A little something for Clyde Week! Day 2 is Crush/Hobbies and I got inspired so i kind of combined the two!
I also realized I love writing sweet little clyde 😭
Summary: Clyde Donovan had started to enjoy the quiet, mainly due to one little person he can't get out of his mind. Taking a page from his mother's book, he decides that making something by hand could be the way into your heart...if only he could actually talk to you.
Word Count: 3297
Stitching Us Together- Clyde Donovan x Reader
Leaves fluttered and twirled through the air, cool breezes bringing the pretty sight to the small town of South Park. It was the perfect back backdrop for the end of the day, the campus blanketed in peace that afternoon.
Clyde Donovan was currently enjoying said view, his seat facing the large windows along the front of the library. He enjoyed the quiet that accompanied the building, the only sounds being the shifting of books and the shuffle of patrons as they browsed the shelves. Months ago he wouldn’t have expected to spend his free time here, away from his usual routines.
His life had always been loud- loud friends, loud family, loud adventures, loud everything. And that was how he liked it, after all he himself had been described as such on more than one occasion. He was comfortable with the noise, allowing it to fall to the background like a song on the radio. However, there was change coming for him.
Lately, he had started to see the benefits of slowing down and letting the silence take over. Through those moments one could actually stop and watch the world move around them, a movie filled with little simple scenes of life. It was during one of those moments that Clyde finally noticed you.
He hadn’t realized he had been staring at first, his eyes simply landing somewhere as his mind wandered, laptop opened and ignored in front of him. You had been writing down notes at the time as you studied a textbook. He had caught what he was doing as he watched those eyes of your flick across the pages. There were several students doing the exact same thing as you were, heads down and diligently working, but for some reason you were the one that held his attention.
From then on Clyde’s eyes always seemed to find you. They would catch you as you walked across campus or sneak a small glance whenever he passed by your table in the dining hall. To his own surprise he had even realized that for most of the semester you had been in one of his classes! In those moments of silence he had begun to embrace, those glimpses of you told him a lot.
You disliked the way people crowded doorways, and he had stifled a chuckle as he watched you fight your way through, your features practically shouting your irritation. You enjoyed flowers, as you typically slowed your pace whenever you passed the curated beds along the paths to class, but you preferred white roses. That was the only time you ever stopped on your daily treks, your fingertips lightly touching the velvety petals in reverence.
You also hated the cold, which was a funny thing seeing as you lived here of all places. Too many times as you prepped to brave the outside world you donned layer after layer in protection. Even then, he still caught the little shiver as the chill hit you from the entrance.
You were the reason he even came to the library in the first place. Clyde wasn’t dumb by any means, despite the common misconception people had about him, but there were always areas he could improve. Now if the time he chose to frequent said space around the same time your last class of the day let out, that was merely coincidence. If he just so happened to sit in the same spot that had a good view of every table, that was only by chance.
Well, at this point he was willing to take whatever opportunity he could to see you, sue him if he was being smart about it.
Today you had the afternoon sun at your back, warming you through the glass. His gaze caught a sweet little halo surrounding your head, small specks of dust lazily moving around in a way that felt intentional. How could you make something as mundane as studying so ethereal Clyde would never know, but nonetheless he was enraptured.
He had only gotten through half of his assignment when you rose, those layers of armor beside you being picked up and worn. He wondered how nice it would be to add his own coat to the mix, giving you the warmth you needed from the cold.
As he watched your shoulders give their usual little shake, an idea came to mind.
_____
Betsy Donovan was not a taboo subject in their household, but there was a tension that accompanied the mere mention of her. After her death the air around the house had been heavy and taut, every breath adding air into a balloon that looked ready to burst.
After a while no one wanted to risk popping it, and so she was talked about less and less.
His dad had migrated her belongings to the attic, sequestered to a small corner just in case Clyde or his sister wanted to look through them. In a way it was very cold, hiding away those memories of the woman that made their family full, but Clyde didn’t like to dwell on those feelings. Instead he focused on the images of who she was before, scenes of his childhood flashing behind his eyelids when he closed them.
He never would have admitted this to his friends, but Clyde was a momma’s boy to his core. She may have embarrassed him more times than he could count but behind closed doors she was his favorite human being. His earliest memory involved his little body clutched to her skirt, seeking comfort from the one person he felt safe with.
His one regret was not really getting to know her as a person, always just mom to him. She gave him comfort, made his meals, and made sure he was growing up in the way she thought he should, but she was so much more than that. She had interests and passions, and while he had only begun to unpack a lot of them, there was one hobby of hers that he had an interest in.
Nights in the Donovan household back then were always the same. Dinner at 6, washing up right after, and then the family would spend at least an hour together afterwards in the family room. While his father watched his normal shows and the kids would play on the carpet, Betsy would sit on the couch with a basket of yarn, stitching away on whatever project she had been working on. Crocheting was her ‘way to unwind’ she had said one evening when the movements of her hands caught his attention. He didn’t find it very fun, but he always liked what she created- small stuffed animals and hats, or even blankets as evidenced by what he had laying across his bed.
“When you make something for someone by hand, Clyde,” her voice sounded in his head, “you’re giving them a part of yourself. You’re making sure they know that you care.”
When she gave him that blanket she had covered him head to toe in kisses, something he could still feel whenever he wrapped himself in her gift. He could still feel her comforting touches when he ran his fingers along the raised pattern, his favorite colors decorating each and every row. Whenever he looked at it he felt loved.
Maybe he could do the same thing for you.
Dust flew from old cardboard as Clyde searched, each box filled with various items he mentally cataloged for later. Finally, near the back of the pile he found what he had been looking for, a box filled with yarn.
He was surprised by how well everything had held up over the years, though the yarn had lost some of its softness. In a skein of rusty orange a hook had been shoved in, the curve at the end smooth to his touch. It shouldn’t be too hard to learn, after all he just needed yarn and a hook, right?
_____
“Fuck!” cursing, Clyde swiped his finger across the small screen, restarting the video.
It had taken him 3 hours. 3 hours hunched on his bed painstakingly maneuvering the hook in one hand and the yarn in the other just to get through a damn chain stitch. After all this time it was looking less lumpy compared to his first attempts, but it still looked...not like the one in the video.
How was he supposed to do this? When his mother crocheted she could whip up anything in no time at all, it was as if she had a new project every week! Looking through a few more videos, panic set in as he realized just how advanced some of this could actually get…
But if Clyde was anything, it was determined, or hard headed if you asked his friends but that's besides the point. With the image of you in his head, he started another video depicting ‘single crochet’ and a ‘double crochet.’ Jesus christ, how many crochets are there?
At 3am Clyde’s door creaked open, the light from his bedside lamp pouring into the dark hallway. Roger Donovan stood there, his lips already moving to chastise his son only for those words to die at the sight in front of him.
Clyde’s hands were limply gripped around what he could only assume was a crochet hook, orange yarn hanging off of it and leading to a ball on the floor. As he laid slumped over with his head on his shoulder, Roger spotted his phone propped up on his knees, a new video beginning to autoplay on the screen.
Grabbing the yarn and hook, as well as the phone to plug into a charger, Roger observed his son. He didn’t say it very often, even though he probably should, but Clyde looked so much like his mother. He was all soft hair and kind eyes, a reminder of all the love he had for his family even if they were missing a piece. With that thought he shut off the light and left with a sad smile, realizing just what blanket Clyde had wrapped himself in before sleep took over.
_____
It had taken the better part of a month for him to finish it.
He had cursed and raged more times than he could count, and he had nearly thrown everything out in tears of frustration, but he did it. He learned and he improved, and at the end he finished his very first crochet project.
The scarf was a dusty pink, made with yarn he went out specifically to buy when he felt confident enough to really start it. He had felt awkward at first when he entered the craft store, ladies in aprons greeting him as the doors slid open. He had been scared to ask for help, but after somehow walking in circles around the sewing department, he hiked up his pants to ask a nearby employee who saw his plight.
With a soft voice she took the time to walk him through the aisles, pointing out various yarn types and what he could do with them. Clyde was pretty amazed at the variety of it all, not just with colors but textures and patterns. He couldn’t help himself from shoving his fingers in the large blanket type yarn, its fibers soft and warm and causing the associate to laugh a little. Eventually he had settled on something simple so as to not get too overwhelmed.
The scarf was made with double crochet, something he had once had some issue with but eventually liked how it looked. He had attempted a few other stitches, but his skill kept him from being able to properly incorporate anything more advanced. Unfortunately the scarf itself was slightly lopsided, a problem due to his ‘tension control’ if reddit was correct. However, it was still a scarf and regardless of how it was shaped would keep someone warm.
Specifically, it would keep you warm.
Clyde’s stomach fluttered in a way that made him feel ill, bringing back memories of Stan Marsh getting sick every time he spoke to certain girls in grade school. He wouldn’t throw up, but man, maybe it would help. He hadn’t seen any problem with this little plan of his until the very moment his eyes landed on you waltzing into the library, and it was kind of a glaring one: he had never talked to you properly before.
He had said ‘hello’ in class, and once or twice asked for a pencil, but that was the extent of it. No conversation, no formal introductions, nothing that would have endeared him to you in any way, not like you did to him.
The more he sat with that damn scarf in his bag, the more his mind raced.
You were so much smarter than he was. No matter how simple the answers you gave in class were, intelligence rang loud and clear in your voice. He had seen you talk with the other people in class, conversations filled with information he recognized but couldn’t join in. How was he going to compete with that?
And on top of that you were so sure of yourself, head always held high as though you knew how to just be. Clyde might’ve had a ton of friends in his years at school, but that didn’t stop the want to really belong. He had to put in effort to try, squeezing himself into some sort of frame that might please others while to him you were the blueprint, the original sketch that others wanted to follow.
There was no way this would end well. You were going to think he was weird or, god forbid, an absolute creep. He had been living in some daydream that he could do something nice and that would somehow…what? Woo you? Get you to like him? Just what in the fu-
“Clyde? Hey!”
His eyes snapped up to find you standing in front of his lone table, hands clasped politely in front of you.
“Uh..h-hey Y/N…”
“I know you usually come here alone but I figured since we know each other and all you wouldn’t mind the company…can I sit?” That voice coupled with your sweet little smile was going to kill him. Nodding, you slid into the chair across from him.
Neither of you spoke for a while, Clyde keeping his eyes on the laptop in front of him as the cursor blinked on a blank document. While you kept calm, eyes scanning the notes on the table, he couldn’t stop his leg from bouncing wildly underneath it. For a self proclaimed loudmouth he couldn’t find any words to give you, his tongue heavy as it sat unused within his jaws.
As the quiet ticking of the library clock filled the room, he heard you sigh, and he allowed his attention to drift back up. With a jolt he realized that you were getting ready to leave, notebook packed and a hoodie being thrown on. As you picked up your next layer, a jacket this time, his chair scraped back.
“...is everything alright?” you stared wide-eyed at the brunette in front of you, his face stricken with panic as his eyes kept darting from yours to the table and back again.
“I…uh…”his voice trailed off, uncertainty filling his veins. He had so many reasons that doing this was not a good idea, that he was going to fuck up his chances before you could even give him one.
But seeing you get ready to leave, the thoughts of the cold nipping your nose and cheeks, turned on that part of his brain that only focused on seeing things through. It was the part of him that got him through difficult football matches, crazy situations with his childhood pals, and just about everything else that meant something in his life.
Not trusting his mouth, words stuck behind his teeth, Clyde turned to his bag and dug through it, digits quickly finding the soft object he hid away. Your eyes took in the small, folded pink object with curiosity. Gingerly, he handed it to you with a bright flush painting his cheeks, and you started to get the gist of what was happening.
“I made it myself…for you! I mean…”
In your hands was a scarf, handmade by the looks of it. You had interacted a little with Clyde before, but you couldn’t imagine him sitting and making something like this at all, couldn’t picture his large hands creating each and every stitch. Looking closer you could see some of the uneven stitches, the way it slanted slightly, but could also see that he must have put in a lot of work.
“You just look so cold when you leave, and I wanted you to know I cared, and my mom always said if you care about someone- oh god I just said- oh jesus christ,” Clyde clapped a hand to his mouth, humiliation beginning it’s climb up his spine.
Ever so subtly, the corners of your lips twitched upwards, growing steadily as the boy tried to calm himself. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t found him rather cute, but the fact that he made you something filled you with a kind of warmth that reached your very soul.
“I really like it Clyde, thank you,” reaching over with the lightest of touches your fingers graced his arm. “This is so, so sweet of you.”
His adam’s apple bobbed visibly as he carefully chose his next words. He didn’t want to stammer or stutter, or do anything that showed him as any less than he might’ve felt before.
“I would really like it if you would go out with me sometime,” clearing his throat, he struggled a bit to keep eye contact, his nerves resurfacing with every word that left him. “I’d be grateful if you’d just give me a chance, that is.”
You had seen Clyde in passing before, loud and playful with his friends. He had a booming personality from the small glimpses you had gotten of him over the semester. And yet, here he was with kind words and a quiet voice, the feeling in his eyes so clear there was nothing else to mistake it for but great affection.
He was handsome and outspoken, popular with everyone you saw, and yet he was displaying all of this towards you.
Wrapping the gift around your neck, it’s soft fibers already making you warm, you answered him.
“If you keep making me things like this, I don’t see how I could say no,” it was a cheeky answer, but one that melted the stress from Clyde’s body, leaving behind only joy.
“I mean, I have a few ideas on what I could make if you wanna hear ‘em. I found this one video on types of hats I could crochet and one looks just like my friend Craig’s, and another looked like-” as Clyde babbled on you found that you actually quite liked the noise he brought, even if it was in a quiet space. It brought life to a world that sometimes was too silent for its own good.
_____
Starting his next project, a little hat of oranges and yellows for you, Clyde thought back to his mom. He didn’t think he’d ever be as good as she was, the ease of which she made her stitches the work of many years he realized, but at the very least he could share this with her.
He liked to think she’d find joy in the fact that her son made things for those he cared about, just like she did.
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