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To the untrained eye, Bokuto is an anomaly: he has the size and skill of a world-class professional athlete, and the temperament and personality of a twelve-year-old. A 190cm-tall puzzle that shouts and cries and sings and loves like no one else in the world. But just like any other puzzle, any problem that comes his way, Akashi breaks it down in numbers.
Sixty-two.
The total number of Bokuto’s flaws that are currently indexed in Akaashi’s mind. He’s proud of how much it’s grown over the years, although it’s strayed from volleyball skills. New discoveries count for new categories.
Thirty-nine.
It was thirty-nine degrees when they almost kissed for the first time. Akaashi remembers because they were arguing over the temperature. Bokuto kept insisting it was at least forty degrees, and that Akaashi was wrong, and that he wasn’t overreacting, and that he should check and see for himself.
Bokuto pouted hard when Akaashi was proven correct. He pouted so vigorously that it sent Akaashi’s gut to drop and his hands fluttering towards Bokuto’s face.
The way he stopped himself—literally stopped himself—was almost comical, with his hands on Bokuto’s face and both their eyes impossibly wide, both their faces impossibly red. Akaashi drops his hands along with dropping the moment, and Bokuto thankfully does the same.
That wasn’t the last time.
Seventeen.
Bokuto’s seventeenth birthday party was a lot like Bokuto himself: loud and overcompensating. He loyally withstood Bokuto’s drunkenness during the party, but when they were alone after it was done, Bokuto started to get grabby.
“Did you get me a present, Akaashi?” Flushed and happy, Bokuto flops his entire weight onto Akaashi’s lap.
“Mmf. Yes. But you have to wait ‘til tomorrow.” The silver owl pin was tucked in his pocket, but he didn’t want to give it at that moment. Not when he’s like this.
“Aw, you’re gonna make me wait? But it’s my birthday!” He’s pretty much straddling Akaashi, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. “You’re supposed to do what I want.”
Akaashi doesn’t like where this is going.
“Kiss me.” He grabs Akaashi’s shoulder and pulls him in, and Akaashi shoves him away. He almost felt bad at how hard Bokuto fell on the ground, but he’s too pissed off to care. He ignores Bokuto’s pleas for him to come back. It wasn’t until he was a block away that the humiliation and betrayal properly engulfs him. Tears well up in his eyes, but he keeps walking, with no intention of looking back.
Fourteen.
The number of days Akaashi refuses to speak to him, too angry by the action yet too lost without his friend.
Ten.
After listening to Bokuto’s tenth voicemail, Akaashi calls him back.
Seven.
It took seven hangouts for things to feel normal again. Forgiveness is a funny thing.
Six.
The total number of Akaashi’s flaws, as Bokuto attempted to document out of sheer pettiness. He got bored after number six: Akaashi doesn’t tell enough jokes.
Three.
The number of years they played on the same team. The number of years it took for Akaashi to realize, bit by bit, rule by rule, touch by touch, that he was irrevocably in love with his teammate, his ace, his best friend.
He decided to tell him after their last practice, after Bokuto cried so hard that he could barely keep his eyes open, after the team stayed so late at the restaurant they ended up helping the owners close up, and after Akaashi insisted that he’d stay with Bokuto the whole commute home while he tried to work up the nerve.
They were two blocks away from Bokuto’s house when Akaashi stopped walking. “Koutarou.” (He finally switched to given names earlier that year, to Bokuto’s delight.)
Bokuto looks at him with wide eyes. They’ve recovered, but still red around the edges.
“I have something to say.”
Bokuto stays quiet, which makes it clear he knows where he’s going with this. This is comforting, but still unbearable for Akaashi. He closes his eyes, which he knows is the stupidest and most childish move, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I think I’m in love with you.” He’s never been one for speeches.
He stays there, in the dark, alone and afraid, until Bokuto pulls him out. He feels warm hands—which was weird, since Bokuto was constantly freezing—that gently pried open his bunched up fists. When Akaashi finally looks at him, he decides he never wants to close his eyes again.
When Bokuto said the two words, he also decides to never be afraid of anything again:
Two.
“Kiss me?”
Who knew a punctuation mark can make all the difference?
One.
Bokuto Koutaro has sixty-two flaws, ranging from seven categories, collected over thousands of days he’s known him. But Akaashi is a person of fairness, and it would be unjust to have all sixty-two flaws on record without acknowledging his favourite parts. Well, favourite part—there’s only one. Bokuto has drawn out something in Akaashi that he didn’t think he would ever be able to give: passion, conviction, happiness. His favourite version of himself—the one where he’s in love.
Thousands of days later, hundreds of indexed observations, dozens of false alarms, and one pair. They still disagree on the anniversary they’re supposed to celebrate.
It doesn’t really matter. They all count.