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This is not the breaking point.
No, that will come later. After they have left these frozen wastes, when they think it can get no worse than now. It will come like a roll of thunder and a crack of lightning and it will leave each of them reeling.
It will kill him, the breaking point. Not physically, but a part of him will fall, and it will never get up again.
Though that will come later. Right here, right now, with a cigarette between his fingers and a tuft of blond hair in his sightline - this will not be the breaking point.
They have both been beaten down and pushed further than normal men can take. And they have felt pain unimaginable to everyday people. It is terrible. But it isn't the breaking point either, not for him. Though nobody blames any of them for thinking that name appropriate right now, since none of them are gifted fortune tellers.
This is not the breaking point, not for Don.
He can't help but feel it is for Buck though.
Buck, who smiles so earnestly and so widely. Buck, who is so talented at almost every sport, who can send a dart through a bull's-eye from seemingly any distance. Buck, who grins when he talks about home and his sweetheart and his memories on pitches and fields across the states. Buck, who is as encouraging as the best of parents, and as patient as the finest teacher.
Buck, who only ever allowed himself to take from his men once - in a harmless contest with Babe Heffron - and never did so again. A man who had taken the advice he'd been given so close to his heart that he'd been determined to lose the bet with his left hand.
Buck, who has the bluest eyes of the company.
It's odd, in the most apathetic sense. Malark's sure the gaze that stares at the tent's canvas is grey now.
He knows that Buck's is seeing into a space a thousand miles away, even though the man's back is turned to his friend. Don doesn't need to look closely to know these things, can tell by how the man curls in on himself, arms wrapped across his torso. As if he is so blisteringly cold, despite the layers he lies under and the relative warmth of the aid station.
Like the heat just can't reach far enough within him to sooth the chill.
Like the snow from outside Foy is in his very bones, despite being brushed away from his clothes.
This is the third time Don has sat at his friend's bedside. The second since Muck and Penkala were hit. There is no hope that Buck's trench foot can be helped, thankfully. He'll be taken off the line soon, to a real hospital - or at least to a real building. Away from the wind clawing at the surrounding tent flaps and frost biting at his heels.
Malark doesn't think about that. Because he thinks himself selfish, and focuses on enjoying the tiniest shred of time he can spend off the line. Back here, in relative safety.
When he can come and see his friend; letters from home tucked neatly under his arm. They are trimly wrapped excuses to be there, the perfect justification to slip away and sit down beside Buck's cot.
Again, Malark considers himself selfish for it. Those who know he thinks this have made sure to pointedly disagree, but he can't shake his own feelings.
"You'll be delighted to hear that UCLA beat the Georgia Bulldogs at one of their winter games last week. They were sad to hear you wouldn't be joining them for practice as soon as you'd hoped, but they eagerly await your return to playing with them.
You were greatly missed this Christmas, both on the pitch and at home. I saved you a seat at the family dinner, but even though you are busy in Europe, we know you'll be here to fill it next year. The presents kept for y-"
Fingers curl around the paper, clutching at it desperately for a moment. Don watches the hand quickly release the letter, instead reaching to hold exhaustedly onto his own. Even if they were without the relative privacy of the aid tent, Malark still would not hesitate to return the gesture, squeezing Buck's fingers in his.
The amount of message he can read through before this happens has been getting increasingly shorter since Don started bringing his friend's mail here. The first time, at least, he had been able to dictate all but the final closing words of the letter.
By his third visit - this visit - he can't even finish the opening paragraph.
The angle Buck's arm is at must be uncomfortable, reaching behind him without rolling over, and his hand carefully pulls away from Don's. His arm is folded back against his chest as Malark silently lets him go, repeating the same motions as the last two occasions. He folds Buck's letter, neatly and cautiously, before sliding it into the pocket of the man's jacket.
Not visible, but within reach.
Buck is quiet, and it fails to cover the rustle of paper as Don pulls back in his seat. Never straying too far, even when he sits up straight. Always within touching distance; a solid, familiar presence at his friend's bedside - even if the man won't face him.
His hands - though no longer holding Buck's - are not free to be buried back into his pockets like usual. Not yet, not with the last of the battered letters still pinned in his stiff grip.
This piece of mail is not addressed to Buck. It is an anomaly, for once, not something Malark is used to having under the pads of his fingers. The material is far more wrinkled, a browner colour unlike the crisp white envelopes he is used to delivering.
This letter is not addressed to Lt. Lynn Compton.
It is addressed to Sgt. Donald Malarkey.
Don has yet to open it. The name scrawled on the front seems so distant, it invites only staring. He watches the handwritten curves of the words, as if they'll morph into something else under his gaze.
Carefully, he peels back the fold.
Malark thinks himself selfish, especially then. Tearing open his own mail, sliding out the neatly collapsed message. He should be reading Buck's letters, not his own.
The movements of his fingers become more desperate, almost ripping the delicate paper as he rushes to unfold the letter. He only slows when the note is finally open before him, divided by the creases of its journey, laid out in his hands.
"You can read it if you want." A voice from the bed mumbles, "It's just...I don't want to hear it."
Don looks up, notices that Buck hasn't rolled over to face him. A simple mistake then.
"No, I-" The redhead lets out a soft chuckle, one that's more air than feeling, "It's- This isn't one of yours, sir."
He just couldn't wait. He feels more stupid then than any time before. And more selfish, as well. Another shred of loathing to weave into his mind's growing collection.
Buck's eyes are on him suddenly, the man rolling over slowly and uncomfortably. As if he really could feel the trench foot he had been labelled with. He stares at Malark for a moment, contemplating his words. Chewing on them, considering their potential for rejection.
Don waits patiently.
"Will you read it to me anyway?"
Malark's mind immediately gives a resounding 'no'. And though nothing escapes his lips - for once - the tension must be clear in his posture. Because he can only watch helplessly as Buck rolls onto his back, his eyes once more turned away from his friend.
Left to stare blankly at the tent's ceiling.
It isn't that Don doesn't trust the man, either. No, it's not a matter of trust or friendship or embarrassment.
It's about protection. Because Malark's come too far, dragged himself through too much. Dodged bullets and accusations alike, and it's too late into this Hellfire-game to shuffle his hand. He's invested too much into hiding that part of himself, the part that is so raw and so venerable.
And so very, very easy for others to turn their noses up at.
He thinks himself selfish, above all those reasons. Don questions whether leaving Buck hanging in a dire moment like this is better than risking their friendship. Risking the reaction that he's ducked and side-stepped and outright lied to avoid up until now.
A slow blink, his eyes remaining shut a second longer than needed, and Malark finds the answer comes to him. A voice from his memories that reminds him where the line between covering your own ass and deceiving the people you love has been drawn.
And it's not the voice of God, either. It's a less laughable, more familiar sound that rings out in his mind.
"Friends, family - doesn't matter. Some things need to be shared. They'll either be discovered with a bang an' you'll regret ever hidin' them - or they'll eat you up inside."
Don's stare matches his lieutenant's then - dark, unseeing. Lost a thousand miles away in a memory that forces itself back into his field of vision.
"Dyin' men confide in me 'cause I'm the only one left to listen. 'Cause we all need someone to confide in, but by then it's too late to choose. Don't let it come to that for you."
The figure of Eugene Roe, hazy in the dark of his recollection, fixes him with a pointed stare. One that has the redhead's fingers tightening around the paper in his hands.
"We all need someone to confide in."
Malark blinks. Dirty blond hair and a lack of blue eyes greet his return to reality. If it weren't for his tightly folded arms and stiff breathing, Buck could be asleep.
If only they were that lucky.
Crinkled paper rustles in his grip as Don swallows thickly, the smallest of coughs surfacing as he clears his throat. Trying to cover the crack in his voice and dryness in his mouth, to act like this isn't a big deal, like his friend's request was nothing more than that.
A simple request.
"Dear Donald,"
It's not the strong start he'd hoped for, but it's something. And if the slowing of Buck's breathing is anything to rely on, it's good enough to continue.
"We were sad to hear you would not be coming home this winter, though we understand that your efforts in Europe are very important. There is word in Portland that the war will be over come Spring time, and we hope that this will swiftly become a reality.
We miss you terribly and the house is not the same without you. We wait eagerly for each of your responding letters. Though we can't imagine things in Astoria are nearly as exciting as what you have described in Europe, there are still many things we know you'll be pleased to hear about."
He stops to take a breath, to inhale what might have been a sigh. The first paragraph is far from damning, but he can see the next few words as he adjusts the page, can see what he intends to read.
Any doubts that begin blooming in his heart are quelled with a single glance towards Buck, who has turned to face him again. Expectant blue eyes stare back, a genuine interest alight in their gaze. He's listening.
Slowly - silently - Don turns back to the letter.
"You'll be delighted to hear that John's bar mitzvah went swimmingly, and the community were very impressed with his readings. Your brothers have been asking after you more than usual lately, and were sad that you couldn't attend the seudat mitzvah for the occasion.
I gave John a gift in your stead - his own siddur. As the oldest in the household, I wanted it to be from you. He can't wait to show off his first tallit to you and demands that you be the one who teaches him how to lay tefillin. Until you return home, he has refused to let anyone else at shul try.
It was hard spending Hanukkah without you, especially on Marilyn. But she has promised to cook you the best plate of latkes imaginable when you return, although she admits it will be a little belated. The sentiment remains, however, and she wishes you well from across the pond.
I hope you had a peaceful Hanukkah and enjoyed a pleasant Christmas with your company in Europe. We are thinking of you every day and your safety is in our prayers.
Best wishes,
Mom."
The last word is a broken whisper, the tremble in his voice slurring the words he tries to speak. A droplet lands quietly on the letter's surface, sinking into the crumpled pages. The neat penmanship blurs under the water, several larger drops following the first, landing with the softest of drips upon the paper.
Without a word, Buck reaches out from his bedside, and grips Don's hand in his. No more than that is needed.
So they sit in silence - the lieutenant's thumb stroking calmly and soothingly across Malark's fingers, slowly easing their trembling.
It's a relief when Buck is finally taken off the line. A truck arrives to ferry him from the front, from the cold and dead wasteland that was once a beautiful part of Belgium.
Don goes to bid him farewell. It's not something he would miss for the world.
He shares his cigarettes and receives a salute in return. Nothing has changed, it seems. A rigid hand is raised to the blond's forehead, angled so perfectly and professionally; it's almost like the man saluting isn't bleeding out inside.
Malark still offers humour and somehow, Buck still offers strength. No, nothing has changed.
Except maybe the slight confusion now on the blond's features as he lowers his hand, as he watches Don take a desperate drag from his smoke. The tiniest crease in the man's stern brow, the smallest change in his expression.
The redhead holds his breath for the worst, fear alight in his gut.
"How'd you do it?"
The question catches Malark off-guard, and he splutters, mid-drag of his cigarette. He covers his mouth as he coughs, forcing out a questioning noise.
He's glad that that, at least, gets a smile out of Buck. A weak one, but a smile none the less.
"Not talk about it, I mean." He continues, the roar of arriving jeeps blurring the world around them, "Never heard you preach God to anyone. Didn't even think you knew who He was."
It's Don's turn to grin. Again, it's weak. But it's genuine.
"Guess I just didn't know how." The truck behind them honks, calling for the lieutenant's departure, "Or just didn't want to."
Even as Buck nods and they shake hands one last time, there's an air of clarity between them. Like the waters have been purified, rather than sullied.
Don watches the retreating head of blond hair, his friend barely going four paces before turning to glance over his shoulder. To come striding back to embrace the redhead in a crushing hug, holding him tightly to his chest.
After the initial shock wears off, Malark is happy to return the gesture.
"Then you've got the strongest sense of faith I've seen." Buck mutters, clapping his friend on the back as he pulls away from the embrace, "That's important, Malark."
A gloved finger reaches up to prod Don in the chest. He doesn't take his eyes off his lieutenant.
"Don't lose that."
The truck driver hollers at them to hurry up. With a final goodbye, Buck is suddenly retreating again, disappearing into the flurry of snow that pierces even the imagined safety of the aid station.
Don waves to him as he clambers into the back of the vehicle and its tires spin against the icy ground. Buck waves weakly back as he is driven away. To a real hospital, to a real building. Hopefully to the comfort and warmth they all want to see again soon.
And as Malark lets his hand fall back to his side, he takes a deep breath. Cold air fills his lungs, released in a slow sigh of relief. He turns and begins his trudge back to the line.
It's a little easier now. His chest doesn't feel quite as heavy.