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Yukio was typically terrible at all things related to schoolwork. Literature, the sciences, social studies—he couldn’t retain anything of substantial worth about any of those subjects even if a gun was cocked to his head and the only condition the hitman had was an English translation of last night’s homework.
That’s why when he was accepted into a prestigious university in Tokyo, Moriyama and the rest of his teammates were in a state of jaw-dropping shock. Instead of dropkicking any of them (as he was wont to do in states of embarrassment), he just sunk lower in his seat and tried to play off the blush on his cheeks as a result of the summer heat because, honestly, how could he blame them? After all, the only thing he really had going for him, education-wise, were his math skills.
It wasn’t that he was particularly fond of math. Simply put, math came easier to him because it fit with most of his philosophies and idiosyncrasies. Math was strategic, precise, and deliberate. It always had an answer, and that answer was straightforward and direct, like plays in basketball. Players have to be in precise positions in order to carry out a means of victory and to limit any possible oversight, and if there were any, you regrouped and attacked the problem from a different angle.
Everything in Yukio’s life was supposed to go according to this logic and what was most beneficial at the time, like becoming captain in his senior year to repent for misdeeds in the previous year, or going to his dream university, despite his meager grades, because it was the next step to lifetime success. So, when he told Moriyama that he’d been dating Kise Ryouta, their flashy, unnecessarily attractive underclassman, he hadn't batted an eyelash when Moriyama spewed milk tea all over Kobori’s face. Yukio would’ve done the same thing if it hadn’t been him to announce it.
Because, to put it lightly, Kise Ryouta was the epitome of variable happenstance. He was everything Yukio wasn’t—immature, irresponsible, happy-go-lucky, and overtly flirtatious—and nothing that Yukio ever foresaw in his future, but yet here he was, tucked beneath the blanket, their blanket, in their apartment, soundly asleep and currently nuzzling his nose in Yukio’s chest.
When Yukio looks back on it now, he probably wouldn’t have been imaginative enough to envision a future like this for himself. He wouldn’t have been able to erect images of a beautiful man being his to keep, let alone notice the finer details of their cohabitation. There was that full-length mirror Kise used every morning to simulate outfits for the day, and there his guitar hung on prongs he and Kise had installed into the wall five months ago, and if you peeked into their bathroom, you’d see all of Kise’s facial products and eyeliner beside their kissing toothbrushes. He even knows where certain items have been stashed away for safe-keeping or safe-guarding, like Kise’s high-school jersey stuffed at the back of their closet, or Yukio’s second baby album tucked beneath the mattress.
Sometimes, when Yukio wakes up, all of this seems so foreign and alien to him just because the concept of how far they’ve come to be where they are—so comfortable in each other’s space, so familiar with the other’s presence—seems like a dream too far away to reach.
A lot of things have changed, like how Kise has to incorporate shaving his stubble into his morning routine because he is no longer that freshly hairless teenager, or how Yukio can no longer use the excuse that he knows better simply because he is two years Kise’s senior (they are both working adults now, he has to solemnly admit), or how Yukio’s favorite number has mysteriously become the number seven.
Of course, he knows that one’s preference for numbers isn’t particularly jaw-dropping or even consequential in the grand scheme of things, but to Yukio, being the math whiz that he is, seven, in his strict and candid life, is an anomaly. It is indivisible, unattractive, uneven, and incomplete, but to Yukio, it makes sense for it to be irrefutably whole. He doesn’t know when it came out to be that way.
It could've been in the seven years he spent cohabitating with and enduring one Kise Ryouta, or even in the seven seconds it took for Kise to take his breath away whenever he was graced with the gentlest but deepest of kisses. Maybe it was further back than that, as far back to when he gave Kise his jersey number, that uneven number seven, and was able to look at his strong back and understand that yes, Kise was Kaijo’s ace, the soldier that would pave their way to victory. That, or it was the seven attempts of awkward and finicky sex at the shameful age of 18 or 19 when he finally gave in and decided, yeah, I kinda want him to make love to me, and also, I kinda want him to marry me, too. It could've been that.
Kise begins to rouse from his sleep, even though it’s the weekend, and they both don’t have to worry about waking up early. His automatic response to the morning is to blink his golden eyes up at Yukio’s face, smile, breathe a sigh of relief, and tighten his vine-like hold on Yukio’s body. Yukio has learned to just let it be instead of fighting the affection, and even twines his fingers in Kise’s soft hair. He breathes in Kise’s scent, smelling of his faint cologne and lingering sweat from last night’s activities, and couldn’t feel any more at home anywhere else.
“Did you sleep well?”
Kise moans an affirmative, and snuggles even closer. “I always sleep well after hours of sex with you, Yukio-san.”
Yukio bops him on the head half-heartedly. He’s learned to not react aggressively at such provocation from his junior every time, and knows which ones are playful and which ones are truly meant to incite. “Idiot. Get your head out of the gutter. It’s too early in the morning for your perversion.”
“Mmm, it’s never too early for sex, Yukio-san,” Kise purrs, shifting his body weight so that he can rub against Yukio’s thigh. "Especially with you."
Yukio categorizes this one as one meant to incite. He reacts accordingly and elbows Kise’s stomach. Kise jerks away automatically with an involuntary shout, and moves away to clutch at his stomach. “Too. Early,” Yukio reiterates, and moves towards the edge of the bed so that he can sit up and pull a shirt on.
Kise grabs at his wrist, still groaning in pain. “Yukio-saaan! It's finally our day off, and we've got this bed all to ourselves. Can’t we?” he nearly pleads.
Yukio sighs. “Not until I get some coffee, and you get rid of your stubble,” he drones, unlacing Kise’s fingers from his wrist and making a beeline for the kitchen.
Kise, of course, takes the prerequisites seriously and launches forward to grab at Yukio’s body to pull him back into bed. “Okay! I’ll do that! Then after that, can we?” He nuzzles into Yukio’s neck and ceremoniously pecks him there, and Yukio hates how he knows that’s a weakness of his.
He runs his fingers through Kise’s hair, not fully giving in, but not fully giving up. “Geez. Don’t you want to be more productive on your day off instead of going at it like rabbits the entire day?”
Kise chuckles. “Technically, having sex is productive if you treat it like it's just another exercise.”
Yukio harrumphs. “If sex was always viewed that way, then it’d already be incorporated into every exercise regime around the world.”
“Uwah, that’d be terrible. I wouldn’t want you having sex with someone other than me if that was an exercise for basketball.”
Yukio bonks him on the head again. “Stupid. If that really happened, I’d always make sure you were my partner.”
Kise giggles and rests his chin on Yukio’s shoulder. “I’m glad that you’d always seek me out for sex when it came down to it, Yukio-san.”
“I wouldn’t choose you just for that!” Yukio exclaims. Kise laughs even harder and softly pecks his cheek.
“I know, I know.”
At any other point in time, Yukio might have chosen a different number, like the six strings of a guitar, the four on his jersey, or the moans and groans of a mundane nine-to-five job, but for him, seven does him just fine.
And as Kise kisses him for the umpteenth time as attempts of seducing Yukio back into bed (which are highly effective), Yukio confirms that yes, no matter how outrageously odd and asymmetrical seven is, seven is complete no matter what anyone says.