Chapter Text
"You lived in Russia for a time, no?" says Czolgosz to Oswald, unprompted. They are sitting at a distance from the edge of a bonfire, watching the silhouettes of the others. The sound of grating laughter rises into the night sky with the sparks spitting from the flames. This is how things go when everyone is together. Everybody gravitates naturally into familiar patterns, which for the pair of them, more often than not, is observing wordlessly on the outskirts of the group. Leon reminds Lee of himself, in many ways. Usually silent, but prone to anger; rather well-spoken without the benefit of an education. They rarely talk, but at times like this, there's kind of an unspoken mutual agreement between them, the occasional shared look of amusement or distaste when Guiteau says something particularly absurd or Booth something particularly irritating.
"Yeah," says Lee. "The USSR. Didn't last long there, though."
"Three years, wasn't it?" Leon says, and Lee is not for the first time unnerved that somebody who died about sixty years before him knows every detail of his life.
"Yeah. Three years."
"Why did you not stay?" says Leon.
He shrugs, looks up at the sky. "Not what I expected. Just as miserable over there as it was over here. Eat, sleep, work 'til you die. Same thing under a different name."
"But you are a socialist, yes?"
"Marxist."
Leon nods thoughtfully. There is a long silence. Lee turns back to the fire, where the others are still shouting about something. He's not quite sure if it's a regular conversation or a fight. Their figures are twisted grotesquely in the shadows cast by the fire. As he watches the scene, he can't shake the uncanny feeling that somebody is watching him. Finally, Leon speaks up again. "I was a socialist, when I was very young. Now I think it is like you said - same thing under a different name."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that it doesn't matter who is in charge. The problem is that somebody is in charge, you understand? The issue is government. Men will always try to push down other men, in the name of capitalism or communism, it doesn't matter." Czolgosz turns to him, an intent look in his eyes.
Lee isn't sure what to make of this. "Makes sense," he mumbles to nobody in particular. A speck of ash lands on his wrist, and he flicks it away.
"No man should have such a power over his fellow humans," Leon continues. "What can make any person so special that he has the right to get rich off the suffering of others? Nothing."
Lee smiles slightly. "You know, you sound kind of like Booth."
Czolgosz looks slightly taken aback.
"Well, not like Booth, I mean," Lee amends, "but the parts he's always quoting from Julius Caesar, you know - 'why should that name be sounded more than yours?' and the line about being in awe of such a thing as yourself. Reminds me of that."
Leon actually laughs at that. "For once, maybe he has a point."
"Yeah," says Lee with a grin, shaking his head. "I think you might have a point, too."
Over by the fire, someone shrieks eerily with laughter. If both of them are equally unnerved by it, neither of them say anything.