Hours spent expelling one’s boisterous voice to large crowds, scuffling with your manager (and sister), navigating bustling industry buildings and networking with rising stars would tire anybody out, even the famously flamboyant Hoonis Boogie. Maintaining such a personality is hard work, after all… though it’s less of a character he portrays and more of an exaggeration of his inherently theatrical nature. In spite of this, exhaustion comes anyway. It comes with every profession.

Most look to relax when swamped with the tiredness that results from a particularly strenuous day. Some have routines, others prefer to engage in what comes most naturally to them.

Hoonis ends his day the same way, every day. Same place, same time, same activity.

The being steps into the elevator car with a gentleness that belies the way he behaves normally, waiting patiently to ascend to the third story. As soon as the soft chime alerting any boarding passengers of the cabin’s arrival sounds, he slips through the still-opening doors and follows the same path he has many times before. The sound of his soles clicking against the linoleum elicits an almost Pavlovian response now.

The moment the dated, dusty blue shade of those unlabeled yet doubtlessly familiar doors graces his vision, Hoonis smiles inwardly. A warmth seems to emanate from within, a certain welcomed tenderness. One that he spends most of the day yearning to return to.

He pushes through to be met with one of his favorite sights: that old CRT, tangled and messed wires snaking off into the dark corners of an unkept storage room, sitting atop an even earlier VCR. A variety of video tapes litter the surrounding area; some with their cases, others without. Organization seldom matters to Hoonis, however. He’s seen them all already, and they’re all the same series. His favorite series.

He slinks to the ground in front of the crude setup gently, a choppy sigh of exertion managing to escape him in the process. The sound of the doors swinging shut finally ceases behind him as his eyes adjust to the darkness, flitting between the variety of recorded episodes scattered somewhat aimlessly before him. The being reaches a porcelain white hand toward a particularly old tape after some consideration, turning it over in his grasp. No label. He brings it to his face to admire it closely, eyes falling upon the neat ridges of the inner reels concealed within the VHS cassette. He blows off whatever dust he can before slipping it inside the VCR with a certain deliberate, emotional care; one he always exercises when handling items that mean this much to him.

After a few impatient seconds, the deceptively upbeat tune of The Darly Boxman Show's intro crackles out of the speakers. The first note alone is enough to bring an immediate onset of comfort to Hoonis, but it pales in comparison to the adoration that flows through him whenever the star of the show graces his vision. A beam of light that shines so much brighter than the phosphor that arranges to display his image.

"Hey, hey, hey, kids! Great to see you all again!~"

That odd, tremulous voice he adores so, so much.


Before he knows it, Hoonis finds his form flush against the side of the television. It's a position he can't seem to resist for long; it's the closest he can get to, well… closeness. The physical kind, that is. It’s difficult to compensate in relationships like theirs.

However, there’s no denying that what Hoonis can manage to share with his two-dimensional lover is very, very nice. He rests his chin atop the CRT, reaching downward to delicately brush his hand along the bottom half of the screen as he listens to Darly’s voice hit shrill peaks through dated speakers. The gentle buzzing of its inner workings emanates up through his fingertips and warms him from within, and he can’t help the way his eyes slink shut contentedly. The tenderness, the zeal he feels… It’s the purest kind of love he can imagine. The only love he wants.

He doesn’t hesitate to further enjoy the company of his dearest: running cautious fingers over the bundle of wires plugged into the television set’s various ports, pressing pursed lips to its front housing, murmuring soft praises as he lightly adjusts its dials. A variety of caresses, all reserved for Darly. Hoonis wouldn’t dream of showing anyone else such affection.

“Darly…” The being murmurs, voice laden with an intimacy saved exclusively for his one and only, “Oh, sweetheart. I love you.”

And, if only for a second, he swears he can feel the quiet, crackling electricity beneath his fingertips heat in reciprocation.