TO BE ALONE: a series of måneskin oneshots

as it was (d.d.)

TW: drug abuse

Answer the phone.
Dami, you're no good alone.
Why?
Are you sitting at home on the floor?
What kind of pills are you on?

Damiano bit his dry lips between his teeth as he tapped his pen against his knee. As he drew his teeth back, he could taste the leftover smoke from the cigarette he'd just finished.

He tapped his pen harder as he brought his legs closer to his chest. He'd been working on these lyrics for days, and he'd honestly gotten a good few songs done, but this one was just driving him crazy.

It was the ballad for their next album, aptly named teatro d'ira vol. ii, featuring a lowercase aesthetic to balance the capital aesthetic of volume one.

Meanwhile, you were pacing your living room, worried about the rockstar. He'd mentioned needing to "hole up" and write for the album, but he had said that four days ago. You knew he was behind on some deadlines for the albums, bit he hadn't been answering any texts or calls from you for nearly the last week.

"Fuck you, David!" You cursed, throwing your phone on the sofa. You walked into the kitchen and looked at the clock. It was nearing six p.m., nearly dinnertime.

You opened your fridge and grabbed the plate of leftovers from the dinner you'd made only an hour ago. You doubled your usual chicken and rice recipe so you'd be able to eat the leftovers before your shift tomorrow evening, but you knew of someone who probably needed them more than you.

Your puppy was sleeping peacefully in her dog bed. You lightly pet her and whispered to her that you'd be back soon. You locked your apartment door and started your car.

The drive to Damiano's house was a short one, for he only lived a few streets down from you.

You grabbed the foil covered plate and approached his door, knocking aggressively until he answered.

"(Y/N)!" Damiano answered the door. "What are you doing here?"

You stared at him. He was exhausted. His eyes were red and dark, his cheeks had sunken in, and his hair was disheveled. He needed a shave.

"Why haven't you been answering my calls?" You asked in a tone that demanded an answer. You pushed your way into the apartment.

As you entered, you saw all of his notes and pens scattered around his living room floor. They formed a circle with a center just wide enough to fit a sitting Damiano.

"Have you just been sitting here? On your floor?"

Damiano ran his hand up the back of his neck. "Yeah, (Y/N), I've been working on the album, and--"

"And you've had me worried sick!" You slid the foil off the plate and stuck it in the microwave. "I brought you dinner."

"You didn't have to do that, tesoro." Damiano spoke, reaching into the cabinet and pulling out a wine glass. "I don't want any wine, but do you?"

You shook your head as you slid the plate onto the table. "I'm good. I'll get you some water. Go and eat."

Damiano sat and stared at his plate. He hadn't had much of an appetite. You handed him a glass of water and he shot you a smile.

You sat in silence as he played with his fork, just pushing the food around. "You're getting thinner." You whispered. "Are you trying?"

Damiano looked up. "No, I-I haven't. I haven't had much of an appetite. I've just been so busy with the album.