Cordillair (7/10+E Kurtbastian)
Some time ago I took this prompt on the GKM and thought to myself, "I can do this. I can make this world." I took it to try to deal with my feelings on Klaine breaking up, and I took it to stretch my writing wings. If Kurtbastian isn't your thing, let me assure you - Kurtbastian doesn't happen for many, many chapters. And this is DEFINITELY not canon. It's a completely different world, with OCs and only three canon characters in name - Sebastian Smythe and Kurt and Burton Hummelod (Hummel-ODD). Maybe take a chance on me and I'll take you on an adventure.
Part: One // Two // Three // Four // Five // Six
He’s drunk and inside Sebastian. Drunk and inside.
At least when Sebastian’s father had drank he could escape.
Sebastian tries to be in another place, a safer place where James’ hands aren’t holding his hips too tight, where his nose isn’t bleeding all over the straw in front of him, and where he doesn’t feel like he’s being taken apart from the inside out.
He’s trying not to ask himself if this is what it felt like for the men he had slept with. He thinks of all the times that he didn’t take the patience or care that proper preparation would need and can’t help but cry, remembering Steven’s face their last night. The tears he pretended not to see.
He had told himself it wasn’t this; wasn’t rape or any other ungodly word to describe what he was experiencing at this exact moment. But- but he had been lying to himself, deluded by power and privilege. He hates himself for it; for believing that because he wasn’t being mean that he wasn’t abusing someone else for the sake of his own pleasure.
He understands it now as he grits his teeth. As he wills his body to cooperate and make it through this.
***
It’s been a really, really long time since Kurt’s ass has been on the actual throne in the actual throne room.
As a result, said ass is currently asleep.
He’s listening to his father’s advisors drone on about the lands they have taken in Lagau, their newest territory. About the land next to the sea, once regaled for its ways with material craftsmanship; clothing and linens heralded far and wide. He fights to keep his attention as each man in the counsel speaks on the rebounding kingdom, the freedom of former slaves, and plans for the economy there now that Sir Bordegand has taken over control of the area.
“Another item of note, though, sire-”
Kurt looks to the man speaking to him, the undersecretary of territorial claims, Evenston, he thinks. Kurt nods for him to go on.
“The crown prince of Lagau, Sebastian Smythe, was not found in the castle nor taken in the raid.”
Kurt startles a bit.
“How old was he?”
Kurt vaguely remembers his mother talking about a prince born around the same time as he was in the neighboring kingdom. He had even traveled to the borders of their lands with his mother in hopes of meeting the other prince. They had never met, however, the other queen saying that her son was out riding with her handmaiden at the designated time of their meeting.
Kurt remembers being sad that he didn’t get to meet another boy like him.
“18 sire, the same as yourself.”
Kurt thinks on this a moment, not wanting to cause a raucous but definitely alarmed at the prospect of a missing member of neighboring royalty, even if the aforementioned prince is currently dethroned. Men such as these make rash decisions; attempt to avenge their families.
“We should begin a quiet search for the prince,” he says, attempting to make his voice sound as authoritative as possible. He glances at Alander, who nods in agreement or encouragement, Kurt can’t tell which, and then continues. “We do not want him to fear us or believe we are searching in malice. He simply deserves to be treated with respect, no matter what has happened. We need to meet with him, determine his loyalties, and decide what to do with his fate. Who led the castle raid?”
Alander coughs, rolling his eyes, and Kurt knows this is something he should have memorized.
Perhaps he should be at court more.
“Lord Amsterdam, sire.” Evenston again, giving nothing away with his voice.
Kurt grits his teeth and forces himself not to think of Toby.
“Yes, very good. We shall have to arrange a meeting. See if he is available Monday morning.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Next order of business?” Kurt toys with the filigree on his throne as the trumpets sound and everyone rushes to stand. He stands as well, and bows, all eyes on the new member of the council. Kurt stands and retreats to his own, smaller throne, his father now making to occupy the one he had been sitting in.
“I know it’s a tradition, but do we always have to have the trumpets?” Kurt whispers to his father, but King Burton barely smiles as the council continues its discussion.
“The matter of locating appropriate suitors for Prince Kurt, as well as surrogates for the heir...”
Kurt’s breath catches in his throat. We’re all going to talk about this? he thinks, wishing fervently that he had known so he could have missed today’s council as well.
“Suggestions?”
Kurt blushes scarlet at his father’s words, realizing they’ve discussed this before and damn Alander for not telling him. He turns his head slightly and scowls his best friend’s way only to see him shrug his shoulders back at Kurt with a look of not my problem. Kurt tries not to glower as the committee continues.
“It has been suggested by many ladies of the court that we hold a ball-” begins one man.
“Really?” Kurt surprises himself with the outburst, all heads swiveling to look at him, eyes wide. In for a penny, in for a pound he thinks, and goes on. “Isn’t that a tad cliche?”
Burt looks at him disapprovingly , shaking his head.
“Kurt, this is for your own good and we’ve talked about this. It’s time.” His father’s voice is stern, commanding, and Kurt knows the discussion is over.
“Can I ask that the committee at least make a list of these ‘suitors’ before inviting them that I may peruse the list? At least then we won’t have men in the palace that I may care nothing for?”
The committee all eye each other, talking in soft voices before his father speaks again.
“That seems fair. It shall be done and, in two weeks time, the ball shall commence.”
Kurt groans softly and then straightens his spine.
“Can we call it anything but a ball? Anyone? A masque? No?” Kurt’s tired of sitting in the chair; tired of playing prince. He just wants to get out of here and to Alander’s home where Toby is meeting them tomorrow.
His father laughs, though, so that’s something.
“Sure, sure. A masque.”
***
“Alander, please! Stay this time, I really and truly want you to meet him!”
His best friend is balking, standing steadfast in the doorway as they watch Toby approach on foot. Kurt is literally hopping with excitement, his skin tingling and pulling tight at the idea of talking with him again, of hearing his voice and laugh as he talks about his week with Juniper. In the week since they’ve spoken he’s gone over every discussion, every laugh. Every little nuance of his voice and his eyes.
And yeah, he is a little smitten.
Mostly because Toby loves what Kurt loves, can talk about anything, has a sharp wit that he’s not afraid to aim Kurt’s way, and has a mystery around him that Kurt just wants to unravel. The way he loves his fellow hand is a mark in his favor, as well, as Kurt can see the pride he has in Juniper.
Choosing a hand for a husband wouldn’t bother the council too much. Would it?
Kurt sighs and runs to meet Toby in the middle, stopping when he gets close enough to see his face - a mask of hurt and sadness so deep it steals his breath.
“Are you okay?” he asks, reaching out and immediately regretting it when Toby’s body flinches, his eyes looking everywhere but at Kurt. “I mean...you just look like...”
“One of the horses threw me yesterday,” Toby says, his voice hollow and soft. Kurt takes him in, his height beaten down a bit by his slumped shoulders; his cheeks thinner than Kurt remembered and his face unshaven. As Kurt’s eyes travel downward he notices Toby’s shirt sleeve has caught on a bandage on his arm.
It’s bled through.
“What’s happened to your arm?” Kurt gasps, reaching to draw Toby near, to bring him to the house and clean him up. He can’t, though, Toby’s body pulling back like lightning, a little groan escaping his lips. Kurt can’t stand it, the look in his eyes, the condition of his body, but Toby’s not talking.
“Tell me what happened,” he commands, using the same voice from the throne room. “Did he do this to you? Amsterdam? Please, tell me!”
He’s pleading by the end, he knows, but Toby just scoffs, his face tightening in anger.
“Oh, like you can do anything about it? Or me? We’re just slaves, Kurt...well, like slaves, right? Hands,” he sneers, kicking a log in the field where they’re standing, the grass high on their calves. “In Cordillair everyone lends a hand, right? What can we do or say if our employer-”
Toby stops, looking stricken.
“Nevermind,” he whispers, gathering close to Kurt and reaching out to grip Kurt’s arms tenuously. “Forget I said all that. I came to tell you, to say-”
Kurt ignores whatever Toby is trying to get out and pulls him close, closer - his touch gentle, intent clear - until Toby’s face is inches away and Kurt’s eyes are searching, searching, begging for his permission.
Toby says nothing, does nothing and so Kurt just tries - tries for both of them. He never closes his eyes, not once. When their lips touch, soft, hesitant plush on chapped, dry firm, his pulse runs quick and then Toby’s pulling him closer and leaning, his body crowding Kurt’s as their mouths open and move together. Toby’s tongue slidse against his own as his heart beats in his ears, throat and fingertips and it turns desperate, Toby tugging and pulling him impossibly closer until they separate with a gasp, both men reeling.
Kurt sees Toby’s tears and reaches for him, wants to help but-
“I can’t come here again, Kurt.” Toby’s cracked voice, his hair disheveled and in his face. “I-”
Kurt watches helplessly as he backs away, his hands in front of him like a shield against whatever Kurt might say or do.
“I’ve been missing too many of my duties and I can’t do this. I just-”
He turns then, beginning to run, an awkward, stilted shamble, and shouts back.
“Don’t follow me.”
Kurt just watches him, fury pooling in his gut. He stands there until he can no longer see Toby’s head and then sprints to the stables, quickly mounting Risky and making for the castle.
He has someone to summon.
***
“I’ve been in contact with one of your hands, Amsterdam. One Toby?”
Kurt attempts to school his features; not to show his anger as Amsterdam, impeccably dressed and groomed - considering Kurt had summoned him a day early - stares blankly at him, his tall stature almost menacing.
I really don’t like him Kurt thinks as Amsterdam replies.
“Yes. He’s a new hand, Sire, very lippy but astounding with the horses.”
Kurt works not to smile at the word lippy, especially when applied to the Toby he knows. Yes, he is sarcastic and forthcoming, but that’s just what Kurt has come to appreciate in him.
“And you are treating him well, sir?”
He watches as Lord Amsterdam considers the question, his smile settling into a thin line.
“Yes your highness. Like any other hand.”
“I saw him and he seemed distraught-”
“A horse threw him, sire, he’s had a bad run of it as of late.”
Kurt cannot believe the gall of the man, interrupting him like that.
“I would ask that you hold your responses until I’ve finished talking, Lord.”
Amsterdam considers this, then forces a smile.
“Yes, your highness. Forgive me. I’m simply concerned for his welfare. Tell me, how did you meet Toby?”
Here Kurt’s stumped. He doesn’t want to reveal anything of his activities in the Market, nor does he want to bring attention to Alander’s home.
“In passing, dear Lord. I just wanted to be sure he’s alright.”
Amsterdam nods and Kurt continues, letting the matter go for now.
“The real reason I wanted to see you, sir, was to ask about the night of the raid. I am told you were in charge of it? In fact, instrumental in its inception?”
“Yes, sire, it was always my raid - along with the Lagauian resistance.”
Kurt tuts, knowing full well that Lagau would not be in their possession without the resistance leaders, yet at the same time worrying on their continued existence. Resistance, he believes, is a good thing. It holds everything in check.
Still, it’s a bit terrifying thinking of your own kingdom rising against you.
He resists the urge to shudder and continues.
“We are well aware that the raid was a success and it seems as though the workers are already started to renew Lagau. What of Sebastian, though? The crown prince? Did none of your men see him?”
“No sir,” the Lord replies, shrugging his shoulders. “I have not see him.”
“It seems a mighty loose end and a great risk,” Kurt replies, taken aback by Amsterdam’s blase attitude toward the whole affair. “We shall begin searching for him at once. We cannot be too careful with our kindgom’s safety.”
“Yes your highness,” Amsterdam murmurs.
“You are dismissed,” Kurt replies, done with the man and his lies.
I will have to catch him in the act he thinks as he watches Amsterdam leave. Set a trap and spring it hard.
When Amsterdam is gone he turns to Osir, a plan already forming.
“Tomorrow we ride to Amsterdam’s estate. I’ve a feeling he knows more than he’s letting on.”
“Yes, your highness.”
Part: One // Two // Three // Four // Five // Six
He’s drunk and inside Sebastian. Drunk and inside.
At least when Sebastian’s father had drank he could escape.
Sebastian tries to be in another place, a safer place where James’ hands aren’t holding his hips too tight, where his nose isn’t bleeding all over the straw in front of him, and where he doesn’t feel like he’s being taken apart from the inside out.
He’s trying not to ask himself if this is what it felt like for the men he had slept with. He thinks of all the times that he didn’t take the patience or care that proper preparation would need and can’t help but cry, remembering Steven’s face their last night. The tears he pretended not to see.
He had told himself it wasn’t this; wasn’t rape or any other ungodly word to describe what he was experiencing at this exact moment. But- but he had been lying to himself, deluded by power and privilege. He hates himself for it; for believing that because he wasn’t being mean that he wasn’t abusing someone else for the sake of his own pleasure.
He understands it now as he grits his teeth. As he wills his body to cooperate and make it through this.
***
It’s been a really, really long time since Kurt’s ass has been on the actual throne in the actual throne room.
As a result, said ass is currently asleep.
He’s listening to his father’s advisors drone on about the lands they have taken in Lagau, their newest territory. About the land next to the sea, once regaled for its ways with material craftsmanship; clothing and linens heralded far and wide. He fights to keep his attention as each man in the counsel speaks on the rebounding kingdom, the freedom of former slaves, and plans for the economy there now that Sir Bordegand has taken over control of the area.
“Another item of note, though, sire-”
Kurt looks to the man speaking to him, the undersecretary of territorial claims, Evenston, he thinks. Kurt nods for him to go on.
“The crown prince of Lagau, Sebastian Smythe, was not found in the castle nor taken in the raid.”
Kurt startles a bit.
“How old was he?”
Kurt vaguely remembers his mother talking about a prince born around the same time as he was in the neighboring kingdom. He had even traveled to the borders of their lands with his mother in hopes of meeting the other prince. They had never met, however, the other queen saying that her son was out riding with her handmaiden at the designated time of their meeting.
Kurt remembers being sad that he didn’t get to meet another boy like him.
“18 sire, the same as yourself.”
Kurt thinks on this a moment, not wanting to cause a raucous but definitely alarmed at the prospect of a missing member of neighboring royalty, even if the aforementioned prince is currently dethroned. Men such as these make rash decisions; attempt to avenge their families.
“We should begin a quiet search for the prince,” he says, attempting to make his voice sound as authoritative as possible. He glances at Alander, who nods in agreement or encouragement, Kurt can’t tell which, and then continues. “We do not want him to fear us or believe we are searching in malice. He simply deserves to be treated with respect, no matter what has happened. We need to meet with him, determine his loyalties, and decide what to do with his fate. Who led the castle raid?”
Alander coughs, rolling his eyes, and Kurt knows this is something he should have memorized.
Perhaps he should be at court more.
“Lord Amsterdam, sire.” Evenston again, giving nothing away with his voice.
Kurt grits his teeth and forces himself not to think of Toby.
“Yes, very good. We shall have to arrange a meeting. See if he is available Monday morning.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Next order of business?” Kurt toys with the filigree on his throne as the trumpets sound and everyone rushes to stand. He stands as well, and bows, all eyes on the new member of the council. Kurt stands and retreats to his own, smaller throne, his father now making to occupy the one he had been sitting in.
“I know it’s a tradition, but do we always have to have the trumpets?” Kurt whispers to his father, but King Burton barely smiles as the council continues its discussion.
“The matter of locating appropriate suitors for Prince Kurt, as well as surrogates for the heir...”
Kurt’s breath catches in his throat. We’re all going to talk about this? he thinks, wishing fervently that he had known so he could have missed today’s council as well.
“Suggestions?”
Kurt blushes scarlet at his father’s words, realizing they’ve discussed this before and damn Alander for not telling him. He turns his head slightly and scowls his best friend’s way only to see him shrug his shoulders back at Kurt with a look of not my problem. Kurt tries not to glower as the committee continues.
“It has been suggested by many ladies of the court that we hold a ball-” begins one man.
“Really?” Kurt surprises himself with the outburst, all heads swiveling to look at him, eyes wide. In for a penny, in for a pound he thinks, and goes on. “Isn’t that a tad cliche?”
Burt looks at him disapprovingly , shaking his head.
“Kurt, this is for your own good and we’ve talked about this. It’s time.” His father’s voice is stern, commanding, and Kurt knows the discussion is over.
“Can I ask that the committee at least make a list of these ‘suitors’ before inviting them that I may peruse the list? At least then we won’t have men in the palace that I may care nothing for?”
The committee all eye each other, talking in soft voices before his father speaks again.
“That seems fair. It shall be done and, in two weeks time, the ball shall commence.”
Kurt groans softly and then straightens his spine.
“Can we call it anything but a ball? Anyone? A masque? No?” Kurt’s tired of sitting in the chair; tired of playing prince. He just wants to get out of here and to Alander’s home where Toby is meeting them tomorrow.
His father laughs, though, so that’s something.
“Sure, sure. A masque.”
***
“Alander, please! Stay this time, I really and truly want you to meet him!”
His best friend is balking, standing steadfast in the doorway as they watch Toby approach on foot. Kurt is literally hopping with excitement, his skin tingling and pulling tight at the idea of talking with him again, of hearing his voice and laugh as he talks about his week with Juniper. In the week since they’ve spoken he’s gone over every discussion, every laugh. Every little nuance of his voice and his eyes.
And yeah, he is a little smitten.
Mostly because Toby loves what Kurt loves, can talk about anything, has a sharp wit that he’s not afraid to aim Kurt’s way, and has a mystery around him that Kurt just wants to unravel. The way he loves his fellow hand is a mark in his favor, as well, as Kurt can see the pride he has in Juniper.
Choosing a hand for a husband wouldn’t bother the council too much. Would it?
Kurt sighs and runs to meet Toby in the middle, stopping when he gets close enough to see his face - a mask of hurt and sadness so deep it steals his breath.
“Are you okay?” he asks, reaching out and immediately regretting it when Toby’s body flinches, his eyes looking everywhere but at Kurt. “I mean...you just look like...”
“One of the horses threw me yesterday,” Toby says, his voice hollow and soft. Kurt takes him in, his height beaten down a bit by his slumped shoulders; his cheeks thinner than Kurt remembered and his face unshaven. As Kurt’s eyes travel downward he notices Toby’s shirt sleeve has caught on a bandage on his arm.
It’s bled through.
“What’s happened to your arm?” Kurt gasps, reaching to draw Toby near, to bring him to the house and clean him up. He can’t, though, Toby’s body pulling back like lightning, a little groan escaping his lips. Kurt can’t stand it, the look in his eyes, the condition of his body, but Toby’s not talking.
“Tell me what happened,” he commands, using the same voice from the throne room. “Did he do this to you? Amsterdam? Please, tell me!”
He’s pleading by the end, he knows, but Toby just scoffs, his face tightening in anger.
“Oh, like you can do anything about it? Or me? We’re just slaves, Kurt...well, like slaves, right? Hands,” he sneers, kicking a log in the field where they’re standing, the grass high on their calves. “In Cordillair everyone lends a hand, right? What can we do or say if our employer-”
Toby stops, looking stricken.
“Nevermind,” he whispers, gathering close to Kurt and reaching out to grip Kurt’s arms tenuously. “Forget I said all that. I came to tell you, to say-”
Kurt ignores whatever Toby is trying to get out and pulls him close, closer - his touch gentle, intent clear - until Toby’s face is inches away and Kurt’s eyes are searching, searching, begging for his permission.
Toby says nothing, does nothing and so Kurt just tries - tries for both of them. He never closes his eyes, not once. When their lips touch, soft, hesitant plush on chapped, dry firm, his pulse runs quick and then Toby’s pulling him closer and leaning, his body crowding Kurt’s as their mouths open and move together. Toby’s tongue slidse against his own as his heart beats in his ears, throat and fingertips and it turns desperate, Toby tugging and pulling him impossibly closer until they separate with a gasp, both men reeling.
Kurt sees Toby’s tears and reaches for him, wants to help but-
“I can’t come here again, Kurt.” Toby’s cracked voice, his hair disheveled and in his face. “I-”
Kurt watches helplessly as he backs away, his hands in front of him like a shield against whatever Kurt might say or do.
“I’ve been missing too many of my duties and I can’t do this. I just-”
He turns then, beginning to run, an awkward, stilted shamble, and shouts back.
“Don’t follow me.”
Kurt just watches him, fury pooling in his gut. He stands there until he can no longer see Toby’s head and then sprints to the stables, quickly mounting Risky and making for the castle.
He has someone to summon.
***
“I’ve been in contact with one of your hands, Amsterdam. One Toby?”
Kurt attempts to school his features; not to show his anger as Amsterdam, impeccably dressed and groomed - considering Kurt had summoned him a day early - stares blankly at him, his tall stature almost menacing.
I really don’t like him Kurt thinks as Amsterdam replies.
“Yes. He’s a new hand, Sire, very lippy but astounding with the horses.”
Kurt works not to smile at the word lippy, especially when applied to the Toby he knows. Yes, he is sarcastic and forthcoming, but that’s just what Kurt has come to appreciate in him.
“And you are treating him well, sir?”
He watches as Lord Amsterdam considers the question, his smile settling into a thin line.
“Yes your highness. Like any other hand.”
“I saw him and he seemed distraught-”
“A horse threw him, sire, he’s had a bad run of it as of late.”
Kurt cannot believe the gall of the man, interrupting him like that.
“I would ask that you hold your responses until I’ve finished talking, Lord.”
Amsterdam considers this, then forces a smile.
“Yes, your highness. Forgive me. I’m simply concerned for his welfare. Tell me, how did you meet Toby?”
Here Kurt’s stumped. He doesn’t want to reveal anything of his activities in the Market, nor does he want to bring attention to Alander’s home.
“In passing, dear Lord. I just wanted to be sure he’s alright.”
Amsterdam nods and Kurt continues, letting the matter go for now.
“The real reason I wanted to see you, sir, was to ask about the night of the raid. I am told you were in charge of it? In fact, instrumental in its inception?”
“Yes, sire, it was always my raid - along with the Lagauian resistance.”
Kurt tuts, knowing full well that Lagau would not be in their possession without the resistance leaders, yet at the same time worrying on their continued existence. Resistance, he believes, is a good thing. It holds everything in check.
Still, it’s a bit terrifying thinking of your own kingdom rising against you.
He resists the urge to shudder and continues.
“We are well aware that the raid was a success and it seems as though the workers are already started to renew Lagau. What of Sebastian, though? The crown prince? Did none of your men see him?”
“No sir,” the Lord replies, shrugging his shoulders. “I have not see him.”
“It seems a mighty loose end and a great risk,” Kurt replies, taken aback by Amsterdam’s blase attitude toward the whole affair. “We shall begin searching for him at once. We cannot be too careful with our kindgom’s safety.”
“Yes your highness,” Amsterdam murmurs.
“You are dismissed,” Kurt replies, done with the man and his lies.
I will have to catch him in the act he thinks as he watches Amsterdam leave. Set a trap and spring it hard.
When Amsterdam is gone he turns to Osir, a plan already forming.
“Tomorrow we ride to Amsterdam’s estate. I’ve a feeling he knows more than he’s letting on.”
“Yes, your highness.”