Smith had made it clear that he wasn't interested to hear any more apology. The arrest before the reaping was apparently also a delicate subject, one that he refused to broach, especially when the element of their father was brought into the conversation. That was fine. Miller, for his part, wouldn't answer to requests for promises he knew he couldn't keep. That did not mean they should stop talking altogether. There was too much was at stake to keep avoiding each other. They still had to work together. They still had to strategise. Miller still had to make sure that his brothers were as prepared as they could possibly be. Otherwise, what was any of it for? What was he for? He hadn't done enough and perhaps he never would, but he wasn't about to stop trying now. He couldn't.
"Tell me about the career pack." Miller didn't bother with much preamble. Smith wouldn't have wanted it anyway. "How well do you know them individually? Who are you most worried about?"
There did not seem to be very many things for the tributes to do in the evenings. Perhaps strategising with the mentors over dessert might be smart, but it did not particularly appeal to River tonight--not that it had any night so far. If she were to be completely honest, she might say she found it all a little frightening, but of course she wasn't. Not that it mattered. Nobody was paying her that much attention anyway.
The rooftop was her choice of escape this time. When a gust of wind blew a fallen leaf over the railing, a childish idea struck her. River extracted several of the bills of money she had left in her pocket, and one by one, began to release them from between pinched fingers, letting the wind take them. It took no time at all to get rid of an amount that could've fed her and Perry for an entire month back home, if she could have just brought it home. She couldn't, though. She might never go back home.
Before her thoughts could wander further, the sound of footsteps pulled her back into the present. Her head whipped around, eyes narrowing to make out who had joined her in the semi-dark.
cowritten with @ramonachoi (Smith) and @masonxxbrick (Mason)
Brick Family Estate, January 105
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.
UFO INFORMATION CENTER. Jupiter stared at the sign with wide eyes, the biting cold and exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “Whoa,” he whispered to himself. What could he possibly find in here? Some form of alien mutts? It was a terrifying thought, but at the same time thoroughly exciting. The next shiver that ran down his spine he attributed to adrenaline as opposed to the temperature.
Nevertheless, he was still acutely aware that he needed to find a shelter for the night. He had not been having any luck with doors outside of the hotel, but he had a good feeling on this one. After all, why would the gamemakers build such an intriguing construction and not have the tributes explore it? That seemed like a terrible waste.
Jupiter turned the handle gently, and to his delight, he heard a click of affirmation. After sucking in a breath, he pushed the door open slowly inch by inch to reveal... “Smith? Is that you?”
It's impolite to stare. Even a nobody from a nothing district like her was taught the same, both by her mother and Perry. Of course, River didn't always heed everything that she was taught, but this time, she really couldn't help it. How could she not stare? There wasn't a patch of visible skin on this guy sitting across from her that wasn't covered in bruises. And they all looked fresh--so fresh that it made her involuntarily wince. Besides, she was far from being the only one staring.
"You know, I was told the fighting is supposed to start only after we're launched into the arena." Her eyes flickered back up to meet his. "But you look like you've been through a dozen arenas already."
Right there, blending together with the frigid dread, the self-flagellating guilt, and the utter sense of failure, was shame. And when he looked at Smith, shame was the emotion he felt most prominently--of himself, of what he had contributed to. It was not all him, he knew that. He had only hit Smith once, maybe broken his nose, a few days ago, and he had heard of what had happened the night before the reaping. Smith being black and blue all over now was not on him. But ultimately, was it? Wasn't Smith volunteering his fault, too? He had let it happen. He had let all this happen.
There was an apology somewhere, one that Smith deserved. Miller posed a question instead--or tried to anyway. "Did dad--" Did he not do anything? Or did he lend a kick, too? Either one wouldn't surprise Miller. All three of them knew what it was like to be the recipient of their father's ire, though perhaps Smith knew most.
