Chapter Text
Human life is never expendable.
That was the most crucial principle Stiofán lived by. As a consequence, he strongly despised war and violence… which was why Buck continuously asked him why the heck he was so eager to enlist in the Army. But Stiofán didn’t really have an answer.
Rationally, he knew that he was human and, as such, his worth should never be defined by his service to his country. But he never could shake the feeling that, in actuality, he wasn’t like other people. He was worthless—not because of his many illnesses or being the son of two Irish immigrants, but because he was himself.
He knew it didn’t make sense that, out of 2.3 billion people, he was the only person to truly deserve to die because of their unworthiness. But that seemed almost like an objective truth for Stiofán. He couldn’t help it.
That’s what most people told him all his life, after all. What even more people, even those who never met him, would tell him if given the chance.
The most insistent one to tell him of his unworthiness had been his father. Even when he recalled him, Stiofán could feel the phantom ache of those slaps on his cheeks and how they became red by pure embarrassment when his father resorted to words instead.
It had been six years since he died. But his angry yelling and harsh beating were still embedded in Stiofán’s mind. It was as if, while not being in the physical realm, Iósaf Ruairí followed his every step, breathing behind his neck. He followed him when he was home, drawing, or in the city, buying groceries for his ill mother. He was in his mind when he pleaded with his mam not to die, as he was there when she finally exhaled her last breath.
Stiofán’s father was there, reminding him how valueless and neamhfhiúntach he was.
Stiofán couldn’t blame him for what he did. He was unwell, had to take out his anger somehow. And Stiofán understood why he was his father’s favorite punching bag. He would have treated himself like that, too.
Everyone would have treated him like his father did. Stiofán’s mother, too—Sorcha would often look at him with contempt and despair at the life she was living because of him and how much he angered his father—although she helped him like a good Christian, managed to make him survive, and even showered him with love oftentimes.
Everyone would be either like his father or his mother. But Buck wasn’t.
“I would love to ask about your friendship,” said the psychiatrist, who had been listening to Stiofán’s monologue for an admittedly long time, “but I am afraid we are running out of time, so let’s concentrate on what you think about enlisting.”
Stiofán understood. Really, he did. It just hurt a little. He had found someone who could listen while being impartial, and now that someone didn’t want to hear him talk anymore. Although he knew the evaluator had rules to follow and materially didn’t have time for him, he still couldn’t help but feel like the man despised him and thought him worthless. The fact that he was unable to read people’s emotions when they talked—since apparently God did not want to grant him that ability—certainly didn’t help. He couldn’t even understand if the doctor’s smile was real or forced.
“Well, I have always liked to help people, so I want to be of help by enlisting… isn’t that why people want to enter the Army?”
At that, the psychiatrist rubbed his neck and made a scrunching face. “Have you ever thought that maybe that’s not your call?”
That had actually happened earlier while he was in line at the entrance of Camp Upton. Simply being next to people proved to be quite taxing, and he considered that if he couldn’t stand doing that, how would he survive living with his comrades in a tiny tent? He wasn’t sure if that’s how it would be, but he was still worried. Maybe even God was against his enlisting, which explained why it rained on September 21st, 1940. Granted, it was more like a drizzle, but it was still peculiar since that day had a high temperature of 92°F.
Then Stiofán had set foot in the building and probably irritated a man who gave him a little bag at the entrance to put his money in. That interaction confused him, but then, every interaction he had ever had did. Unless it was with Buck—he always made him feel comfortable.
“I assume the physical evaluation was a nightmare for you, then.”
Oh, it was. Stiofán had to enter a room to undress, and once naked, save for a towel around his hips, he had to deal with feeling self-conscious; many guys used to make fun of him for his emaciated body when he was little. Then came the urine test, so he had to piss in front of everyone. After having endured that, he had been utterly sure he could get into the Army.
“And so now you are here…”
Stiofán nodded. The evaluator put down his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Frankly, Rogers, I think you could be a great psychotherapist, but absolutely not a good soldier.”
The boy blinked. He didn’t expect that.
“You are good at analyzing yourself. The only reason why you are still psychologically troubled is that you hate yourself. But you also love helping people, which is why you would make a great doctor and therapist.”
“And... why would I not be a fit soldier?”
“You think too damn much.”
Stiofán continued to think about that sentence even after he left the room to wait for his results. Why would thinking impact the ability of a soldier?
He decided to ponder that at a later date and began searching for Buck’s brown hair—which, to its owner’s chagrin, was bare of its usual kippah or hat.
The two 20-year-olds had arrived at the Army induction center in Yaphank together. That day, they had had to wake up earlier than usual, so getting out of bed had been a nightmare for Stiofán since he hated changing habits. But he had managed to, for his life’s dream’s sake.
“Stop being dramatic, it’s not your ‘life’s dream,’ Stevie,” Buck had snapped, rolling his eyes and pronouncing Stiofán’s nickname with a sh sound instead of an s and an f sound instead of a v, after Stiofán had finished complaining about his experience, expecting his friend to take pride in his endeavor. “I distinctly remember you being passionate about comic books and art just a month ago. Not war.”
Regardless, after Stiofán had dressed up with his friend’s help, the two had eaten relatively quickly. The blond had made sure he tasted every bit of oatmeal, toast, and fruit since that very well could have been his last breakfast at home—of course, Buck had once more accused him of being dramatic.
Then, they had reached the station nearest to their neighborhood, Williamsburg, which was in another neighborhood, Downtown Brooklyn. Apparently, God wanted Stiofán to suffer that day.
The trip had been long. Really long. And there had been people, too. It had been worse than getting up that morning. But then the train had stopped at Yaphank Station, and they were finally free to go.
At that point, Buck and he had walked towards a local bus service some people at the train station had told them about—prompted by Buck, of course. That journey had been as tiring as the one on the train, but at least it had been shorter and less expensive. Stiofán didn’t care about money that much since—according to his plans—he would be in the Army for a long time after that but, because of his usual financial situation, he was wary of long numbers followed by a $.
After searching for Buck for what felt like an eternity, he finally found him exiting the psychiatric evaluation room. The Yehudi smiled at him, waved a hand, and called him “Steve” like he usually did, using the sh and ph sounds in a way that echoed the boy’s Irish name. Stiofán’s anxiety finally dissolved and he smiled back, comforted by the grounding mundanity of the exchange.
At that same time, a doctor called him: “Rogers, Steven.” So he exchanged another, albeit nervous, smile with Buck and walked to the medic’s desk.
The medical practitioner, apparently having the family name Jarlstad, opened his file. “You are a volunteer, uh? Twenty years old, born of Joseph and Sarah Rogers,” he read. Stiofán had to mentally stop himself from specifying that, in actuality, his parents’ names were Iósaf and Sorcha Ruairí, but they changed their names after they left Cork and immigrated to the States. The man then reached the ‘Summary of patient health issues,’ looked at the boy, and said, “Sorry, son,” while gesturing at the long list. “You’d be ineligible for your asthma alone.”
With that said, he stamped an IV-F mark on his file. It meant ‘Rejected for military service, for physical, mental, or moral reasons,’ Stiofán recalled. It was the one classification he had feared the most.
“Mullen, Barnabus,” the doctor then called.
But Stiofán wasn’t going to give up this quickly. “Wait!” he exclaimed, “This is the only way I can be useful. Let me enlist. I’ll do my best to serve the country! Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“I’m doing it. I’m saving your life,” the doctor said without looking up from the documents on his desk. After that, everything became too much and Stiofán began to tremble.
At that moment, he really wished to yell at the doctor about how hypocritical he was being: Stiofán was going to die anyway of his illnesses. He wanted to scream that at least this way he could be of help for once in his life, he could be independent and make sure that Buck could do what he wanted, instead of caring for him like his mother—now dead, because of the strain of looking after him—did.
But Buck’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. Or maybe it was his cowardice? Stiofán didn’t know anything anymore. He just wanted to scream, and kick, and yell, and cry.
He did neither.
He simply let his friend lead him away, to the dressing room. He was so in shock that he didn’t even wonder if Buck received his admission—or rejection, as the one he obtained—from another doctor since he was done at the same time Stiofán was. Or maybe time had passed, and he didn’t notice? He didn’t know, he simply stared at a random point in his visual and let Buck maneuver him to dress him and exit the building.
He Buck want to think about his failure, nor about how destroyed he felt for something so stupid as enlisting; although it wasn’t stupid, not really, and people actually killed themselves over it, he heard.
Stiofán was afraid he would do the same and render his mam’s caring, her damned death, pointless. So he simply shut down and observed as the world decided what would happen to his body, subconsciously knowing that Buck would safeguard it.
When he regained his wits, he found himself on his favorite sofa, in the apartment he and Buck shared. He was crouched in a ball, and he could feel the weight of his favorite blanket on his shoulders, and Buck’s hand in his hair.
It wasn’t the first time he had an episode like this, nor was he the only one to have them: sometimes he would find Buck staring off into space with a flat expression, responding to him with a monotone and disjointed speech, and he would wait for him to return as normal with a concerned expression. Buck would always remind him that the same happened to Stiofán, even more often, so there was nothing to worry about. The boy would still fret, and he knew that Buck also worried about the both of them.
“What happened?” Stiofán slurred. He felt as if he did observe some of what happened, but then his memory of everything became foggy.
His voice surprised Buck, who stopped his hand for a moment, only to start carding his fingers through the blond’s locks again. “We exited Camp Upton, took the bus, the train and returned home. I dressed you in your pajamas,” he informed.
“Did you get in?” Stiofán timidly asked.
His friend sighed. “No, I didn’t, because your plan was doomed to fail, and you should have known it. Why did you insist on trying? I have never bought your excuse with rent.”
Stiofán looked at him, still feeling empty inside. “I didn’t want to be a burden for you.”
“You are not a burden to me!” Buck straightened out, seemingly indignant. “You are my dearest friend, and I help you because I want to, just like you help me because I am your friend.”
“Though,” Stiofán started, feeling like he had no energy to live anymore, “you can’t deny that there’s quite a lot of difference between what you do for me and what I do for you.”
Stiofán never had to dress Buck, nor to talk to other people in his place. He didn’t do the majority of house chores.
“Our situations are different, and you know it. Just like you know there is no shame in needing more help than others. Everyone has different needs.”
“Still,” Stiofán continued, “you can’t deny that there is no use in helping me, at the end of the day. I am going to die anyway, and I will have done nothing to help anyone.”
At that, Buck took away his hand from Stiofán’s hair and stood up, enraged. “Are you kidding me!? Would you say the same thing were I in your place? Are you telling me that you truly believe that people have no worth if they need help and do nothing to society?”
Stiofán opened his mouth, but nothing exited from there, so he closed it.
“See? You always say these hurtful things to yourself, but you don’t actually believe them for anyone else. Why do you keep hurting yourself?” Buck started to cry.
“I am sorry,” Stiofán hoarsely whispered.
Buck shook his head. “You are only sorry because you said something bad about other people, and you made me cry, aren’t you?”
Stíofán looked down in shame.
Buck shook his head again and hugged his friend. “Please, even if you are not able to love yourself, remember that I do love you.” And with that, he nuzzled into his neck.
“I’ll try,” was the only response Stiofán could manage.