Michael Clifford Imagines/Preferences

Fighting Friends

"Bye guys!" you hollered as you and Michael walked back to the car. You had just finished having a few drinks with Luke and Ashton and were completely exhausted. Not physically, but mentally. You couldn't stand their jokes, they were silly and immature. Not to mention the fact that they felt the need to comment on every song that came on. Normally these things wouldn't bother you, but they kept trashing all of the music that you like. I mean, of all people you'd expect professional musicians to respect other musicians. You convinced yourself that you wouldn't have to hang out with them much so you could make it through the evening, but toward the end of the night, things got tense.

"I'm just saying - with a voice like hers you'd think she wouldn't need so much auto-tune." You rolled your eyes at the statement, a backhanded compliment doesn't make you seem any better than if you just insulted someone. Luke, clearly noticing your annoyed expression, called you out, "What's your problem y/n? Not like you're a musician." You gritted your teeth and tried to ignore him, but he just kept going. You were about to interrupt him and go off, but Michael grabbed your hand and said, "Let's get going, yeah?" That was when you all walked out of the restaurant and back to your cars. And that was also when you felt the need to rant about everything you had been feeling on the ride home.

"I swear, it's like he doesn't understand that other people have good taste in music too! His opinion isn't the only opinion, and Luke encourages him!" Michael sat there listening, thinking he just needed to let you finish venting. "He's always such an ass! And Luke tells those stupid vulgar jokes and it's like - he just needs to grow up! Y'know?" Michael said dryly, "Y/n, they're still my friends, lay off a bit, okay?" You thought he was just being sensitive and continued to talk about how frustrated you were. As he pulled into the garage he immediately shut the car off, got out, and slammed the door behind him. You followed behind him, "Michael? What's wrong?" He walked straight to the bathroom and left you to close the garage door.

You sat down of the bed and waited for him to come out of the bathroom. When he did he rolled his eyes at you and walked over to the living room. "Michael, what's wrong?"

He scoffed, "Really y/n? You can't figure it out that I have a problem with you trashing my friends?

"Your friends trashed me the entire night and you didn't say shit to them!"

"They were fucking joking!"

You stared at him astounded, "So because they're joking, it's okay to make fun of me? Way to be an ass."

He threw his hands up exasperatedly, "Take a joke every once in a while! It wouldn't kill you! I swear, you can never laugh at anything."

"Excuse me if I don't like being insulted!"

Michael grabbed his jacket, "Even if you call them asses, I'd rather be with them right now than you because you're such a bitch! For the past two years it's been nothing but your nonstop bitching and moaning about everything! You want to see an ass? Look in the fucking mirror!"

He'd never called you a bitch before in the two years you'd dated. He knew how much you hated that word, and he said it anyway, knowing you'd cry. You felt a few tears in your eyes, and couldn't handle it knowing that he felt that way. You took off your engagement ring, threw it at him, and started walking away. He ran after you, but you took your car keys and drove away. Over the next few days he assumed you'd cool down, and he'd get another chance to apologize. When he came home Tuesday night, four days later, he thought maybe you'd be home, or maybe you'd finally answer his call. When he entered the doorway though, something seemed off. He could smell your perfume throughout the house, so you had definitely been there. When he walked into the bedroom, he picked up his phone and called Ashton.