Bring Me Higher Love // [Kieran x Media AU]

He'd tried. Really, truly, properly tried. To love. To be loved. To fix the unfixable, staying up all night with a teething toddler and a flu-ridden preschooler and then still managing to get up with the sun to go to work, to make a life for the family he'd wanted more than anything. And there was a part of him, a very real part, that hated himself for growing to resent her. Because he knew it must have been chemical. It must have been. She'd been, at least to his knowledge, beyond excited to embark on the journey, but not just that, to embark on the journey with him. And then things... changed. He changed. She certainly did, trading time with him or the kids for more time being buried within the confines of their bed, head shoved beneath a pillow, crying more than not-crying, pretending to be asleep when Emerson came to show her how he'd written his name all on his own.

Kieran had put it up on the fridge and taken him out for ice cream to make up for it.

And they kept saying it would pass, the doctors told him that over and over again: she would get better. He just had to give it time, he just had to be patient. But watching their children grow up with a ghost sleeping upstairs grew too hard for him one day, and after he'd dropped them off at his father's house, he'd gone into their rooms, packed each of them a suitcase, gone into his own room and done the same. Paige never even bothered to look up from her place next to the window, watching the birds fly south for winter.

He'd wanted to say something, anything, either as a goodbye or to hurt her the way she'd hurt him, but as he lurked in the doorway, pained eyes watching her, wishing more than anything that she would grace him with a simple glance, he found himself devoid of a single word. And he left. And though he refused to let himself turn to see, he was sure he felt her eyes on him as he stalked across the yard and made his way to Mace's, but it was too late, he told himself: I'm already gone.

He'd expected it to be some kind of a relief, a breath of fresh air, the moment of exhale he'd been waiting on, but it wasn't. It continued to be hard, living back at home, soon to be divorced, two kids forced to share a bed with him because, despite his father's protests and Saffron's awkward attempts at making amends for Paige, he refused to be any more of a burden than necessary. He was supposed to be done with this part of his life, and somehow coming back made him feel ashamed, even if he knew it was what was for the best.

It'd been almost six months when the invitations came in the mail. Kieran, fifteen pounds heavier and with a several-days old beard, had scoffed and tossed it onto the coffee table on his way to pick up Emerson from his Aunt Reggie's. Mace had other ideas, naturally. More specifically, he was quick to remind him that the Capitol had other ideas. Child of two victors, nephew to the mayor of Ten, father of the newest Capitol obsessions and, just to add a little flavor: newly single, to boot. Him not being there wasn't really an option. Which meant he was going to have to start shaving again, and jogging when the kids took their naps.

The next month, the entire circus of them- Mace, his wife, all of his children, and all of his grandchildren- piled onto a train headed to District Two, all wearing their smartest clothing.

When he saw her that first night, he thought it was the ghost. He thought that she'd finally gotten out of the house, that she had come to lock eyes with him at last, that she was going to finally say something, ask to see her children, maybe. He thought he'd tell her no, if she tried. They had only just stopped asking where she'd gone.

But it wasn't her, it was another ghost and one that was much easier to meet with a smile. If he was being honest, it had been quite some time since he'd thought of Media Miles, though Mace did mention that she seemed to be on the road to a very successful life. A part of him was tickled, remembering a time that simultaneously felt decades away and as close as yesterday. A time when she'd locked her arm into his, cheeks blushing bright red, giggles escaping pressed lips twisted into a shy smile.

He also remembered a short time when they'd started writing letters back and forth, him amusing her because it amused him to do so, he guessed. He'd let Paige read a few, he was embarrassed to admit, and it had prompted her to tease him about it for several weeks, pointing to Maverick on the television and saying things like, "Your father-in-law is on!" before laughing and laying her head on his shoulder. One day he'd sent Media a letter and she hadn't responded, and he never really questioned why.

If she still harbored those feelings, she had gotten much better at hiding them but then, so was the life of a victor spawn. Kieran had learned that the worst part of growing up to believe anything is possible, any item accessible, any dream achievable, was the moment when reality stepped in to remind them they were nothing more than toys.

They'd spoken, briefly, and then they'd gone their separate ways, two ships on a cold night, Kieran swallowed whole by a chocolate-covered Emerson and an Elonna whom, he believed, was trying to see how many times in a row she would have to call Reggie's name before someone brought her to her, and Media with eyes that asked questions her lips didn't feel like speaking.

The next night, Quinn felt under the weather and Saffron had offered to keep all of the kids at the hotel. He was surprised to find that he'd thought of Media on at least six different occasions since their meeting the night before, each time leaving him wondering more and more why she'd stopped writing to him. He'd already decided that he was going to ask her about it, and now that the kids wouldn't be there, he wouldn't have any reason to scurry away.

He caught sight of her just as she separated from the group. She wore green well, he noticed. He followed her out, closing the door and turning to face her. He'd wanted to say something, anything, either a greeting or to cut to the chase and ask what he wanted to know. But as he stood there in the doorway, winter wind biting at his cheeks and forcing his jaw to clench, he couldn't think of anything to say. Look at me, he willed. And she did, and he was surprised to see her crying.

"Does she know?"

His expression hardened out of experience. It was akin to the times when reporters asked him about rumors he hadn't ever heard of. Look indifferent so you don't look ignorant.

"Does she know what it’s like to be an heir? To know that, when your storied parents finally meet their end, that it will not be the conclusion for you? That the deaths of Mace, Saffron, Aranica, Maverick and Topaz will only condemn us to further scrutiny? We are always going to be victor progeny."

He kept his breathing even, tucked his hands into his pockets, took a careful step closer.

"It is not the same to be a sibling. We are the only ones who will inherit their legacies. Not just their wealth, or their status, or their fame. All of it. Does she know that you’ve been planning for that, all your life? Does she know about the place you’ve reserved in your heart? About the grave you’ve been digging there? What should have died in the arena will forever live in us."

He waited for her to finish, and then he waited some more, walking the rest of the way to her and gripping the icy stone ledge of the balcony. After some time, and a fair amount of thought, he said, with as much honesty as he could muster, "No. I don't think she does."

He looked down because he couldn't look at her.

"I think that's part of the reason why I loved her."

He only realized after he'd said it that he said loved. Past tense. It stung more than he wanted it to.

"Why're you crying?"