard Killian gasp a preparatory breath, saw him squeeze his eyes shut. “Two…”
On impulse, ignoring the blood and sweat staining his face, Emma initiated a furious kiss, at the same time yanking with all her strength on the trapped blade. The unexpected touch of intimacy worked as a distraction for approximately half a second, as a dazed Killian attempted to reciprocate. But then he was pulling away, howling his agony against her cheek. Emma cursed and braced her free hand against the altar as leverage; long seconds later, the dagger popped free of the wood, inevitably jerking inside Killian’s hand despite efforts to keep it still. Though a smear of crimson revealed where a short length of steel had slid free, enough remained within his flesh to hopefully stem the worst of the bleeding.
“It’s done; it’s out,” Emma breathed, reaching for his head and cradling him against her shoulder. She nodded at Jones and, moving in slow tandem, they lowered the impaled limb to rest awkwardly on the floor beside him, the dagger’s handle mere inches from his hip. And Killian’s muffled groans were sweet music, proving his continued existence, his ability to draw enough breath to express his pain.
Even from her strange angle, even through the stained sackcloth, Emma could see the wrong position of his shoulder joint. She cringed and stroked the back of Killian’s head. Then she gently pulled away, asking,
“Any better?”
Killian rested his head back against the altar and squinted up at her, nodding once but not wasting the energy to speak.
“Not touching that shoulder. Sorry.” She spared a glance at Jones, who had sat back and was now massaging his chest despite the length of metal still burrowed into his arm. He grimaced agreement with her decision; even if either of them had the expertise to pop the joint back into place, it had been long enough for swelling and tightening of the tendons and ligaments to make an attempt not worth it.
“Do you want to lie down?”
At first, it looked as if Killian were considering the suggestion. Theoretically, lying him flat could be advisable for multiple reasons, and might make it easier for him to relax, but Emma wanted to leave the choice up to him. In the end, whether he thought he would find it harder to breathe, wanted to avoid the pain of changing positions, or feared the possibility that once he lay down, he may never get up again, Killian answered with a feeble shake of his head.
Emma peeled her jacket off and rolled it into a tight bundle, which she carefully slid behind Killian’s head as a makeshift pillow. Her proximity allowed her a better view of the bulky new collar and its set of screws which, up until now, she’d been hoping weren’t actually drilled into his neck. That explained at least some of that morning’s screams. Emma scowled, feeling sick; she’d granted that villain far too easy of a death.
Killian didn’t look any more comfortable, but grimaced his gratitude at her before suddenly catching sight of the slumped monster corpse in the distance. He seemed to grow somehow even more pale, warily watching the Vocivore for any sign of movement.
“It’s dead?”
Emma rested a reassuring hand on his shin, inadvertently leaving a bloody handprint on a relatively unscathed portion of skin. Killian’s eyes were locked on his tormentor, as if his vigilance were the only thing keeping it subdued.
“Shot it myself,” she growled. “So unless the damn thing can regenerate its ugly, pervert brain, we’re finally done with it.”
As she said this, she realized it may not have been the most comforting thing for Killian to hear: they still had a lot to learn about the creature, and the possibility, however slight, of the Vocivore coming back to life gave her a momentary chill. She could only imagine how it made Killian feel.
“Listen,” she said, “Jones and I both have our weapons and will keep an eye on it. But I don’t think we need to worry about it.”
“And those slaves over there?” added Jones, his voice only slightly stronger than Killian’s had been. “They’re lost. Directionless. The first sign of renewed purpose, we’ll know to be on the alert.”
Emma stole a glance in the direction the detective was looking and saw the slaves, some of whom had been holding her captive just moments before, hunched on their knees, faces in hands. One or two lay stretched out flat, silent and still.
“He’s right. Leave the guard duty to us; you just focus on hanging in there until the medics come.”
Emma did not like the bleak hopelessness with which he reacted to her statement; she knew he was doubting his odds of surviving that long. But he rested his head back and soon had his eyes closed, either deciding to put his trust in her words, or simply too weary to do otherwise.
She tried to remain quiet as she reached across his body for the loose end of the bandage around his left wrist. It appeared to be the same one supplied by Storybrooke General; if its sole purpose was still to cover the wrist ring, it would be of better use staunching some of the oozing injuries on his legs.
“Killian?” she asked, some time later. “How far is Z’s and would you be able to tell me how to get there?”
Her husband didn’t respond.
“Babe?” A gentle finger on his cheek elicited no response, but he did pull away slightly when she got too near an inflamed abrasion by his eye. His breaths were shallow and quick but regular, and he seemed somehow balanced enough even without much supporting him upright. She was torn between staying to monitor his condition and heading off to see what she could find in the way of first aid supplies.
Watching through half-lidded eyes, Jones reluctantly sat up straighter, rousing himself from a pain-driven daze to offer,
“I’ll keep an eye on him, Emma. Go do what you need to do.”
The detective was hardly in a fit state to offer that kind of service; Emma wouldn’t have been surprised to watch him be the next one to pass out. But, grunting, Jones got to his knees and made his way to Emma’s side, dutifully nudging her hand away so he could take over the task of applying pressure. With a stubbornness so much like her own Killian, he even went so far as to use the scarred remnants of his left wrist to cover an additional wound, yielding nothing to the anguish that surely wracked his shoulder with the effort. Emma flashed him look of exasperation before clambering to her feet.
“Five minutes,” she promised, then jogged her way out into the desolate afternoon light.
*****
His Master loomed overhead. Large and menacing. A claw was embedded in his shoulder, another in his hand, severing tendons, removing sensation and function from each remaining finger. Killian whimpered, shifting under questing tentacles pressed hard into burning thighs. Emma, the rescue… all a wonderful, horrible hallucination. How much longer would his suffering drag on?
Tentacles dug deeper, and Killian thrashed with all of his remaining strength. He knew his Master demanded obedience, but he couldn’t do it. Not again.
A startlingly good impression of his own voice floated down from above. “Hey, easy! Easy there, mate; it’s only me.”
Nearly hyperventilating now despite unprecedented agony in his chest, Killian continued to struggle; opening his eyes seemed a monumental task and he would only see that hideous face staring down at him anyway. He had no idea what his Master was up to, or how the creature had managed to mimic his voice, but it hardly mattered.
“Killian, mate; I promise I’m not trying to hurt you. I swear. In truth, I intend to wait until you’re fully recovered. And then… well, after that, all bets are off. You bloody wanker.”
Those words sounded nothing like any his Master had ever said before. Perhaps he was hallucinating this as well? Killian groaned quietly, then peeled his eyes open.
Detective Jones sat beside Killian’s knee, holding pressure on some of the punctures to his inner thigh. The man looked utterly spent, had a blood soaked bandage wrapped carelessly around a shoulder, and wore a grim expression, but his eyes were soft. Upon locking gazes with Killian, the detective flashed a wan smile.
“That’s it. See? Nothing to fear now.”
Killian remained unconvinced that it wasn’t a dream. He scanned the desecrated church, feeling dazed and slightly drunk; his eyes would not follow a steady path and he couldn’t make sense of everything he was seeing. He winced and tried to relieve some of the strain on his shoulder, to no avail.
“If you’re looking for Emma, she’s just stepped out for a bit,” Jones told him. “In search of bandages and a blanket.”
“Emma…” croaked Killian.
“She’ll be back soon,” soothed the detective, hiding a wince himself as he shifted his weight. “And not much longer until other help arrives as well.”
Killian brought his focus back on the face identical to his own, blinking heavy eyelids and fighting massive disorientation. “How…?”
Jones gave a wry grin. “Your Swan confessed. I know everything now. You great bloody git. You know your in-laws are going to murder you as well?”
“Can’t murder… a corpse… mate…”
“No, no… you’re not getting out of it that easily.” Jones checked that his hand was still covering the wound before continuing. “You’re obligated to stay alive; otherwise, who will we exact our vengeance upon?”
Killian’s eyes fluttered closed against his will. “The Crocodile… it was his gadget… made this possible.”
Jones laughed once. “Okay, I’m not averse to that idea… but as I understand it, he’s only one third of the responsible party.”
Killian could not keep up the conversation. He was in too much anguish and found his concentration slipping. Jones seemed to sense this and fell silent, but after a moment of quiet, he murmured,
“I understand, mate. I do. And I can’t say I would have done anything differently, given the opportunity you had.”
Killian made an attempt at a grateful smile. But a sudden stab of pain took his breath away, stifling any chance at a reply. Through the gasping breaths that followed, he thought he heard the scrape of the off-kilter door being dragged open, but it could have been his imagination, as well.
It wasn’t. Killian heard footsteps, urgent and self-assured, scuffling along the well-worn paving stones of the sanctuary in a manner very distinct from the ominous clicking he had grown accustomed to fearing. From an impossibly great distance, the garbled voice of his beloved called out,
“How’s he doing?”
“Still with us,” reported Jones, similarly remote. “I was just telling him how much trouble the pair of you are in.”
Killian shuddered at the arrival of another being; it was so deeply ingrained that even the fuzzy outline of Emma’s calmly worried face could not overcome the instinct. Her gentle touch on his knee sent a shock of pain and fear sizzling down to his toes. He hissed, then stammered an apology. Emma ignored the reaction. She had in her grip a ragged brown blanket, which she unfurled and gently spread over his lower body.
“Almost,” she promised in a whisper. Unrolling other scraps of fabric intended as temporary bandages, she added, “I’m pretty sure I heard sirens out there. This is almost over.”
Even in his near-stupor, Killian somehow made sense of the words. He exhaled once, closed his eyes, and began to silently weep.
Villain has the upper hand and says something snarky just before they try to kill Hero. Fortunately, Hero gets rescued by Sidekick, with only a few moderate injuries.
Years later, Hero has to fight Villain again. They’re frightened going into it; but eventually Hero gains the upper hand, and they throw Villain’s words right back in their face.
So, this was my summer… any help would be appreciated greatly!
Here’s a link to my paypal if you’d rather directly send anything: HERE
Look I love hurt comfort, but only fictional. XD
Thanks everyone who has donated so far! It’s a long road but because of your support I’m down to just about 5k in medical bills left. I cannot thank you enough for helping me get there.
My roommate said I should draw Obi-Wan just having a really bad day lol. “Everything goes wrong. Gets kidnapped, meets a sith, ship gets blown up, etc… and he’s terribly frustrated by the end”.
I imagine in this drawing, it’s after his long awful day and he has somehow stumbled his way back to the temple concussed, in his blood and dirt clad shredded tunic, belt somehow long lost so he’s carrying his lightsaber in hand. All the clones / Jedi who are gathered in this conference room turn to the doorway, see him and are like “Obi-Wan?! What happened?!” and Obi plays it off like it’s totally normal, delivers them some important intel he recently learned, and them prompty passes out lol.
Summary: The problem, Snufkin thinks, is not so much that he believes he is a selfish, wild creature. The problem is that Moomintroll is not, and never will be. And that is a problem, you see, because he deserves someone far better than him. And yet, Moomintroll still chose him.
… … … … … … … … … … … … …
“I think this is alittle excessive, guys.”
“Daw, but you look so pretty!” Snorkmadien giggled, tying one among many bows to Sniff’s ear. Snufkin thinks there has to be at least a dozen, likely more.
“He looks like a mannequin in a bow store that ran out of spares.” Little My snorted, though she, too, was tying another bow onto the poor creature’s arm.
“It might be a little too many bows.” Moomintroll tried, though he had also not been spared, with dusty rose bows around his ankle and ear, and a light blue one around his neck, courtesy of matching with Snorkmaiden. Though her bow was tied at the back of her neck, not the side.
“Well, I have so many,” Snorkmaiden said, sitting back to admire the pink bow she’d adorned Sniff’s ear with. “I’m probably not even going to use them all.”
“But why am I the model?” Sniff bemoaned. “You only gave Snufkin one!”
Which was true, they had. Snufkin was saved by only having a single yellow bow tied around his hat. It actually matched quite well, and Snufkin had decided very early on he’d be keeping it until it fell off.
“Snufkin’s not a bow-type creature.” Snorkmaiden said simply.
“And he’d probably lead us all to a ditch if we tried to make him look as ridiculous as you.” Little My taunted.
“I wouldn’t.” Snufkin said, knowing very well that he probably would.
“Hush,” Little My waved him off. “Less talking, more harmonica. It’s what you’re good at.”
“Hey!” Moomintroll bristled, and Snufkin tried to hide his grin as he went back to gently playing All Small Beast Should Have Bows In Their Tails. He thinks Sniff is the only one who hasn’t realized the irony in it, yet. “Snufkin is good at plenty of other things!”
“Like breaking and entering?” Little My drawled.
“And disregarding laws.” Snorkmadien added, not immune to instigating arguments for fun. He respected it.
“Don’t listen to them.” Moomintroll told him. “You’re good at much nicer things.”
“Nicer, you say?” Snufkin took the harmonica just a little ways off of his mouth so he could speak. “I happen to quite like those two talents of mine. Do you think they are lesser-than?”
He resumed playing as Moomintroll stuttered, struggling to keep the tempo even as the troll attempted to hastily backtrack. Little My cackled at him, and Snorkmaiden, too, giggled at his plights. Sniff, the poor little creature, had only paid attention to maybe half of the conversation.
“Relax, you talking pillow.” Little My sniffed, batting at the trolls bowed-ankle. “There are few things I share with this lunatic, but we’ve got a small overlap in humor.”
“I didn’t think it was very funny.” Moomintroll muttered, thoroughly embarrassed.
“That’s because you have a hero complex. Now are you getting another bow, or not?”
Moomintroll was a stuttering mess all over again, and Snufkin was fully smiling into his playing, now. His tail, which was normally quite covered by his clothes, or simply unused, flicked to life to lightly bat at the moomin’s side, urging him through his shifting closer to the two for another bow.
Moomintroll gave him a slightly surprised look, but then Snorkmaiden was grabbing his paw to tie a green ribbon around his wrist, and Snufkin stopped paying much attention, instead focusing on his music.
He thinks he’s better now, after that talk on the beach. That Moomintroll knows he is a selfish beast, and simply does not care. Well, he cares, it is just something that he accepts, like how Snufkin accepts that Moomintroll has a hero complex.
Somehow, that hasn’t done much for the thoughts, even if they feel a little better. Suppose not even solid proof can dissuade the most stubborn of minds.
“He’s not gonna let you.” He heard, and his ear pricked, flicking up, the only indication that he was paying attention again.
“I can at leastask.” Moomintroll huffed, and before Snufkin could wonder what that meant, the troll was sitting back down at his side, a new ribbon around his wrist. “Snufkin?”
“Come to show off your newest decoration?” Snufkin teased, bringing the harmonica away. “I must say, Snorkmaiden, while you are quite deft at making pretty bows, I don’t happen to think this matches him.”
“We’re not trying to match, we’re trying to tie bows.” Snorkmaiden huffed, and he couldn’t argue with that, so he went back to his harmonica.
“Speaking of which,” Moomintroll said, and Snufkin could see now that he had one paw closed into a fist. “Could I have your tail for a moment?”
He exhaled a bit too harshly on a changing note, and winced a bit. It wasn’t glaringly obvious, but to someone who knew the song inside out, it still grated on him. He thinks the others might’ve noticed, too, for they’d heard it almost as much as him.
“Excuse me?” He stared, setting the harmonica down in his lap.
“Er, your tail?” Moomintroll looked far more unsure, now. “Is–you don’t have to, of-of course, I was only asking–”
“Whatever for?” Snufkin frowned.
“Well, I was thinking…” Moomintroll unfurled his paw, revealing a rather large cream-white bow within, almost blending into his fur. “I could tie this to your tail?”
“I tried to give him a much smaller one.” Little My informed. “But he insisted on a big one.”
“I did not,” Moomintroll glared at her, flushed. “I just thought this one looked better.”
“You just want to dress him in a pretty bow.”
“Oh you are such–”
“Alright,” He said, because if he waited anymore, he’s sure they’d all be expectantly turning to him for an answer, and he wanted to avoid that ensuing silence.
And, because he wanted to avoid another awkward silence, he moved his tail until the tufted end lay across Moomintroll’s leg.
“Would I have said as such if I wasn’t?” He replied.
“Fair enough,” Moomintroll shrugged, and picked up his tail with soft fingers.
“Unbelievable,” He heard Little My grumbling under her breath.
Moomintroll, he could tell, was anxious. Probably from how Snufkin had startled earlier, but really, can one blame him? He’s not exactly sure how other Mumrik’s are about their tails, and Snufkin wouldn’t say he was overly careful with his, but he most certainly wasn’t as expressive with it as most other creatures were. Why, the bow would probably be hidden with the rest of his tail if he went on as normal, so why bother?
He watched as Moomintroll took the ribbon and slowly wound it around his tail, mumbling a quiet “is this too tight?” and continuing on when Snufkin shook his head. It was actually a bit too loose, but he didn’t want to interrupt to point that out.
It wasn’t as neat as Snorkmaiden’s, nor as lopsided as Little My’s. It was made with care, but not perfection. One side was a little too big, and one string was clearly longer than the other. Moomintroll looked like he wanted to redo it, but Snufkin was raising his tail and looking over it before he could unravel it.
He’d put it right before the tuft in his tail, big and eye-catching. He has no doubt part of it would drag on the ground if he didn’t keep his tail upright, doomed to be snagged on twigs and rocks. He decided right then and there he wouldn’t let that happen.
“Do you like it?” Moomintroll asked, wary.
“Not that it matches.” Snorkmaiden added-in.
“It’s wonderful.” He breathed, and drew his tail closer so that he could tighten it. “Thank you, Moomintroll.”
Moomintroll broke into a bright smile, and he definitely heard Little My fake-gag. Snorkmaiden, for her part, simply rolled her eyes with a fond look and withdrew another blue bow from her bag.
“Does this mean we’re adding more bows to Snufkin instead?” Sniff asked hopefully.
“Absolutely not.” Snufkin said, still smiling as he curled his tail around his body, by his legs. “Two bows are enough for me. Besides, you look so lovely in all those colors.”
“You’re all terrible friends.”
And they only laughed, and the conversation went on. Though, Snufkin is sure that Moomintroll kept looking over when Snufkin’s tail would twitch and move, more so than it had in quite a while.
And if Snufkin spent the rest of the day with that bow, tail lazily waving behind him, then that could be something that was acknowledged in silence.
And while he wouldn’t admit it, everyone would know kept the white bow, even after it fell off. He tied it tight to a strap on his bag, and feigned naivety when it was pointed out.
After all, it could’ve been any old bow.
It was rather cathartic to ruin the Park Keeper’s night.
It was one thing when he ruined a few people’s days on his travels. When he passed by parks with clipped grass and perfectly square bushes. When he muddled it all up so that nature may reclaim what so rightfully belongs to it.
It’s a whole other thing when you get to ruin the same Hemulen’s park over and over again. He wouldn’t compare it to returning to Moominvalley every spring, but that was the closest thing he could compare it to. What else did he return to so frequently?
It also means that the Park Keeper got clever. So you have to be clever back. And on and on it goes in circles and loops and twists and turns. It’s honestly quite fun. Snufkin enjoys the challenge, even if he knows he will always win. Even if a battle is lost, the war on nature will always favor the side of nature. That’s just the way things are.
It still wasn’t much fun when he lost the battle. Even if it was still cathartic to cause problems.
This was how he wound up with some kind of snare-like trap wound around his arm.
He doesn’t think it was meant for him. Honestly, he thinks it was for deer, or some larger animals that kept wandering in. Or maybe it was supposed to go around trees to deter squirrels and accidentally got caught in a place it shouldn’t have been. That did not, however, stop the rivulets of blood down his arm.
Really, it wasn’t as bad as the blood would have you believe. His sleeve was just horribly stained and torn and made it a lot more graphic than it ever needed to be. But he should probably try to stop the bleeding anyway.
And so, here he was, climbing up to Moomintroll’s window. Why? Well, it’s simple, really; if he walked in through the front door, he might get blood on the floor, and he wouldn’t want to bother everyone with the stains. And someone else was bound to wake up if he was creeping around trying to find the bandages and scissors, so he figures he can just ask Moomintroll where it is and be out in a jiff.
He wasn’t all too keen on staying around the park to ask for help, anyway. Though he’s sure the Park Keeper would’ve helped, for as tremendous as their rivalry was, he does not think the hemulen was one to take pride in almost seriously injuring someone by accident, whether or not they were being mischievous. Also, Snufkin has friends who would gladly have a word or two with him. But some wilder part of his brain grew frantic at the thought of staying where he had been injured, waiting for some form of enemy to find him. So he’d scurried out as fast as he could, because he was no tamed creature.
And wire was not an easy thing to tear off. So, not wanting to make it worse by trying to kick it off, he figured it’d be better to cut it, once he had the clear mental state to think of such a thing. Thus, he went to Moominhouse. There were two safe places in Moominvalley, and that was the house, and his tent.
Luckily, nobody in the Moominhouse locked anything. So Snufkin had no trouble scaling up the wall, claws hooking into crevices and digging into the wood when there were none. He cradled his injured arm up to his chest, adjusting his weight distribution so he wouldn’t be making many errors and have to do the whole thing all over again. It’d look bad if there was blood dripping down the side of the house come morning.
He was, unfortunately, not quiet. Understandable, given the circumstances, but also quite unfortunate when the entire point was to be sneaky.
So, call Snufkin more than a bit spooked when, upon reaching Moomintroll’s window, it swung open before he could even figure out how he was supposed to do it himself with one good hand.
His tail stuck straight out, he’d forgotten to tuck it away these days, and jerked down so his head was just below the windowsill, not that it would do anything.
“Shoo!” Moomintroll demanded, wielding a bat. “Shoo, I say! This is no place to–Snufkin?”
Snufkin’s ears swiveled upright, blinking his best innocent eyes. Moomintroll stared at him for a moment, absolutely bewildered. Which was fair enough, it was a bewildering situation. He would prefer if they could get a move on, though. His arm still hurt.
“You look kind of creepy.” He said, lowering the bat. “Like a nightmare in the dark–what are you doing up here in the middle of the night?”
“Do you have anything that can cut wires?” Snufkin asked, finding he didn’t quite like being called a nightmare.
“You mean like pliers?” Moomintroll tilted his head as Snufkin leaned back up. “Sure, I think we have some down in the sheee–your arm!”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Snufkin shrugged it off, already descending. “Grab some bandages for me, perhaps? I can go get the pliers since I’m already out here–”
“You’rebleeding!” Moomintroll cried, and Snufkin would’ve hushed him for being too loud if the troll wasn’t leaning out the window and grabbing at him. “Goodness, get inside! What even happened–nope, you know what, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter,” He muttered, heaving Snufkin by the coat.
“Really, it looks far more terrible than it truly is.” Snufkin insisted, though he helped Moomintroll out by kicking his paws against the wood to get himself inside. “It’s just a snare.”
“Asnare?”Moomintroll exclaimed, nearly toppling over backwards when he finally got Snufkin inside. “Whatever do you have a snare on you for?”
“Well, I assume it’s a snare of some sort.” Snufkin shrugged, looking down at the arm still cradled to his chest. “Truly, I’m not quite sure what its purpose was. It was an accident.”
“Doesn’t that hurt?” Moomintroll stepped forward.
“Tremendously,” Snufkin agreed. “But I already had my moments of writhing and cursing. Now it’s just plain bothersome.”
“You…” Moomintroll pressed his paws together in front of his face, and he was probably supposed to be exasperated, but he only looked more afraid. “You’re a horrid little creature, do you know that?”
“I make a habit of it.” Snufkin nodded. “Now, uh, the pliers…?”
“Right! Yes, yes,” Moomintroll hurriedly stepped back. “You wait right here, okay? Don’t go anywhere, uh, put pressure on the wound, I think that’s what you do–I’ll be right back with pliers and some bandages. And stitches, do you think you need stitches? I’ll get stitches.”
“The stitches really aren’t necessary–”
“Donot leave!” Moomintroll warned him, pointing a paw at him, opening the door behind him.
“I have nowhere else to go.” He said, but Moomintroll had already left.
And then he was alone in Moomintroll’s room. He considered sitting on the bed, but he didn’t want to get blood on the sheets. So he sat down underneath the window, legs folded underneath him and using his other arm to hold his injured one in place. He’d already accepted that his coat was ruined, it wouldn’t do anything to have a few more stains on it. It was awfully lucky he didn’t care much for material value.
He did find himself absently picking at the wire, though, despite how tight it was in his skin. A nightmare, he said. He doesn’t quite like that thought. Of being a creature that goes bump in the night, one that has others on their toes. He likes being a lusiance, yes, but not a nightmare.
He hoped he wasn’t too terrifying of a sight, covered in blood with a wild look in his eyes, still breathing heavily from the dying adrenaline rush and the climb. He isn’t soft like moomins or fillyjonk’s or the wide array of folks in the valley. He has rows of fangs made for tearing, curving claws for catching, a nimble frame for pouncing, slitted eyes made for the night. He is not a kind beast to find on a lonesome trail.
He wonders if a part of Moomintroll is afraid because of what he sees. If, for that split second, he saw a monster with jaws here to crush, claws to snatch up and rip away. He finds he hates that thought quite a bit, and his tail, the darn thing, tightly winds itself around his ankle.
He presses his thumb into the palm of his injured hand, just to the left of the wire curling around it. He feels his claws flex, and winces when the movement causes the wire to shift, digging in deeper. He hastily retracts them, cursing quietly to himself as he hunched over his bloody arm. Bad idea. A whole array of bad ideas.
He wonders if bleeding can be seen as proof in its own right. He’s seen cuts and scrapes on the moomins before, yes, but nothing as bad as a snare wound all up their arm. Dangerous beasts are the ones that are caught in traps, with sharp edges to be wary of. What soft creature had ever bled as much as he?
“I got the pliers!”
Moomintroll’s voice was a shouted whisper, but it still made Snufkin startle and look up at him from under the brim of his hat, anyway. Moomintroll faltered for a moment, and to Snufkin’s mind, that was evidence in of itself.
“Ah, good.” Snufkin said in a quiet, hoarse voice. “I do believe I’ve made it a bit worse.” He said with a nervous, painful smile.
“How on earth did you manage that?” Moomintroll rushed in, dropping to his knees and reaching out before stopping halfway. “Goodness, what did you do–?”
He started to reach forward with the pliers, and the flash of pointed metal made some instinct in Snufkin’s head flinch away, such a small and quick movement that anyone could’ve brushed it off as nothing. But Moomintroll wasn’t anyone.
“Snufkin?” He said, slowly drawing back.
“I’m fine,” Snufkin croaked, removing a paw from his arm and reaching out. “I apologize, my nerves are a bit frayed at the moment, I–” He paused, saw the blood dripping off his paw and onto the floor before hastily drawing it back. “Ah, you definitely don’t want that–”
“Snufkin,” Moomintroll said, and he glanced up at the troll’s face before looking down again. He didn’t feel up to seeing the growing panic in his eyes. “Hey, listen, I’m–well, normally I’d ask what’s wrong, but I’m afraid we need to get the wire off, first.” He said, setting the pliers down in his lap. “Do you want to do it?”
“No, it’s easier if you do it.” Snufkin shook his head, staring off at the wall as he offered his arm again. “I was just being jumpy, don’t worry.”
“You make it hard not to.” Moomintroll said, slowly reaching out a paw and gently taking his arm, and Snufkin fought every muscle demanding to wince away from the pain. “Oh my gosh–”
“Most of it’s just my sleeve.” Snufkin assured, still staring off. “I tried to get it off earlier, but it didn’t go so well. The tears are just from me.”
Moomintroll was silent for a moment, doing his best to avoid touching the open wounds and instead trying to find any place of give where he could wiggle the pliers up underneath. He wouldn’t, except maybe around his wrist, but Moomintroll might be too anxious to try by there for that, so he wasn’t going to make him.
Then he felt a shift on his head, and he looked back to Moomintroll just in time to see him lightly knocking his hat off his head with his other paw. He stared at the troll in confusion, ears twitching back. Moomintroll met his eyes after a moment, and something soft and fond flickered there for a moment with the tiniest of smiles.
“There you are.” He said sweetly, and then he was pulling at the wire.
Snufkin hissed, recoiling a bit this time, but Moomintroll held firm. He murmured his apologies, trying to both hold Snufkin’s arm still and lift up the wire so he could cut it. After a moment of psyching himself up, Snufkin reached out and pulled at the slightly loose part of the wire by his wrist.
“Try there?” He suggested, voice strained.
“Of course,” Moomintroll said, bringing the pliers closer. “I promise I’ll be verycareful.”
“Yeah, I know.” Snufkin’s voice shook, as did his paws, though he hoped Moomintroll thought it was from the pain. He never did understand how Moomintroll could be careless with his promises, at least in Snufkin’s eyes. Promises were not to be taken lightly.
It took four tries, but Moomintroll managed to wiggle the pliers underneath the wire, and Snufkin let it go with a low, drawn-out hiss at how tight the wire was everywhere else. He felt the metal digging into his arm, fresh blood trickling down.
“Sorry, sorry,” Moomintroll apologized under his breath, hooking the pliers into place and squeezing. It didn’t work at first, and he almost lost his grip in the wire before he got the pliers back into place again.
The second time, with a lot more catch and much more force, the thin wire snapped under it.
Almost immediately, the pressure lessened. Snufkin sighed, shoulders slumping as the coil unwound from the lower half of his arm. It got more tangled up before his elbow, but it wasn’t nearly as tight, so Moomintroll was easily able to slip the pliers underneath and cut those free, too.
“That’s better.” He murmured, letting his arm fall.
“Is there any other tight pain?” Moomintroll fretted, gently peeling the wire off and tossing it carelessly to the side.
“No, you got it.” Snufkin assured, sounding a little woozy as Moomintroll tried to roll up his sleeve. Snufkin decided to cut out the middle-man and undid the button on his coat before attempting to shake it off. It dragged painfully against his arm and he growled, Moomintroll helping him before he could apologize for such a beastly sound.
“Notthat bad, he says.” Moomintroll scoffed, taking his paw, the least injured part, and holding his arm out. “This still looks pretty bad, Snufkin.”
“But does it lookas bad?” Snufkin shot back, taking a look for the damage himself. Hard to tell, his arm was still coated in red.
“I suppose not.” Moomintroll tsked. “We should wash you up before we bandage it.”
“Smart,” Snufkin agreed, cradling his arm back to his chest. “Where did you put the bandages, anyway–?”
“I believe he may have forgotten that part.”
Snufkin froze up as Moomintroll whirled his head around, thoroughly spooked. There, in the doorway, Moominmamma stood, holding a roll of gauze and antiseptic spray. As always, she was prepared for just about anything. On any other day, he would admire it. Right now, it was a little humiliating.
“Mamma!” Moomintroll drew his paws back to his chest, and Snufkin felt a sickening roll in his chest when he saw the pristine white fur was stained with blood. “When did you–I had no idea you were awake. At this hour? Goodness, aren’t you tired? You really should–”
“I heard you worrying for Snufkin.” Moominmamma said simply, calmly walking in. “And getting the pliers. And while I’m sure you two can handle yourselves, I do believe I could be of some assistance.”
“Much appreciated, Moominmamma.” Snufkin mumbled, head ducked as Moomintroll stood, moving out of the way with a nervous curl of his tail. “I apologize for waking you.”
“Yes, we’re sorry–”
“Oh, don’t be.” Moominmamma waved them off, crouching and taking a look at Snufkin’s arm with nothing more than a mildly surprised hum. “Do you think you could walk to the bathroom, Snufkin? Moomintroll was right, we should wash this first.”
“It was only my arm that was injured,” Snufkin said, bracing one paw behind him as he pushed himself to his feet. “Not my legs.”
“I was only checking. Shock is a nasty thing.” Moominmamma said kindly, one paw on his shoulder as she stood back up. “Moomintroll, would you be a dear and put the pliers away? And make sure you throw away the wires, we don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”
“Can’t I be of any help, mamma?” Moomintroll fretted.
“You are. By putting everything away.” Moominmamma said simply, leading Snufkin out the door as he was trying to keep his arm from bleeding on the hardwood floors. “Snufkin will be perfectly fine, love.”
Snufkin, at the very least, attempted to give a reassuring smile and small wave over his shoulder before Moominmamma led him off to the bathroom. He doesn’t think it worked much, because Moomintroll still looked worried as he left.
Moominmamma, for her part, did not say much as she washed his arm in the sink. Not about the blood that was on her floor, nor Snufkin’s unorthodox entrance, nor his aversion to seeking anyone’s assistance but Moomintroll’s. It would’ve been concerning if Snufkin didn’t know that Moominmamma was not silent out of some sort of punishment, to stew in one’s guilt. She was quiet when she wanted to be quiet.
So he didn’t say anything, either. He only winced a little when she held his arm under the running water, and made a pleased hum when it was revealed the damage, while not necessarily good, truly wasn’t terribly bad. Snufkin was just grateful he wore a short-sleeved shirt under his coat in the warmer months, or he’d have more clothes to toss onto a fire.
“May I ask where you got yourself into such a mess?” Moominmamma asked simply, sitting Snufkin down on the edge of the tub as she held his arm.
“I was tearing out the Park Keeper’s signs.” He said truthfully, biting back a hiss when the antiseptic spray hit his arm. He would not hiss in her presence, it was undignified enough as it was. “I’m not sure what its true purpose was. I know it was a mistake, which makes it quite a bit more annoying.”
“We’ve all had our fair share of nasty accidents.” Moominmamma said simply, spraying one last time before grabbing the gauzes. “We ought to have a talk with the Park Keeper, though. Even if it was an accident, he ought to be more careful with these things.”
“It wouldn’t have hurt anyone else.” Snufkin weakly protested, watching her judge his injury before pressing a handful of the bandages onto a still-bleeding part of his forearm. “I’m sure he would’ve noticed in the morning. Honestly, I don’t think anyone but a mischief-maker was at risk. Even then, it was a series of unfortunate choices that got me like this.”
“He should still be more careful.” Moominmamma said evenly, pulling the rolls back. She reached out a paw, pausing for a moment, and when he didn’t pull away, she gently tilted his chin up so he was looking up at her. She had a rather serious, albeit kind, expression. “I do not wish to scare you, nor scold you, and I would not tell most of Moomintroll’s friends this if I did not know you were used to hearing more morbid things. I worry, Snufkin, because we’re lucky it only caught your arm, and not your neck.”
A true snare. The thought had certainly crossed his mind when he was down in the park, writhing and growling with the pain as he tried to wretch himself free. His main condolence was that, well, at least it hadn’t been around his throat.
“I find that would’ve been very unlikely.” He said anyway.
“But not impossible.” Moominmamma said simply, and then she started to wrap up his arm, and Snufkin didn’t have much else to say to that.
For not the first time, Snufkin wondered if she truly worried for him like Moomintroll did. Not the same kind of worry she showed every creature, for she was willing to house anyone, willing to help anyone. She was generous like that, and Moomintroll got some of his best traits from her.
No, for her, he wondered if she worried for him when he was gone. If she hoped he hadn’t found himself in too much trouble and would be returning safely.
He hoped not. He’d be dreadfully sorry to worry her. Lord knows she doesn’t need another person to think about.
“Now, I know you probably don’t want to come by here for every fresh change of bandages,” Moominmamma said, stepping back and letting him see his purely white-encased arm. “So I’ll be giving a kit over to you so that you can change them when they get dirty. Do you know how to do that?”
“Yes,” Snufkin nodded. “You don’t have to, I can just take the gauzes–”
“Nonsense,” Moominmamma waved him off. “We still need to make sure it doesn’t get infected. I can always get another.”
“Alright,” Snufkin relented, experimentally stretching his arm before thinking better of it. “I’m sorry for the trouble, Moominmamma.”
“It’s quite alright.” She said, offering a paw to help him up, of which he took. “I know you are not the kind to ask for much help, but please, next time, I implore you to wake us if you need any. It doesn’t matter what time it is, or the weather, or what may be going on. I would be happy to help.”
“I know.” Snufkin said, who had known these things, but it was still nice to hear them, anyway. A confirmation. “Thank you, Moominmamma.”
“Of course.” She said with a kind smile, squeezing his paw, which he didn’t even realize was still being held. “Is there anything else you may need?”
“Need? No,” Snufkin shook his head. “However, I doubt that will stop you.”
“I was hoping I could at least give you some food before you left.” Moominmamma agreed.
“That would be nice.” He relented, and he let her lead him by the paw off towards the stairs.
But to his guilt, Moomintroll was waiting downstairs for them, holding his bloody coat and hat. He looked up when they descended, his tragically crestfallen face springing up into curious fear when he saw them.
“Oh, dear,” Moomintroll fretted, getting to his feet. “Are you alright now, Snufkin?”
“Certainly.” Snufkin said, taking his time down the steps. “I was never going to not be alright.”
“I couldn’t help but worry.” Moomintroll admitted, holding out the coat when Moominmamma approached him. “Do you think it can be mended?”
“Unlikely,” Snufkin answered for her. “But it’s alright, I know how to make another.”
“Nonsense, this isn’t that bad of a fix.” Moominmamma waved him off, turning the coat over in her paws. “It’s not the first garment that’s been stained. And the sleeve only needs a bit of sewing. I can have it fixed in about a day or two.”
“You don’t need to.” Snufkin said, feeling just a little exposed without his hat to hide behind. “You’ve done more than enough for me already.”
“And I will do as much as you need.” Moominmamma said, draping the coat over her arm. “Moomintroll, would you please find something for Snufkin to eat? I’ll go ahead and soak this coat to fix up tomorrow.”
“Of course!” Moomintroll nodded, one paw still holding the hat as he scurried off to the kitchen. Snufkin only sighed, giving Moominmamma a vaguely pained expression she only smiled at as she passed. He pushed his paws into the pockets of his pants and meandered off towards the kitchen, tail dragging lazily along the floor.
He stood in the entryway as Moomintroll ran back and forth through the kitchen, muttering to himself all the while. He opened a cabinet, decided against it, and then went to the fridge. He abandoned that, too, and opened a drawer before shaking his head. He’d left the hat on the counter.
“Do we still have those apples we picked last month?” Snufkin asked casually, and Moomintroll nearly jumped out of his skin, as though surprised he was there at all.
“Oh, yes! Yes, we do.” Moomintroll nodded, going back to the fridge and opening it up to rummage around in. “How does your arm feel?”
“Much better.” He said, holding it out and across his front to look over it. “Your mother is quite skilled.”
“That’s Mamma for you.” Moomintroll withdrew from the fridge, apple in paw as he approached. “She wasn’t too mad, was she? I couldn’t quite get a read on her.”
“Not mad.” Snufkin assured, reaching out his good arm to take the apple. “Just a bit concerned, is all…oh.”
Moomintroll had clearly washed his paws as best he could, but as Snufkin had much better eyes in low light, he could see that the stains hadn’t been completely washed away. There was still a thin veil of red around his paws. It was just a little too dark to be mistaken for jam or paint.
“What is it?” Moomintroll frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing.” Snufkin shook his head, taking the apple. “You might want to wash your paws with more than just soap, though. I don’t believe you got all of it.”
“Oh, I haven’t?” Moomintroll looked down at his paws. “They look alright to me.”
“Yes, well, you’re a bit blind in the dark.” Snufkin shrugged.
“For someone with good night vision, you’d think he’d run into less trouble during that time.” Moomintroll mumbled, still looking down.
Snufkin felt awfully droopy, then. His free hand impulsively flexed open and closed, claws sheathing and unsheathing with it. It was an old nervous habit he’d been trying to quell, unless he was completely on his own. He hoped Moomintroll wouldn’t notice.
“I’m sorry for worrying you.” He murmured, and Moomintroll looked up at last.
“It’s alright.” Moomintroll said. “You’ve done quite a bit of apologizing tonight, I think it’s more than I’ve ever heard from you in a year.”
“Well, this is something worth apologizing for.” Snufkin said, breezing by the troll and to the kitchen table. “I gave you quite the fright.”
“I wasn’t frightened.” Moomintroll huffed, watching him. “I’m not scared by a bit of blood.”
“It’s alright to be afraid.” Snufkin said, gingerly sitting down and keeping one paw beneath the table, the other still holding the apple. “I’m sure I was a scary sight.”
“Well…” Moomintroll hesitated, and Snufkin took a bite of the apple so as to distract himself from dwelling. “I wouldn’t call it frightening, of course, because that implies someone was frightened, but…you didn’t look like much of a sight.”
“Sorry,” He said again, mouth mostly hidden behind the apple, head down.
“Stop apologizing.” Moomintroll huffed, taking a seat next to him and flicking the side of his head. “It’s not your fault you were all bloody and woozy. I was just worried you might pass out on the floor.”
“Now, I haven’t lost all that much blood.” Snufkin muttered, taking another bite.
“It sure looked like it.” Moomintroll said, paw inching closer across the table. “Has this happened before, Snufkin?”
“I think you’ve fretted more than enough for tonight.” Snufkin said, tail flicking.
“So you have!” Moomintroll straightened.
“It’s truly not that big of an issue.” Snufkin said, turning his head away. “It’s what happens when you’re a tramp.”
“It still worries me.” Moomintroll said, eyes dragging over him. “Are those really scars?”
Snufkin froze, mouth halfway open, in the middle of a bite. Slowly, he set the apple down on the table, and then tucked his other paw underneath the table, clasping it with the other. Occasionally, his paws would squeeze each other, and though it stung his arm, the claws still unsheathed. In and out, in and out.
He knew the ones Moomintroll had seen. On his other arm, a curling scratch up near his shoulder, poking free of the short sleeve, still a bit too pale, a little pink. He’d gotten it last winter. And a spot just above his wrist, normally barely hidden by his sleeve, a gnarled burn from a forest fire three seasons ago, far out of Moominvalley.
He was not ashamed of them. They were simply scars, two among others hidden beneath cloth. Sometimes he’d even be poetic and call them proof of all his travels. Proof that he was adventurous and a survivor. He wasn’t the only beast in Moominvalley with scars, after all, he knew that Moominpappa himself had a nasty curl around his ankle that was normally covered up by his fur. Perhaps he had more.
But he did have the most. That, he knew with certainty. When comparative, he didn’t have a lot, but he still had more. And so he wasn’t ashamed of them, but he was cautious. After all, such soft creatures didn’t need to be disturbed by the mars on his skin. He didn’t particularly want to answer all their questions about them.
It’s not even the first time he’s forgon the coat in Moomintroll’s presence. But those times, either Moomintroll had had no reason to think twice about it, or he’d made the choice to stay quiet. Tonight, he was not so lucky.
“They’re old.” He said, head down, and it was technically the truth. Months and months ago could still be considered old.
“They are.” Moomintroll said, and that fear was flashing in his eyes again. “Snufkin–”
“If it was a problem, I would have brought it up.” Snufkin said stiffly, ears pressing back, and oh how he wished he had his hat to hide them, hide his face.
“Would you?”
Snufkin raised his head at that. Moomintroll gazed at him sadly, almost pleading. And Snufkin was reminded of how he had flinched, and how Moomintroll had said they would talk about it. He thinks this is why he is here now, and he finds that talking to people feels very unwelcome right now.
“I know how to ask for help.” Snufkin said, knowing his ears were pinned back against his head.
“Do you know whento ask for help?” Moomintroll shot back.
“I came here, didn’t I?”
“And then you tried to leave again!” Moomintroll puffed. “As soon as I told you where the pliers were, you couldn’t have tried to leave fast enough!”
“It was a problem I could have fixed on my own.” He said simply, because it was simple, and it’s how it had always been. “Really, Moomintroll, it was nothing personal, I just thought I could handle it on my own.”
“You flinched.” Moomintroll said, and Snufkin stood.
“Not from you.” He said, and he walked off to the counter.
“I was the only one there!” Moomintroll stood as well.
“But you were not the only thing.” Snufkin said evenly, on the other side of the table, now. “Honestly, it’s not as bad as you’re making it sound.”
Moomintroll’s eyes flicked down, and he saw them widen, just a little bit. Snufkin looked down as well to see his paws still entangled with each other, the thumb of his injured paw pressed into the palm of the other. In the dim light of the moon in the window, for dawn wasn’t far away, now, his claws glinted. In and out.
Snufkin stared down at them, watching them methodically tense and untense. He could never quite remember where he picked up such a habit. He thinks it was a tick from when he was on his own in crueler lands, when flashing claws would give you an advantage. Or maybe it was something he did when hyping himself up to climb, and the motion was familiar. Or perhaps it was one of those things you just did, like picking eyelashes or biting nails.
There was white at the edge of his vision, and Snufkin held perfectly still as white paws enveloped his own, thumbs laying over his knuckles.
“I might scratch you.” He warned, head still down.
“You won’t.” Moomintroll said, giving them a gentle squeeze, and Snufkin watched as his claws slid out, laying against thick fur and not as thick skin. It would be easy, to give his fingers harsher twitches and watch as they nicked skin, digging in closer as they drew more blood.
“You don’t know that.” He said, wanting everything to withdraw his claws, but his hands started shaking with the effort, so he stopped. Moomintroll was squeezing just a little too tight.
“I do.” Moomintroll said, with the same trusting sincerity he’d always had. “And if you somehow do, which you won’t, then I forgive you.”
No, he still doesn’t think he deserves someone like Moomintroll. For even if it is alright that he is selfish, he is still a monstrous beast. He knows of harshness and carelessness and bears more invisible scars than not. His teeth are too sharp and crooked, his claws have seen blood and threatened more, his ears are torn at the edges, and his eyes are for hunts. He will worry Moomintroll no matter what he does, and he can’t apologize enough for it, for that is how he is. And he doesn’t think he’d ever change himself.
He is not a cruel beast, he knows that. He would not mean to hurt, and he does not always like his sharp edges and crooked parts. But that does not change what he is, and for that he’s glad he is not cruel.
Maybe it would be better if he had been. Then, it wouldn’t be a problem when Moomintroll got hurt, because he’d be expecting it. He’d know better than to show such soft concern for gnarled thorns.
“I don’t like sharp things.” He admitted, and he’s not sure if he means himself, or the object for which he flinched from. “Sometimes, I don’t mind them, even welcome them when they are needed. Other times, I remember when they have done harm.”
Moomintroll’s thumbs stroked over his paws, and the pressure lessened, but his claws did not sheath. His paws were still shaking slightly, though, and that confused him enough to frown and try to lift them. This only resulted in Moomintroll hurriedly holding onto them, fingers laced together, claws tapping against knuckles.
“That’s okay.” Moomintroll said. “I don’t care much for water. It’s fine enough on its own sometimes, but I’ve had more than enough floods and dangerous creatures within to wish to be around it.”
“But you love that old boat.” Snufkin finally looked up now.
“I do,” Moomintroll said, head turning, nothing but open and honest and it was so much like him. “But every now and again, I don’t like it much. If we’re honest, I quite hate it. What kind of adventurer dislikes floods?”
“I think adventurers are allowed to not like a few things.” Snufkin said.
“Then so are you.” Moomintroll said, and ah, that was the trap then, wasn’t it? “It’s alright to not like sharp things, Snufkin. I only wish that you would know we could help.”
“I do know that.” Snufkin insisted.
“Then I wish that you would seekhelp.” Moomintroll amended, tapping his fingers. “I know you like to be lonesome, but that doesn’t mean you always have to be.”
Oh, if those he’d met on his travels could see him now. Out there, he was the independent nomad, the Mumrik who could get out of any situation, who could survive anything on his own. Who had seen, done, and met half of everything all by himself. He was not unfriendly, but he was spikey, and for that, they were happy to leave him alone.
And here he was, in the kitchen of his best friend, (though that word didn’t quite feel like it fit as perfectly as it used to, and it only got worse by each year) being comforted about flinching when faced with sharp pliers, paws shaking and claws unsheathed, because he was so sure he’d never be what a creature like Moomintroll should have.
He thinks he knew, then, that a part of him would always be rooted here. Not in this valley, but in these people. That should they all up and vanish one day, and it was just him and the wilderness, he’d never be what he once was, never find reason to enjoy it ever again. No, he could never think it’d be easier to be cruel so Moomintroll wouldn’t worry. For he is still selfish, and that selfishness could not wish for such a thing if it meant he could never have this.
He thinks this is what it means to love. To have someone who will always hope for the best for you, but still leave enough room to give you a choice in the matter. To be able to live without them, but knowing it’d never be the same. To let them know things you had not admitted to even yourself, because you hoped you’d never have to think about it ever again.
He thinks he already knew that he loved.
“I’ll try.” He promised, because that was the best he could do.
Moomintroll smiled as though he’d given a definitive answer anyway. He ran his fingers along Snufkin’s paws before dropping one of them reaching for the counter.
He grabbed the brim of Snufkin’s hat, giving him a smile before unceremoniously plopping it on his head. It was lopsided and wonky, and Moomintroll was quick to try and straighten it out on his head.
“There we go.” Moomintroll nodded in satisfaction. “It’s a little odd seeing you without the hat.” He pushed the hat back a bit, and Snufkin, to his own surprise, let him. He let the hat be pushed upright, so it really didn’t do much for how open he felt, for his face was still exposed. “I actually think I quite like it.”
“Are you all set then, boys?”
They turned, Moomintroll fast and startled, Snufkin slow and distant. Moominmamma was in the entryway again, free of the coat. He thinks it shouldn’t have taken that long to soak a bloodied coat. He wonders if she took her time on purpose.
“Yeah, I think so.” Moomintroll nodded, releasing Snufkin’s other paw, and like the hug, he found he wouldn’t have minded if it lasted longer.
“Splendid,” Moominmamma said, walking in and taking the half-eaten apple off the table, making no comments about how little Snufkin ate, for which he was grateful. “Will you be staying the night, Snufkin, or going back to your tent?”
Perhaps if he’d been with any other creatures, he’d vanish back to his tent. He was feeling awfully cracked open and exposed at the moment, as though anything on the far side of harshness would scar him. He still kind of wanted to. Wanted to slip off into the night and hole up in his tent, and then be on his own for a while, reorient himself.
He was odd to most people in Moominvalley, for he needed to be alone to keep himself tethered, while everyone else needed to be doing things, perhaps even being around people, to come back to themselves. Snufkin was of the opinion that if he was too distracted, his very self would float away until it recognized the shell it had left behind, standing on its own and listening to nothing at all.
Be as it may, these weren’t any other creatures. These were the Moomins.
“It’s going to be dawn soon, anyway.” Snufkin shrugged, and though his paws were grasping each other again, they weren’t flexing. “I can stay for a few hours and leave at first light.”
“We can sleep in my room!” Moomintroll perked up, snagging his wrists back and giving them gentle tugs. “We’re not quite as small as we used to be, but my bed should still fit us fine–”
“I’m afraid that may not be the smartest idea.” Moominmamma said apologetically. “There’s still a bit of a mess.”
“Ah,” Snufkin’s ears drooped. “So–”
“If you say ‘sorry’ again, I’m getting Little My to tie your tail around your ankles.” Moomintroll huffed. “I’ll do it. And you know she’ll agree.”
“Well, who am I to argue with that?” Snufkin said, pulling his hat down.
“Will the couch and chair work? We have plenty of pillows and spare blankets.” Moominmamma offered.
“You forget I sleep on the ground.” Snufkin chuckled, already being dragged off by his very best friend (for he had no other word to call this, so it would have to do for now). “I assure you, this is more than comfortable enough.”
And it was. For even if they were practically laying on top of each other on the couch, Moomintroll was still as soft as ever, and pillows never once crossed Snufkin’s mind. He thinks he could’ve hibernated himself if he stayed right there and never left.
But he made do on promises. He always did. So when first light filtered in through the windows, Snufkin quietly peeled himself off of the couch and searched for his boots. He’s grateful for Moommintroll’s obliviousness in subtle situations, or else he might question why a few turned over items in his room qualified as ‘too much of a mess’ to sleep in. He’s grateful for Moominmamma’s quick, understanding thinking, too. He wouldn’t have been able to sleep in a room that still smelled of his own blood.
And so Snufkin pulled on his boots, took his hat off the coffee table, and slipped out through the front door. It’d be terribly rude to go out any other way, after such a bad entrance he made last time.
The light was really only barely grazing the ground, but it was enough for Snufkin. He’s sure Moomintroll would understand if he was but a silhouette on the horizon for the next few days. All this talk took a lot of energy out of him.
Well, except for returning to grab his coat. He’d drop by tomorrow morning, thank Moominmamma, and be off again before anyone else could realize he was there at all. Yes, that was a smart plan. Beasts this soft didn’t need to see one so feral.
He paused by the river, standing atop the bridge. It was still fairly dark, so he peered into the water, paws grasping the railing. The reflection that stared back at him was only a confirmation.
His face was shadowed in darkness, a haunting sight one would find in the deepest night from the most haunted of dwellings. His eyes glowed, slitted and calculating and made for predators. Deadly wishes stared back at him, horrible just-might’s.
Snufkin pulled his hat down to cover his eyes, shoved his paws into his pockets, and whisked off into the woods.
Summary:The problem, Snufkin thinks, is not so much that he believes he is a selfish, wild creature. The problem is that Moomintroll is not, and never will be. And that is a problem, you see, because he deserves someone far better than him. And yet, Moomintroll still chose him.
… … … . … . . … . … … … … … … . .
There was always a part of Snufkin that worried.
Not a lot, of course, and most certainly not often enough that it wormed its way into the depths of his mind. Unlike most beasts, Snufkin didn’t have many things in his life that he thought were worth worrying about. He was always consciously aware of things on his travels; such as needing food, water, shelter, deciding the best paths to take, those kinds of things. But none could be called worries unless they were dwindling and he had no alternative, which wasn’t frequent.
So, he usually didn’t worry. He’s not even sure if this can be called worrying. He thinks a better word for it would be…nagging. Persistent negativity. Outlandish thoughts he knows to be untrue.
And they don’t really bother him much. Truly, they don’t. He commonly only has them about once a year or so, sometimes not even then. And never more than three times a year. Why, three times had been excessive for him, one could say. But he thinks he was allowed to have those thoughts that year. After all, it was the year the Moomins left for their island without so much as a goodbye note. Any reasonable creature would have nagging thoughts.
They’re annoying all the same. Especially since they aren’t even the same thoughts. They’re the same feeling, at the base core, but it’s like his head can’t seem to pick and choose what to hound him about. Which is just a pain. It’d be a lot easier to get through things if he had one thing to focus on.
The nagging thoughts were never-ending little buggers, and they went like this; Snufkin was a selfish, wild creature that would never belong to any land or anyone, and that was both a blessing to him, and an ache to everyone who cared about him.
That was the basis of them, at least.
And it wasn’t necessarily a lie. In fact, it was quite true. Snufkin was, inherently, a selfish individual, who preferred his own company than that of others, and would not give it up for even the sea itself. No creature could ever seem to give a straight answer on if selflessness was the act of giving up one’s happiness to help others, or if it was simply by giving what they could afford to give. He thinks it’s some middle ground, and that it depends on the person. If that is the case, he still thinks he could be called selfish.
He’s alright with that. He doesn’t mind it. He never understood why people think being selfish is a bad trait from start to finish. In moderation, like many things, it can just be.
Snufkin quite enjoyed being aimless, a vagrant. It was a life he’d had for years and years, a life his kind strived to have, and one he knew he was never going to stop. Some folks liked to travel until they were satisfied before settling down, deciding they’d seen enough of the world and would like to create their own, smaller stories.
Snufkin was not one of those folks. Somewhere, deep in his bones, he knew he’d never tire of this, even when his knees wobbled and his breaths grew wheezy. He was more than happy with that.
And yet, still, the thoughts jeered him like jays with nothing better to do. Because while this life suited him just fine, more than fine, really, it wasn’t so kind to those that called him a friend.
And, once again, he wouldn’t have cared much. Years ago, anyone Snufkin called a friend would’ve been the occasional traveler on the road, or a stranger that gave him food and shelter on harsh nights. Friends, to him, were kind people he’d meet once or twice. Someone who he could pass by again and know he would be welcomed with, at the very least, a smile.
Then he met Moomintroll. And suddenly his definition of friend was inverted and spun around.
It wasn’t a bad thing, he thinks. He quite likes this new definition of friend. He likes the thought of coming back to people who were happy to see him, happy to share stories and adventures. Ones who would make sure he was never bored, but were content to let him have his own time to himself, to sit with him by the river as he fished with nothing but idle conversation. He liked being on his own, but he found he didn’t mind being alone with someone as much as he used to.
Moomintroll is, much to his chagrin, the best, and worst part of this conundrum he’s made for himself. Because the troll is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to him–no, was definitely the best thing to ever happen to him. He knows he would’ve been content if he’d never met Moomintroll, would be happy enough to continue to wander the globe and see things beyond his imagination.
But he also never would’ve known someone who’d light up when he arrived like the stars were before them, who wanted to involve him in their life, no matter what he did. Whether it be a crazy adventure, a long-winded story, the weaving of flowers, or sitting in silence as they listened to life pass them by. Never, in all his life, would he have thought someone could care so much about a vagabond like him.
Perhaps it was a poison in its own right. As soon as he befriended Moomintroll, he thinks a part of him knew he would never go back to normal. He could try, but it wouldn’t be the same, knowing there was someone like him out there. Vowing to return to Moominvalley each spring didn’t seem like a burden, or a promise to appease him. In fact, it felt like a promise made with no strings attached. A choice. And one he would make again and again.
But Moomintroll is also the worst thing to happen to him. Because he’s the entire reason Snufkin gets that nasty feeling in his chest when the nagging thoughts rear their ugly heads.
“You’re leaving?” Moomintroll’s ears drooped, his tail, previously curled at his back, flopping pathetically onto the wooden bridge. “But–we still have a few more days, don’t we?”
“There’s a storm brewing.” Snufkin said, tilting his head off towards the east. “It’ll be here by tomorrow. And with how the weathers changing, it’ll probably turn to ice. It’s safer if I leave before it arrives.”
“Ah, yeah, that–good idea.” Moomintroll nodded, tail swishing around his ankle as he looked down, picking at his paws. “I just–I was hoping we could go to the old well Snorkmadien found.” He said, eyes still downcast. “See how far down it goes.”
“It’ll still be there when I come back.” Snufkin assured, and this was why he preferred to leave when backs were turned. Because then his gut twisted up in such painful ways, and he couldn’t stand to be the cause of such disappointment. “Probably not a good idea to go exploring, anyway. I have a feeling it’ll be wet at the bottom, and we don’t want you getting icicles in your fur.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” Moomintroll nodded, eyes flicking up, offering a small smile that was forced. “We’ll just have to save the adventures for later.”
“Well, let’s not stop on my account.” Snufkin said, head tilting. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty more stories to tell me when I return, won’t you?”
“I guess.” Moomintroll mumbled, foot scuffing on the ground.
And Snufkin never knew how to say goodbyes. It was one of the many flaws his thoughts would berate him for, that he’d been friends with Moomintroll for so long, and he still didn’t know how to properly say goodbye, so he tried to skip over it entirely. It was a lose-lose situation either way, because either he heard from everyone else how confused and hurt Moomintroll had been next spring when he’d left without a single word, or he had to witness the sadness for himself. It wasn’t fair, and he wondered why anyone would willingly subject themselves to the ordeal of friendships.
“You’ll do fine.” He said instead, tilting the brim of his hat with a nod. “Have a nice hibernation, Moomintroll.”
“Oh, uh, right.” Moomintroll nodded, straightening up as Snufkin turned around at last. “Safe travels, Snufkin.”
And there was a longing there. Some kind of regret, or pleading. He knew Moomintroll wouldn’t ask him to stay, not seriously, and hadn’t asked once after those first two years. But he knew he wanted to. And that, you see, is where the problem lay.
Moomintroll, he knew, didn’t understand him. Didn’t get why he felt the need to always be on the move, or get the suffocating air he felt when around too many people. Didn’t get what he saw in the silence, what called him to take the roads less traveled. To Moomintroll, an adventure was only truly an adventure when you had someone to share it with, or someone to tell it to.
But he respected Snufkin’s choices. He didn’t protest when Snufkin wandered off from the valley from time to time, didn’t berate him for vanishing from events when they became too much for him, didn’t try to interrupt his moments of peace. He didn’t understand why Snufkin was the way he was, but he understood how. He understood enough to know when Snufkin needed to be alone, or needed for there to be quiet. And that, truly, was more than anyone else had ever given him.
He deserves better, they hissed. Better than a selfish beast like you.
Neither of them were tame. Despite their wildly different upbringings and personalities, they were fierce and free, just in different ways. Moomintroll did not, as some would think, belong to the valley, or to his family. Nobody belonged to a place, or a person. They simply loved, and were loved in turn. And that is what tied them down to certain places, made them stay and form their own life around that love.
Snufkin was not immune to this need, the care that drove people to do crazy things. He’d done it, after all. He’d shaped his entire travel pattern around so that he’d pop right back in Moominvalley every spring, without fail. He once walked back on a sprained foot, because if he waited for it to heal, summer would be upon them, and he couldn’t bear to make Moomintroll wait that long. He’d been scolded for it and given more bedrest than was entirely necessary, but it was absolutely worth it.
Is that selflessness, he wonders? To make a promise to return to the same place over and over again, if it’s of benefit to both you and another? Is selflessness doing things you dislike, just to make others happy?
He doesn’t think he returns just to make Moomintroll happy. He returns because he wants to be happy, too. He wants to see all of his friends again. He wants to tear up the signs in the Hemulen’s gardens and be a thorn in Mrs. Fillyjonk’s side. He wants to sit with Moomintroll on the porch and watch the fireflies dance. He wants to be around a campfire with people he knows he could never live without, not after meeting them, and think I missed this.
The first time he had that thought, he hit a particularly sour note on his harmonica. So sour, in fact, that even Sniff noticed it.
“Oooh, that was a nasty one.” Sniff had cringed, and Snufkin hastily shook himself out, hoping the shock of his revelation didn’t show on his face.
“Ah, yes, it was.” He’d hummed. “Apologies, I suppose I wasn’t paying much attention. I’ll start again.”
“Something on your mind?” Moomintroll had asked, distracted from poking at the fire with a stick.
“I think it’d be worrying if there wasn’t.” He said simply, head tilted down, the brim of his hat shadowing his face.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Snorkmadien asked, evidently also distracted from whatever it was she’d been talking about.
“Come now, we’re selling my thoughts a little short now, aren’t we?” Snufkin teased, bringing the harmonica back up to his lips. “Don’t fret, it’s nothing new. Now, then, do we have any requests?”
And despite all the songs he played that night, and the joy that was had, he knew his friends noticed he was a little out of it, a little more distant than normal. Because, well, when had Snufkin ever missed anything? Not once had he ever even longed for something. Craved, maybe, but he thinks the only thing he’s ever missed was the comfort of solitude when he was stuck somewhere particularly non-solitary. He never thought he’d miss, well, the opposite of that.
But, no, that wasn’t right, either. He didn’t miss the crowds or the clamor of being among people. He missed being among friends. Friends and people had very distinct differences, you see. Because in the new definition of friends, they were also those who he liked to be around. Not all the time, of course, but to the point that he could have days where he missed not being around them. It was ludicrous.
He missed being carefree with those similar to him. He missed playing his harmonica for an audience that was just happy to have him there at all. He missed having friends who weren’t stressed about adding him in on their conversations, because they knew he’d speak when he felt like speaking.
He missed having a friend who would sit next to him on a fallen tree, late into the night, when everyone was tired and ready to head up to the Moominhouse, for their own homes were too far away to trek all the way back to.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Moomintroll had asked, a genuine curiosity, and something Snufkin knew he didn’t have to answer if he didn’t feel like it.
“Quite,” Snufkin had said, which was both a lie and the truth. “Just stuck in my own head, I’m afraid. But it’s nothing bad, I assure you.”
“Ah, that’s good.” Moomintroll nodded. “I’d happily fight those bad things for you, you know, but it is dreadfully late.”
“I don’t believe one can fight thoughts.” Snufkin said, pulling his hat further down his eyes to try and hide his smile. “But thank you.”
“I can most certainly try.” Moomintroll puffed, though he left it at that. “But you’re sure you don’t need anything?”
“When have I ever needed anything?” Snufkin asked, not unkindly.
“Well, you need your tent.” Moomintroll said.
“Not really,” Snufkin corrected. “I could always sleep on the ground. It wouldn’t be fun, but I’ve done it before.”
“Er, then, your fishing pole.” Moomintroll amended.
“I know how to pick berries.” Snufkin said simply, flexing the paw not holding his harmonica. “And I’ve caught fish with my bare paws before. Not that I liked doing it.”
“It was very impressive.” Moomintroll insisted. “But then surely you need your harmonica?” He said, glancing down at the instrument.
“Music is not a necessity.” Snufkin shrugged. “A great preference, yes, but I’ve lived without it in the past. Why, I’ve even played a guitar before.”
“Well, everyone needs something.” Moomintroll huffed. “If it’s none of those things, then what do you need?”
“I’m not much for material value, I’m afraid.” Snufkin shrugged. “Though, I’m sure I’m taking this much more literally than you.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be the other way around?” Moomintroll frowned.
“I think it’s good to switch things up every once in a while.” Snufkin said, pocketing his harmonica and standing. “Surprise is a welcome thing, even if it doesn’t always feel like it at the moment.”
“Suppose you’re right.” Moomintroll said, standing up. “You’ve still got that cloudy look in your eyes, though.”
“Oh, do I?” Snufkin hummed, who had still been quite distracted. “Apologies. I’ll try to remember our words when I’m less cloudy.”
“I don’t mind.” Moomintroll had said, and offered a paw. “You’re welcome to join us at the house, if you’d like. Mamma’s good at bringing people into the present. And I think she’s serving waffles come morning.”
Snufkin knew, as did Moomintroll, that he’d have those waffles no matter if he joined them or not. He could slip off to his tent, stare up at the cloth ceiling all night, and crawl out whenever he wanted in the morning and still find some waffles waiting for him. If he went to the house, someone was sure to be up before him. And he’d probably be woken up by them, and then everyone else would wake, and they’d all be just a little tired for the day.
“I think a distraction would do me good.” He said anyway, taking the troll’s paw, long-since used to how soft it felt.
He did not say yes for anyone’s benefit but himself, because he was a selfish beast who strived for his own happiness, whatever kind he’d find in that house. But he still felt lighter than the wind when Moomintroll gave his paw a reassuring squeeze and tugged him along, as though there had not been nights beforehand where he’d slept over. He treated it all as though it were new, and Snufkin found it quite sweet.
The persistent negativity was not, exactly, mad because he sought his own selfish forms of joy. But rather, mad because his selfish fulfillments were at pleasure of himself, while they caused harm to those around him.
For Moomintroll was not selfish like him. He had selfish tendencies, as any beast does, but at the end of the day, he was someone who did what he thought was best for everyone. He was not purely selfless, but he tried to be a whole lot more than Snufkin did, for any selflessness he did was either by sheer accident or because he was dragged along into it. Moomintroll was a cheerful creature that was as stubborn as he was fuzzy in all forms of kindness and being what he deemed was the ‘best’ in that particular year.
And for some reason, he had chosen Snufkin.
For some reason, he called Snufkin not only his friend, but his best. Snufkin had not had a best friend before, and he didn’t think he’d have another. He did not mind that thought, for why would he ever want another?
He did not think he was selfish in remaining Moomintroll’s best friend, because it had been Moomintroll’s idea from the start. Was it selfish to not give a proper warning? That Snufkin was not an easy creature, that he was aloof and careless with not only his feet, but himself and to others? He wants to think that Moomintroll surely would have known, or at least assumed, but either he didn’t, or he had thought it would be different, because he was still saddened when Snufkin did the same things he always did year after year.
He does not deserve Moomintroll, the thoughts say, because Moomintroll simply deserves someone who can be selfless. Not someone who will do whatever he says, but someone who will want to stay with him through everything, who will have sense to know when to cut their losses, but never to abandon, and never to turn him into a sad lump of a critter come every winter.
He’d call it punishment if he had even the faintest idea what he was being punished for.
,
“But you don’t regret leaving.” Little My pointed out, because while he had not said all of these words to her, he’d told her something similar, because she was bound to find out anyway. Little My could never leave secrets to themselves.
“Of course not.” He said, watching the waters, though he doubted there’d be many fish today. “I’d be miserable if I stayed. But I do regret making others sad.”
“Quite the circle you’re in.” Little My tsked. “Looks like no one’s going to be happy.”
“But I am happy.” He said with a frown. “Most of the time, at least.”
“Then why worry?” Little My huffed. “You’re worried about such a small detail, it’s ridiculous. Why fret over a small moment of sadness when it’s overshadowed by all the other disgustingly fun things you do?”
“Because it’s always the same.” Snufkin said, drawing one leg closer. “It’s not just a random moment of unhappiness. It’s a recurring theme. And I wonder if they ever tire of it.”
He hadn’t meant to say that last part, but if he showed his regret, Little My would set upon him with twice the ferocity. She was odd like that. Loudly bemoaning her trifles with life, and growing annoyed when anyone was upset with something that wasn’t caused by her. He wonders if someone would call that pride, to be offended when nobody is paying attention to your brand of mischief. Or maybe that was her own Little My way of being kind.
“Tire of it?” Little My huffed. “If they were ever to tire of it, they would’ve done so many winters ago.”
“They’re patient creatures.” Snufkin said, though he wasn’t sure why he was arguing. He didn’t want it to be true any more than her. “But everyone’s patience runs out eventually.”
“You mean everyone except Moominmamma.” Little My said, abandoning her rock by the river to sit next to him, something she never really did unless he ought to be paying attention.
“Yes, except for her.” Snufkin agreed. “But I was never worried about her.”
“Then why worry about the others?” Little My sniffed. “Believe me, for all their complaining, those weirdos still like having you around, when you want to be around. I don’t think Moomintroll could tire of your oddness if you were the last beast on this planet. He’d still wait in lonely winters until you came back.”
“But I don’t want to leave him lonely.” Snufkin said, feeling just a little helpless, a sensation he often tried to quell with mischief, but Little My might not let him. She had her annoyed, serious face on. Which was only a little different from her normal face.
“Well, then it’s a good thing you don’t.” Little My said simply. “He whines and moans every time you go, but it’s not like you’re the only person in the world he cares about. A funny concept, I know, considering it sure feels like it sometimes.”
Snufkin tilted his hat down, over his eyes and nearly completely over his face, ducking his head so that he wouldn’t be sitting there weirdly with a hat on his face instead of his head. It’s a foreign concept to him, to be cared about. He knows this is not the first time someone has told him that others care about him, but it’s still quite a new concept.
He knows he has been cared for before. The Mymble, he knows, loves him, as she loves all her children. It’s impossible to have favorites with so many kids coming and going, so the concept of such was never one that crossed his mind. He’s spent less time with her than most of her kids, as she knew that, as a Mumrik, he’d prefer solitude, so she gave him that from a young age. Her methods might have been a little unorthodox, boxes on a river were not always what one would call smart ideas, but it turned out alright, and he knows it was only out of slightly misguided love.
But he knows he was, and still is, loved by her. Love is not finite, and the Mymble is no exception. She shows her love in groups. She tells her children she loves them when they are all together, and rarely is one singled out. So he has heard he is loved by her, just when he was around his other siblings. That was simply how she was. That, he believes, is a different kind of caring than this.
Little My, he thinks, would prefer to be told individually. She never much cared for being one in a crowd.
“Do you miss me?” He ends up asking, hat still over his eyes, only able to see the ends of his feet. “When I leave, I mean.”
“Why would I ever miss you?” Little My huffed, and he could feel her giving him a judgmental look. “You always come back, don’t you?”
“So you never think of me when I am gone?” He asks, an amused curl to his mouth.
“I’m kind of forced to.” Little My huffs. “I live with an idiot who never shuts up about you.”
“Terribly sorry to hear that.” Snufkin chuckled. “But I’m glad to hear you don’t miss me. It’d be a fine mistake to upset you.”
“It still wouldn’t stop you from leaving if I did.” She pointed out.
“It wouldn’t.” He agreed.
“And if it somehow did,” She continued, and he felt a weight on his leg and hip, and suddenly his hat was being pushed up and back over his head, Little My standing on him with one of her nastier glares. “I’d throw you out the front door myself. Lock you out in the middle of a blizzard for all I care. I’ve dealt with miserable moomins more than enough, I’m not dealing with a miserable Snufkin.”
Little My, he thinks, is not so bad of a sister to have. He doesn’t particularly have much to compare her to, he never spoke all that much with his other siblings, most finding him too aloof to play with, something he was perfectly fine with. He thinks she might have been around when he was much, much smaller, but she’d left the Mymble far sooner than him. As far as he is concerned, he only met her in this very valley.
And though he would never say it to her face, for who knows what she’d do if he dared try, he thinks there is a small point of overlap in their own forms of selfishness. Their so-called acts of kindness are a disguise, just in reverse. Snufkin, if given the opportunity, will pretend his selfish acts are that of kindness, for while they are, they are also at his benefit, so he knows he is not truly selfless (but he never tells anyone that, despite them all knowing). Little My pretends all her kind acts are through being rude and selfish, which they are, but she, and everyone else, refuse to think it might also be a bit selfless to try at all.
“I would trust no one else to keep my head on straight.” Snufkin said with a smile.
“Your head’s never been on straight.” Little My huffed, pushing his hat the rest of the way off his head, letting it fall to the grass.
“No,” He said, watching her hop off him and go back to her rock, evidently ending whatever conversation she wished to have. “I suppose it hasn’t been.”
,
“Did you meet anyone on your travels this time?”
It’s a question Moomintroll often asks, enough times that Snufkin can pinpoint the week it’ll happen. Always in early spring, never after the apples start to bloom. It’s among many questions he always asks, and Snufkin knows when he will ask those, too.
“A few.” He said, picking up a shell from the beach and turning it over. It was very broken, and not all that pretty. He pocketed it. “Some Niblings, a Hemulen or two, and even a lonesome Toffle.”
“Did you speak with them?” Moomintroll asked, watching him rather than the waves, or even the sand. He didn’t quite get it, so he watched everything else for the both of them.
“Only a little.” He said. “The Niblings were just passing by, and I didn’t get along much with the Hemulens, as I’m sure you figured. Spent some time with the Toffleass, though.”
“Were they traveling like you?” Moomintroll wondered.
“No, they lived in an old hole in the ground under the roots of a dead tree.” Snufkin said, trying to recall. “They lived all by themself, though, and weren’t very talkative. I suppose that’s probably why I took them up on their offer to stay for a few nights. It was dreadfully cold, and the company wasn’t unbearable.”
“Oh,” Moomintroll said, finally looking out to the sands, so Snufkin thought it’d be alright to be looking at him now. “Well, I hope they were nice.”
“They were lovely,” Snufkin assured, stopping when Moomintroll bent down to pick up a round shell. “If awfully lacking in the confidence department. That’s a hermit crab.”
Moomintroll blinked, looking from Snufkin to the shell in his paw. Snufkin reached out and turned it over, setting it down on his palm rather than between his fingers. Sure enough, two beady little eyes poked out of the shell.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” Moomintroll told the hermit crab, leaning back down. “I thought you were empty. You have a wonderful shell.”
The hermit crab, thankfully, did not seem offended by being disturbed. It waddled on its little legs for a moment when Moomintroll set it back down on the sand, readjusting to its sudden change. It looked back up at them for a moment before waving a claw and scuttling off further inland. It wouldn’t want to be caught in the tide.
“It seems to be a little too big for its shell.” Snufkin hummed. “I doubt there are many good shells to find on this beach, everyone had probably picked off the best ones.”
“Should we return them?” Moomintroll asked.
“We’d have to ask nearly everyone in the valley if they’d been to the beach.” Snufkin shook his head. “Hermit crabs will take any home they can fit in. Does Snorkmadien still have her arts and craft kits?”
“You suggest we make the hermit crabs new homes?” Moomintroll’s ears pricked.
“It’d be something to do.” Snufkin shrugged, resuming walking. “And a good deed. That way, we won’t have to go searching for every good shell we’ve picked, and the hermit crabs won’t be cramped in their homes.”
For Snufkin was kind in only the most selfish of ways. Which is both a blessing, and a curse. For his selfishness is at least doing something for others, but that also means he really has nothing to complain about, and thus nothing to feel sorry for. He still feels sorry, anyway.
“Wonderful idea!” Moomintroll praised anyway, lighter in his steps. “We could probably get Little My’s advice, she’s good at fitting into small spaces. We wouldn’t want to make their homes too big.”
“I don’t quite think it can be.” Snufkin said. “I hear that hermit crabs can grow all throughout their lives. It’s why many creatures try to eat them when they’re small, otherwise they’ll have something bigger to worry about in a few years.”
“Do you think there’s a monstrous crab somewhere in the ocean?” Moomintroll wondered, looking off towards the sea.
“Probably,” Snufkin said. “Perhaps one of us will meet it someday.”
Moomintroll looked a little less thrilled all of the sudden, and Snufkin looked out to the sea, wondering if perhaps he’d seen something different. But neither of their eyes were better than the other when in the daytime, so he knew that wasn’t the case when he didn’t see a thing.
“You’ll probably find it before me.” Moomintroll said, longingly watching the water.
“I don’t do many sea expeditions, I stay on the shore.” Snufkin reminded. “Besides, you live right next to it.”
“But you go everywhere,” Moomintroll sighed, slowly beginning to trudge along the sand. “And you see all kinds of things. Who’s to say you won’t find a giant crab by another part of the sea?”
“I doubt it.” Snufkin said, following. “I tend to only pass by the sea. Perhaps we could make an adventure out of it, searching your parts of the ocean for the long-lived hermit crab.”
“But that’s not–” Moomintroll made a grumbling little sound, the kind he made when he wasn’t being listened to. Snufkin, sometimes, would purposefully misinterpret what he was saying just to see him get annoyed for that split second, only to realize it was all a ploy and bat at Snufkin like a funny little pest. It was great fun.
This time, Snufkin hadn’t meant to. So he stayed quiet, and let the troll’s thoughts gather.
“Don’t you ever see places more interesting than this?” Moomintroll eventually asked, kicking a foot in the sand and sending it ahead of them.
“Well, I wouldn’t know.” Snufkin said evenly. “I don’t particularly judge places based on how ‘interesting’ they might seem. It’s all subjective, and what a town may have one day could be gone the next. What would you call more ‘interesting’ than Moominvalley?”
“I don’t know–buildings in trees.” Moomintroll waved a paw. “A hidden town by a cliffside. Tunnels that never end. Mountains that stretch beyond the clouds, those kinds of things.”
“Well, I have seen those things.” Snufkin agreed. “But I still wouldn’t call them more interesting than Moominvalley. They’re all just, well, interesting.”
“But what about the people?” Moomintroll persisted. “You meet all kinds of folks on your travels. Surely there are some far better than us?”
“I don’t tend to judge people on being ‘better’ than others.” Snufkin frowned. “There are people I agree with, and people I don’t. There are people I relate with, and people I don’t. Disagreement or a lack of understanding does not make one better than the other. It only makes them different.”
“You’re not getting it.” Moomintroll sighed.
“I’m being honest.” Snufkin shrugged, plucking up what likely used to be a shark egg, turning it over in his hand. “I think that you are worrying about things that have never happened. You’re allowed to be worried, of course, but I’m telling you that you do not have to.”
“You’re not just saying it?” Moomintroll asked, looking at him with uncertainty.
“Now, when have I ever been the kind of person to say untruthful things just to make others feel better?” Snufkin asked, pulling some seaweed off the egg and showing it. “Would you like a shark egg?”
“Why would I want that?” Moomintroll tilted his head, though he was definitely curious.
“Why wouldn’t you?” Snufkin replied, and Moomintroll couldn’t argue with that, so he took it.
“I think I’m worried that you’ll find a better friend than me.” Moomintroll admitted, turning the egg over in his paws. “Someone who’s easier to deal with.”
“Deal with?” Snufkin reeled back, appalled. “Since when have I ever ‘dealt with’ you? I come here because I want to be here. I speak with you because I want to. I am never ‘dealing with’ you, it’s of nothing but my own benefit to be here.”
And Moomintroll stared at him for a moment, possibly shocked, possibly mulling the words over, possibly both. Snufkin just picked another stray leaf of seaweed off the egg in his paws before going back to walking. He does not easily like to admit to his selfishness, but it was the truth.
It took a moment or two, but Moomintroll started following him again, going into step at his side. Unlike Snufkin, he never really needed long stretches of time to think about his words. He said what he thought first, or what he thought sounded the best right then and there.
“Sorry,” He said, which was not what Snufkin was expecting. “You’re right, I was being silly.”
“Of course you weren’t.” Snufkin huffed. “You were worrying. It’s not silly to worry, it’s silly to let it consume you. I much rather prefer you tell me you were worrying than deciding to take measures into your own paws.”
For not the first time, he wished he could take his own advice.
“Yeah, I’m trying to be better about that.” Moomintroll agreed. “Talking about things before trying to fix them so they don’t become a problem.”
“You’re doing very well.” Snufkin praised. “But I still wouldn’t worry.” He assured, placing a paw on his shoulder. “While I agree that no person is better than another, I do believe in how close creatures can be with each other.” He said with a teasing grin. “And you’re at the top. I don’t think there’s a thing in the world that could change that.” He said, giving his shoulder a pat before continuing on.
Not even a few seconds later, there was a weight colliding with his back, and arms around his sides. He stumbled a bit with the force of it, blinking with surprise. He looked down to see fuzzy white arms around him, and his ribs were feeling a little too encasing from how tightly they were being squeezed against him. One of the fists were closed, still holding the gift within.
“You’re at the top of mine, too.” Moomintroll said, snout pushed in-between his shoulder blades. “And that’s not going to change for me, either. Okay?”
And Snufkin smiled, leaning his head back until it lay over Moomintroll’s forehead, staring up at the sky as he squeezed his arms. It’s remarkable, really, how nice it can feel to hear something you already know to be true.
“I know.” He said fondly. “I never doubted it.”
“I just wanted you to know.”
“I appreciate it.”
Moomintroll’s arms slowly unwound from him, and Snufkin wouldn’t say he missed it, he had to keep walking eventually, after all, but he found he wouldn’t mind if it were to happen again.
“Sorry for being all mopey on you.” Moomintroll said, bringing the egg back up to fiddle with.
“Don’t apologize.” Snufkin said. “Like I said, better to say things than to fix them by yourself. In emotional cases, at least.” He said with a fanged grin, one he normally tried to be sparse with.
“I think most others can be solved with it, too. But whatever you say.” Moomintroll shrugged. “Do you want to go back to the house? We can start on those new homes for the hermit crabs.”
A part of Snufkin still wanted to stay on the sand. To watch the sunset descend into the water and to stare out at it even long after that, to see the stars reflected over the ocean. To set the old eggshell adrift and see if anything came back for it. To stand in the shallows and wait for whatever creatures lived around to grow curious and careless.
But then he’d be late for Moominmamma’s dinner. And while he knew she’d save a dish for him, they were still much better warm than cold.
Besides, he doesn’t think Moomintroll would linger all night like him. He was, tragically, a daytime critter.
“Sounds good to me.” He said, lightly bumping Moomintroll’s shoulder as he passed. “I’m sure Little My has more than enough things to use in our efforts.”
“I doubt she’ll let us have them.” Moomintroll said, tailing after.
“Well, better to ask for forgiveness than permission, no?” Snufkin’s eyes glinted mischievously as he peeked over his shoulder.
“You never ask for forgiveness.” Moomintroll huffed, though he was smiling, too.
“Sometimes,” Snufkin hummed. “But no, not often. I find that forgiveness is a little overrated.”
He thinks that, perhaps, Moomintroll believed he didn’t deserve Snufkin, either. But how he’d ever come to that conclusion, he’d probably never comprehend.
The unsettling closeness between a stranger caretaker, and a severely wounded whumpee:
The stranger picks them up and carries them when they can’t walk. Whumpee hasn’t felt a shred of kindness in so long they blindly cling to it, tucking their face under their chin to hide.
Unspoken trust as caretaker patches them up; but even though it hurts, whumpee stays silent and still.
Seemingly alien conversations when caretaker asks if they’re okay with being carried or touched. They tell them beforehand everything they do before they do it, not surprising or starting them with any pain.
Taking a damp cloth to whumpee’s face, lathering off sweat, blood, dirt, or all three. Whumpee’s too flustered to say anything, they just lower their head shy of speaking.
The night falls cold and whumpee starts shivering. They hold their breath and curl up against the back of the stranger, hoping they aren’t angry when they wake up…
When caretaker found them, they were as weak as a newborn fawn. They were shaking on the floor, hardly having the strength to hold their head up. They cringed so far away from them caretaker had to tilt their head up from the jawline. They studied the nasty bruise blooming on their cheekbone; they felt whumpees weight sink in their hand, their posture wobbled just trying to sit upright.
“You’re hurt…” Caretaker rasped, letting whumpee go when they let out a whimper.
“Shh, sh sh…” Caretaker softly hushed, putting their finger to their lips. They nodded towards the door with a furrowed brow.
Whumpee can’t close their eyes without reliving nightmare after nightmare. The day is physical pain, while night is mental torment. The rare few times they’ve fallen asleep was draped over caretaker’s chest, cheek squished against their shoulder with their bruised bandaged hand being softly held.
“Will you still be here if I fall asleep?” Whumpee muffles.
“When you fall asleep-” Caretaker corrects, chuckling as they brush a strand out of their face.
“I’ll still be stuck under you, yes.”
(Unspoken caretaker rule: if there’s a whumpee in your lap, DON’T MOVE)
Summary: Spencer’s stressed, and he takes it out on you. You’re sure it would have hurt far worse if he’d shouted, but instead he broke you down bit by bit, his cold demeanor leaving you crying in your car.
Contents/Warnings: passive aggression, stressed spencer, brief mentions of missing persons, tension, hurt/comfort, angst with a fluffy ending
feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!
“Not right now,” Spencer mumbled, not even bothering to look up at the sound of the door opening. He knew it’d be you, you were the only other person in the apartment, but that didn’t dull the edge in his voice.
You hesitated in the doorway, your hand gripping tight to the doorframe as if it would stabilize the part of you that had deflated at Spencer’s tone.
“I just wanted to let you know lunch is ready.” Your own voice had lost most of the vigor that you had intended for it to possess, instead coming out meek as you monitored Spencer’s reaction.
His shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, and you heard a brisk sigh escape from his lips, “I’ll be there soon.”
That was it. No thank you, no tension-diffuser, nothing. Just that same sharp, biting tone.
“Right,” You hesitated in the doorway for only a few seconds more, teeth grating against the inside of your cheek as you tried figuring out if you could get away with saying anything else. You gave up, shutting the door quietly behind you as you trudged back to the kitchen.
Request -Kaminari x Reader where he has a bad dream and goes to the reader to get comfort and also make sure they’re ok
Angst/Fluff - Hurt Comfort (?)
Warnings - Nightmares, Blood/Gore, Death [In A Dream],
Pairing - Denki Kaminari X Reader
A/N Since I’m basically God here your room is across from his since it’s labeled empty on the layout (I think)
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The dust settles over the city that was just turned onto a warzone. There’s smoke in the air, fires across the city, people trapped and calling for help. Stumbling, the hero Chargebolt stands among the wreckage, unsure of what to do. His hand raises to his head, feeling the bleeding cut on his forehead, staining his yellow hair orange and eventually red.
“Hello?” He calls out, turning where he stands, hoping to see one of his friends. In the distance, he catches the sight of the fiery red hair of Red Riot. With quick steps, he makes his way over, “Red.” He calls as he gets closer, stopping short when he sees Red Riot leaning over a body, he’s doing compressions.
“Did anyone else make it?” Red calls over his shoulder, leaning his head down to the chest of the fallen hero. Chargebolt’s hands shake at his sides, it’s your body that’s lying on the ground. “Charge?” Red Riot looks over his shoulder, seeing the state that his friend’s in. “Come on.” He mumbles, turning his attention back to your body.
“Please.” He whispers, staring down at your body, the wounds on you, the pale look on your face. “Don’t go.”
Kaminari shoots up in his bed, hand gripping his shirt over his heart. He’s panting, hair sticking to his face from the sweat that’s built up. He raises his hand, relieved to find no cut on his head before wiping the tears from his face. His eyes dart around the darkness of his room as he sighs, unable to shake the feeling of dread that’s settled over him.
Throwing off his blanket, Kaminari heads to his door and slips right out into the hallway. He contemplated for a moment, what am I doing? They’re asleep. He shakes his head, passing a hand through his hair with a shaky breath. But what if that’s one of those prophecy dreams and they’re in trouble? His mind races, unable to settle on one thought as he walks up to your door.
“You can do this.” He whispers to himself, knocking gently on your door. He shifts anxiously and when your room light doesn’t go on he knocks again. “Please please please.” He mumbles, relieved when the light flickers on and your footsteps can be heard coming up to the door. Your lock clicks and the door opens to show you, half-awake, in your pajamas.
You squint in confusion. “Kaminari?” You rub your eyes, concerned when you see the redness of his eyes. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“Can I come in?” He asks softly, rubbing his arm.
“Yeah, of course.” You step aside, allowing him to walk in before closing the door behind him. “Are you okay?” You repeat, only being met with a rather crushing hug from the blond. You don’t say anything else, gently hugging him back. If he needs to talk about whatever it is he will, Kaminari’s not really one to keep quiet often.
“It was a stupid dream.” He mumbles, his face pressed in the crook of your neck. You rub his back, allowing him the moment to speak. “Some villains destroyed a part of the city. Kiri was there, over y-” he pauses, a shaky breath leaving him. “Your body, he was giving CPR.” He tenses up as he explains it to you.
You pull back enough to cup his face in your hands. “Hey, it’s okay.” You start, getting him to look you in the eye. “The city’s as safe as it can be. Kiri’s still a floor above us, probably sleeping like a rock. I’m okay. Okay?” He nods, allowing you to brush your thumbs across his cheeks, wiping away the tear stains. “If you need anything, I’m just a door away Kami.” He snorts a laugh at the attempted nickname. “You wanna stay here for the night? I’ll kick any bad dream’s ass that tries to scare you.” Kaminari smiles, nodding softly, and allowing you to lead him over to your bed. “We’re gonna be okay Kaminari. Promise.” He nods, laying down beside and, to his surprise, he falls asleep before you do. No nightmares dare to show up that night.
Now he was on the ground and the serket charged in to finish him off. But a blur of gray leaped between it and Merlin, latching powerful jaws around one pincher arm and yanking it away. The serket reeled back and snapped its other at the wolf, who released its hold and darted away. It charged in again, going for the joints not lined in armored exoskeleton. The serket twisted and thrashed, stabbing its stinger down multiple times in an effort to skewer the wolf. The wolf dove under the giant scorpion’s belly and tore its teeth at the underside.
Merlin’s heart lurched into his throat as the serket skittered backward, and for a horrified moment, it looked like the wolf had been trampled. But it emerged on the other side, darting around to take another pass. The serket finally decided it wasn’t worth the trouble and turned to retreat back into the forest.
Merlin stayed on the ground as the wolf flicked its gaze at him. “Lancelot?”
The wolf stared back at him. Fresh blood streaked his fur in places, but it didn’t look like he’d taken serious injury. A wolf pack yipped in the distance, and he turned toward it.
“Wait!” Merlin blurted. “Lancelot, don’t. I know you’re still in there.”
The wolf paused to look back at him.
“You wouldn’t have come to my rescue just now if a part of you wasn’t still in there,” Merlin pleaded, getting up on his knees to stay eye level with him. “I can change you back now. Please.”
a/n: umm, heyyyy. idk what this is, i just wanted to write and i also wanted to let y’all know i’m alive. miss u.
summary: drarry after the war, dealing with trauma and love. roadtrip included
warnings: angsty, trauma, implied self h*rm - don’t read if you’re not up for it <3 stay well
Draco had never seen a car, let alone lived in one. It wasn’t as if he wanted to, either.
But Harry was insistent; he was going to leave, and Draco was welcome to come if he’d like, but if not, Harry would see him in a few weeks or so.
He had decided after one of his nightmares, the repeating one of wandering aimlessly down the halls of Hogwarts, just as tall as he was at 11, calling out for everyone he could think of and getting no response in return. He would feel around the pockets of his robes, only to find nothing but one of his small broken figurines from under the stairs and a muggle coin. He had no wand and it was getting dark, and still, no one answered him. He searched for the Great Hall, for the Fat Lady, for Dumbledore’s office, for the Pitch, for Hagrid’s hut, even for the dungeons. There was nothing, it was just one long hallway with creeping shadows, just as unfamiliar as his first night at Hogwarts. As he walked, he had a horrible pit in his stomach, even in the dream, because he knew what was at the end of the hall. It would be the mirror, and in the mirror, he would watch his parents die, again and again until he woke up screaming with sweat and tears covering his face.
Draco was there, of course. He was always there. Harry would only be able to see a flash of his hair in the small sliver of moonlight that peaked through their curtains. Then, faster than he could object, Draco pulled him back down, pulling his sleeves over his hands and using them to wipe Harry’s face, smoothing his hair down whichever way it could go.
It was like, after the war. Harry had expected so much worse, and yet he underestimated everything else. He had thought it would be so heavy, that he could never escape the dark, or the screams, or the death. It turned out that he had never escaped the part of his life before that. He had nightmares of the Dursleys, nightmares of his parents, nightmares of Quirrell and the Basilisk. It swirled around his brain constantly, like a muggy sewer with a drain clogged. He felt like he needed his skin pulled back and for everything to be scooped out and polished.
The morning after the last nightmare, Harry awoke before Draco. He laid with Draco’s arm draped across his chest, watching it rise and fall as he breathed. He held his breath for a moment, watching as Draco’s fingers reflexively gripped Harry’s shirt. He continued breathing, watching Draco’s hand relax.
He closed the blinds completely as he quietly left the room, looming in the doorway to look at the bed. He had left almost no mark, his pillow barely dented from where he had twisted and turned all night. But there was Draco, curled into an invisible space as if Harry were still there, as if he needed Harry to unwind him and reposition him for the day.
Harry set off to their small, shabby kitchen and put the kettle on. He put two pieces of bread in the toaster, opening their fridge and surveying their pathetic groceries. Neither of them had been taught to live on their own, and it showed. All they had was soda, beer, an unopened packet of hotdogs, butter, and milk. Harry stood upright and looked at the counter; they didn’t even have hotdog buns.
He had just started buttering Draco’s toast when two delicate arms wrapped around his middle. His back instinctively curved into the shape of Draco’s chest, and he craned his neck to afford Draco the small inch he needed to place his chin on Harry’s shoulder comfortably.
It was wonderful, and still, Harry could feel it resting in his bones, his skin itching to be peeled and flayed open.
Draco had very little fight in him, these days. He felt it melt away every time Harry broke his glasses, or every time Harry watered his plants, or every time Harry picked up the knitting needles and started a new project. It was replaced by something warm, something that was becoming so hot it burned him. But, the fight was gone. The part of him that had been leading him towards harsh teasing and relentless bullying was gone, instead replaced by a cold layer over his eyes. The inside of him burned with love for Harry, but it was like he was submerged in an ice tank and can’t warm himself. He did everything quietly; he found the patterns in which he could get Harry’s hair to lay, he watched Harry with silent interest in everything he did, he offered himself to Harry whenever he could.
So, of course, Draco was sat in the passenger’s seat of the shitty car Harry had managed to buy. He couldn’t be anywhere else, not when everything was cold without Harry.
Harry found it hard to drive for two reasons. The first was that he was a bad driver. He hadn’t exactly gotten an abundance of opportunities to learn growing up, and it would be reasonable to say that he had hoped for the best when he took his test and was pleasantly surprised when he passed. The second was that Draco looked quite good next to him, distractingly good. He still wore a long sleeve, even though it was warm enough for Harry to wear a t-shirt with the windows down, but Draco only wore long sleeves after the war. It had been hard for Draco to watch Harry look at his forearm, at what Draco had done to it out of shame after having to look at the mark himself for so long. So, he covered it with sleeves as often as he could. His hair was pushed off his forehead- the both of them had been neglecting haircuts, letting the other perform a cosmetic charm when they felt it was necessary- and wisped around his face like a heavenly halo. His eyes were still an icy blue, though, for the first time in months, they looked quite warm. He had a red flush on his cheeks when he noticed Harry staring at him, smiling and putting a delicate hand over his face as he turned toward the window bashfully.
As it got dark, all Harry could see was the few and ar between oncoming headlights, spotted with the sparse flashes of light dotting the rural countryside. The light from the radio illuminated the inside of the car, Draco’s long and melancholy CD’s he had bought when Harry took him into town. Draco had been asleep for an hour or so, and things were starting to blur in Harry’s vision. He pulled over, waking Draco from his light doze. They both lowered their seats, Harry shutting off the car. Without the noisy hum of the engine and Draco’s music, it was silent besides the wildlife outside. Wind moved the trees overhead, shaking leaves onto the windshield as they sat, idle. Harry turned to his side, laying as comfortably as he could (which was not very comfortable at all), and looked at Draco’s tired face. It was so different at night, his cheekbones casting dark shadows, eyes foggy, mouth in a familiar straight line. Harry wondered if he could close his eyes and reach out, recognize Draco’s face from touch alone. His eyes fluttered shut and he did exactly that, listening for the quiet sigh Draco often released when Harry touched him unexpectedly. Draco pulled his legs onto the seat, his body curled up. Harry’s fingers found the dip above Draco’s lips, the slight point of his chin. He smoothed his thumb over Draco’s eyebrows, invisible unless illuminated in the right light. He could see Draco behind his eyelids, as distinct as if he had opened his eyes. In the midst of his clogged and diseased brain, Draco was there, distinct as a bright light.
“This isn’t very comfortable,” Harry sighed, turning onto his back and planting his feet on the floor of the car, “is it?”
“No,” Draco said, not sounding like he minded it at all.
Harry wordlessly crawled in the backseat, pushing discarded food wrappers onto the floor. Draco followed him, listening to Harry’s stifled laughter as they navigated their long legs in the small space.
They twisted and turned until they lay side by side, Harry stripping off his shirt to prepare for the night heat. Draco pulled his sleeves over his hands, only his fingers visible as they traced up and down the side of Harry’s neck. Draco felt, suddenly, that they were alone. As if they hadn’t been alone in their apartment for all those months, as if he didn’t feel alone his whole life. He was reminded of how young they were, of the lack of age on Harry’s body beneath his fingertips. He wondered if they looked like boys together, or if the war was clear on their faces. Had the people in the gas station known? Had they seen two boys who had hated each other all their lives, two boys fighting each other in a way? Or had they seen two boys traveling the countryside together, buying too many crisps and candies and sodas?
The next day, after they had lazily kissed each other for hours and Harry reluctantly moved back to the driver’s seat, Draco thought of all the places Harry had told him about. About the beaches Remus had always wanted to go to but never got the chance, the woods Sirius told him James loved so much, the mountains Hermione had promised him were breathtaking. Draco thought that Harry might be showing him the good that was tangled with the mold within him. That maybe, as they drove, Harry was leaving behind everything that crowded his head. Harry hoped that the sun might warm the outside of Draco, just to match the inside a little.
