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You didn't swing this way, when you were alive.
Okay, sure. Maybe it crossed your mind, once or twice. Just a passing thought, but no more than the average man. Mainly when you were a teenager, because you would've considered fucking anything that had a pulse, back then. Wandering curiosity. Once or twice. I wonder what it feels like?
And it was left at that. You didn't want to be with a man - you didn't consider that you could be, in any material form. You wanted girls. Women. You wanted their attention, their bodies, you wanted company on the cold Russian nights, and on the lonely ones spent in your bunk surrounded by people who could not stand you.
You can see the stars, and you will concede, they look nice. Pretty. Czolgosz sits beside you, on the grass, cool winds on your skin, and he's closer to you than you would allow any of the others to be. Closer to you than either of you would allow him to be during the daylight. You aren't facing each other, but your legs are pressed together, and that actually feels more intimate, somehow.
You don't say anything, and neither does he, because that is how it usually goes. You both are men of solitude; born that way, made that way, and while you tried everything you could to make it the opposite, he seems to have embraced it, at some point. Possibly not happily, but he embraced it, nevertheless.
And here, in this endless purgatory, there is no real sense of alone. The nine of you all blend together at the ends, fragments mish-mashed, loose puzzle pieces from tossed sets. You don't know how to feel about that, some days. And you don't think he cares for it very much. It is rare to have a moment of peace - a moment where Booth's melodrama does not take center stage, where Hinckley and Fromme aren't at each others throats, where Byck is not utterly fucking wasted.
That rarity can usually be found between the two of you. Men of solitude. So that's why, you've rationalized. That's why you spend the lonelier nights with him - in the bar sharing a bottle, in the dead silence and cold winds. In your tent, with the both of you equally hesitant yet persistent.
You didn't swing this way. You think he might have. But he does not talk to you about things like that, and you do not talk to him about things like that, either. There is little talk between the two of you at all, on these nights - that is, little talk that is not intense political debate where you can tell he thinks you have no idea what the hell you're talking about and you are both fascinated by and somewhat unsettled by his passion. (But what right do you have to talk, huh?)
You certainly don't talk about things like how pretty the stars are.
I respect you, he had told you as they all urged you towards the window, and you vaguely think you might have respected him, too, during those few times you bothered to pay attention in history class. A man who did what he needed. A man who got what he wanted. You respect him now, too, but you respect a different him.
You don't respect the black-and-white, almost smiling Czolgosz printed in the books, not the Czolgosz with the handkerchief and no remorse written in the novels. No, you respect the Czolgosz who could speak for hours, you're sure, of the forced silence of the common man, his voice low and faintly accented.
You respect the Czolgosz who does not tolerate Booth's snide remarks and smarmy grin. You respect the Czolgosz who eyes all the others with justified wariness yet speaks to them, still, no differently than he would anyone else. You respect the Czolgosz who eyes you, and only you, a little differently from the rest. You respect Leon, now, not just Leon Czolgosz.
You think that all probably says more about you than it does about him.
Without thinking much about it, without looking away from the stars, you slide your hand towards him, and press your palm against his. He jumps, just a little, apparently having not expected that, but he puts up no resistance. After a moment, he interlaces your fingers together, and you put up no resistance to that, yourself.
His hand is scarred, but soft. You don't mind the texture as much as both of you have thought you would. It's not the first time you've noticed this, and you don't think there will be a last - not unless there's an after to the afterlife. And if there is, you'll regret having done any of this.
He reminds you of Marina, in a manner, almost. And maybe that makes it easier for you. And maybe that's why any of this is happening in the first place - for you to find any remnant of the living world in this not-quite-hell. And hey, is Polish really that different from Russian?
They'd probably both get pissed at you for saying that.
You squeeze his hand. He squeezes yours, in turn. Still, neither of you look at each other - only the stars. Only the endlessness.