Work Text:
When he’s finally back home, Philipp Zimmerman can’t breathe.
It’s not the apartment. The apartment’s fine. He’s pulled both windows wide open. Night air’s cool, fresh, just fan-fucking-tastic.
It’s what he did.
Flip is sitting on his couch, elbows on his knees, face to the floor. His eyes are burning.
Fuck. Fuck.
He said those words. Ron doesn’t know what he’s asking of him. Ron doesn’t know what it’s like. Standing there with a gun you know how to use and saying ‘fucking Jews,’ ‘fucking negroes,’ saying all of it outloud as you take aim. Take the shot.
Flip can still taste the words on his tongue.
He cannot help it. He bends over and retches. Philipp Zimmerman needs those words out of his mouth. Out, out. White men. White power. Out, now.
But there’s no bile, no vomit. Nothing. There are just the tears, running hot down his cheeks.