#ah132

His steps leaving his father’s home office were quick. There was no reason to linger. Miller was visiting because he had been summoned, and for a while now, that was the only reason he did. As he left the room, he reassured his father one last time of the grasp he had on his latest task—tying down some supply chain hiccups related to the armament designated for Peacekeeping troops in District 11.

Those quick steps carried him down the hall, headed in the direction of the front door. That was when he heard Smith’s voice coming from the main living room. “…probably broken from kissing dad’s ass so much. And that poison shit that got into him in the arena, too.” Mason’s voice followed. “I'm not, Smith. I thought about it but you're right, it's just our secret.” A pause, before a warning was added, “And you shouldn't say that.” Smith scoffed in response. “Okay, don’t get your dick in a twist.”

Miller gritted his teeth, but did not stop. It didn’t matter anymore what his brothers thought of him. Hadn’t he told himself that over and over again for a year and a half now?

He only slowed to a halt when he rounded the hallway and finally saw them, seated at one of the couches. Fighting some internal turmoil, Miller decided to address them. “You two doing alright?” Impassive tone, impassive question. They looked alright enough to him.

It was Mason who answered, warm as always. “We’re perfect.”

Smith, on the other hand, didn’t bother with pleasantries. He didn’t even bother answering the question, instead coming up with his own. “What are you doing here?”

Miller quirked a brow at the conspicuous challenge. “Do I have to have a reason? Am I not allowed in this house anymore, not allowed to freely visit?” It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it, too, knew better than to provoke Smith. Mason had been courteous enough that the boy didn’t deserve to be caught in an argument. But despite having convinced himself that their opinions of him did not matter, the rejection in Smith's voice had stung, and Miller could not quite help hitting back just a little.

“I don't think Smith meant anything bad by his question, Miller. I think he was genuinely wondering why you're here. Like a fun visit or work visit... or borrowing some toilet paper visit. It's been so long since you've been home, it's strange to see you here,” Mason quickly tried to mediate, nervously messing with his fingers. “I think we both just assumed you weren't coming back so he was just wondering. Right, Smith?”

But of course, Smith refused to back down. “Oh, I guess you didn’t hear.” His tone grew unstable, his gaze on Miller unwavering. “Yeah, we got rid of your old room. We figured that you didn’t need it seeing how you made yourself pretty comfortable up Snow’s ass. And, when you get bored of that, you can move onto the next Capitolite.”

Miller saw it all coming; Smith rising to meet his provocation, the scornful words in return. All his fault, too. He was supposed to be the mature one, the one holding himself to higher responsibility and expectations. And he knew too well how easy it was to get Smith riled up.

For some reason, it did not stop him this time around.

“Great. I’m not staying, so you’re welcome to do whatever the fuck you want.” A part of him knew better than to escalate the conflict, but the other part that was bruised by Smith’s taunt won out. Miller only spared Mason a quick, regretful glance, before his cold eyes returned to Smith. “You’ve always been jealous. Maybe it’s time you stop hiding behind your childish insults and admit to that.”

“Guys, please.” Mason began to beg, trailing off in audible desperation. “Dad can hear you guys, we don't want him coming in here, please stop. He's just joking, Miller, your bedroom is still the same as you left it. Smith, come on, please--”

“Shut up, Mason!” Smith snapped. It had Mason jumping in shock, but Smith continued, undeterred. “Say that again.” He pushed at Miller’s chest like kids at recess. “You’re a big man, Miller. Bullying your brothers, people beneath you, ‘cause you don’t have an ounce of control anywhere else in your life.”

It was flawed criticism, one Miller seethed to argue against. Wasn't it Smith shoving him by the chest, yelling at Mason to shut up? Who was bullying who? But he didn’t get a word in edgewise as Smith went on. “No, you just do what everyone tells you to do—like you always have and like you always will,” he spat out and pushed again, harder. “You’re nothing, man. You’re not even a real fucking person.”

The last part hit much closer to home than the bullying accusation. Too close.

He had told Smith to stop hiding behind childish insults and it looked like the boy had listened, because this was definitely no longer childish insults. Smith's words no longer bruised, they cut—with devastating accuracy and impact. Whether or not Miller wanted to admit it, Smith had only spoken the truth. The complete lack control, the helpless obedience; all of it true. Not a real person. Not even real to himself most of the time. Even after winning the Games, he still amounted to nothing more than a tool to his father. The only difference was that he was now the Capitol's plaything, too.

It happened quickly—it had to, of course. In order to end the conversation. Even then, he felt like he had barely any control of himself. Miller raised his fist and aimed it at Smith's face.

The fog lifted as soon as he made contact. He quickly reeled back, jaw clenched and eyes wide, staring back and forth between his two brothers who seemed just as shocked as he was.

There was blood running down Smith’s chin.

This was not like him. This was not supposed to be him. He wasn’t afraid often, but he knew when he was—and he was now. Not of Smith retaliating, which he expected and sorely deserved. Not even of their parents, who probably had heard the commotion. Instead, it was of the fact that he had only proven Smith right. The more Miller tried to prove himself to be nothing like their father, the more he seemed to grow into the man they all claimed to despise.

After a beat of frozen silence, Smith lunged at him. He reflexively went on the defensive, an arm thrown over his own face to protect against the brunt of the assault. Except it never came. Except Smith backed away, much to his surprise.

“Come on, Smith.” Mason cut in, grabbing the opportunity to try to talk Smith down. “I think it's time for Miller to go, anyway.” He sounded relieved that Smith had decided not to hit back. Perhaps Miller should be, too, but all he felt was shame.

Smith wasn’t done, though. Not quite. “Must be proud of yourself. Got so important that you don’t need to care about us anymore. Congratu-fucking-lations,” he said, his voice ragged hoarse. “Smith--” Mason tried to cut in again, but went unheard. Smith continued. “Since you don’t give a shit, you should know Mason’s volunteering. Hope you don’t mind not being dad’s favourite anymore.”

Miller’s response was immediate. Sharp. Spat out with venom to mask the fear. “Don’t fucking joke about that.” A chill ran down his spine, a thousand times colder and sharper than ever before. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he knew Smith wouldn’t joke about this—no matter how angry he was, not even as a taunt to Miller. His gaze drifted to Mason, who had his face in his hands. “No— Dad said—” Miller trailed off. “No. No, you’re not.” Was he arguing against his brothers or himself now? He didn’t know anymore.

Mason pulled his head up. “Dad said what? He said that Smith and I weren't going to have to volunteer?”

Not exactly. Not so straightforward. Their father was an accomplished strategist and negotiator, always a step ahead, always nimble with his words. Certain considerations had been promised, though. Considerations to spare Smith and Mason from the Games. Miller wouldn’t have stuck by his side otherwise.

Their father was an accomplished strategist and negotiator—who knew his sons well. He knew exactly what to say to keep Miller in line.

“Yeah, well, he lied,” Mason answered his own question, delivering the final nail.

He went on to recount what had happened; how he had landed himself in trouble for skipping training for days, that he was being forced to volunteer because of it, and what their father had said. But if there was anything meaningful to infer from all that, Miller did not hear it. The why seemed to matter little, given nothing could be done about the past. Given the reaping was only days away.

Mason’s voice grew more and more distant with every word. Smith might have also joined in, Miller wasn’t sure. The frigidness down his spine had extended to every bone and muscle, and now his own body weighed him down, lead-like. Soon enough, he could only hear two mangled pieces of what Smith and Mason had said, playing over and over again in his ears.

“Not even a real fucking person.”