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“How unlike you,” Satoko finds herself saying these days.
She could suppose this is just another anomaly that's followed the state of the world as of late. What, with kaiju popping up at every possible opportunity and Ultraman Blazar’s consistency at defeating even the most bone-chilling of them all, she could — should, even — suppose that her husband’s odd behaviour as of late could have something to do with the tides brought about by the moon.
That being said, Hiruma Gento has never been one to be ruled by the moon; Satoko is confident, most days, that the man she married is undeniably himself.
But then, what would that make the vacant stare at kids’ programs that have long since left Jun’s interest, and have never been in Gento’s in the first place? What would that make all the flimsy excuses, and the burns on his thighs Satoko can make out during lovely nights?
Such is the question lingering on her mind today, idly observing Gento’s face while he is fixated on the TV. As much as she could beg for some familiarity and mundane news programs, Doraemon does not fit any of this criteria.
And then, there's a flash.
Blue. Her husband's eye flashes a stormy blue, crackling with unknown wisdom. This is enough to flash Satoko with enough insight on the matter — this, whatever or whoever this is, this is not her husband.
But then, where is the husband in question?
Perhaps, he's grown a funny bone, aware of this matter. Perhaps, this is the Mr. Hyde to his Dr. Jekyll. Perhaps, this is another facet to the love of her life, one she has never known until now — but then, why would this facade break only now?
What did you do to my husband?
She chooses to ask, “Is something wrong?”
Gento — or rather, not-Gento — snaps his focus away from the TV, instead staring at Satoko. A chill racks her spine at how intense the stare seems to be; it seems to suggest that she's in some presence much larger than herself, much larger than life itself.
It's only a few seconds later that Satoko catches the lights overhead winking happily in not-Gento’s eyes.
“Sa-to-ko!” he exclaims.
That's… presumably, not it. That name belongs to her, after all.
“You know my name?” she calmly asks, before placing her hand to her chin, “…That makes sense, you probably know my husband to some extent-”
A sob leaves not-Gento’s mouth before anything else is said.
Gento and the state his body is in have never seemed worlds apart until now — the proudly standing, well assured man she knows her husband to be now heaves and nearly chokes on his breath, hands grabbing at his own chest. His head is darting to every possible surface of wall present, and his eyes are blown wide while doing so.
In what is surely sick and twisted for a dutiful wife to think, this brings Satoko relief over anything else — some kind of conscience is still present. Yet, her heart aches at the sight of anyone bearing resemblance to Gento in this kind of state.
“Is there a way I can help you?” she asks.
Miraculously, not-Gento does not flinch at that. He remains trembling, breathing heavily, fixated in place. Caught up in himself.
Satoko’s own breathing has long since become manual, calm and even so as to not worry not-Gento. It’s not unlike the process she’d seen the nurses practice all those years back in the hospital; one could even say she’s pulling a leaf out of their textbooks. She has to take a moment to mentally chastise herself for how rusty her memory proves to be, however.
“It’s alright,” she tries, “Do you need to go to a different room?”
No response to that, either.
“Can you name five things you can see?”
This, too, turns up short — Satoko remains at square one. Every passing gasp prompts Satoko to turn to other options: lack of spatial awareness? Hallucinating? Or, perhaps…
Against all the sense her brain can muster in this moment, she slowly approaches not-Gento, careful to not let her footsteps cause much sound. Not-Gento doesn’t seem to acknowledge even this, although his hands have since started clutching his head.
Perhaps, he doesn’t get it. Think simple.
She asks, softly, “What’s your name? Can you tell me your name?”
The trembling pauses. Not-Gento’s eyes are impossibly vulnerable when his head finally turns to her, with water pooling around them. Only now does Satoko notice how eerily quiet the air has become: not-Gento’s breathing prevails over the muffled noises of the TV. No verbal response comes even now; Satoko is left to wonder what kinds of sights those cinnamon eyes have seen without her, rather than what kind of response to expect.
Eventually, not-Gento moves again: the back of his hands face Satoko when he holds them up.
“Bu-re-za,” he says, “I am… Bureza.”
Bureza. Bureza. Satoko mutters the name a few times, letting the feel of it roll over her tongue. It's familiar. It may not be what she's initially thinking. Bureza. Blazer. No, not that.
“Blazar?” she asks, suddenly, “The Ultraman on the news all the time?”
She almost convinces herself that she hallucinated the nod that follows.
Blazar, Gento. Gento, Blazar. Her husband, her darling husband… is the hero that wildly fights for the world, able to be witnessed on televisions sharing the might of their saviour. No, scratch that. Her husband is that saviour. Saviour, or perhaps, some sort of victim. Victim of doing whatever he is capable of doing, certainly, and if he’s capable of being Ultraman of all things-
But then, what does she make of whoever is in front of her right now? Someone who had trembled fervently mere minutes ago, so different from the surefire might the TV could even exude through the screen?
…This, Satoko elects to believe, is a matter best saved to mull over in bed.
Instead, she asks, “What are you doing here?”
Swiftly, Blazar punches to the side. Satoko can only tilt her head in response, to which Blazar slouches. Two claps, and- ah, has he got it?
By the looks of it, he has; a sharp point towards the long forgotten, yet still playing TV reminds Satoko that yes, in fact, this has all been happening with Doraemon in the background.
How mundane for a hero of the cosmos, she figures. Whether it’s because Blazar has never experienced Doraemon’s babbling for hours on end, or simply enthralled by it, Satoko’s heart warms at the thought; even Ultraman can have interests like these. Yet, she can barely hide her giggles at the sight of Gento’s face doing all of this. After all, when does her usually stoic husband express interest in anything un-adultlike?
“It's really cool, isn't it? I want to see what gadget he pulls out next. Don't you?” she asks.
Blazar pauses at the question. His head tilts a little, in all sorts of ways, confusion evident with each motion. Eventually, he tilts his head forward, and then back up, equally as confused.
She continues, “Then, do you want to watch Doraemon together?”
Another careful nod, on Blazar’s end. He stands there for a few moments, still as a statue — Satoko stares back, as a result. No crickets seem to chirp outside at the spectacle. Blazar’s eyes are fixated in Satoko’s, and Satoko obliges in return; somewhere, within those dark eyes of his, is her husband at peace?
In human life, there's always something to do. …What are they doing, just standing here?
Satoko takes Blazar’s hand in hers, and it's just a matter of gently guiding him to the couch from there, followed by crashing down onto it in tandem. Predictably, Blazar’s gaze stays fixated on the television in front of them, yet he never lets go of Satoko’s hand once — instead, Satoko finds her hand firmly clenched in his, warm, comfortable, and calloused from hard work.
All in all, not how she expected some part of her day to go. But, if she's to be honest? She could get used to this.