TO BE ALONE: a series of måneskin oneshots

show nightmare (d.d.)

Damiano's eyes whipped open in a fright. Immediately, he shut them again, only to reopen them slowly again. He groaned lowly in his throat as he rubbed his dry, tired eyes.

Anxiety pulsed through his veins, forcing his heart to race. He knew the stress of tour would follow him, even when he would try to catch a wink of sleep.

Stress dreams were terribly hard to come down from. The situation in the dream feels so real, and it holds it's grip on you long after you wake up. The simulated disaster within your dream is as close to facing the reality you could get.

For some reason, a performer's subconscious loves to do that to them.

Damiano sat with his feet dangling off the bed. He had to force his feet off of the bed so that his shaking legs wouldn't make noise to wake you up.

He blinked hard, his eyes scanning the pitch black room as he tried to convince himself that nothing that had happened in his dream was real.

It wasn't working. Damiano's stomach continued to churn with anxiety for the upcoming performances. He sat on the edge of the bed for as long as he could, before the knot in his stomach clenched and tightened worse than it had been all night.

His mind spun and heart raced as he threw all of the sheets off of his body.

You woke up as you felt all of the sheets and blankets shift. You sat up with a fright, watching as your shirtless boyfriend ran into the en suite bathroom.

You quickly sprung into action, jumping out of bed and following Damiano. Once in the bathroom, you saw Damiano with his knees pressed down into the tile, which only meant one thing. He'd gotten sick.

You'd been with Damiano long enough to know that he wasn't the type of person to get sick. When everyone around him was catching colds, he seemed indestructible. He was never sick unless he had gotten himself to that point.

Damiano radiated confidence wherever he went. Onstage, offstage, in interviews, in rehearsal, wherever. The man oozed attitude and charisma. So much so, that you'd never know he struggled so deeply with anxiety, and sometimes depression.

These feelings of anxiety always swelled during upcoming performances. He'd confided in you that he adores performing, but in the back of his mind, there was always worry. Worry with something about the crowds, the music, the pending Twitter threads if something went disastrously wrong with the show.

Your heart always broke at these times. As a performer yourself, you knew the intricate anxieties that came with getting onstage. Being onstage wasn't something natural to a human. Sure, some people are better at it than others -- born with that raw talent, but the type of charisma that Damiano possed was trained, nutured, and rehearsed.

"Baby, baby, what's wrong?" You asked, rubbing his back as his whole body convulsed with dry heaves and sobs.

You cringed as you heard his breath scrape through his throat, like he was trying to force anything from his stomach out.

"Damiano, breathe. You can't do this to your body, baby. What's wrong?" You whispered, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder and back before he started to sit up.

Damiano fell against the wall, tattooed skin sheeted in sweat. His breaths heaved past his lips.

"Honey..." You coaxed, dabbing at his skin with a tissue you'd ran under cold water.

"It just..." Dami swallowed thickly. "It just felt so real."

Your heat tugged. "Oh, baby, did you have another nightmare? About the tour?"

He nodded, relishing in the coolness of the washcloth against his skin. "I didn't mean to wake you." He croaked out.

You shook your head. "Baby, you didn't wake me. I just want to make sure you're okay. I'm sorry you got so anxious."

Damiano shrugged, trying to clear his throat of the disgusting taste in his mouth. "I need to brush my teeth." He whispered.

You helped him stand on his uneasy legs. "Okay, baby, I'll go grab you something to help settle your stomach. You didn't get sick, did you?"

Damiano shook his head.

"That's good, baby." You smiled. "I'll be right back." You disappeared and let him brush his teeth and swished around some mouthwash.

You returned with a few tablets to hopefully settle his stomach. Damiano took the medicine and stumbled back to bed.

"You still hot?" You asked.

"A little bit." He admitted, only pulling a thin sheet over himself.

"Is it okay if I hold you?" You whispered.

Damiano sniffled. "That's always 'kay." He spoke, trying to fall asleep.

You slowly threaded your arms around him, snuggling him close. You didn't want to press him to talk about his nightmare.

"Go to sleep, Dami. I'm here." You coaxed, kissing his shoulder blade once more, taking your finger and tracing the Cupid tattoos that were there.

Damiano slowly slipped back asleep, now nightmare free.

~~~~~

WORD COUNT
835

A/N: y'all this is such a mess! But we had competition yesterday and it went so well!