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I can't remember a time when I didn't hate Michael Clifford. This hatred pretty much formed in year eight. There was this girl I liked, and when I say liked. I mean, I thought she was pretty. Unfortunately, Michael also thought she was pretty. Ever since I found out, we've evaded each other. Then Calum and I became mates, and Michael was livid. He didn't want to be around me, and I didn't want to be around him. The only reason I talked to him was because his guitar skills were fucking sick, and I, privately, thought that was cool. When Michael realized I could sing, he asked Calum and me if we wanted to start a band. Of course, I said yes, even if I didn't like Michael; being in a band was one of my biggest dreams, so I had to agree. I don't know why we've never just talked it out, but we haven't and probably never will. So, for now, we're enemies.
•••
"Great show tonight, boys!" Our manager Ven calls as we pile into our tour bus. He looks back to ensure we're all inside before shutting the door on all the screaming fans swarming around the bus.
"You could've fucking killed me, Michael!" I yell, plowing Michael into a wall. "Not to mention, you fucking ruined my rhythm!"
"Hop of it, Luke. It's not like you had some big fucking solo." He reacts, yanking my hands off of his shoulders.
"Fuck you, you know this is why you're the least favorite member 'cause you can't handle your fucking temper."
"I can't handle my temper," Michael grins. "Oh, holy shit Luke. You don't see that you're the fucking problem here? It's your temper that pisses me and everyone else off. You started this fight, just like every other fight this week, and last week, and the week before that, and the fucking week before that! You're the one who needs to handle yourself!"
"Jesus Christ, guys. Calm down; everyone in this bus is tired of hearing you two screech at each other every night." Ashton chimes in. "You both need to control your temper. Luke, all Michael did was bump your guitar when he ran past you. He did not almost fucking kill you. And Michael quit arguing with Luke. Just drop it-stop adding fuel to the fire whenever he starts yelling at you. You hear me? Good fucking night." He sounds, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. He ambles over to his bunk and jumps in-shoving his face into his pillow.
All Michael and I can do is stare at each other for a few seconds before snapping back to reality and clambering into our bunks. It doesn't help that our bunks are directly across from one another.
•••
My eyes start to squint open as I wake up to the morning sunlight pouring into the tiny window on the wall of my bunk.
"You good, mate?" I open my eyes to see Calum standing outside my bunk. "You look like you had a rough night."
"Yeah, I'm fine Cal." I respond rubbing my eyes. Truth is, I don't remember anything from last night, as soon as my head hit my pillow I was out.
"You sure? You're covered in sweat." I look down to see that my chest is indeed covered in sweat. I wipe a hand across my forehead only to feel that it's also covered in sweat.
"I'm okay, Calum," I ensure. I toss my blankets off of my legs and crawl over to the ladder. Once I get to the floor I'm greeted with the last person I want to see right now, Micheal.
"Damn, you look like shit." He says, pushing past me. Thanks. That's wonderful; good morning to you, Michael. I step into the bathroom, lazily slinging the door shut behind me. The first thing I see is my sweaty person in the mirror; I really do look like shit. My hair is all spikey and sticking out every which way, and little red lines are spread across my cheek from the wrinkles of my pillow. I grab my toothbrush and absentmindedly spurt toothpaste onto the purple bristles. My eyes dart around the tiny bathroom, then back to myself in the mirror. My hair. My face. The toothpaste that's currently running down my chin. My chest. My stomach. Then, what? Where the fuck did my other sock go? I lower my toothbrush to the faucet and rinse it off. My eyes meet their reflection in the mirror. Last night must've been rough.
"Morning, Luke. You okay?" Ashton beams as I enter the kitchen, where he and Cal are making breakfast, and Michael is sitting at the table watching them.
"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"
"You just look a little, fucked; I was just making sure you were good."
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Sleep okay?"
"Yeah, surprisingly good. All I saw was black. No dreams or anything."
"That's good. I mean, you definitely don't look like it though," Ashton says. I roll my eyes, "you're so sweet, Ashton."
Michael walks into the kitchen and I don't even stay to hear what he's gonna say about me; I walk my ass to the back of the bus and grab a white Tee and skinny jeans to change into. I do hear him say, 'well he looks like fucking shit,' as I exit the kitchen. As soon as I'm changed I head back out for the kitchen, but I'm stopped when I see Michael stumbling down the hall.
"What are you?" I start to ask, but I'm interrupted when he forces past me, and I hear him start throwing up into the toilet. "Oh fuck."
Not long after, Ashton comes bustling past me and moves into the washroom. He starts rubbing Michael's back then tells me to bring him some water. I hurry to the kitchen and catch a glimpse of Michael's half eaten toast on the table.
"Did Michael?" Calum asks, a look of fear plastered across his face and I nod my head in response.
"I'm grabbing a water bottle for him," I say, rummaging through the cupboard to find the package of water bottles.
"God Dammit," He responds in a defeated tone. "I thought he was better."
"I did, too," I shrug my shoulders and head back to the bathroom, Calum following closely behind me. I hand the bottle to Ashton, who is now kneeling next to Michael. Michael is curled up on the floor beside the toilet with his back to the wall and his knees to his chest. I can hear him faintly sniffling behind Ashton's "Thanks, Luke." I've never seen Michael like this before. I've heard him like this, but I've never been in the room when he's throwing up or crying. And I've NEVER seen or heard him break down, nor do I ever want to. It's always Ashton or Calum consoling him. They can see the signs before I can because they're always with him when something like this occurs. Well, I can't see his face, but I can see his legs and his hands shakily grabbing the bottle from Ashton's outstretched hand. Ashton is covering up most of his small frame. And to be fully honest, I don't want to see his face. I've only ever seen him happy or mad. I have no liking for the guy but I would fucking hate to see him upset like this. Ashton begins to stand up, meaning Michael's face will be visible to me, so that's my cue to flee. I make a beeline to the kitchen and sit at the table, driving my hands into my hair.
"He's okay," Calum says, sighing and dropping into the bench across from me. "Are you okay?"
"Of course," I say, my eyes beginning to dampen. "Just never seen him like that before, you know? I could hear him crying."
"You've never heard him cry before?"
"I have, just never that clear."
"It's painful."
"What?"
"Hearing Mikey cry."
"Good morning, boys!" A voice booms throughout the tour bus as Ven busts through the door. "We gotta head out in five minutes; you have an interview for Good Morning America in 20."
His expression quickly shifts when he realizes Calum and I's frowns aren't simply because it's early.
"What's happened?" He questions.
"Michael threw up his breakfast." Calum answers.
"Dammit. Are you sure he isn't just sick?" Ven inquiries, rubbing a hand hand down his chin.
"He took four bites of toast, then he was in the toilet. I'm fairly certain he's not just sick, Ven." Calum responds, the defeated look reappearing on his face.
"Damn, okay, I'll leave you guys alone for a little bit, but we need to be on the road by seven o'clock. Do you think Mikey can be ready in five minutes?"
"Maybe."
"Alright. If he isn't, you'll have to go on GMA without him."
"Okay."
Ven walks out right before Ashton appears at the entrance to the bunk hallway. I hear the words, "Mikey's all good now; he's brushing his teeth," fall from his lips. He strides into the kitchen and makes me scoot over so he can sit down. Minutes later, Michael and his hot pink hair enter the room. He walks past us to grab his phone off the counter. The triad of us watches Michael like he's a rabid zoo animal that's about to vault out of its enclosure. He vanishes into the hallway for a second and then re-enters the kitchen and turns to look at us.
"What. Ven said we had to leave in five minutes; get your asses up."