Liam: "Its okay," he hushes you, fighting back his own unhappiness. "It will all be okay, you’ll see." You shake your head, your forehead pressed against his chest. Your hair gets mussed - more than it already is - but you don’t pay it any attention. Your entire body is shivering, trembling and hunching forward with each sob. It all comes from your chest - your pain, your weeping. You can’t tell if it’s your lungs or your heart, or the emotional center you placed there. Liam doesn’t care what’s hurting, though. He’ll hold you close and make it okay.
Zayn: "Its okay," he laughs, holding your loosely while you cling to his shirt. "It’s a film, babe. It’s not real," he says, half-way watching you with bemused eyes, almost too focused on the movie. You whimper and snuggle closer. You’re laughing at yourself a little, sure - but you are scared, and holding yourself to his chest does make you feel safer. You wouldn’t be lying if you said you love the way his hand smooths lazy lines on your side, or the way his heart thrums under your ear, or the way his breath trails over your hair. Maybe you’re more comfortable than scared, now, but who needs to know?
Louis: "It’s okay," he promises, clutching your hand and wincing when you squeeze. You whine and toss your head, wishing you had asked for that epidural. Louis clucks and pushes your hair back from your face. The doctor gives the signal, and he whispers to you. "Just a bit more, love. Just a little longer, now, and we’ll have our own beautiful little girl," he says, hushed and soothing. "And we’ll name her after your grandmother and she’ll have your face and my eyes, and she’ll have the best mother in the world." You smile shortly, too much in pain to show much happiness, but you know he’s right; in a few moments, your little daughter will be born.
Niall: "It’s okay," he grits, half-heartedly pulling his hand from your grip. You frown but let it slip away anyway, afraid of injuring him more. You scan his face; there’s a bruise by his eyebrow, a cut over his nose; his lip is split and there’s scraped skin along his chin, neck, and shoulders. His knuckles are tattered; bruised and bloody and all-telling. There are contusions over his torso, and you fear for his ribs. He catches you watching and huffs out what you think must be a painful sigh. "Hey, [Y/N]," he says quietly. "I’m alright, yeah? You’re alright," he smiles. "The other guys looks worse, I promise," he smirks at you, cursing when his lip begins to bleed. You sigh out a laugh and kiss the back of his hand where the injuries are sparse, content to patch up your boyfriend.
Harry: "It’s okay," he whispers, sitting next to his daughter. At seven, she’s a tiger; ferocious and free and maybe a little fearful, but she’ll brave anything from bugs to roller coasters. Her little hands scrub at her face, wiping away the tears she hates to shed. He wraps an arm around her and pulls her into his lap, rocking her until the weeping subsides. "Icona, darling," he shushes. "Auntie Gem isn’t really angry, hmm? She’s just upset that you trampled the back garden." He wipes a wayward tear from her porcelain face. Her eyes are greener than ever, contrasting the red from her tears. Icona clings to her Harry’s neck as he stands, safe in her daddy’s arms.
