Work Text
A small tinkling bell rings over Chrom’s head as he steps into the yarn shop, a lumpy hand-knitted scarf stuffed into the plastic bag he clutches tightly in his hand.This year, let’s make each other’s birthday gifts instead of buying things. Emmeryn’s voice reverberates in his head and propels him further into the shop. She asks for so little. He can do this.A young woman with white hair leans forward from her seat behind the counter. “Hi! Let me know if you need anything, okay?” she says, smiling in greeting. He can’t do this. She’s so pretty that Chrom’s entire brain stutters to a halt. There is some kind of yarncraft angel staffing this store, and the only reason he doesn’t turn tail and run at the thought of showing her his pitiful attempt at a scarf for his sister is the thought of gifting his sister the scarf in question. Emm would be kind about it, too, because she’s like that, and that is frankly depressing to think about. She should get something nice.Chrom drags his feet as he shuffles closer to the counter.“Actually, I heard I could get advice here?” he says, lifting the bag. Gods, maybe she’ll just tell him he can’t get any help after all and he can flee and take another stab at making a necklace for Emmeryn, his roommates’ ban on further attempts at jewelry be damned. Too destructive, they’d said. Gaius is still making jokes with Vaike about how Chrom managed to put a pair of pliers through the wall. Frankly, Chrom thinks it is stupid they’re afraid of letting him have wire cutters in the living space if he’s allowed to have knitting needles, but he hasn’t figured out a way to voice this objection without making a case for why he can’t use those responsibly either.“Of course,” the yarn store goddess says. She puts her own project—something with fancy-looking patterns and ombre yarn—onto the counter and slides off her stool, coming around to the front. She is short, only standing as tall as his sternum, and her smile is doing things to his chest, which he very valiantly ignores. Her name tag proclaims her Robin. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”Chrom lets her lead the way over to a line of tables in the middle of the shop. Two women sitting at the far end pause their work to eye him and then elbow each other, their eyes darting between him and Robin with interest. Chrom hurriedly turns away and lays out his scarf despite his great reluctance.Silence reigns for a few moments as Robin studies his work, clearly striving to find a kind word for it.“Well, you’ve obviously put a lot of hard work into it, and I think I have a few suggestions, if you’re willing to hear them…” Robin finally says. She looks at him expectantly for a second, but Chrom is too lost in the inquisitive sparkle in her eyes to think about what she’s trying to ask. She gives a little cough. “Erm, sorry, I didn’t get your name!” Robin holds out her hand, and when he takes it, he can’t help but notice the way her fingers and palm are engulfed by his, her hand cool in what feels like his overlarge, overwarm, clammy grasp. His heartbeat thrums uneasily at the contact, and he wonders crazily if she can feel it.“Chrom,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound half as entranced as he feels. He pulls his hand back as soon as possible, trying to discreetly wipe the nervous sweat from it against his pant leg. Why has he never noticed how sweaty his palms are? It’s terrible. “Well, Chrom,” Robin says, and gods, his name shouldn’t sound so nice on the lips of a stranger, “I think I can help! Though I think a good portion of this will have to be unraveled, unfortunately.”Chrom nods in a daze. Robin sets about asking questions and explaining—he discovers that the reason his initial count of twenty stitches has ballooned so horribly, giving the whole thing a bloated uneven shape, is that he was holding the yarn the wrong way around, that stitches can be unraveled in the blink of an eye but a skilled person like Robin is capable of recreating them nearly as quickly, and even that he can pull hard enough on the yarn to break it but that he can always tie the yarn back onto itself and keep going.“I’ve never seen anyone do that one before,” Robin laughs as they repair from the frayed end, but her teasing is so good-natured and she’s so patient in her explanations that he doesn’t mind. He wouldn’t mind being mercilessly teased over any aspect of his attempt as long as he gets to sit next to her, their heads bent close together and her nimble fingers demonstrating the motions before passing the needles back to him.By the time Chrom leaves the shop with a spring in his step, he’s got a good start on a much nicer scarf and a persistent fluttering in his chest.Chrom comes back to the store, of course, because he is still new enough at this whole knitting thing to need guidance, and definitely not because he is rapidly developing a hopeless crush on a woman who is just doing her job by helping him and he is desperate to have an excuse to spend time with her. That would be ridiculous of him. By the time the holidays roll around, Chrom thankfully has a presentable cream-colored scarf ready for Emmeryn and a frog-green pot holder for Lissa, who ribs him incessantly about his unambitious choice in projects—but he sees her tuck it gently into her purse all the same. It was a success, by all accounts. Surely there is no reason to feel so depressed about having no further reason to frequent the yarn shop. As he stands despondently in a coffee shop, waiting to put his order in, Chrom lurches between telling himself this and rationalizing reasons to go back despite not much enjoying the act of knitting itself. Maybe he should knit more. Maybe he should make Lissa a potholder for every occasion, from now on. And—and maybe he should buy a lot of yarn from that shop. To stay stocked. For his potholders.It’s in the middle of this madness that he is interrupted by his name spoken in a voice he’s grown far too fond of.“Oh—Chrom?” Chrom’s pulse kicks into double-time as he jumps and whirls around, and there stands Robin, behind him in line in a coffee shop not even particularly close to the yarn shop. She looks cheerful and windswept and cozy in a wool coat and a scarf of her own she probably made herself, based on the intricate lace pattern that resolves into delicate leaves. She looks like she’s stepped right out of his daydreams. “Robin?” he half yelps, his hand flying to the back of his neck. He’s suddenly very aware of what his hands are doing. He tries to put them down by his sides, then feels all too conscious of how unnatural it seems. What does he normally do with his hands? Fuck.“Fancy meeting you here,” she says, smiling, and gods, it makes his bones feel like they are melting, but somehow in a good way.Chrom wants to say something suave. He wants to say something charming and light and witty, something that will impress her. Unfortunately what comes out of his mouth is “Yeah—uh. Yes.” and then he caps it off with nervous laughter that bubbles out of him uncontrollably. Fortunately, Robin’s unfailing kindness means she just smiles benevolently at him as he makes a fool of himself. If anything, her smile turns warmer, which doesn’t make any sense, but which Chrom is grateful for. “I—er. Sorry, I meant to come by the shop and thank you again for the help. You saved my holiday season,” Chrom says, managing to pull himself together enough to express his sincere gratitude. “Well, you did all the work, I just showed you how,” Robin says, because Robin is the yarn shop angel who doesn’t take credit for her own miracles. And Chrom managing to knit something beyond shapeless blobs was truly a miracle. Right as Chrom is about to say something truly sappy and embarrassing, probably scaring her away forever, he is saved by the prompting of the barista. “Uh, dude, are you gonna order, or what?” the bored college student at the register says. “Yes!” Chrom says, probably too loudly and with too much enthusiasm. The barista quirks an eyebrow at him, but he’s too busy floating on the adrenaline of seeing Robin by chance to care.Spurred by a sudden, reckless urge, he whips back around to Robin, who is holding her hand to her mouth as if she’s trying to hide her mirth. “Would you, uh—can I buy you a coffee?” Chrom asks in a rush before he comes to his senses and loses his nerve.Robin’s answering smile is blinding.In the hours they spend afterwards huddled at a tiny corner table, their knees bumping and Chrom’s hands clammier than ever, he’s deeply grateful to his past self for being so bad at handicrafts, and to Robin for apparently finding that very charming. Their first kiss tastes like coffee; it’s a warm, melting counterpoint to the brisk winter air that they barely feel, too wrapped up in each other and the promise of something new bursting to life between them.