Warnings: polyamory, promiscuity, Sebastian/OC, Blaine/OC, mentions of HIV and suffering thereof, mentions of recreational use of weed, a threesome (talked about and happening, though it's not written out), and, I suppose, cheating. If you want more information on any of these warnings, please, don't be afraid to ask me.
Story notes: Sebastian is four years younger than Kurt, and as such never met him nor Blaine in high school. Even though he is HIV positive, he is asymptomatic, and therefore is not suffering from the illness in any way. Most importantly though, read the warnings and make sure you are okay with them, especially the polyamory. A large part of this story features Sebastian in a loving (romantic and sexual) relationship with an original male character, so if your are unwilling or unable to support that, this is probably not the right story for you.
I have incorporated quite a bit of French in this work, but you should not have trouble understanding if you do not speak the language. Relevant bits are always translated or explained - if they're not they are not strictly necessary to understand the plot.

A/N: This story was written for the Kurtbastian Big Bang of 2012/2013 and was originally published on AO3, I'm posting it here now as I go and it should be up completely within the next couple of days. It is a type of sequel for a story I wrote earlier called Dream About Us (20k). While it may be easier to understand certain references, it is definitely not required reading to enjoy this story.
I've been working on this story for quite a while now, and between the polyamory and a trans* OC I haven't exactly made it easy on myself. I have tried to do my research to treat each of these subjects with the respect they deserve, but if anything I've written is wrong or offensive, don't hesitate to call me out on it and I'll try my best to fix it.
I would like to thank Unwritten25 for organizing this Big Bang in the first place, and for graciously granting me permission to post on a later date. Many thanks also to my beta Sarah, who told me to fucking write the story already, and to Pepper and Lari for last minute emergency beta services. Last but not least, though, I want to give an enormous, gigantic hug to Pao, my bucko (sebastian-likes-tofu on Tumblr), who not only saved me from being artist-less but who also made the most amazing cover art for this story (find it on her tumblr by adding (/)post(/)42251443994(/)cover-art-for-dancing-in-moonlight-by to her url) - you should go smother her with my regards. Now.


He runs.

He has just the conscience of mind to grab his winter coat before he storms out the door and down the stairs, his breath hitching already but he can't stop, he can't stay - not after what's just happened.

He doesn't hear any foot steps following him but he doesn't dare risk slowing down, and he urges himself on - down, down. Third floor. Second floor. First floor. He throws his whole weight against the front door before he remembers the door swings the other way around and he curses at the precious seconds it costs him as he finally makes it out the door and into the cold March evening. His fly is still open but he doesn't care, he just runs, pretending not to hear the voice that echoes down the street, calling out after him.

"Sébastien, reviens! Reviens! Sébas - arrête!"

But he doesn't stop, doesn't turn around.

The voice behind him curses -and it shouldn't make him smile as much as it does, to hear the man who prides himself on his eloquence swear- but when he hears the sound of a window slamming shut he speeds up just a little more. He knows he'll have to go back eventually, if not to talk things over then at least to pick up his stuff, but he can't do it now - not yet. Tomorrow morning, after they've both calmed down and had the chance to think things over he'll go back and face the music - right now he just needs to be alone.

He ducks into the nearest subway station, flashing his Navigo card in front of the reader before he squeezes himself past the automatic sliding doors, unable to wait until they've fully opened to get through. For a moment he stands frozen as he looks at the different stairs and signs, trying to decide where to go. He has half a mind to go to Place d'Italie and just go see a movie -he's not really in the mood for a movie, but then again, he's not really in the mood for anything and a movie might just distract him enough to calm down- when he hears the RER B roll into the station, and he immediately sprints towards the platform. He has no idea whether or not Pierre is following him or how close he is, but it seems better to take the first escape he can get. And really, if you wanted to forget there was no better place than the Marais, even on a Wednesday night.

But when the train rolls into Châtelet-des-Halles barely eight minutes later Sebastian doesn't move. His original idea of drinking himself into oblivion has lost its appeal somehow, and just the thought of the other distractions the Marais has to offer makes him sick to his stomach. And so he stays in his seat with his eyes closed, head leaning against the cold window as he lets himself be lulled into numbness by the quiet buzz of the train. If he could just stay here forever he could be happy, he thinks vaguely. If it was just him and the train he could forget, get away from this place and everything that had happened until it was all nothing more but a vague memory, a nightmare that may or may not have been real.

He shivers and huddles up a bit closer, and it's only now that he notices his fly is still undone. He quickly zips it up, swallowing down the bile that's suddenly risen up in his throat, and stuffs his hands deep into his pockets. In the left pocket the soft leather of his wallet and the smooth cover of his passport are warm against his skin, in the right his phone buzzes softly against his fingers, as it has been doing on and off for the past fifteen minutes. He blindly turns it off. He'll get yelled at tomorrow morning anyway, there's hardly any need to start subjecting himself to it any sooner than strictly necessary.

RER B direct pour Aéroport Paris-Charles de Gaulle. Voyageurs à destination de Mitre-Claye sont priés de changer trains à Aulnay-sous-bois.

It's not the message but the sudden influx of travelers that shakes Sebastian out of his train-induced haze, and he straightens himself a little, pulling his legs closer to make room for the girl sitting down across from him. She's carrying a huge mountain backpack, and Sebastian automatically reaches out to help her when she takes it off and tries to move it to the seat next to her. It earns him a grateful smile and a heavily accented "Merci", and he fights to keep the amusement off of his face as he smiles back. Under other circumstances he would probably have started talking to her -maybe in French first, just for the fun of it- but not today.

The girl is clearly American, at least if the giant flag sown on the front of her backpack is anything to go by, and if that's not enough to remind him of home, she looks like a lighter-skinned version of Jolene, his best friend and flatmate back home in New York. The memory sends a pang through his stomach, because if there's anyone he'd want to be with now, it's Jolene. He closes his eyes, imagining how she would just wrap her arms around him and hold him, no questions asked, until he was ready to talk. She'd probably make him warm milk with honey too, or chocolate chip cookies - something homely like that that he'd pretend to hate but would secretly love.

God, he misses her.

Aéroport Paris-Charles de Gaulle, terminal 2. Ce train ne va pas plus loin. Aéroport Paris-Charles de Gaulle 2 TGV, gare terminus.

The automated message hauls him out of his stupor, and he looks up to see the carriage has emptied and new passengers, heading back to Paris, are already getting on. They're tourists and Parisians alike, chatting excitedly or leaning back against a pole looking bored, depending on how many times they've visited the city before. There's an American couple behind him, New Yorkers if their accent is anything to go by, and before he realizes what he's doing he's gotten up, the thought of home suddenly too much, and he pushes himself through the crowd and out of the train. He can take the next one back, or the one after that, or any one as long as it doesn't have American tourists on it.

There's no seats in sight, and so he just stands there with his hands in his pockets as the platform slowly empties. He can just make out the bottom right corner of the board displaying departing flights and check-in counters, and suddenly he feels his passport burn against his skin, and the idea hits him like a train.

He could go.

He has his credit card, his passport. His stuff is still at the apartment, but apart from a few souvenirs and memories that hurt too much now, there's little to nothing there that money can't replace.

Except, of course...

He shakes his head to get rid of the thought.

It wouldn't be cowardly, he tells himself. If anything, he'd be doing both of them a favor. Their circles of friends are so heavily intertwined they couldn't possibly avoid each other, and there is no way it wouldn't be awkward, not to mention painful and embarrassing, to go back. In the States Sebastian would be able to start over with a clean slate, and Pierre could sell Sebastian's stuff - god knew he could use the money. It would be a win-win, really.

He startles when the girl that had been sitting across from him on the train brushes past him, and she grins apologetically when she sees his confusion.

"Wrong side of the platform!" she sing-songs, pointing behind and then in front of her as she shrugs, lips pursed in an amused, self-deprecating smile. He watches her go, eyes darting towards the train in front of him and then back at her, at her giant backpack with the star spangled banner that seems to beckon him.

And when the doors of the train slide closed with a hiss, he takes a decision.

He's going home.