CM: Spices and Sweets

Yaku Morisuke yawns in protest to the early morning air that bites at his prickling skin, though he protects himself in the red sports jacket. What kind of earthly force stirs the young libero to wake so early in the morning- is a question that floats through his own head as he treads on the upward trail towards the school.

Ah, yes- practice. Though not with the rest of his team, Morisuke abandons the comforts of his bed to trade it for the delight of an early volleyball practice, in his efforts to train himself further, so that he is assured without delay that he will be ready. The game is only four days away. And there’s three more just this month. The reminder is foul on his lips and he heaves a sigh to relieve himself of it, though he has now reached the steps leading to the indoor gymnasium of Nekoma High. His thoughts scatter when his fingers halt their passage on the handle of the doors. His ears are playing tricks on him, he thinks, having believed to hear the sound of something in the gym. Is someone here before him for practice? Who, he wonders, trying to imagine any of his other teammates even getting up so early to practice- unless it was mandatory. Now he almost feels a sting of fear in his veins, stopping him from going inside. No, he tells himself, gathering his courage and shying away his curiosities.

“Aah, is someone here?” His voice echoes through the floor of the gymnasium after he steps inside hesitantly. Much to his surprise, not a single figure lines his vision. The only thing that haunts him now is the fact the lights are on and the court to the volleyball is set up.
“No one even has the keys but me,” Yaku murmurs under his breath before glancing around. He knows this because Kuroo was the one who lent the spare keys to him for his practice. The net is already set up, and the basket of volleyballs lies in wait beside the court. None of them have been used, yet. Yaku wonders if this is starting to be some kind of prank, set up by his teammates, or if it is some kind of mystery he is supposed to solve. “That’s strange.” Yaku is stunned and continues to scratch his head in bemusement, walking the plain of the court. There’s only a handful of others that could possibly have the key-

“Y-Yaku-san!” Obata Ume is a second year at Nekoma and a part of the volleyball club. She is also the manager and one of the only other people who would have a key like Yaku does. Right…
The volleyball that rests awkwardly in her palms falls from her grasp without her intention, crashing to the polished floors,  tripping near her feet, which are tied in a pair of sneakers- maybe new, according to how nice and clean they appear.
“Ah, what are you doing here?” Morisuke’s eyes flutter from the fallen volleyball back to Obata Ume’s flushed cheeks, stumbling for a satisfying answer. “You were playing… Weren’t you?” It’s not a question; rather, a statement. From his spot he steps forward, lifting the colored ball gingerly to her hands that shy away. “I didn’t know you play,” he comments, eliciting a greater hue on her cheeks as her eyes dart away to the floorboards. After a moment of her unrequited gaze meeting his, it dawns on him. His footsteps are heavy as he leans closer to her.
“You were trying to teach yourself, weren’t you, Ume?” His voice is gruff and no longer smoothed down, still holding the volleyball as the only thing that stands in between the two. Finally, he hits a string in Ume to gain reaction from her.
“I don’t need help,” she bites, blush retracting from her visage and eyes sharp at his as she snatches the ball from his grip, turning on her heel with fire in her step. Even if it’s not what he expects from her.
How has he not seen this side of her before, Yaku imagines, tracing back memories to her smile dancing away the team’s worries. It clashes with the cold stare she aimed at him before, creating an unwavering scent of surprise. Her back faces him in an uncanny fashion, Yaku’s eyes taking in the grey of her tee shirt and the spindles of loose curls that fall from where her pink waves are pulled into a ponytail. It all is a reverse mirror of what he has not seen before.

“I didn’t ask,” Yaku soothes as he sets his sports and school bag down, unzipping the team jacket spread over his shoulders. His voice returns to the state of warmth from before, sprinkled with the lightest hints of concern when he feels Ume’s eyes bore into his back. Somehow, the words are soothing to Ume’s graphic outburst, calming her from her recent high of anger. It’s a rarity to her that he takes on such a tone, even after watching her unfold she did in front of him.
And yet, it is nice of him.

Morisuke Yaku frowns to the side as he bows his arms over each other, before calling to the girl, hearing the ball drop wistfully to the wood floor.
“Try it again,” he encourages, “This time, don’t wait until the ball is about to come down, jump before that. Then, your hand should coordinate with the ball as it drops.”
“I know that,” she snaps from the end of the court, replacing her feet to a ready position in order to try setting the ball for the upteenth time that morning. Obata Ume is resilient and huffs away a breath as she curls a cherry tendril behind her ear. It has only been two weeks thus far into Ume’s solo training, but Yaku is befuddled at the amount of energy she brings to the court each morning- albeit grumpy, at times! It astonishes him to watch her determination pay off so quickly in skills that she practices each morning with him before school- before the Nekoma team comes for practice. Even over the course of the two weeks he has continuously met with Ume to practice, the personality she had shown him then does not falter now. Upon coming to the gym, each day, Ume shreds a piece of dignity from who she acts to be, commanding in straight-forward tones and gazing with a kind of prickling sharpness. And yet, it still does not bother Yaku.
“I’m sorry about before,” Ume struggles to choke out the words, but glances away as she sips at her water bottle, gaining an earnest stare from Yaku. “What are you staring at?” His eyes turn away to face the court once more upon her demanding words, listening as she sighs regretfully. “I’m sorry…again. I know it’s not what you might be used to-”
“It’s okay.” Yaku reassures, snapping the cap of his bottle back into place. “I don’t mind, really. Besides, everyone has a part of them no one else knows about, right?” Suddenly, the harsh words from before die down in Ume’s throat.
“It’s just- I was a hypocrite. And you didn’t even do anything.” Her knees buckle together, even as she sits beside her senior on the outside steps to the gymnasium.
“Let’s get back to practice,” his words stumble a glare from Ume- wondering if he was even listening to her words- “The others will be here, soon, anyways.”

Something about it plucks a string in Ume’s heart, glancing to the boy as she wipes the sweat from her brow and rearranges her hair into it’s normal attire, now waiting for the boys of the Nekoma team to arrive for practice. Hasn’t it bothered him, she insists, ensuring he must be shocked by the change of attitude he has seen in her. And it’s no wonder, Ume assumes, since most other people would be horrified to learn that the all-too-sweet girl was something completely different. But Yaku didn’t mind.
It doesn’t tease Morisuke Yaku- the fact that his view on Obata Ume has alternated to the girl he sees now. Unafraid, determined, confident and harsh at times, yes, but more than just scary from a first glance. Her changed personality, he learns, is something she has been good at hiding. It switches the profile of her normal smiles that uplift him, to confident smiles that don’t grant him the pleasure of something cute. Instead, it seethes with familiarity that he has accommodated himself to over the days spent with her. There is still the faint of her smile, he reminds himself, passing over genuine smiles she sends his way- not just harsh words of her true feelings. But it’s something he likes about her, Yaku realizes, cheeks pinkening. His gaze covers her figure as she leaves a trail of confidence he didn’t know she had, before, fingertips streaming with lights of determination, aiming towards the ball- just once more! When they are alone, her harsh words are like spices that are savory on his tongue, but sweet in their own way on his sugared lips.

He likes that about her. He even likes the spices that tingle his tastebuds. Yaku has come to like all of it about Obata Ume’s ever-changing character.

“Wow, you already set up the court for us!” Yaku’s eyes turn to face the Nekoma team captain sailing through the gym double-doors, followed by the rest of the team that sails in, exclaiming at the same notion. He exchanges a look with Ume quietly, watching her eyes roll in mock, even though a smile cannot help but inch it’s way on her lips. He imagines what she would say if she could right now and it almost seizes a laugh from him. “What idiots,” he imagines her complaining.

And her spices would still taste sweet.

The team is at the end of their wits. Having gone five points over twenty-five already, their knees wobble with anxiety and excitement.
Morisuke Yaku’s lips are dry and the next rotation- hopefully the last- sends him fleeing to the back middle position. Home again. It creates sparks in his veins to peer across the net from the spot he is so used to. It’s where he feels best, in the back row, where he is so used to looking over to Kenma on his right. It fills him with joy when he looks to Ume on the side-court, before looking back. Her gaze sends a message wrapped in warmth. You can do it. I know you’ll win.

His focus tears away too soon to the sound of the whistle screaming in his ears, turning to face the net that divides the two teams. The ball is up, but Yaku wants to make this quick. For every spike they send flying to Nekoma’s court, there is a gate blocking. For every toss and set there is another to counter, and the game goes on. Kozume Kenma’s eyes dart past the ball in play wherever it goes, never ceasing from the turn his lips take downward. And the string of sweat that lingers on Yaku’s forehead is never-ending, curling short strands of light hair to stick to the skin.
The rebound ball comes back to play with Nekoma’s side. Yaku’s hands writhe and shake in anxiety, eyes pleading with the irrational forces of the ball to jinx himself not to mess up. Don’t you dare mess up.
He is unaware of the fist that saves the dive the ball takes, just enough so that it reels back to the left of the court, enabling the volleyball to be tossed to a height that Taketora is able to easily counter, flying to meet. And before Morisuke Yaku knows it, there ring of the whistle blares his ears to open his eyes again.

The reaction is instant and those on the sidelines are the first to react in shouts of joy, as well as meek whimpers of disappointment for the losing side. It always takes a moment or two, Yaku memorizes, knowing the dizzying feeling of an outcome ending of a game. But they’ve done it.
His anxiety washes away as his team mates surround him and they crash like waves against each other, pulling tides to ruffle one another’s hair and scream cries of victory into ears. The tide brings them to the sidelines of the court, in a matter of time, where they are quick to replenish on water and wipe the sweat of hard work from their brow. Even Ume is already beaming at Yaku, ear-to-ear as he hands him his water bottle once he steps in a foot’s radius of her.

“See, I knew you could do it,” Ume’s smile spreads across her lips and her gaze sharpens as she stares at the libero. His fingertips shake in the slightest, again, and his tongue traces the cracks in his dry lips.  
“I’ll see you at practice, right?” His voice floats with curiosity, though inconspicuous so that if the others were to overhear his words it would mean nothing.
She snaps in reply, in a hushed tone. “Of course!” Her smile stays, however, and her gaze flickers to the other members surrounding her in congratulatory hugs and words, praising victory for the team. The words begin forming on Yaku’s tongue before he can stop them, rising from his larynx and traveling up his throat. Yet, he stalls himself to wait until they are alone. Thus, as soon as the team members have slowly dissipated and began to file away from the court to talk about how to celebrate their victory, Yaku takes position. Not his stance in which he would ready for a game, where his feet would be at shoulder width, instinctively. Rather, he gathers himself to face Obata Ume once more, after helping her pack up their belongings and even offering to carry the large duffle bag for her. Of course, she rejects and reminds him she can do it herself.
“Ume,” he calls, after allowing her to step one or two places in front of him, only halting her to look back at him. Her eyes narrow as she squints to him, eyebrows pressing downward.
“What is it, Yaku-san?”

The words can’t leave his mouth now, he is afraid of what might happen if he lets them spill from his lips… But the stare Obata Ume provides him with reminds him of the mornings spent with her to practice, the afternoons of her complaints and the grumbling of her words that can still make him smile. She can always make him smile. So he’ll try again.
“I just wanted to ask you,” he begins, shifting the weight of his shoulder bag, skin prickling as he pushes himself again.

“I wanted to know if you wanted to have dinner with me?”
I’ll keep going, he tells himself, watching Ume ask to toss for her again, although sweat rolls at her cheek and her palms bruise in shades of worn red. “It doesn’t have to be today, I mean- anytime is fine-”

“Yaku-san.” Obata Ume is a passionate, straight-forward and kind girl. Her smiles leaves fires aflame in Morisuke Yaku’s heart and spreads warmth to the rest of his lungs. Her eyes soak his in a stare that he is used to, by now, and cannot tear his gaze away from. Ume’s grin tears her glare for the slightest of seconds and he waits. “Can we get anmitsu?” Her laughter is sweet to ears and Yaku can feel the warmth from his chest lead to his cheekbones. Or, maybe that was there, already.

“Of course we can,” he assures her, taking her in smile and gleam, retracing a titter on his curling lips. His steps follow hers out from the large court and fall into place beside hers, never taking his eyes from her own. “Even if it’s not dinner, exactly.”
“Shut up,” she teases, shoving her arm into his while releasing a chuckle of her own to match.

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perseverance- (n.) the quality that allows someone to continue trying to do something even though it is difficult