the things we don't name (I)
Narumi Gen x Platoon Leader!Reader
Synopsis: in division one, silence is survival. orders are obeyed, reports are written, and emotions are cast aside in spaces between missions. shinonome rin dreams outloud–about the captain with the lazy grin and steady aim. you listen, smile, and tell yourself you're happy for her. but narumi's gaze keeps finding you in the quiet hours–when the rain won't stop, and the distance between you feels paper-thin. you can fight kaiju, yes. but how do you fight the kind of feeling that grows in the shadows of loyalty towards your best friend?
The debrief room buzzed with low voices and the faint hum of cooling circuits. Combat footage played in a silent loop–the rising gray smoke, the flash of kaiju claws, the blinding beam of fire caught mid-frame.
You stood at the center table, posture straight, gloves still caked with dried kaiju blood that you haven’t had the chance to scrub off. You didn’t bark out orders, you simply stood, calm and composed. The rest of Division One listened because you gave them nothing else to listen to.
“Formation B held for forty seconds before collapse,” you said, eyes trained on the hologram display, “Reason?”
A few beats of silence. Someone shifted in their seat, uncomfortable.
Then a quiet voice, “I broke line, Platoon Leader.”
Your gaze flicked to the officer in question, voice steady, “Good, being able to acknowledge your mistakes is a valuable trait to have. You’ll review your combat footage tonight and fix your recoil timing. Same place, same drill tomorrow. Did I make myself clear?”
The officer nodded firmly before breathing a sigh of relief.
You never raised your voice, but people followed it the way they followed a compass.
From the far side of the room, Narumi was slouched in a chair like he had been poured into it–hoodie half-zipped, a handheld console balanced in one hand, stylus tapping lazily against the screen.
He looked up every few seconds–his eyes peering from underneath his bangs, tracking you through the flicker of the screen light.
He said nothing through the debrief. No jokes nor his usual snide comments. He just watched. The tapping of his stylus slowing every time you spoke.
When the debrief had come to an end, you dismissed the unit. The room was filled with the sound of shuffling papers and the scraping of chairs against the hardwood floor. You turned towards the exit and found Narumi still there, game paused, the soft hum of the device filling the space between them.
“Something wrong, Captain?” you asked.
He looked at you, his grin lazy but eyes sharp, “Nah, just admiring how terrifyingly efficient you are. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that tone.”
“Then don’t mess up in the field,” you simply stated.
“Can’t promise that,” he shrugged half-heartedly, flicking his console shut, “But I’ll at least do it with style.”
You fought to keep the smile off your face, barely, “Glad to hear it, Captain.”
He leaned back, arms now situated behind his head, “I’ve always wondered how you managed to make a room full of elite officers look like they’re back in middle school.”
That earned a quiet laugh from Narumi.
He straightened back up, sliding the console into his pocket, “You’re scary, you know that?”
“I think you meant to say efficient,” you corrected him.
“Right. Scarily efficient.”
You rolled your eyes playfully and turned to leave, seeing no point in arguing further. Your boots clicked against the floor as you walked out the door.
With your back turned towards him, you missed the way his eyes lingered on your retreating back, his grin fading into something resembling a tender smile.
Rin didn’t knock before barging into your room. She never did.
You had stopped expecting her to somewhere around your third year as cadets. Your door swung open, letting in a rush of cold corridor air and the irresistible smell of instant ramen.
“You’re up,” Rin said, holding two cups in one hand, grin wide, “Good. I brought sustenance.”
You looked up from your report terminal and frowned, “That’s not sustenance. That’s slow-acting poison.”
“Then die with me,” Rin said, already flopping on the edge of your bed.
You sighed but took the offered cup anyways, “You’re impossible.”
“Admit it,” Rin said, cracking open her chopsticks, “You missed me.”
You didn’t answer, just smiled helplessly. You didn’t need to answer, because you’ve known each other for far too long to play that game.
Steam filled the quiet between the two of you. Rin’s hair was still damp from the showers, her uniform swapped for the Division’s lounge tee and sweatpants. You had changed too, finally free of the suffocating tightness of your uniform.
Rin slurped loudly, “So.”
You didn’t look up, “So?”
Rin leaned back against the headboard, “Don’t play dumb. You know what ‘so’ means.”
You took a slow sip of broth, “Narumi.”
Rin’s grin widened, “Narumi.”
You exhaled through your nose, “What did he do this time?”
“He didn’t do anything,” Rin began, already going on the defensive, “he just–complimented me.”
“It is when it’s him! He said, and I quote, ‘Good work out there, Shinonome.’”
“Riveting,” you fought the urge to laugh.
Rin launched a pillow your way, “You’re impossible! You have no sense of romance.”
“Romance doesn’t usually start with a performance review.”
Rin groaned dramatically, falling back onto your bed, “You’re such a realist. It’s depressing.”
Your lips curved, barely, “Well, one of us has to be.”
For a while, it was easy–just laughter and nonsense and the kind of teasing that came from years of shared drills, night watches, and field rations. But slowly, as the steam from the ramen dissipated and Rin’s voice softened, the air shifted.
Rin pulled her knees up, her chin resting against them, “Do you think he ever… notices me? Like, really notices me? Or am I just another soldier to him?”
You paused mid-bite, chopsticks stilling in your hand.
You had heard this question before–versions of it whispered across cafeteria tables, locker rooms, and your personal quarters–but this time it hurt in a way it hadn’t before.
“Of course he notices you,” you said softly.
Rin’s head snapped up, eyes hopeful, “Yeah?”
You nodded, “He pays attention to effort. You never stop trying. He respects that.”
Rin smiled a little, but the uncertainty lingered, “You really think respect is all it is?”
You hesitated, then forced a calm laugh, “You want me to say he’s secretly in love with you?”
Rin laughed too, embarrassed, “Maybe.”
You looked away, hiding the tightening in your chest behind another sip. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell her that Narumi had probably noticed everything–the way Rin’s hand shook when she loaded her weapon, how her eyes always flicked to the horizon before every battle. But that wasn’t true. Because you knew how he looked when he noticed someone. And he didn’t look at Rin that way.
“He’s… complicated,” you said finally.
“That’s just code for dense,” Rin replied, “He’s got that ‘genius idiot’ thing going on. You know, all instinct, no awareness.”
“Sounds accurate,” you smiled faintly.
Rin leaned sideways, her shoulders nudging teasingly against yours, “Enough about me. What about you, huh? Anyone caught your eye lately?”
You shook your head and laughed, voice even, “No time for that.”
“Please. You say that, but I’ve seen you stare at people during strategy meetings. That’s the face of a woman judging, or pining. You just mask it so well I can’t tell which is which.”
Your hand tightened imperceptibly on the ramen cup before you laughed, “You’re seeing things.”
“Maybe,” Rin said, stretching out on your bed, her voice fading softer, “Still… you’d tell me, right? If there was someone?”
You didn’t answer immediately. You simply watched the steam rise between them–fading, curling, disappearing into the hum of the air vents.
“Yeah,” you said finally, quiet but steady, “I’d tell you.”
Rin smiled, satisfied, eyes drooping with exhaustion.
Within minutes, her breathing slowed.
You stayed awake, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.
You had meant it in the moment–that you would tell her. But you knew that even if you wanted to, you couldn’t. Not about him.
Not when Rin’s heart was already halfway there.
Division One Headquarters always felt different past midnight.
The noise died first. The shuffling of boots, the barking of orders, the ceaseless chatter–gone. Only the hum of monitors and air vents remained
You sat alone in the strategy room, half-finished report open on your tablet. Your jacket hung on the back of your chair, your sleeves rolled up, hair tied up and out of your face. You had been staring at the same line for the past ten minutes.
‘Recon data cross-check complete’
You didn’t move until you heard the sound of the door sliding open behind you.
Narumi didn’t announce his presence, didn’t need to. The air always seemed to shift when he walked in the room.
He had his gaming console in one hand, and a flash drive in the other. His uniform jacket hung open, shirt rumpled, his eyes catching the sterile white light like they were reflecting mischief and exhaustion at once.
“You look like you’ve been awake since the Meiji era,” he said.
You didn’t glance up, “Well, someone has to keep this division running while its captain plays Tetris.”
“It’s Mecha Fortress Online,” he corrected you pointedly, stepping inside, “And I can multitask, thank you very much-”
“Your actions suggest otherwise.”
He grinned, tired but amused, and dropped into the chair across from you, setting his console down on the table. It was still on, tiny 8-bit explosions flickering across the screen.
You resumed typing, “If you came here to distract me, you can go.”
He didn’t move, “I came here because Hasegawa said you’ve been camped in this room since morning. That’s… concerning.”
“You’re always fine,” he said, tilting his head, eyes glinting in the light, “That’s what’s concerning.”
You didn’t dignify that with an answer.
He set his console down on the table, face-down this time. Silence settled between the two of you, broken only by the faint click of your pen and the distant buzz of the fluorescent lights.
Narumi leaned back, arms folding in front of him, “So what’s keeping you up this time? Reports? Or your habit of rewriting the same sentence until it bleed?”
You exhaled through your nose, “…Both.”
There it was again–that maddening balance of his flippantness and perceptiveness. He always sounded like he was joking until suddenly, he wasn’t. Like his words slipped past humor and hit somewhere that mattered.
“If you wanted company you could’ve just said so,” you joked in an attempt to change the topic.
“Figured you could use some. Company makes paperwork less painful,” he said, deadpan, “I’m humanitarian like that.”
“Right. And the console is for emotional support?”
He looked down at it, smirking, “Exactly. You’d be surprised how many lives have been saved thanks to handheld gaming.”
You hummed, unimpressed. But you felt your lips twitching involuntarily–forming the closest thing to a smile.
It should’ve been irritating, you thought. It was.
Ten minutes passed in near silence. You typed. He fidgeted. The low hum of his presence filled the room in the same way light filled the darkness of the room.
He scrolled absently with his thumb before asking, voice quiet this time, “Seriously though, you doing alright?”
You paused and looked up, brows furrowed, confused, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“‘Cause you’re staying up late. Again.”
“I had reports to finish.”
“You’re lying,” he said easily, not accusing, just observing.
You blinked, caught off guard, “Excuse me?”
“You only pretend to work when something’s eating at you. You’ve been staring at the same document for the past ten minutes.”
“That’s an oddly specific observation,” you stared at him.
He shrugged, “I notice things.”
You wished he didn’t. Or at least, that he noticed less.
“Then maybe you should focus on your game instead,” you said evenly.
He smirked faintly, “I can multitask, remember?”
His console chimed–a bright, cheerful sound that didn’t fit the quiet. He muted it.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Leaving only the faint buzz of the monitor lights to fill the space between them.
Narumi leaned forward again, his eyes boring into yours, “If you ever need to talk–“
He raised an eyebrow, “You sure?”
“Yes.” Your voice was calm and perfectly level, but your words had landed heavier than you had intended for it to.
Narumi nodded once and moved to stand up, pocketing his console, “Alright.”
She half-expected him to leave then–to make some dumb quip on his way out, as he always did.
But instead he stopped by her chair.
“You’re allowed to lean on people sometimes,” he said.
You don’t look up, “That’s inefficient.”
He chuckled quietly, “You really do sound like Hasegawa.”
“Then I must be doing something right.”
He tilted his head, studying you in that way that made it hard for you to breathe. The rain outside flickered against the windows, soft and distant, like it was trying to listen in.
Finally, he said, “Don’t stay up too late,” and left.
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
You stared at the space he’d been standing in.
It was easier, you told yourself, to let him leave thinking you didn’t need anything. It was easier than admitting that you did.
Your tablet screen dimmed, the cursor blinking against the half-finished paragraph. You closed the report, leaned back in your chair, and pressed your palms against your eyes until the ache subsided.
Outside, the rain had started–soft against the windows, rhythmic, relentless.
You told yourself you’d finish the report tomorrow. But tomorrow always came too late.
The cafeteria was nearly empty by the time you arrived. The dinner rush had passed hours ago, leaving only the faint echo of trays and the steady stir of the vending machines.
Rin was already there, sitting at one of the corner tables with her knees drawn up and a tray loaded with enough food for two people. She looked up as you approached, already halfway through demolishing a bowl of rice.
“You’re late,” she said, mouth full.
“You said ‘grab food if you’re free,’ not ‘report for duty’” you rolled your eyes playfully, setting your tray down on the cafeteria table.
She grinned, cheeks puffed slightly, before placing a taiyaki from her tray onto yours, “You’re lucky I saved you anything. I was stress eating.”
“You stress eat everyday.”
“Yeah, but today it’s justified.”
You sat across from her, picking up your chopsticks, “Something happen?”
Rin hesitated–not her usual kind of pause, not the dramatic build up she used for gossips either. This one was quieter, edged with something uneasy.
“I saw Narumi in the firing range earlier,” she said finally.
You didn’t sigh, but your shoulders almost did, “And?”
“He was helping the new recruits. The ones who can’t aim to save their lives.”
“I bet it’s because Vice Captain was holding his BS5 hostage,” you laughed.
“Probably,” Rin smiled, stirring her bowl of miso soup half-heartedly in her hand, “But he looked so focused. Like… he actually cared. And then he smiled at one of them when she hit the target and I–“
She stopped herself, looking down quickly.
You didn’t push. You waited.
Rin’s chopsticks tapped lightly against her tray, “I just… I wish he’d look at me like that sometimes.”
There it was– quiet, raw.
You leaned back slightly, folding your arms, “Maybe he does, and you just don’t notice.”
Rin gave a dry laugh, “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”
“I’m not,” you said definitively, even though deep down maybe you weren’t.
She went back to eating, slower now. The rhythm of her chopsticks faltered.
Then she said in a voice almost too soft for you to hear–“Do you think I eat too much?”
You paused mid-chew, caught off guard, “What?”
She didn’t look up, “I mean… everyone’s always grabbing something small–a protein bar, maybe an energy drink. But I always end up with a full tray. Two, sometimes. I don’t know, maybe that’s why he–“
“Rin,” you interrupted with a stern voice that made her head snap up.
You met her gaze evenly, “You eat because you fight harder than anyone else. You need it. And if anyone has a problem with that, they’re idiots.”
Rin’s lips parted, her voice still filled with uncertainty, “You don’t think it’s… unattractive?”
You frowned, “What’s unattractive about staying alive?”
Rin laughed quietly, a sound that cracked something in your chest.
“God, you’re so practical,” she said, shaking her head, “You make everything sound easy.”
“I’m just being honest,” you said, voice softer now.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The cafeteria lights buzzed faintly, filling the silence with their own brand of noise.
Then Rin’s smile returned–small, fragile, but real.
“You know, I’m glad you’re here,” she said, “I don’t think I’d survive Division One without you.”
You poked absentmindedly at your tray of food, a small grin on your lips, “You’d be fine. You’re tougher than you think.”
She tilted her head, “You don’t give yourself enough credit either. You talk like you’re made of steel, but you care more than any of us.”
You shrugged, pretending not to notice how her words hit too close, “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t starve from overthinking.”
Rin grinned, “You love me.”
She laughed again–bright, careless, the kind of laugh that made the whole place feel a little less sterile. You two lingered even after your trays were long since empty.
Rin leaned back in her chair, legs stretched out, the picture of exhaustion and contentment.
“Do you think he likes confident girls?” she asked suddenly.
You looked up from your drink, “Why?”
“Because I think I come off as too much sometimes.”
“You should stay loud,” you said, “Quiet doesn’t suit you.”
Rin smiled faintly, eyes soft with something unreadable.
Then she said, almost to herself, “I’m going to tell him. Someday”
You felt that sentence land like a blade with its flat side pressed against your skin–harmless, for now.
“Then I’ll support you,” you said.
You meant it. You wanted to mean it.
Rin nodded, satisfied, stretching her arms above her head, “Good. Because if I make a fool out of myself, you’re going down with me.”
You laughed quietly, “Deal.”
When you walked her back to her quarters, the corridor lights flickered with the rhythm of your footsteps.
At the door, she turned, still smiling, “You know, you’d make a great liar if you ever caught feelings. You’d just bury them under all that professionalism.”
You smiled back, controlled, steady, “Good thing I don’t have any.”
She disappeared inside, door sliding shut behind her.
You stayed there a moment longer than you should’ve.
don't let my previous fics fool u i'm a SUCKER for slow burn and angst. i'm using this fic to explore the more serious parts of narumi's character, this is a bit experimental but i'm excited to see where i can take this!
