You're so mean- Michael Clifford
Summary: You see her there? That girl he's always bringing with him? The one he's always pissing off? I heard it's her fault.
Tbh I don't really know what this one is, but I have a lot of ideas in my notes app and too much free time, so enjoy.
It always ended like this when they went out, doors slamming, screaming back and forth, awkward texts from friends in the morning asking ‘are you ok?’ It was exhausting, and not just for her either. Everyone loved Ryann; even the people closest to Michael thought he was the problem because that's how she acted. Like a little miss perfect, playing the victim, clueless to the tension in any room. And he wasn’t going to say anything because deep down, Michael knows he craves her crazy. He knows that all roads lead back to bickering; that's just how he grew up, and that’s how he was taught to love and be loved. So when they got home, the car door slammed, chasing after her into the house because God knows she’ll lock the door on him if he’s not quick enough; it was like their routine. Passive aggression, her sighing, mumbling under her breath, avoiding eye contact. He has to wait for her to calm down; if she doesn't have enough time to blow off steam, then she'll start crying, and Michael just can't deal with that. Not again, not tonight.
So he sat on their leather couch, on his phone, ignoring her. Letting her throw her overgrown toddler fit in peace before even attempting to bridge the gap between them. He was always the one to apologize first; if he left that to her, they probably wouldn't speak for a month. At least. She was carrying on in the kitchen, clanking the dishes loudly as she put them away, mumbling about him causing a scene again. Michael knew he hadn’t; he knew the unforeseen circumstances were not his fault, not this time at least. But Ryann knew how to push the narrative in her favor; of course, Michael knew how she acted. He should probably stop taking her out when his friends invite them, but they all love the way she plays innocent.
It starts before they even leave the house; she needs to know the dress code. What are the other guys' girlfriends wearing? Could she text them and ask? Could she just look up the fucking restaurant if it’s that big of a deal? Sure, but why would she when she can pick a fight with Michael instead? She’d go through their entire shared closet, dresses, skirts, even some of Michael’s nice button-ups scattered on the floor. And she’d leave it like that for him to clean up, because, of course, she did; she still had a whole routine to get ready, and Michael only took 5 minutes. She’ll come out of the bathroom looking sexy. Looking dangerous, and the lines on his face would completely disappear. Not for long though, because she’d scrunch her face at him and ask, “Is that really what you’re wearing?” And Michael would just shake his head, waiting on her to either give up or pick out a new shirt for him.
Getting in the car would start another fight, cigarette ashes on the door handle, the vents pointed in the wrong direction, or God forbid he rolls his window down too far, and it messes with her perfectly curled hair. Michael would keep his right hand resting on her leg, but her whole body language was closed off, crossed arms watching the city disappear out the window. This was the calm before the storm; he knew it. They would have a little heart-to-heart before walking in; Michael would apologize, she'd give him a sweet little kiss, promising to be on her best behavior even though they both knew that was a lie. They’d walk into the restaurant hand in hand; as they approached the table, she would give the girlfriends a side hug and kiss on the cheek before sitting down in the chair Michael pulled out for her. His hand would find her thigh again, and she’d smile over at him.
When it was time to order, she got a little antsy. Now, Ryann was not picky; if anything, she was quite adventurous in the way she ate, but indecisive. They would look over the menu together; she’d pick out two dishes she just ‘couldn't decide’ from. She would choose one, and Michael would get the other, even if it was something he hated. When the food was brought out, that's usually when things got tense. Ryann ordered a salad for herself, it was dense and packed with colorful vegetables, and Michael picked her second choice, the grilled salmon over pasta with green beans. Michael was not a fish guy, so as the conversation continued, everyone laughed at the table; he just looked at it. Moving the food around gingerly, eating a green bean or a forkful of pasta here and there. Of course, Ryann noticed; she bit her lip at first, though, remembering her promise to be on her best behavior. She turned to talk to one of the girls at the table about some event they all had to be at in a few weeks. Still sitting next to her, Michael reached out for his glass of wine, accidentally knocking hers over into her lap.
Had that happened to anyone else, their first instinct would be to grab a napkin and clean themselves up. Not Ryann, though; no, she gasped, standing up frantically, scowling at Michael like he had done it on purpose before running to the restroom. He grabbed some napkins to clean up the red wine mess that was soaking into the pristine white tablecloth. He muttered a few fucks and apologies here and there before chasing after Ryann. Their friends around the table laughed it off as just an awkward encounter while they finished up their meals. Michael got to her just in time; right as she tried to slam the door behind her, he caught it. She walked towards the back corner of the single stall bathroom before turning around to look at him. Her face was red hot; a few tears had escaped the threshold and were running down her cheeks. Michael looked down at his feet sheepishly, preparing for her wrath, and she let him have it.
“What the fuck, Michael? Why do you always ruin our nights out with this? You know this is a new dress, you just bought it for me, and now it's fucked.” She didn’t scream, never in public, but the spiteful way she spat her words at him felt even more painful than a screaming match ever could. He didn't respond; he wouldn’t even know how to without making things worse. So he simply walked over to the sink, got some paper towels wet, and started dabbing them against the fabric of her dress. Her fists were balled up at her sides, and her entire body was shaking. He knew it wouldn't be too much longer before she lost her top, and Michael didn’t want to do that in public.
He pulled back, tossing the paper towels in the bin before opening the door and motioning for her to follow him out. Thankfully, the few tears weren’t enough to mess up her makeup, and Ryann was pretty good at masking her emotions when need be. “Let’s just pay and get you home,” Michael said with a sigh. She followed his lead, wiping under her eye in the mirror before leaving the bathroom. As they approached the table once again, Michael pulled a wad of cash out from his wallet, tossing it on the table before laughing about the spilt wine and bidding everyone a goodbye. Ryann gave everyone a soft smile and a wave before taking Michael’s hand and walking out to the car. The silence between them the whole ride home was deafening. Michael’s knuckles were white, gripping the steering wheel, whereas Ryann had her face shoved in her phone. The silence was only being filled by the hum of the ignition as Michael sped up or slowed down.
Soon enough, they were pulling into their driveway. Michael practically flew out of the car after shutting it off; he was determined to make it inside before she could lock him out again. He made it just in time. Ryann pushed past him in the doorway; she kicked off her heels and hung her bag on the coat rack. “Baby, I don’t want to do this tonight.” Michael let out, exhausted. His hands rubbed his face aggressively before following her down the hall to their bedroom. He approached her from behind to help her unzip her dress. She was right; it was brand new. He had bought it for their third anniversary over the weekend, and this was the first time she had gotten the chance to wear it out. Although it may seem this way, Ryann is not a bad person. She loves and adores Michael; he’s her first love. He was her first everything. Hell, she had saved herself for him. Her head fell forward as she let the dress puddle at her feet. She sighed, still not saying a word. She threw the dress in a nearby hamper and faced Michael for the first time since getting in the car.
“Why do you act like I’m the one starting shit?” She asked, seething. “You spilled damn near a whole glass of wine on my brand new dress, and you haven’t even said sorry.” Her voice was progressively getting louder, and now she was walking towards him. Her face was so close to his that he could smell the alcohol on her breath. Michael didn’t know what to say when she put him in these situations. If he were to drop to his knees and beg for her forgiveness, it wouldn't count because he had to be told to do so. Then again, if he didn't apologize, she’d probably threaten to stay at her parents' house again. That one was always an empty threat, but sometimes she’d actually start packing a bag, and Michael would wonder just how far she was willing to take it.
“I’m so, so sorry, baby. I know it's not you, I know I’m the problem. I wish I could be better for you.” He whispered, just loudly enough for her to hear it. His attempts to deescalate the situation usually end in things flying. If they were in the kitchen, it would be plates and cups; in the bathroom she’d throw her big ass shampoo bottles or a hair brush. Luckily enough for Michael, they didn't really have anything to throw in their bedroom, well besides that lamp he used to have on his side table, but she’d broken that months ago. Ryann was a hothead, a brat, who expected to boss Michael around like a puppet and be coddled at the end of the night when she felt guilty.
She sat down at the foot of their bed, letting her face fall into her hands, silent sobs escaping her lips. This is the part Michael can’t stand. The crying, when she starts amping it up. “Can we talk about this, baby?” He asked cautiously, approaching her. She nodded her head and looked over at him when she felt the bed sink beside her. Looking into her glossed-over eyes, he asked the burning question in his chest, “Why are you so mean to me, Ryann?”
She just looked down, letting more tears flow down her face. Black streaks of mascara flowed down to her chin before she could respond. But eventually she did, just barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to be mean to you, Mikey; that's just how I know how to love.” She sighed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand before continuing. “Why do you stay with me if you don’t like how I act?” Her voice came out raw, hoarse, like that had been sitting on her mind for quite some time.
Michael gulped, taking her soft, manicured hands into his. He really didn’t know what to say because honestly, that’s how he was taught to be loved too. For some twisted, fucked up reason, the big blowout fights made him feel like she cared. Why would she be wasting her time, energy, and breath on him if the fight didn’t matter to her? And she knew the way he grew up: she had met Michael’s parents and watched them hash out fights more than she’d seen her own parents fight, and that was quite frequently. “Love doesn't make sense unless it's loud.” That's it, all he could muster up before pulling her into a hug. She leaned into him as her life depended on it, sobbing into the crook of his neck, her fingernails digging into his sides. They sat like that for almost an hour; Michael rubbed the back of her hair, whispered sweet nothings and all the different ways to say I love you he could think of.
