TO BE ALONE: a series of måneskin oneshots

why do you care so much (d.d.)

TW: ed, but you already knew that #fanficcatharsis

I also made the choice to give y/n a name this time, so have fun w Taylor

Damiano slid the last of the plates from dinner into the dishwasher, smiling to himself as he heard the shower water running from the bathroom down the hall. 

His smile morphed into a giggly smirk as he entertained the idea of joining his girlfriend in her shower. 

Meanwhile, Taylor was kneeling on the bathroom tile, on her metaphorical last legs. At this rate, she couldn't afford to lose anymore weight, nor could she afford the time off that she would need to fully recover from the strain she was putting on her body right now. With the tour coming up, she had fallen back to her old, nasty habits of dealing with her stress.

She sat back on her heels, her nails scratched at her stomach, right above long healed scars from surgeries she had in her teenage years. In her eyes, the purging hadn't done enough. She didn't feel empty yet. 

"Just one more time." She muttered under her breath, but she wasn't sure who she was talking to. 

With all the strength left in her weak, exhausted body, Taylor leaned forward and shoved her fingers down her throat. She swore she almost had her knuckles down her larynx before she felt the sinfully familiar clench of her chest. 

She coughed into the toilet a few times, nothing more coming up than spit and what little water was left in her system. This upset her, but she couldn't afford to go again, she'd risk breaking blood vessels again, and she had a hard enough time lying about how that happened the first time it did. 

That was when they were a few years younger, competing at the Eurovision Song Contest, and she was feeling the same stress as now. Maybe she'd be better at coming up with a cover story now that she was older, more mature, but Taylor didn't want to test out her lying ability, in case it hadn't improved since. 

Damiano dried his hands on the kitchen towel and made his way down the hallway. He knocked on the door, but didn't receive any kind of answer from Taylor. He figured she couldn't hear him over the shower water running and the music she had playing. 

He pressed his ear to the door. Hozier. He thought. Good choice. 

Damiano slowly opened the door. "Hey, baby!" He called "Jus' me–shit." Damiano gasped, seeing Taylor half dressed, slumped against the bathroom vanity. 

Taylor was spaced out, still conscious and responsive, but she had a certain glazed over look about her. Medical professionals would have a better term for it, but Taylor always refers to this state as her post-purge high. It's not as good as a post-performance high, but it comes somewhat close. 

"Taylor, hey, hey, hey, what's going on?" Damiano panicked, turning off the music and dropping to his knees beside his girlfriend. 

Taylor was slumped down, her legs outstretched weakly in front of her as she worked to catch her breath. Her hair, still damp from the shower, laid in matted tendrils down her shoulders. "Don't worry about it." She shook her head. 

"No, I will worry about it. You're," Damiano cupped his hand around the left side of her face, trying to feel for a fever. She didn't feel feverish, just clammy. "You're on the fucking floor!" 

His eyes worriedly darted around the bathroom, looking for any sign of what could have caused this. As his eyes landed on the open toilet, goosebumps rose on his skin, making the ink of his tattoos rise as well. 

His shoulders fell, the relief of getting an answer to the problem washing over him. Granted, this wasn't an easy answer to come across, nor was it an easy problem to fix, but an answer was an answer nonetheless.