You were the fifth member of Måneskin, the youngest, and played second guitar. You had been feeling unwell for a long time, but you tried to play every concert normally because you were on tour.

What most of your fans didn’t know was how much it took out of you just to stand under those stage lights. Chronic issues you never fully named out loud, doctors’ appointments squeezed between rehearsals, pills hidden in the bottom of your bag, exhaustion that didn’t go away no matter how much you slept. You were good at pretending. Too good.

The last note of the concert still rang in the air when the roar of the crowd followed you backstage. Sweat clung to your skin, your fingers still buzzing from the strings, adrenaline carrying you forward even as your body had clearly had enough.

You were the last one offstage.

Damiano noticed immediately.

Your steps slowed, your shoulder dipping as if the guitar suddenly weighed twice as much. The noise behind the curtain felt too loud, and the familiar warning signs crept in — that hollow, dizzy feeling you hated admitting to.

“Hey,” Damiano said quietly, already reaching for you. “Easy.”

He slid an arm around your back without making a scene, steady and practiced, his grip firm enough to support you but gentle enough not to draw attention. To anyone watching, it probably looked like post-show closeness. To him, it was instinct.

“You good?” he asked under his breath.

“I— I think.. I feel a bit weak...” you replied.

"Hey, hey, you're okay, cmon, sit down."

He guided you backstage with an arm firmly around your shoulders, his other hand gripping the strap of your guitar so you wouldn’t have to carry it. Your vision blurred at the edges, sound dulling like cotton had been stuffed in your ears.

He guided you down onto a chair, crouching in front of you, his hands on your knees as he searched your face. Someone from the crew was already moving — it wasn’t the first time.

It was routine by now — too routine for his liking. After a moment you had an oxygen mask on your face. “Breathe with me,” he said, softly. “Slow. Like this.”

Someone from the staff was already shouting something about the next activities of the band, but Damiano was already irritated by this.

“We’re done for tonight,” he said, already deciding. “No interviews. No photos. I don’t care who complains.”

You looked up at him, guilt flickering across your face.

He softened instantly.

“Hey,” he said, quieter. “You did amazing. You always do. Now you let me take care of you.”