17) Look.

“Loooook.”

Louis’ breath catches in the most un-flattering of ways before he can hit the ‘stop’ button on his recording device and swivel around in his desk chair, noticing too late his four younger sisters peeking in at his YouTube video-in-the-making through a crack they’ve somehow managed to ease open without his hearing via his bedroom door. He wastes the rest of his voice yelling at them to stop giggling and get out or else he’ll eat their faces.

And he was feeling good about the next note he was going to hit, too.

--

When he first sees Danielle, he isn’t paying attention. All he can focus on is a face begging him to ask her name. And for all it is strange, Liam can honestly think it feels entirely right. She isn’t even gracing him with her attention and he’s entranced.

One of the boys on his side (he slowly recalls his name might be Louis, or the one who started with an ‘n’) hesitantly nudges his rib cage and Liam robotically faces forward again because he’s supposed to be focusing on… whatever it was this newly formed band was doing at the moment but his mind is totally gone and he just can’t help but look.

--

“Look, I know it’s difficult, but I’m not going off to war, mum,” Zayn reassures her from the bottom of the porch steps. He’s not even to the gate yet and she’s already crying.

This is the first time he’s left her, though, so he really shouldn’t blame anyone but himself for her emotional breakdown.

“I’ll call or text every day,” he repeats, dragging his suitcase behind him with an intense glare in his eye, pushing all his might into making her understand. You don’t need to be sad, mum. I’m not sad.

But Zayn is a Malik and Malik’s always crack under some kind of pressure, and so he releases a mocking sigh as well as his suitcase and walks back up the porch steps and into the arms of his tear-spilling mother for the umpteenth time that morning, letting her soak up his affection and don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.

--

“Look!” Niall chortles, pointing at a magazine page that screams ‘ONE DIRECTION INFECTION!’ in bold, yellow letters and isn’t stingy in pasting their faces everywhere. He has a black sharpie in his right hand suspiciously uncapped until he shows off his masterpiece of appropriately drawn moustaches gracing every single image on the two-page spread.

--

“Look,” Harry urges, shows the boys his underarm.

They push lightly, chuckling, each member play-fighting for his deserved glimpse of the eighteen-year-old’s newly-inked skin.

“A point for each of us,” he says. And whether he’s kidding or not, it’s an awfully nice thing to think of, they mentally agree.