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Felix wakes up to the sun in his eyes, heating up his hair until he feels like his brain is melting into a puddle and sinking into his pillows where they will return the next night as a series of almost tangible dreams that are a jumble of events in no particular order with absolutely not semblance of coherence. He squints to his side and sees nothing, just a curled up pile of sheets bunched up in the crook between the wall and the bed where numerous crumbs, book pages, and limbs have fallen and gotten stuck prior. He pulls himself up so that he’s sitting and scratches at the back of his neck with a slow yawn that increases into a crescendo of groaning, his arms reaching to the sky as if to emphasize the noise, like a radio antennae pointing up, up, and up to the satellites until static becomes words and words become stories.

As if on cue, somewhere out in the living room the radio turns on and an announcer’s voice comes crackly transmitting over the radio. He’ll talk about stock prices and the weather; it’s all boring rich people stuff but for some reason Changbin finds it important to pay attention to the names that weave itself into the air.

Pulling an oversized pinstripe suit jacket from the floor and over his bare shoulders before exiting the room, Felix finds his predictions to be true as he sees Changbin slumped across the sill of the open window taking lazy puffs from his cigarette, late morning sunlight casting a halo around his messy bedhead. The light reflects off of his stark white shirt hanging over pale thighs, and Felix can’t help but write poetry in his mind comparing him to the moon hanging low behind hazy clouds represented in real life by the smoke that drifts around them from air Changbin blows out.

Instead of serenading Changbin, though, Felix picks up a pen from the top of a stack of books that are piled precariously by his side and scribbles the word “moon” on his arm in between the other stains of ink and paint for safekeeping of his ideas to remember later. With the task done, he approaches Changbin himself, murmuring, “You know you look stupid wearing socks with no pants?”

Changbin just grunts using his empty hand to fiddle with the radio more until there’s less static cutting across the announcer’s chirpy words. “There’s coffee in the kitchen if you’d like some.”

“I’m good. Just seeing your face makes me wake up in an instant,” Felix declares, falling onto Changbin so that his chest is pressed against Changbin’s back and Felix can see over Changbin’s shoulder and into the street below where cars pass, the size of ants, honking at pedestrians that dart through the streets.

“You cheesy motherer,” Changbin grits out, finally letting go of the radio so he can clasp Felix’s hand against his own. They remain there for a few moments, listening to the hustle and bustle of city life below them why they laze their own days away.

“Do you want to go back to the zoo?” Felix mumbles into Changbin’s back. The heat of the sun combined with the hot flashes of air billowing up from the streets is making him sleepy as he snuggles up closer to his partner. “We can see the lions and the hippos. I hear one of the pregnant hippos is supposed to be due any time this week.”

“No,” Changbin sighs, exhaling smoke before flicking the ashes off into the streets. “You know I hate seeing them caged up like that. I don’t want to pay any money to support this kind of sick behavior. Locking things up for human’s enjoyment? What kind of sicko does that.”

“Who said we would pay?” Felix answers, pulling away so he can turn Changbin around to face himself. “We’ll bring a hammer. Smash all the locks. Or would you rather spend another night in some bar downtown getting drunk and jealous while guys try to hit on me?”

Changbin laughs, knocking over a stack of books as he pushes Felix back into their piano with a bang of keys that makes their ears ring with discordant notes. “This is why I hate you and I love you,” he whispers into the little space behind Felix’s ear, his breath smelling of spice and smoke as it tickles the hairs on Felix’s neck.

Throwing his head back until it grazes the top of the piano where sheet music lies scattered around, Felix laughs, “Odi et amo? Who knew you were such an intellectual, quoting Catullus.”

“Shut up,” Changbin says, pulling his head back so he can stare into Felix’s eyes.

He reaches up a gentle hand to brush the hair out of his face, which turns into a more aggressive, possessive grip when Felix responds, “Make me.”

Their faces are inches apart when their apartment door crashes open with a bang and Jeongin crashes in, shotgun in one hand and blood splattered across his face, neck, torso. “Chan hyung is dead.”