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Stark can't remember the last time he'd ever been sick.
His body had been cut, beaten, and injured to a bloody pulp by dragons and demons and his master alike. But scars were easier to keep track of than the invisible ailments of his past. Illnesses and diseases were a rare occurrence in his daily life, and his body's constitution lent itself towards a natural immunity that was more tenable than most.
Although, poison wasn't completely off the table...
Frieren had told him that it helped to hold someone's hand when they were in pain. He never knew that, and wondered if it was really true.
He had danced and held hands with Fern in Vorig before. There was also that time when she showed him how cold her hands were from being outside. And it felt exactly like that.
Cold. Especially when she touched his cheeks with those hands.
He hadn't been hurting at the time, so maybe that was why he hadn't felt any different than usual.
But then again, holding her hands wasn't a bad feeling either.
Not a bad feeling at all.
When Frieren stepped outside to see how much of the land had changed since her last visit with the Hero Party, she told Stark to watch over Fern and made him sit by her bedside.
Fern had her eyes scrunched as she rested. When he looked at her closely, Stark could make out the mist between her laboured breaths, the flush on her face, and the sweat matting her lavender hair.
He didn't like seeing Fern like this.
His gaze trailed alongside her arm until it stopped at the curl of her hand.
He imagined Fern waking up and giving him a look of disappointment saying, does Stark-sama not even have the decency to comfort someone who is in pain?
The thought made him reach for her hand instinctively, but then he hesitated.
He imagined Fern waking up and giving him a look of disgust saying, pervert.
Stark pulled his hair and lamented at his hopeless situation.
He glanced down at Fern, then at his own hands. There were callouses on his palms. His fingers were coarse with the efforts of his training and fighting. He did not have the softness of Frieren's hands. He did not have Sein's gentleness nor his power to heal others.
His were made to defeat their enemies and protect his party. Stark did not know how to comfort someone. He only knew how to use his power against strong opponents.
But when it came to Fern, he never knew how much strength to use or how much to hold back.
The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.
But right now, he could not sit back and do nothing while she was hurting.
A part of him believed that she would have surely done the same for him.
Slowly and carefully, he placed her hand that was clutching the bedsheet on top of his own and nestled it between his other.
It was so small, her hand. He could feel her slender fingers grabbing onto his own. The pressure was strangely foreign and unfamiliar.
They had held hands before. But never like this.
Stark hasn't felt anything quite like it. This manner of obligation, followed by a profound content that comes from fulfilling another person's needs.
All at once, everything made sense.
He sat by her side as the minutes passed, rubbing her hand, making small back and forward movements between the bumps of her knuckles.
Fern's expression had softened, her breathing evening out.
Stark swept a part of her hair aside with the back of his fingers, the motion coming naturally to him.
When he looked down at her face, Fern's half-lidded eyes were looking back.
He froze for a moment, waiting anxiously for her to scold him.
"Stark..." Her voice was raspy and barely audible.
Fern looked down at her hand that was holding onto Stark. Wordlessly, she took both of their hands and pulled it closer to her stomach.
Stark stared helplessly at his hand's new resting place. He turned his head to seek an explanation, but Fern had already closed her eyes, leaving him alone with only the steady rise and fall of her chest.
He sighed and eased into his seat.
Maybe holding hands wasn't so bad, after all.