Niall: it seems to be absolutely sparking from his fingertips as he moved them in a mesmerizing and enticing way, strumming strings with a delicate but certain touch. It may be the glint of the guitar caught in the fading evening light, but you’re almost positive it’s straight from his heart, flowing through his veins, and out of his calloused fingers. And you’re getting all caught up in him, as he hums some tune softly that’s been on his mind the entire week that you’ve really taken a liking to. And soon enough you’re looking up at him, asking what song that is (“you don’t know what it is?” “nah, Ni, can’t think of it… sounds familiar though” “but, I mean, you sing it all the time” “what do you mean?” “well it’s just like, ya know, your song. The one you hum all the time, like when you’re making coffee in the morning or painting your nails or—I don’t know—you just hum it all the time… s’probably just in the back of your head” “but how’ve you been able to pick it out, if I can’t even place it?” “I mean it’s like the song I think of now, you’ve got it stuck in my head too, s’pose, it just comes to mind when I think of you” “well, Ni, let’s make it ours, then”) when he’s getting a little blushy. But you beg him to keep playing it and soon enough, there’s the two of you, curled up on the couch, too close for comfort, really, but you’ve got your head pressed up into his chest, feeling the soft vibration of his rib cage as the notes hum out through his lips straight into your ear. And he’s smiling because there’s a certain magic to it all, the making of a song that he knows will always be in the back of his mind for a lifetime.
Harry: it’s surrounding the both of you, and you can’t help but take it in with the purest and most beautiful silence. And you find yourselves pressed up against each other at once, both finding your way to each other almost subconsciously, feeling the sudden smallness of yourselves in the vastness of the mountaintop. And then there’s another feeling finding its way through you, first a bit shyly, then an explosion of sparks and electricity. It’s the magic of this place, the rush of being on the summit of a mountain, open to the world, but undistinguishable to any naked eye. And you’ll start bouncing a bit against his chest as you realize how freeing the feeling of magic surging through your veins feels, energizing to the core of your being. Suddenly, you’re up and running, singing, shouting, laughing, spinning—unable to contain the feeling, while you’re dragging Harry along with you until he’s in this daze of confusion. He’ll pull you close to him and search your breathless, grinning face for an answer (“seriously, y/n, what is happening?” “it’s just so lovely, isn’t it?” “what do you even mean? It’s two in the morning and you drove us out here to run around on a mountaintop?” “you don’t get it do you?” “get what?” “Harry, it’s the undeniable hugeness of it all. Doesn’t it make you feel small?” “yeah, really does, but I wouldn’t say that’s a good feeling in any sense of the word” “no, no, it’s the greatest feeling in the world… all your problems, all your silly little worries and fears and stupid concerns—I mean, look out there, Harry, can you see anything?” “just city lights” “exactly. All of that, all the fame, media, work, completely tiny in the entirety of the world. Don’t even have to worry”). And, after thinking about it for a while, he’ll pull you close again, the two of you cuddled up on the gravel road on the top of some mountain and he’ll mention how small he really does feel. But that doesn’t bother him a bit, really, because he likes feeling small with you.
Louis: it’s really cheesy, actually, but it’s so thick in the air it seems palpable, like you could slice off a little here, pinch a little there. Because who can’t feel the magic when you’re in Disneyland itself, and besides, he needs an excuse (now more than ever) to act like a kid again. So you’re not the least surprised when he grabs your hand and pulls you straight to Space Mountain because, c’mon y/n, it’s easily the best ride there and it goes insanely fast. And, throughout the day, it’s quite easy to slip back into the seven year old self that always loved Peter Pan especially and wouldn’t mind another candy apple, thank you very much. And, as the sun sets everything that golden color, you find each other much more exhausted then you’ve really ever been before. So, sprawled out on the grass to watch the fireworks, you find yourself contentedly sighing into his shoulder as he shifts so his lips are right next to your ear, his hot breath tickling in the most exhilarating way as he tells you how much he really does like you and how this was easily the third best day of his life (which he quickly changes to first after you hit him in the stomach, playfully of course) and how he can barely stand to be alone and how you’re probably the prettiest girl he’s ever been with (“and that’s pretty astonishing, considering who I am, ya know” “shut up, Lou. You’re the worst” “But you’re the best” “promise?” “pinky promise, cross my heart and hope to die” “wow, Louis, this is getting pretty serious, isn’t it?” “well, of course it is, love, I’m a serious type of guy”). And the both of you are flying well past Cloud Nine by the end of the night, half walking-half dancing out to the car, the magic never really fading.
Liam: “…it’s gone.” As the words cascade out of your mouth recklessly, you can see the impact they’ve left on him. And he’s feeling like utter shit (and who can blame him, after being crushed underneath the absolute ton or two of bricks you’ve just hit him with—metaphorically, of course) as he watches you run out the door, half sobbing, unable to look him straight in the face again. And it’s not like he didn’t see it coming (he might have pushed it into the back of his mind, insisting that it wasn’t real, that he was just imagining things) throughout the last month or so, and god, he’s remembering how long a month really is and how terribly he wanted to see you, to talk things through, to fly you out to him, to hold you close and try to find the words to explain how he couldn’t ever think of losing you. But you were your own person, really, and, as he puts it, a much better one than he could ever even hope to be. And he knows that there’s that spark somewhere that he found the first time he took you out on a proper date, that has more love and beauty and hope than he’s ever found in a person before, and he’s absolutely desperate for it at this point. But as he’s sitting here, alone, on the hard wooden floor of his empty flat, he’s realizing that he hasn’t even been listening to you, really, as you’re pouring your soul out in front of him. He’s realizing that all you’ve ever done in the relationship is give, and give, and give until you had nothing left, and here he was—halfway across the world living his dream, sending messages or packages here and there, but receiving your love more greedily than he would like to admit. And of course, being on tour most of the time is a given in the relationship, but he’s remembering all the times he could have flown you out, or video-chatted you, or just told you that you deserve so much more. So, he’s not playing the blame game anymore. He knows you’re your own person and you deserve to be, but he can’t help but remind you (despite the fact that you aren’t really talking to him) that you should really be given the world, and the moon, and the other planets, for that matter, and the stars, of course, mostly just the entire galaxy, and he won’t stop until he’s given it to you.
Zayn: it seems to be radiating from everyone, really, the perfect day and place and time and company and feeling. It’s honestly just how you’ve always dreamed it would be, or perhaps a bit better because in your dreams you’d never have enough money for all this and you’d have to stay practical or you’d only end up disappointing yourself later on. But here you are, feeling more blessed than ever, as you’re slipping on the delicate, lace gown. And, with reassuring looks and wide smiles from your family and friends, you can’t help but feel like an absolute princess as you look at yourself in the mirror. And as you scan your eyes around the room, there’s no stopping the magic pulsating throughout the entire chapel as you clench your bouquet in 20% nervousness and 80% pure excitement. And later on, as you take a deep breath and start the ever-so-endless walk down the aisle, you look up to see Zayn standing there with the largest, most dazzling smile you’ve ever seen and the most beautiful eyes that have had you since day one (and it’s the cliché of clichés, but your heart is fluttering like a hummingbird’s and you can’t really seem to focus on anything else but making your way to one and only love of your life). And as if he hasn’t been excited enough, standing up there, waiting somewhat patiently, he’s overtaken by the entire scene, a little weak at the knees, as he waits for what seems like an eternity and a half for you to take your place next to him. And he can’t even fathom it, truly, how he’s simply got the prettiest bride in the entire world standing right next to him, repeating this promise to stay beside him forever, and he’s really just having trouble containing himself, the magic spilling over, seeping out the seams, entrancing the entire room. And soon enough he’s kissing you, sealing the deal once and for all, like he’s wanted to since he first met you. And you can’t help but bound down the aisle together, filled to the brim with joy and love, the magic of the perfect day absolutely enchanting your very beings, ready to start the rest of your lives together.
