☀︎

It was hot. It was too hot to be outside. But there Kurt Hummel was, baking in the sun. He didn’t want to be there, not at all, but it seemed his best friend didn’t care. Kurt rolled his eyes, of course she didn’t. Rachel had her eyes on what she wanted, and something as inconsequential as temperature wasn’t going to get in her way. 

Not when there was a submissive she had her eyes on. 

He stood in a group of other submissives, all of them crowded around a picnic table. He was taller than most of them, with dark hair. Kurt didn’t blame Rachel for pursuing him, he was quite handsome. 

They made their way over to the group quickly. Kurt didn’t miss the way most of the submissives tensed in their presence, their conversations ending abruptly and their gazes dropping to their shoes. Rachel walked over to the one she wanted and stood in front of him, inspecting. “Are you claimed?” 

The man’s bottom lip found its way between his teeth. “No, Miss.”

Rachel smiled a little at that, bringing one of her hands to touch his face. “You’re very easy on the eyes, pet. What’s your name?”

“Thank you, Miss. My name is Finn Hudson,” he said, reddening a little as he leaned into her touch. Rachel’s smile grew, and she held out her hand for Finn to take. He took it wordlessly, and they walked over to the side, away from Kurt and the others. 

Kurt watched them go, and then turned to the other submissives in front of him. They were still frozen in place, waiting for his command. He scanned their faces and noticed that one in the back was not looking at the ground like the others. He had a scar on his cheek, long and wide. His head was high and his face was defiant. And he made direct eye contact with Kurt.

Something inside Kurt stirred at that, something he couldn’t place. Most dominants would be angry, insulted by the disrespect. But Kurt wasn’t. 

He’d never been one of those dominants, the ones who demanded complete and total respect from submissives. Others considered him soft, claiming that was why he couldn’t find a sub to claim. Maybe they were right, maybe he was too soft. But he had never been able to bring himself to engage in the activities that other dominants seemed to enjoy. Most doms would have punished this defiant submissive right here on the spot, done whatever they pleased to him. Judging by his scar, it wouldn't have been the first time. 

But what pooled in Kurt’s gut wasn’t anger. It was curiosity.

And desire.

“Come here,” he said. The submissive walked forward, still making eye contact with Kurt. “What’s your name?”

“Blaine,” he responded. There was no ‘sir’ at the end, no politeness in his voice. Kurt frowned a little.

“No last name?”

Blaine blinked. “Maybe.”

A few of the subs behind them gasped at that. Kurt’s frown only deepened. “Fine,” he said. He turns away from Blaine and to the other submissives. “Carry on.”

They all looked shocked at the lack of consequences. Even Blaine’s eyes widened a little, before quickly morphing back into his previous air of defiance. 

Kurt left them, then, and went to find Rachel. He ignored all his feelings about Blaine.

—

The days passed on after that, and Kurt had managed to almost forget about the defiant submissive he met in the park.

It was easy enough, he’d been swamped at work. There were so many headlines, so much to put together, so much to manage. He was constantly at a typewriter, writing articles and exposés on celebrities, political leaders, current events. There was so much happening—the Cold War, Space Race, nuclear threats. Not to mention the ever growing calls for submissive rights. 

Dominants ruled the country, ruled the world. Every part of it. They owned the business, owned the homes, cars, land. They held office, they policed the streets. They were paid more. And the submissives of the United States were tired of it. They had their own organization, The National Association for the Advancement of Submissive People, NAASP for short. There were protests every week, it seemed. There was violence. Vandalism. Fires, even.

Kurt agreed with their cause, he did. But he felt they were going about it the wrong way. How could they get what they wanted when they caused so much chaos in the process? There had to be a simpler, more peaceful way of going about it, right? One without a constant rise of death tolls and incarceration rates. 

Was it really that bad, anyway? To be a submissive? 

Despite the bad apples, all dominants weren’t bad. Most took care of their subs. They lived good lives. If they just did as they were expected, they wanted for nothing. It couldn’t possibly have been that bad, being claimed. 

The public punishments, though. Those weren’t—those were…those weren’t good. They were brutal.

Maybe they were right to fight for this. 

But Kurt couldn’t write any of that in the paper. He would lose his job if he showed the NAASP any kind of sympathy, showed any submissives any sympathy. So he wrote that they were dangerous, highlighted the violence in the streets, the fires, the arrests. That it was their purpose to serve. This was a dominant’s world. And they would just have to understand that.

The twists in his gut as he wrote the article was almost painful. But Kurt had grown quite good at ignoring his own feelings.

☾

Blaine flipped through the paper, sipping his coffee. He frowned at the headlines. Submissive Protest Turns Violent, Seventeen Arrested and Twenty-Two injured. 

The article said the submissives started the violence, that they attacked the police officers that were there. The police had no choice but to retaliate.

Blaine gritted his teeth. That wasn’t what had happened. The Association hadn’t started the violence—the police had. The protestors were peaceful. And they were beaten, some within an inch of their lives. And the ones who fought back—the ones who didn’t let themselves get pummeled for just existing, they were arrested. 

Blaine lights a cigarette. Bitter smoke fills his lungs.

He should have been there, with them. He’s always there with them. He’s always been on the front lines. He’s been beaten, screamed at, arrested. It never mattered. The cause was worth so much more than him, so much more than anything they put him through. 

Freedom at all costs. Until his breathing stops. 

All costs.

“You know, they found out smoking can kill you,” Sam said, pulling Blaine’s attention away from the newspaper. “Plus, it’s not very sub-like.”

Blaine rolled his eyes, took another drag from his cigarette. “Anything that gives me a hint of joy is wrong in some way, if you let them tell it,” he muttered. “And I don’t care about being sub-like.”

Sam snorted. “Obviously.” _He eyed the paper Blaine had in his hand. “How bad is it?”

Blaine sighed, sat the paper down on the table. “Same as always. Protest turns violent, we started it. More and more propaganda against us.” He took another sip of his coffee, frowned—it had grown cold. “I should have been there.”

Sam sat down across from him, picked up the newspaper and began flipping through it. “You had to be somewhere else,” Sam said without looking up at him. “Missing one protest isn’t the end of the world.”

Blaine’s lips were set in a hard line. “I should have been there.” 

Sam looked at him over the paper. “He needed you.”

Blaine looked away. “The cause needs me more.”

All costs.

Sam set the newspaper down on the coffee table. “Blaine,” he said quietly. “He needed you.”

Blaine still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “All costs,” he murmured. 

Sam fixed him with a look. “Tell me this, Blaine,” he said, tracing lines across the table with his finger. “what are you going to do when you have given so much of yourself away to the cause that there’s nothing left within you to even fight for?”

Sam didn’t wait for Blaine to answer. He got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen.

—

Blaine looked out at the crowd. The room was dark—most of their faces were unrecognizable. Still, he knew he had their attention. He came to the club at least once every two weeks, with his spoken word. The first time he’d done it, they were afraid. But the crowd grew, and slowly the fear turned into pride, intrigue. It was always political. It was always a cry for justice. It was dangerous, what he was doing. But Blaine did it anyway.

He had asked for the darkness, though. He didn’t want to see the crowd, didn’t want to watch their reactions to his words. Blaine was afraid of few things—public speaking wasn’t one of them. But seeing their faces threw him off, brought forth unwanted memories. So he spoke to them in darkness, to lessen his unease. 

He stepped up to the microphone, adjusted it to his height. Whoever had handled it last had to have been well over six feet. Once it was at the right level, he leaned into it. “Good evening,” he said. Murmurs from the audience. He took a deep breath. 

“I am
a revolutionary, fighting
for the ones who are
afraid, for the ones who are
unable, for the ones who are
here, and for the ones who are
not yet born.

I am 
a revolutionary, screaming
at the top of my
lungs ‘power’ and ‘freedom.’ We
fight wars on the 
other side of the world, in
the name of freedom and
democracy, but us—the
people in this very nation—
we don’t get it.

I am a revolutionary
writing these words down, unrhyming
and angry, broken
sentences and broken
lines, broken just like
me. Just like my father,
just like you. Just like 
all of us. I write
our pain, our strife, of
our bondage and our
truths—our truths we hold
self evident that equality
is a lie and that only people
born with bleached skin
and a mark on their right arm are
privileged. They are free. They
get the life, liberty, and pursuit of
happiness. On our backs.

I am
a revolutionary, drowning
in anguish and helplessness.
I am drowning, I 
cannot get my head
above water—I cannot
breathe. I fight the 
waves but they’re so strong.
Too strong and I am just 
one man. One in a hundred and eighty-, 
six million. One in so many. I am 
drowning in
the blood and tears
shed by those
like me.
Like us.

I am 
a revolutionary, praying
for liberation, praying
that I can split this sea of
strife and voicelessness with
my cry of power—my 
cry of power that
makes so many uncomfortable,
angry, confused, sad—
but the idea, just the thought
of true freedom is enough
to make my hands tremble,
enough to make my hair stand
on end. Enough to 
make my eyes burn
with unshed tears. 

I am 
a revolutionary.
I am 
fighting, screaming, and
writing, because 
I am
tired of drowning,
and praying just doesn’t
seem to work any more.

I am 
submissive.
And I am 
a revolutionary.
Freedom. Until my
breathing stops.”

The lights flashed on as Blaine finished, causing him to squint. But that was the least of his concerns. The crowd was almost thunderous with applause. He smiled, just a little. And then he was walking off of the stage, head high. 

This is what he lived for—what he was made for. Sam’s question—it didn’t really apply to Blaine.

Because Blaine was the cause. He had already given himself entirely.

All costs. Until his breathing stops.