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He’s off the stage before the flag hits the ground. His ankle seizes painfully as he crouches and vaults off the platform, ignoring the stairs and hitting the dirt with barely a grunt. His security team’s already yelling at him to stay back, that it’s more dangerous for him to get involved, that it’s their job to protect both him and the people he’s running to defend.
But the blood’s too busy pounding in his ears to settle down again, and before anybody in the crowd can react, he’s at the barricade. Shocked, frenzied hands reach for him, grabbing onto every part of his tee shirt and tugging him down into the pit with them. He’s never felt so naked and exposed, doing this without a jacket on, but he steels himself and lets them pull him into the chaos.
They crowd around him, too close to the stage to even realize why he’s in there with them. He apologizes profusely as he starts pushing his way through the mass of bodies, gesturing wildly until the more polite fans get the memo and step back out of his way. The faint impression of a path forms in front of him, and he surges through it as fast as possible, ignoring the more disrespectful hands that grab at him when he passes.
The security guards will say it was an accident, but they’re just pretending they didn’t see what Dan saw. At this point, all he can see is red.
Finally, he finds them. He slips through the circle of concerned festivalgoers surrounding them and everything in his head goes still.
They’re still on the ground, the torn rainbow flag fluttering against the dirt next to them in defeat. A small group is clustered around, reaching out, murmuring mixed consolations and swears. They all fall silent when Dan approaches.
It isn’t like he’s never witnessed anything like this before. It isn’t like he doesn’t know what it’s like, these days.
But this time…a moment ago, he was making fleeting eye contact with a fan on someone’s shoulders, watching a bright smile flash across their face. Watching as, in the same moment, the flag hoisted above their head came crashing down, taking its owner down with it.
He sees it happen. Sees the hands that reach up out of the swell of the crowd, disrupting the current, pushing and shoving with obvious intent. There’s no accident. Just assholes.
As the adrenaline begins to fade and his head begins to clear, he realizes this could quite possibly be the stupidest thing he’s ever done. Then again, he’s been a fucking coward about this shit for years, so maybe it could actually be the bravest.
He realizes he’s still got the mic clutched in one hand in the same moment as he asks, voice raspy: “Are you alright?”
They just stare up at him, flabbergasted, like he’s simply a figment of their imagination. Then something seems to register in their eyes, like they’ve seen something Dan’s not even sure he meant to convey. He reaches out with his free hand, intending to help them up. They shake their head and raise their own arm, and his eyes catch on a trickle of blood nearly invisible against their dark skin. He fears his own blood is rapidly approaching boiling point. How anyone could fucking do this…
In their hand is the flag, which they press into Dan’s outstretched palm before he can react. Dimly, he’s aware the crowd is pressing in towards their precious bubble of space, murmuring in confusion. The weight of their eyes burns, turns the dirtied fabric into a lead weight in his hand.
He’s a second away from turning tail and never showing his face here again when Dick finally materializes at his elbow, talking rapidly into his walkie talkie. Dan looks at him, desperate, frozen.
There’s a tired sympathy in his friend’s eyes when he hisses, “What the fuck, Dan?” and grabs him by the shoulder.
They’re halfway back to the stage before Dan gets the fuck over himself and decides if this is happening, it’s happening. He drags his eyes up from the ground in front of him, un-hunches his shoulders, straightens. Grips the flag a little tighter in his hand, wincing as it drags in the dirt.
Woody and Kyle have been trying their best to keep the crowd distracted, though Dan has absolutely no idea what they’ve been saying for the past few minutes. He takes a deep, rattling breath, and climbs back on the stage.
He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but the sudden roar of the crowd as soon as they see him is enough to make him wish he never had to be up on another stage again. He can’t do this. Not now, not today, not like this. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
He risks a glance down at the setlist, and the blocky letters swim in his vision. He was meant to go into the crowd, properly, in the next one. Now, the thought of going back in there makes him want to throw up.
It feels like it isn’t his hand that grips the microphone tighter and raises it back towards his face.
“Um. Sorry about that.” His voice echoes. “There was. Erm. Well.” He can feel the urge to say an accident, or a situation, though he knows it wasn’t either.
He takes a breath and gestures with the flag in his fist, trying his best to ignore the dull roar of the crowd.
“I don’t say this as much as I should,” he says, attempting to start again. His voice sounds shaky and unsure in his ears. “Maybe I figured it was an obvious thing that didn’t need to be talked about. It’s not, though, ‘course not. I’m—sorry I’m always too scared to say it.”
The crowd has quieted, now, and he can feel their eyes and cameras laser-focused on him. He closes his eyes, breathes, chances a look back at his band. They, too, are staring at him, looking quite surprised at this development. They don’t seem to know what to do with themselves. Neither does Dan, really, but it’s too late to take all this back now.
“But I—” the words feel stickier in his throat the harder he tries to drag them out. “We— we want everyone to have fun when they’re wasting their time watching us idiots play.” He attempts a smile, though he’s sure it looks forced. “That means loads of horrible dancing, maybe some singing if you can be bothered. That doesn’t mean—“ he swallows and lifts the flag again. “This.”
He realizes how that could be misconstrued as soon as he says it. The headline flashes before his eyes: British band Bastille confirm they do not support homosexual activity at their shows.
“Someone was hurt today,” he clarifies, “because of this. And that—if you think— ” He exhales, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice. “If you think that’s okay, at all, then you can fucking leave.”
It’s barely an explanation, and nowhere near a confession of any kind. But it’s all he can manage with this many eyes on him, so it has to be enough.
The crowd erupts, clapping for him as if he’s said something far more substantial and profound. He manages a small smile as he looks out at them and spots a familiar face floating above them, hands now empty and reaching up to the sun. They’re beaming again, somehow, as if nothing had happened at all.
Dan, though, feels like something has shattered within him. Perhaps he isn’t quite as resilient as them, yet. Maybe something new, something stronger, can now grow out of the ruins left behind.
Or maybe he’s being dramatic again, and should just get back to doing his job before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.
“Anyway,” he says. “Um. For this next one, I’d like some help. Anybody still feel like dancing, now that I’ve gone and killed the mood?”
Someday, maybe he'll be brave again. For now, the rainbow flag stays, draped over his mic stand, until the very last eh ohs fade into the wind.