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jb-lark · 12 days ago

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Falling Together (IhaReno snapshots)

Three snapshots in the lives of Reno and Iharu as their lives intertwine.

The sun set hours ago and the training room is cool the way it rarely is—no bustling groups of bodies bouncing their heat off each other, just an open window letting the winter air in and two figures on the mat circling each other with different versions of the same smug grin.

“Scared you’ll lose this time,” Iharu taunts, hands up in front of him in loose fists as Reno’s violet eyes narrow, dissecting every bit of his posture for an opening.

“No more than the last time,” Reno replies smoothly, his lips twitching upward. “Or the time before that. Or the time before—”

Iharu cuts him off with a swat aimed at Reno’s forearms—less of a genuine attempt to trap and more of a prod. Impatiently testing his defenses.

Reno reacts instantly, falling into motion like water finding its shape. He ducks and surges forward with his shoulder low, trying to catch Iharu off guard with a classic drive. It would’ve worked a dozen matches ago, but Iharu’s not about to fall for it again.

He pivots, letting the force roll past, and throws his hand to the back of Reno’s neck, pushing his momentum further. Reno stumbles, barely, but he’s fast to recover—sweeping low with his heel in a sharp arc aimed at Iharu’s legs.

But Iharu’s ready for that too.

He slides back a half-second early. He’s been here before. He knows this pattern, knows the rhythm of Reno’s offense like a song stuck in his head. Every match has taught him something new, and tonight that studying pays off.

He strikes while Reno is mid-step, one foot off the ground, and uses his weight to drag them both down. His arm snakes cleanly around Reno’s waist, then higher, locking just under the ribs. They hit the mat in a controlled crash, Iharu already adjusting, already shifting behind him.

Reno scrambles—quick as ever—but Iharu’s one step ahead of him now. His forearm slips under Reno’s chin before he can fully orient, cinching in across his neck in a clean rear choke. Reno jerks upward, hands prying at the weak point of Iharu��s wrist, trying to get his feet underneath him for leverage. But Iharu adjusts, flexing his grip tighter while locking his legs inside Reno’s knees, establishing an iron-clad guard.

Iharu tightens the choke just enough, just long enough, until—

Tap tap tap.

Reno’s hand slaps against his forearm.

Iharu immediately lets go with a breathless laugh, his mouth close to Reno’s ear as he leans back, propping himself up on the heels of his hands. His chest rises and falls with exertion, but the grin is pure, unfiltered victory.

“Yes!” he crows, loud and unapologetic. “And the win goes to Iharu Furuhashi!” he proclaims in his best exaggerated announcer voice, following it with an over-the-top imitation of a roaring crowd. “Thank you, thank you, no autographs, please—”

Reno smacks the side of Iharu’s leg with an open palm, sharp but not mean. “Shut up,” he grumbles, breathless—but there’s a smile in his voice he doesn’t bother to hide.

Iharu grins, proud and a little smug, waiting for Reno to roll off and give him some space like they usually do. Maybe they’ll sprawl out on the mat side by side and stare up at the ceiling until one of them mutters something about a rematch. That’s the pattern. That’s the script.

But that’s not what happens.

Instead, he drops straight backward with a sigh, head tilting, weight settling full against Iharu’s chest, the curve of his spine pressing into Iharu’s sternum. The contact is solid and warm and immediate—Reno’s body flushed from exertion, sweat clinging to the nape of his neck and dampening the fabric between them.

Iharu freezes.

For just a moment, everything in him stops—breath, thought, even reflex. Reno’s ivory hair is right under his chin, messy and soft and sticking up in uneven tufts from the sparring. He smells like sweat and training mats and that faint, clean scent of whatever soap he always uses. It’s familiar. Uncomfortably so.

But Iharu doesn’t move. Doesn’t shift away, doesn’t laugh it off, doesn’t point out how weird this is. Because somehow… it isn’t.

Maybe they’re just tired, he tells himself. It’s late—later than they have any business still being here, alone in the quiet hush of the training room. They’ve been doing this for months now; sneaking in after hours or showing up before dawn, caught in that strange limbo of not wanting to be alone but never saying it outright.

They never talk about the worst nights. About the memories parading as dreams. About Kaiju No. 9’s face—its grin, its wicked voice—about the blood or the pained gasps echoing in their skulls. About what it’s like to feel helpless when you were trained for anything but.

So where words fail, they fight. They sweat. They move. They bleed a little, and they don’t ask about the early mornings or the eye bags or the way they hesitate just a little too long when it's time for lights out. They just square off with a quiet knowing and ask for another round.

It’s not affection exactly—not openly—but it’s something deeply personal. A quiet choreography they both seem to understand, offering distractions without question, reassurances without request. They orbit each other with a gravity neither resists, but neither names.

It’s… nice. Nicer than it has any right to be, if Iharu is being honest with himself. And he isn’t quite sure what to do with that.

So, he exhales slowly, his breath ruffling Reno’s messy hair, and lets himself relax again, arms shifting slightly until they settle loosely around the other’s frame—like it’s natural. Like it’s always been like this.

Every day, they grew stronger—learning from each other, improving in ways neither of them had expected. And through it all, they were together.

For now, that was enough.

He doesn’t have to call it anything.

Not yet.

···············

The Honju falls to the ground with a sound like thunder.

The sharp crack of a familiar rifle shot is still bouncing off the cliffs, bracketed by the crackle of ice. It lets out a final, guttural roar—cut short mid-breath—as its massive body slams into the mountainside in a lifeless heap, toppling trees like toothpicks.

Iharu lowers his shotgun. His stance loosens all at once, knees unlocking, shoulders sagging as the tension bleeds out of his body. Adrenaline gives way to a dizzying flood of relief, elation, and sharp satisfaction of pride.

But all of that comes second.

Because as soon as the Honju hits the ground, there’s only one clear thought on the forefront of his mind. One person.

He turns his head, scanning the ridgeline.

Reno stands a few meters away, rifle still raised, his posture taut. The sharp cut of his breath, the unmistakable set of his shoulders—he’s uninjured. Tired, probably. Wired. But fine.

A grin splits Iharu’s face before he can think to stop it. The kind of grin that stretched wide and fierce, full of teeth and relief and too many things he wasn’t going to say out loud.

Then he’s running, boots crunching over frost-bitten gravel as he crosses the gap between them.

Reno looks up just in time for Iharu to barrel into him with enough force to lift him clean off the ground. His arms lock around Reno’s torso, hauling him into the air like gravity has nothing to say about it. He spins them both in a tight, clumsy circle, laughter breaking out of him raw and loud and far too close to Reno’s ear.

“Yes!” he shouts, practically vibrating with energy. “We did it! That was textbook, man—textbook!”

“Put me down!” Reno wheezes, still laughing as he half-heartedly shoves at Iharu’s forearm with the heel of one gloved hand. It’s a weak protest at best, more muscle memory than real resistance. The other hand had already found its place on Iharu’s back, gripping instinctively.

The number six suit is cold to the touch, especially around the fingers, frost still clinging from the fight, but Iharu doesn’t flinch. He barely notices.

Because the shape of that hand is familiar—the squared off edge of his palm, the curve of his fingers, the pressure against Iharu’s ribs.

And his waist is slender and strong under Iharu’s arms, fitting perfectly against him, like it’s meant to be there. It’s a familiar pressure, the curve of his body pressed against Iharu’s chest. It feels inevitable, like gravity or instinct. Two pieces, carved differently but meant to lock together.

And then there’s the sound of Reno’s laugh, close to Iharu’s ear—quiet now, breathless from the spinning. But it’s familiar in a way that guts him. Not just memory, but muscle memory. It’s the kind of sound that lives in his bones, as recognizable as the rhythm of his own heartbeat in his ears during a fight. As familiar as the hollow quiet before dawn in the base’s gym. As steady as rain against his bedroom window. It’s not something he just hears—it’s something he knows deeply and entirely.

And in this moment, Iharu wants to hear it forever.

They are fire and ice. Chaos and calm. The sun and the moon, balanced in a delicate way that feels both natural and impossible. The kind of perfect contradiction that surpasses all logic.

And he realizes all these things all at once because suddenly there’s a cold hand on his jaw. Not rough. Not commanding. Just there, pressing, like it’s being drawn in by some quiet pull neither of them can fully control. The touch is cautious but firm, hovering somewhere between instinct and hesitation. Reno’s fingers are careful, like he’s testing something he doesn’t want to break.

Violet eyes lock with his, and for a brief moment, there’s a flicker of surprise in them—as if Reno’s just now realizing how close they’ve come. Close enough that their breaths mingle, warm and visible in the cool air between them. Iharu can see the subtle shift in Reno’s expression—just a trace of caution, but underneath it, something softer. Something warmer.

Reno’s grin has faded into a softer shape, a curve at the corner of his mouth like he’s caught mid-thought. Like he wasn’t expecting this either, but he’s not pulling away.

Iharu’s boots shift on the gravel, slowing instinctively as if his body is unwilling to break the spell. His grip on Reno loosens just enough to let the world leak in at the edges again, but his hands don’t pull away completely. They’re still looped around Reno’s waist—tangled together in a way that feels impossible to unravel.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, there’s a voice—small, rational, maybe even responsible—muttering that this is probably a bad idea.

But it doesn’t stand a chance—drowned out by a flood of white and violet and the familiar hand on his cheek before it even finishes the thought.

“Would it be totally crazy,” Iharu asks, voice dropping from boisterous and loud to soft and hesitant all in one moment. But the words slip out anyway, forming in the air like a fragile inevitability. “If I kissed you right now?”

He doesn’t get the chance to regret it. Doesn’t get time to fumble or laugh it off or walk it back. Because before he can even draw his next breath, Reno moves—closes the distance in one fluid motion, like he’s been waiting for far too long. His lips press to Iharu’s with no hesitation, soft and cool from the mountain air.

It should feel strange. It should feel like something they’ve never done before, something awkward or uncertain. But it doesn’t. It feels like it’s always been this way—natural, right. As if their bodies already knew the rhythm of it, as if they’ve been here before in another lifetime.

Reno’s other hand slides up to join the first on Iharu’s jaw, holding him like something precious, steadying the moment between them.

Iharu kisses him back with all the heat he’s been holding back for longer than he wants to admit. His fingers press into the curve of Reno’s back, into the armor of his suit, trying to memorize the exact shape of him through every layer. He threads their ribcages together, feels the steady, rhythmic beat of their hearts in sync. The air between them feels impossibly warm in the cold mountain air.

A small, mischievous thought flickers through Iharu’s mind as he kisses him again, deeper this time, committing the moment to memory so he can find it again when the world inevitably starts moving too fast. And he thinks to himself ‘I’m definitely going to tell Aoi I kissed Reno first.’

···············

Sometime after the dust settles from the disastrous, but ultimately successful, final fight against Kaiju number 9, Iharu and Reno rent a modest apartment on the outskirts of Naguno. It’s not glamorous—nothing in their lives really is—but it’s theirs. Close enough to Masumoto Base that they can still be called in at a moment’s notice if disaster strikes, but just far enough that they can breathe differently on their days off, as if the air itself isn’t saturated with blood, gunpowder, and obligation.

It's a one bedroom. No one comments on this.

Nothing changes.

There are two toothbrushes side-by-side in the medicine cabinet next to the stained old sink—one is a polished electric model with replaceable heads, the other is a cheap plastic one from a dentist's office years ago, the logo rubbed off and the bristles warped from use. There are two ceramic mugs in the sink—one black and chipped, the other white with a faded cartoon logo, both ringed with stubborn coffee stains. There’s an old CD rack in the corner filled with scratched punk-rock classics and sentimental indie pop. Next to it sits a secondhand bookshelf with chipped paint holding a kaleidoscope of shounen manga and glossy American comics, their edges curling from humidity and one too many rereads.

The bed is the only thing new.

Neither of them had ever owned a queen-sized mattress before, never needed anything that big. The comforter is unfamiliar—soft and navy blue, still factory-scented the first week—but it quickly becomes theirs.

There’s no ceremony to it. No announcement. Just the unnoticed merging of lives already intertwined.

Sometimes, Iharu catches himself wondering how he ever lived before this. Before the ridiculous movie nights spent heckling B-rated monster flicks over bowls of over-salted popcorn. Before the kitchen filled with smoke and laughter as Reno tried out questionable internet recipes—most edible, others legendary for all the wrong reasons. Before the steady weight of another body pressed against his side at night, grounding him more than any weapon or uniform ever could.

But Iharu is late tonight.

Tomorrow they both have off and he was supposed to be back by five, six at the latest. But a last-minute training session with Captain Ogata went long, and after that, he lingered at the range, losing track of time in the rhythm of reload and recoil. By the time he checked his phone, it was already dark.

He sends Reno a quick message: “Don’t wait up.” He receives a thumbs up as a reply and nothing else.

So Iharu isn’t expecting anything when he unlocks the apartment door and steps inside—except maybe silence and the soft glow of the desk lamp Reno always leaves on.

Instead, he’s hit with the warm, mouthwatering scent of curry—savory and thick with spices, layered with the sharp sweetness of chopped onions and hot oil.

The exhaust fan above the stove is running at full blast, growling against the smoke that’s still managed to creep into the rest of the apartment, casting the edges of the living room in the gentle haze of an old photograph. The lights are low. Everything feels dim and golden and lived-in.

In the cramped kitchen, Reno stands barefoot in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, carefully lowering a pork cutlet into a skillet. The oil hisses and crackles as it hits the pan. Another cutlet rests on a cutting board nearby, breaded and ready. A pot of rich, dark brown curry simmers beside him, its surface bubbling slowly, patiently, like it’s been cooking for a while now. He doesn’t look up when the door closes, just keeps working—like this is the most natural thing in the world.

Two plates wait on the small table—real ones, not the plastic ones they use when they’re tired—flanked by mismatched spoons and a couple of cheap napkins folded in half.

And Iharu just stands there.

It’s such a simple scene—domestic, mundane, even. But it lands in Iharu’s chest with unexpected weight, sticking somewhere in the back of his throat.

He drops his bag and stands there for a moment, taking it in. The smells, the warmth, the ordinary beauty of Reno humming off-key to some song from his phone speaker, sleeves rolled up and hair slightly damp from the kitchen heat. It’s all so calm, so normal, so theirs that it knocks the wind out of him in a strange, aching kind of way.

“I thought I told you not to wait up.”

Reno doesn’t turn around. “I didn’t,” he says, flipping the cutlet with practiced care. “But tonkatsu doesn’t reheat well. It's better if we eat it now.”

Iharu smiles before he even realizes he’s doing it. Quiet. Grateful.

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