Ashton Irwin Imagines

This Damn Life

"Hotdogs or macaroni?" I asked, standing in front of the couch with my hands on my hips. I poked Ashton's knee with my toe when he didn't answer.

"Huh?" he said, having completely missed the question.

"Hotdogs," I said slowly, "or macaroni?"

"Make both," he said, not looking up from the paperwork he was poring over for the band's next TV appearance.

"One or the other, I feel lazy."

"Why should tonight be different?" Ashton said under his breath, squinting to see the fine print of some contract or another. "What's 'inveterate' mean?"

"It means, like, persistent. What do you want for dinner?"

"Oh, so kind of what you're being right now," he said snidely, ignoring my question.

My eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

"Make hotdogs. Just let me finish this."

I huffed, not liking his attitude in the slightest. "Macaroni it is." Ashton threw up his hands in frustration and fell back against the couch, and I mentally gave myself a point. Y/N, 1, Ashton, zero. Now that I thought about it, it seemed like I'd been keeping score between myself and Ashton a lot lately, as if our relationship was some kind of contest to see who could stay one step ahead of the other for the longest length of time.

We sat down across from each other at the table fifteen minutes later, a bowl of gourmet Kraft mac and cheese-it was all we had-in front of each of us. Ashton poked as his food with his fork, staring into the bowl. "Is something wrong with it?" I asked defensively.

"No," he retorted, shoving the bowl away. "You can be so obnoxious, Y/N, you know that?"

My fork clattered against the rim of my bowl as I stared at him in open-mouthed shock. "I-"

"No, I mean it. I asked for hotdogs."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I'm not a personal chef."

"Yeah, but you're my girlfriend and I asked you to make hotdogs!"

"No, you ordered me to make hotdogs after I asked you twice what you wanted and you brushed me off," I corrected, taking a bite as I eyed him with frustration. "And just because I'm your girlfriend doesn't mean I'm going to cater to you. I'm sorry, but this is what I made, so...eat it," I finished lamely. Ashton pushed his chair back and got up, the table scraping against the linoleum as he pushed it a few inches forward, hitting me in the chest. "Hey!" I exclaimed, wiping my mouth with a napkin as I stood up. "What's up with you today?"

"What's up with me?" Ashton asked incredulously. "I don't know, Y/N, why don't you take a look at that pile of contracts and sign my life away for me, then tell me why I'm upset! Fucking hell," he muttered, stomping out of the kitchen.

"Don't walk away from me," I said, grabbing the back of his shirt and yanking him back. "What do you mean 'sign your life away'?"

Ashton rubbed his temples. "Never mind. That's the least of my problems."

"Well, what's the most of them then?" I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.

The silence that fell between us was the loudest I'd ever heard. The clock ticking on the wall and the humming of the refrigerator filled the room with a mechanic soundtrack that grew ever louder as Ashton formulated an answer, the muscles in his jaw clenching. "Are we still in love?" he asked finally, his voice a lot softer than I'd expected.

"What?" I whispered.

"Do you still love me," he said, as a statement. "Because lately, I get the feeling you don't want me around." As much as it hurt my pride and heart, he had a point; I had been distant, but I just had a lot on my plate. "Ever since I got back from the tour, well, after those first couple of days anyway, you've been acting like I'm a burden, like I ruined something when I came back."