Chapter Text
Minho thinks he might be losing his mind.
Something strange has been going on around town, and he’s not exactly sure what it is, but he fully intends on finding out.
He’s slowly been connecting some dots in his head, but he knows it sounds kinda crazy, so he turns to the only person he feels he can talk to about it.
“Soo, nabba yoog a blabba... zibbity doo?” He asks, sitting on the couch in his living room with his hands folded in his lap.
The television is on, but he’s not really watching it. It still leaves him feeling thoroughly entertained even if it’s just background noise. He really, really needs to pee, yet he remains seated for some reason.
His best friend and neighbor, Jisung, tilts his head at him from the opposite end of the couch. “Zibadoo whah?”
“Zib— I nooboo, anything shaboo shnorma,” Minho elaborates, “Or like, zib zabs we plumba normy but the more zibbly you think, the more flarbo it gebs.”
“Moo stovey wibba fizzle bop wib snibby flamesy, yibs,” Jisung shrugs, nonplussed. “Nab boo pool laddu, shoo ba da larb week. Wib shoo, da boing.”
Minho blinks incredulously. “Naboo you zibbity flarn, no weebler?”
“Noh, nah voola. A newya plop lim fibley laber, so I nah really woosh it.” Jisung reaches out for Minho’s hand and holds it gently. “Doo, ba ba? Arb you flibber?”
“Moo na shoo,” Minho hums thoughtfully. “Soo doo, me feelin' yibs off, ya know? Wabadoo to work, but time go zippy zap. Fleep, floop, no memoshmores! I zizzle out, then boing. Home again.”
“Zubba wubba, noggin flab,” Jisung replies easily, “Zibber zabber, all jobs be bloop. You flip-flap, home zoop, cha-ching. No womp womp, it’s faboo, yesh.”
“Shoozle,” Minho huffs, slightly annoyed. Not at Jisung, but just in general. “Bim bada boo vacuums snaga woog my toodle-oo and table-woo? Zibba zabbadoo?”
“Yibs, flabba doo,” Jisung says like it’s common sense, “Zib zaba dooba frip bloop, sofa plop wibber larb week, plim plam.”
Minho’s starting to get more and more agitated and confused. Nothing is adding up, and he doesn’t understand how Jisung seems to be able to rationalize everything.
“Gloob dooben vampy plorb that bada yoo and trog to smimble my blorb eber norp? Waboo him, huh?”
“Oh, suh neeb Vlad?” Jisung answers. “Zibba yesh cloob once you gleb to clorp him. I lob him slurp me beeblor. Yib floop wibbly bit but dorb whirly, it florps away evabala.”
“Oh me glarb,” Minho rolls his eyes, “Zib zaba doo womp hula deema now?”
“I jooba—” Jisung frowns a little in frustration, eyebrows knitting together. “Zib di nooba, hu tu luma plumbo, I glorp.”
“Also, gib dib. I plimbo for eleven hours the other day,” Minho adds, only getting more and more irritated, “Eleven. Hours. I dorp even lorb plimbo, but appriboo I gom really goob at it, I glep.” He gestures off to the side. “Lorp!”
“Soo ba doo, na bad boop shnoo,” Jisung replies, confused, walking over to the far wall and admiring the new pieces of art that hang there. “Zibba zib, soofah gree. Yuu makee zese? Zibba zabbadoo, woohoo. Glibber glabber, happy face.”
Minho grumbles, “Vadish, me guben.”
“Naboo flarb,” Jisung replies with a grin and a thumbs up.
“Sul, plooba waba floo daze, me ploob with a greeb woogoo, and peeps goo bloofy when me zooble.” Minho points his finger at Jisung, accusatory. “Oof yibwump!”
“Bubba yib snorble greebo, Minho. Bada shoo, zippa zapp. Wibba loona, why no splashy?” Jisung asks, genuinely perplexed.
“Me zoosh nay.” Minho throws his hands up in the air, exasperated. “Zibby wabba! Glabosh wib boo sporky. Nerk wa zoo choo choo, flaboo chimmy yow! Yip yip, I’d wanna splashy.”
Jisung furrows his eyebrows. “Zib zub— uh, zib zub wiggle wum feels blab shoo bah.”
Minho lets out a long sigh. “Yibs but shoople aboog is zibzie, I’m tib you.”
“Me zoosh nay, Minho. Zaboo frapa, yibs flarpen tuga wa.”
“Simbay,” Minho stands up from the couch, but he’s not sure why. He didn’t really feel like standing up. He wants to sit back down, but his legs are carrying him to the kitchen instead. “Or simbay we’re zibba zabbadoo in a flimflam.”
Jisung snorts a laugh. “Yibs, shoop. Zobba luba.”
“Nuh uh, I’m serishoob,” Minho calls from where he’s standing in front of the now opened fridge, grabbing a carton of milk. He crosses his legs and squirms, waving his hand in the air. He doesn’t even know who he’s waving to. “Zibby doo, glarb snoo, needa wee for shimma twenty zingles! So why zibbly bowl of cereal gooble not, like, bathroom wimmy now?”
Jisung shouts from the living room, “Me zoosh nay, zibba womp.”
“Zibba wabba woo!” Minho shouts back.
“Uh,” Jisung replies, entering the kitchen and standing awkwardly beside Minho. “Me zoosh really nay why I shem gooba zaba. I florba to go plib the plinga, but it’s zibber zabber legs not getta wibba.”
Minho abandons his cereal halfway through making it on the counter. He turns to face Jisung. “I zibba zoob, huggy wuggy. Soonka, hugba nuu.”
“Yibs, ooble,” Jisung responds, holding out his arms. “That’s flimbay. I’d moolah wub.”
“Zibba zabbadoo, me wibba wanna do wub you,” Minho says as he embraces Jisung, holding him close to his chest. “Boo bah, fub wib nork da baga moopy! I wanna zizzle you on my own wiggle, not 'cause a big boopa with a blargy horg is makin' me do it.”
Jisung pulls away with a poorly concealed smile and taps his chin as he ponders the thought. “Zibba, nooboo, smorky wib. Wibba womp! Zorba jeb, zib nabba woom—”
Before he can finish his sentence, everything goes black.
-
Felix sighs heavily as he closes his laptop.
The bottom of it is hot enough to fry an egg, the sound of the internal fan is as loud as a jet plane. He’s shocked that Chan has managed to stay asleep beside him this whole time.
“Man, that was a close one,” he grumbles under his breath.
The sheets start to rustle.
“What’s wrong, babe?” Chan asks, voice groggy from sleep. He rolls over to face Felix and rubs at his eyes. “What time is it even?”
“Three in the morning,” Felix scoffs. “I’ve been trying to get these two Sims to Woohoo for ages, but all they’re doing is becoming self-aware.” He runs a hand frustratedly through his hair. “It’s infuriating.”
“Let’s just go to bed for now, yeah?” Chan says softly, placing a comforting hand on Felix’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “You can always try again tomorrow.”