Chapter Text
"Huh," Zayn says. He looks down at the exactly sixteen knee-length boxes of strawberries. Lifts a cardboard flap.
"Huh," he says again.
"Be excited for me, Zayn," Louis says, darting between the sixteen boxes to ensure each strawberry is in tip-top condition. "Squeal a little squeal of pure ecstasy for me, why don't you."
Zayn looks up at Louis calmly and serenely. It must be all the yoga Louis has never actually seen him do.
"Louis, babe," he says, "you've got your apron on backwards."
Louis looks down. Zayn, of course, is right. Strawberry Swirl, pony princess, had been on inside out.
"You're a true savior, Zayn Esmerelda Malik," Louis declares, untying his bow.
"That I am," Zayn agrees. "Now tell me what the fuck is up with the fruit."
•••
Niall is up next. He's rubbing at his eyes when he stumbles into the kitchen, trips over a box and nearly falls face-first into the stove.
"Motherfucking buggering assdick," is the politest thing he manages for eleven minutes.
"Now now, Niall," counsels Louis. "Look where you're walking."
"You almost killed the jam," Zayn says sadly. "Not the jam, Niall."
"I'll kill your stupid arses," says Niall, not his best and definitely not his politest since he's still fifteen percent asleep, but he brightens up considerably after Louis manages to overcook him two strips of bacon. "What's the jam for, then?"
•••
Liam lets in the sun at nine am, because even when he's doing the walk of shame he's still disgustingly punctual and chirpy and righteous about it.
"Heyyy," he says, snagging one of Harry's beloved bananas. "'s with the strawberries, Lou? You making jam?"
"What I don't understand," Louis says to the room in general, "is how Liam managed to figure shit out after one cursory sweeping glance. Why aren't you both wise and reasonable and sweeping like Liam?"
"I'll sweep you," Niall says, making less than no sense whatsoever, stuffing bacon into Louis' forehead without really looking.
"The jam is Louis' midlife crisis," Zayn explains.
"Quarter-life," Liam corrects automatically.
•••
Harry is the last to wake up.
He's still lacking sleep; a week of parties and events he'd been made to attend night after night had ended two days ago, with him crawling into Louis' bed at four am and lining himself flush against Louis' back, smelling like vodka and expensive perfume, but murmuring "Lou, Lou," lips moving, "I missed you," against Louis' neck.
They make him go out more than the others; he's more exposed, more attention generated with him at a party, and they've got the movie, and they need the publicity of him pressing a kiss to the corner of a random blonde girl's mouth. That's how they justify it, anyway. The rest all shrug; they're not bothered, Louis is sure, about Harry being da shit, but it bothers him, it bothers Louis, especially when Harry looks at the ground, frustrated and trying to hide it, hands curled into fists, after yet another one of those meetings.
Louis had woken up the next day, and there was his boy, draped all over him like the most unaccommodating octopus ever. Louis had adjusted himself amongst his limbs and looked at him, and thought of the sixteen year old who'd leaned in thoughtlessly and kissed Louis everywhere and laughed, because he'd thought he'd get to do it forever.
Two days later, the jam arrives.
Harry stands in his grey sweatpants and stupid pie chart shirt, and looks confusedly at the floor.
"Ni," he says, "what's up with the fruit?"
"It's not Ni this time, but thanks for the thought," says Niall. "It's Lou."
"But Louis can't cook," says Harry insultingly.
Louis holds up two strips of bacon indignantly.
Harry stares pointedly at the blackened charred edges of said strips in lieu of a response.
"Okay, so I'm not Masterchef material," Louis concedes. "But I can- boil. I can boil jam. You just need to boil jam. Seven simple steps. That's what Siri said."
Harry steps closer, peers into a box. "Strawberries," he says happily, because he has a Fruit Problem. "Louis?"
"Yeah, Haz," Louis says, tugging a huge pot he's never seen before in his life out of the cupboard under the sink with a flourish, and nearly braining Liam.
"What's the jam for?" Harry enquires.
"Ah," Louis says. "You mean who. Who the jam's for."
"This is when it gets interesting," Zayn informs Harry. "And by interesting I mean mildly insane."
"I'll take my chances," Harry says, cross-legged on the floor and mouth already smeared with red juice. Louis kind of wants to either - spread it all over and lick it off him, or wipe it cleanly away with his thumb and kiss his forehead, but mostly the licking, which is a pretty good representation of how he feels about Harry Styles in general, really.
"Who's the jam for, Lou?" he asks.
"Oh," Louis says, looking back at his huge pot and dumping, like, half a box into it. "Management."
•••
"I'm sorry, I must've heard wrong," Harry announces. "I thought I heard Lou say that the boxes of delicious almost strawberry jam on our floor are all going to Management."
"Yes, and now we've reached the mild insanity," Zayn says, over his paper (actual morning paper, because Zayn), "but hear him out, it gets better."
"He's making jam for management so they'll let you come out," Niall announces brightly.
"Shut the fuck up, I wanted Louis to tell him!"
"I am indeed," Louis confirms, "bribing them with jam. So they'll have no choice but to let us."
"This plan doesn't even make any sense," Liam says resignedly from where he's leaning against the sink, eating his Healthy Brans or something equally disgusting.
"Your face doesn't make any sense," Louis tells him ridiculously.
"I think it's brilliant," Niall declares staunchly.
"You think rubber ducks are brilliant," says Zayn, all matter of fact.
"Yeah, you'd better duck," says Niall completely reasonably.
"It's cool, though," Zayn says, with a sort of quietly amused approval. "Insane, but cool."
"I really don't know what's going to happen," Liam says. "Not that it's not cool, because something should happen, finally," he says suddenly, because Liam's cool like that.
"Harry?" Louis asks, because he's just staring, gaze unreadable and flickering between the fruit and the boys. "What do you think," he says quietly.
Harry looks up from his box, and his eyes meet Louis'.
He's sort of grinning really a lot, all over his fruit-stained face.
"I think it's awesome," he says.
•••
So they make jam.
It's harder than it looks; it's sweaty and hot and heavy and messy and fragile and did Louis mention the heat? The first batch turns out squick-face soury. The second one is basically red sticky sugar. The third one is liquid, not jam. Jars of sweet sticky substances litter their tourbus and the smell of warmish fruit permeates the air constantly; Louis dreams of being kidnapped by shadowy Strawberry Shortcake-esque figures.
Harry helps a lot, because Louis can't even boil, apparently. Zayn and Liam stir. Niall tastes, even when he's not supposed to.
At night, Harry curls into him, closer than before, somehow, a reality Louis didn't even know was possible, and Louis steels his resolve even more with every jar of jam because this boy is worth the universe, the universe and all the ones we haven't yet figured out are there.
•••
"Here's some jam," Louis announces, dumping it on the table. It looks out of place there, the old Nutella+banana jar amongst the sleek shine of the glass, the polished finish of everything in the meeting room. It looks sort of perfect. "I want to do an interview with Harry. I want to tell the world how he begs for my dick every night."
Out of the corner of his eye, Louis can see Liam drop his head on his palm. He can start to hear Niall's giggle, catch Zayn's trying-awful-hard-to-be-done-with-your-shit-here-Tommo look which comes off kind of, strangely enough, fond.
Out of the corner of his eye, right next to him, Louis can see Harry slowly dimple, the verge of open amusement. He looks sixteen again, like he's about to kiss Louis everywhere and laugh about it, because he'll get to do it forever.
•••