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Maedhros is eleven years old, standing in front of his desk with a stack of magazines he took from a dentist’s office when his father wasn’t looking. Fëanor and Nerdanel are at Maglor’s recital; Celegorm is at the park and won’t come home for hours at least.
He flips through one of the fashion magazines, looking at the ads and not the articles.
That picture is of a sub — you can tell because he’s got his weight over one leg, because his arms are held close to his body, because his clothes are colorful and tight and complicated enough that they look like you’d need help to put them on, because he’s looking demurely away from the camera.
That picture is of a Dom — you can tell because she’s standing evenly with her feet shoulder-width apart, because she has one hand on her hip, because she isn't afraid to take up space, because her clothes are simple and in muted colors and easy to put on, because she’s staring the photographer down and smirking rather than looking shyly away.
Maedhros glances down at himself, adjusts his center of gravity so it’s centered, moves his arms to take up more space, look more closed-off and assertive. Walks over to the mirror — long, confident strides, head held forward, looking directly ahead — to check if he’s getting it right. Readjusts. Tries speaking aloud, “My name is Maedhros,” first the way that comes naturally and then a little louder, pitched to carry, speaking from his chest and not from his throat.
He doesn’t sound natural, yet, but he sounds like a Dom.
Maedhros goes back to his magazines.
It isn't that Maedhros thought there was no other way to be.
Fëanor, who would blaze and yell and dominate any conversation he was in one day and lay his head meekly in Nerdanel’s lap the next, was plenty of proof against that. Celegorm, who walked with swinging hips and quite literally snarled at any Dom who thought that they could tame him, was plenty; Maglor, who changed his role presentation more in accordance with the whims of the moment than with any enduring trait, was plenty; Caranthir, who adopted the most neutral mannerisms he could manage and stuck to them, was plenty. Even Nerdanel, the sort of Dom who could part a crowd just by walking through it, had pulled Maedhros aside and told him that orientation isn't everything, that he could be whatever he wanted to be no matter what his role.
It's just that the thing he wants to be isn't only “president,” or “CEO.” It's also “taken seriously.”
At fourteen, younger than most of his peers but not the earliest in his class, Maedhros declares himself a Dom.
In high school Maedhros takes as many AP classes and as few science credits as he's allowed. He doesn't go to parties, definitely doesn't date, but he's well liked and everyone knows his name.
He makes it into Harvard — business, not law. His professors love him; his classmates come away with vague but positive impressions. He remembers everyone's name, parts crowds just by walking through them. He graduates top of his class and gets a human resources job at a bioinformatics company that’s studying genetic links to various forms of cancer.
It’s important work. Some Doms, some subs, this company isn’t about to get sued for discriminatory hiring practices — but Maedhros notices that he’s never asked to get anyone coffee, is never patted on the shoulder, is never leered at, is taken far more seriously than his coworkers who are openly submissive.
Maedhros gets promoted. They don’t. He takes down a list of subs who had been particularly brilliant, particularly diligent, particularly passionate about the work they’re doing, and resolves to hire them as soon as he can. It’s a waste of good talent, he tells himself, and, less admirably: I was right to declare Dom.
He gets a reputation for never dating. When people ask he tells them that he's focused on his career, that he couldn't be a good Dom for someone while he's so busy with other things. He finds enough time for himself that he doesn't burn out, but spends it meditating and reading and kickboxing, things he can do alone.
Maedhros doesn’t see his family much. He’s hiding even from them, even from Maglor who he knows would understand declaring Dom for expedience, even from Nerdanel who he knows would understand wanting to be taken seriously before anything else, especially from Fëanor who spits in the face of role convention with every argument he starts.
After more than a decade of practice he walks like a Dom and stands like a Dom and speaks like a Dom almost naturally now, but it's still exhausting to keep up the act. And he never did manage to teach himself not to sleep curled up on his side, reaching out for someone who isn't there.
Maedhros makes CHRO at thirty-seven, and every day of his life since before he was fourteen he's been playing a role but that's fine, he's where he wanted to be — at the top, taken seriously.
He offers jobs to every one of the subs on his list. Some of them are working at other companies, some of them have left the workforce, some of them think it's weird to get an email out of nowhere from a Dom they worked with five years ago, but enough of them take him up on those offers that he starts getting questions about the influx of subs to his company. “Look at the numbers,” he says every time. “Diversity isn't just a buzzword, it's good strategy. Talented submissive are being passed over for positions they would have been brilliant in, and they don't need to be.” The same sound bite, every time, designed to deflect questions rather than answering them. They’re what I could have been, Maedhros specifically doesn’t say, they’re what I would have been if I’d been open.
Meetings are easy. Everyone expects professionalism and professionalism is easy to give. It’s parties and charity galas and networking events that are difficult - acting like a Dom in a meeting room surrounded by people who want him to sound authoritative about company policy is one thing; acting like a Dom when he’s surrounded by subs in gorgeous dresses looking up at him through their eyelashes is far more difficult.
Then there are the Doms. Maedhros doesn’t actually want to submit to most of them — they call it locker-room talk, talking about subs like they’re toys, whether it happens in locker rooms or not; even when they glance sideways at the Dom who's famous for his company’s diversity and avoid the sorts of conversations that might wind up getting repeated online, he knows what sorts of people rise to C-suite positions. Sometimes one of them seems sweet, seems like someone who maybe Maedhros could kneel for, but that’s never a train of thought he wants to follow and so he doesn't follow it.
(He tries having sex with a sub, once, picks someone who he knows will talk back to him and demand things of him and maybe it’ll feel almost like what Maedhros actually wants, and as soon as the boy leaves his hotel room Maedhros walks into the bathroom and drops to his knees and breaks down sobbing and shoves two fingers down his throat to try and make himself throw up so he can get whatever feeling this is out — )
He keeps that reputation for never dating. He’d already learned how to flirt without looking like he meant anything by it, how to call people sweetheart or darling without sounding condescending, when was a good time to put your hand on someone’s arm and when was a good time to drop into his lower register and when was a good time to pull out a chair or offer an arm or rush to open a door; Maedhros doesn’t have a reputation for being aloof, only for being a gentleman. Which is fine. It’s fine. He’s completely fine.
Then there's Fingon.
Fingon ties his hair with gold ribbons, wears tight clothes in crimson red and orchid purple and royal blue, holds himself tall with his shoulders back and his weight centered evenly over his legs. Fingon holds an executive position in a tech company based across the Bay, and he dresses like a sub and acts like a Dom and he doesn't care at all about the things people say behind his back.
Maedhros wants to kneel for him. Maedhros wants to be him. Fingon can present however he likes because he's a Dom, not a sub playing dress up and hoping nobody notices. Fingon can present however he likes because he's a Dom, and when he says down or stop or quiet something bone deep in Maedhros wants more than almost anything to obey.
(He tries not to be bitter but oh God he’s so lonely.)
After the first few times Maedhros and Fingon are pushed towards one another at networking events, they start to become friends. Maybe it would be easier if they didn’t but they’re compatible, they like the same books and they value the same traits and they both like quiet evenings and busy schedules. Maedhros enjoys talking to him just as much as he likes listening to him, which is to say that he likes it very much and won’t let himself use stronger terms.
In another world maybe they could have had a life together. That is not a train of thought Maedhros wants to follow. He follows it anyway.
Once they start spending time alone together in Fingon’s apartment (“I could have a house but it’s so much space for just one person, don’t you think?”) it’s almost inevitable.
Maedhros doesn’t slip up in company. He doesn't. But he hasn't had this little time to himself since he graduated, hasn't had this little privacy to kneel on the floor and pretend he's going to be alright, and maybe it's starting to get to him or maybe it's just that he wants Fingon so much but when Fingon drops into his lower register the entire world seems to go still.
He doesn’t drop. His hands were moving before; they’re still now. He’s standing in place like a machine that’s been unplugged, staring into space. His mouth is open, a little bit, and this feels so right — is this what subspace is supposed to be, it's lovely —
“Maedhros?” Fingon’s concerned, that starts to snap him out of it, Maedhros blinks and the outside world comes into focus and his heartbeat doesn't sound quite so loud in his ears, “Maedhros, what's —” A short pause. “— Oh.”
There’s another long, appraising silence. Maedhros tries to get his breathing under control, he has spent decades controlling himself why is he still breathing so heavily, Fingon is watching him he needs to get himself under control, and
“Maedhros.” Fingon is speaking from his chest again. “Kneel.”
and he doesn’t have time to get anything under control before he drops to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, eyes closed and on his knees, at Fingon’s feet.
There are footsteps. “Maedhros,” Fingon says, softer now. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t tell anyone.” He’s slurring, a little. Usually he’d care about that. “No one else knows. Just you n’ me.” He can’t tell whether he’s crying or not.
Fingon makes a soft, torn sound, and presses one hand to the back of Maedhros’s neck, right about where a collar would rest. Maedhros leans into the touch. “It’s alright, I’ve got you,” he says, soft like he’s talking to a frightened bird. “I’ve got you. Shh, dear heart, darling, I’ve got you.”
Maedhros nods, then nods again. Fingon sweeps a thumb across his cheekbone and tightens his hand on Maedhros’s neck. “Tell me everything,” Fingon says, commanding again, and Maedhros cannot remember the last time he felt so whole.