Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 87
Part 1 Part 86
Mom’s hovering in front of the door, a knife in her hand, trying to get the rest of them to get away from the window. It’s not working. If anything, Max’s nose only presses more firmly to the glass with every request she makes.
Will’s hovering just behind her, desperate to keep Steve and Eddie in his line of sight. He can just barely see the wisp of a curl through the side window of the van, bouncing as Eddie moves around inside.
He squints, trying to keep the hair in sight as the movement becomes more erratic.
Will hears glass breaking just as he loses sight of Eddie entirely, wisps and all.
He rushes past his Mom, using the weight of his body to open the door, even as she stands in the way. It’s almost involuntary, a compulsion to follow the thread that Eddie’d pulled him by.
“Will, don’t!” she cries, but it’s too late. He’s out, and through.
Mike calls after him, too, and there’s the sound of tennis shoes stampeding out of the house behind him. Will only hopes he’s not leading them all to their impending doom.
Bodies slump into the driveway, none of them human. They’re like if the Demogorgon had followed a different evolutionary chain. Dustin would find it fascinating. Will just wants Eddie and Steve back.
Wayne’s still standing sentry, looking out across the street, waiting for more monsters to creep in from the darkness, Barbara by his side.
Shielding the entrance to the van, is El.
“El!” It’s Mike, because it always is. He sounds so genuinely elated that something curdles and dies in his throat. He swallows it down, hopes it decomposes in his stomach, so he never has to look directly at it. “You came!”
El smiles, happily at Mike, then around to all of them. “Of course.” She looks over at Max, and she’s frowning now, that way she does when she doesn’t understand something. It used to happen all the time. Now, it’s rare.
Will doesn’t care, can’t when Eddie’s too quiet in the van somewhere Will can’t see. He pushes past her, too.
There’s a misshapen, monstrous foot sticking out of the broken window. He stares at it for a second before swinging the door open. It wrenches the foot strangely, makes it crack and tear with the resistance of the door before it breaks free, black blood flowing like the thing’s still alive.
It stays still.
Will looks past it, and finds Eddie’s pale face.
There’s glass in his hair, and his palms are bleeding where they’re held in front of him, but he’s breathing. Alive. And he’s looking up at El like she’s answered all his prayers. Will and Eddie have been sharing the same prayers from the same broken pews for so long that for a second, Will thinks Steve is back.
He scrambles over the dead thing blocking his entrance. It’s cold against his palms, flesh barely giving as he crawls hand over feet atop it. But, Steve’s still just sitting there, blinking, Carol huddled into his side like he can protect her, even like this.
“Steve needs your help,” Eddie says, plaintive. Begging with both voice and unblinking eyes, gaze locked on El’s own until she breaks it to look at where Steve still sits, unbothered.
Her brow furrows, eyes squinting like she’s peeling off layers of skin and meat to get to whatever’s underneath. “He’s lost?” she asks.
Carol is squinting at El like the words aren’t clicking for her. She looks back to Steve, then back to El, brow furrowing with anger.
Eddie nods. Will clears his throat. “Not like last time,” he clarifies. “He’s here, but his mind isn’t.”
El nods, decisive. “I will help.”
“What the hell are you all talking about!” Carol demands, even as people scatter around her, setting up for El’s latest rescue mission. “He’s right there!”
She’s not looking at Will, though. She’s looking at Eddie like it’s all his fault. Still, when Steve doesn’t say anything, her lip wobbles as she turns and asks, “right Steve?”
He doesn’t answer, even as she calls again. Will looks away when she bites her lips, eyes wide.
It’s easier this time. They don’t have to break into the school, don’t have to find a pool. El just sits cross-legged in front of Steve on the carpet, careful to stay away from the broken glass and the dead thing. Mike covers her eyes with Wayne’s flannel while the man himself switches the radio dial until he finds one with enough white noise to satisfy.
He can’t quite tune out the murmured conversation between Eddie and Carol, though, no matter how hard he tries. Eddie explains, in clipped, emotionless words, that something, one of the monsters from the other place she’d just gotten a taste of, has taken over Steve.
“But we’re getting him back?” she asks, voice shrill and breaking, contrasting with Eddie’s own even tone. A veteran to the newbie in the warzone.
Will, suddenly, feels terribly old.
“Quiet now,” El demands.
Eddie looks away from Carol without answering. There is no answer to that question when they’re all subsisting off hope, and not much else.
“Tell him we’re coming, okay?” Eddie asks. He’s looking down at his own bloody palms now, like he can’t bear to look at their last bastion of hope and wait for it to flame and go out.
“Ask ‘im how to stop the thing taking ‘im over,” Wayne interjects.
Eddie’s lip wobbles. Will knows how he feels. He doesn’t want Steve to know, if he’s in there at all, that they don’t know what to do. Neither does Will. He wants to save Steve. He always wants to save Steve.
But, Eddie finally looks up, meeting Will’s eyes before nodding. The movement knocks a tear free, but his voice sounds clear when he says, “Ask him how we kill the fucker.”
El nods, shoulders settling as she reaches out to take Steve’s hand. The white noise blankets them all. Will settles down to wait.
That’s what they always do, when Steve is dying: they wait. This time is no different.
Part 88
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The eggs are asleep, and finally Philza and Missa can catch a moment to themselves. Unfortunately, catching that moment means admitting to the injuries they have been hiding from their children - fussing over scratches while having arrowheads lodged next to your spine is the duty of a parent on Quesadilla Island, but an exhausting one.
Missa's quick fingers manage to pull said arrowhead from Philza's back, the momentary flash of pain causing him to nearly drop the iodine solution. He doesn't, though, just a little stain on the floorboards, and so he continues applying it to the wound in Missa's leg.
He barely notices the scratch of a needle against his back, but Missa cannot help but whine as the gauze is pressed against his wound.
"I hate it here," Missa manages, thankfully in English as Philza is in no position to twist and see his translator. "Why is everything trying to kill us?"
"The island fucking hates us, is why," Philza grouches, reaching over for a bandage. He's managed to get Missa's leg to stop bleeding, but it should still be covered. "Enjoy the island my ass."
Missa giggles a bit, even as he tapes a dressing in place over the arrow wound. He says something in Spanish which is definitely too fast for Philza to parse; he tries to turn and look, only to be gently pressed back into position.
"It's nothing," Missa assures him. "But the skeletons! Why are they so bad?"
"The skeletons aren't even the worst of it," Philza groans back. "If you ever see glowing eyes and nothing else? Run."
There's a long pause, and Philza hopes that Missa understands the severity of his warning - a Nightmare Stalker is exactly that, and Philza knows Missa is not nearly equipped to handle one. If he struggles as he does, he doesn't want to think about how his partner would suffer in his stead.
"It's okay," Missa pats his shoulder a few times, leaning around his wings to do so. "I'm good at running. It's my special talent!"
"You're good at a lot of things," Philza promises.
Missa doesn't reply; this time when Philza turns, he is allowed to. His entire body aching he sits himself up and twists himself around, taking Missa's face him his hands.
"You are so good," he promises. "So, so good. There's nobody else I would want to raise my eggs with."
There's more on the tip of his tongue; Philza quashes it as Missa closes his eyes, rest of his expression hidden by his mask.
Philza can see Missa struggle with his words for a bit - he's always amazed how someone can make themselves understood in two languages - before eventually receiving, "you are the best egg father."
"We have the best egg child," he retorts.
"We do!" Missa's entire body language perks up. "Chayanne is the best egg child, and he is ours. We are so lucky."
"We really are."
Philza isn't sure when it happens, but eventually he realises that he has leant forward, his forehead resting against Missa's mask. He closes his eyes and savours it, feeling as Missa loosely places his arms across his bare back - Philza needs his for support, one either side of Missa's hips and taking his weight, but otherwise he would do much the same.
The two of them stay in silence for a while, savouring each other's presence. The pain is still there, from protecting their children, and yet... In a simple house of oak and glass, for a moment it is all peace.
"Run away with me."
This is not how Philza had ever meant to bring it up, but the words slip out of their own accord.
Missa startles, eyes wide and spine straight as he blinks himself out of the peaceful haze, "qué?!"
"Run away with me," he shifts so he can see all of Missa's face, taking both of his partner's hands in his own. "Take the children, and run away. Find a way off this island, and to another world - one where the skeletons are the /only/ thing to worry about. I'll build you another house and we'll make it a home. Any colour you like, with a fence and walls and real bedrooms and a kitchen for Chayanne and gardens for Tallulah... You can have your own music room and kick Wilbur out for trying to steal your guitar, and we can sit on the roof in the moonlight and you can sing and I'll dance with the children asleep beneath us and no risk of zombie horsemen on our tail."
"But how-" a small whine catches in Missa's throat. "How do we get away? They said we cannot leave."
"There's always a way to leave," Philza says. "We just have to find it."
There's hands in his wings, and Philza startles.
"Your wings are so big... If they healed, you could fly away," Missa says, something wishful in his tone. "Up and up and far, far away, so far they could never catch you."
"And leave you behind?" he asks.
"You'd come back for Chayanne. And I... I could follow you then?"
"Even if something happens to Chayanne, I'd come back for you," Philza promises. "I won't leave you here, not in this hell."
"You wouldn't leave anyone here, if you could help it."
"Probably," Philza admits. "But I wouldn't come back for them, not if I didn't know I could escape again - I'd come back for you."
"I'll wait for you," Missa seems almost to melt in Philza's touch, whimpering as he curls in on him. Philza isn't even sure what he said wrong, just that his egg partner is clinging to him, whimpering.
"We might not always be together," he tries to reassure. "But I will always come back for you - I'll always find you. There's no point in running away if we don't run away together; if some day I /can/ fly away, I'd only do it to come back with help."
The whimpering turns to sobbing, and Philza adjusts his position to hold Missa properly. The hands in his feathers dig deep - one finger catches on some tape holding one of the litany of dressings in place - but Philza just holds Missa and worries.
Why this reaction? Was it something he said?
He stops talking just in case; Missa clearly wants a hug, so he just holds him, understanding only odd words of the broken fragments of Spanish between the sobs.
Eventually the tears slow; Missa pulls away, still sniffling.
"And... Spreen can come?"
"He can live next door, if he wants," Philza promises; it'll be a little hard to negotiate with Fit, but interpersonal drama is just a part of life. "A whole new town for /everyone/ - all of the islanders, and all of our friends. Maybe if we let his ex in Forever will even stop hitting on me."
That earns a laugh, if a bit of a wet one.
"I want to dance with you," Missa says.
"With no zombie riders," Philza promises. "Maybe tomorrow we could dance a bit at the Favela? But, one day, we'll do it somewhere safe."
"On the roof, under the moon?"
"I'll make a roof specially designed for it."
The tears slow some more, and Missa drops to actually lie on the bed.
"Do you really think we'll escape?" Missa turns to Philza and asks. "We broke the Wall, and the Federation-"
Philza moves to lie beside him - on his front while Missa is on his back - and takes a hand. "We will. I promise."
"But-"
"Someone cleverer than us will work it out," he smiles to Missa. "We've just got to survive while they do."
"And if they don't?"
"Then I'll burn the Federation to the ground."
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mmg,, i might hiatus again,,,
I'd hate to do it, but there's no joy in crab posts as of right now, and also as of a long while ago.
Managing messages and responding to people in replies and being tagged and all the stuff in inbox is. a lot.
I never intended or expected crab blog to get this big, and it feels like such a chore to do at this point. Not that I dont like it, and not that I dont enjoy the fellow crab lovers, but it's certainly overwhelming.
That plus other socials and such that I manage and real life stuff is just. IDK, it's a lot. Usually, if I get to this point, I just drop off, maybe delete the account if I really can't stand it, but I'm definitely not going to do that here.
At the very least, I'm going to empty out the submissions that have been piling up, but after that, I'm not sure. I may not even get through all of those, I've already been relying on those for a long time at this point, and I think that's pretty obvious.
It feels like a hassle to deal with those anyways since most people don't even identify what type of crab it is that they submit, so I have to take the time to find it, which is usually not at all easy. There are so many posts that I've just had to guess what to tag it as because I just don't know, and there's no solid answer that I can find, at least not usually.
Which is also partially my fault, I've never said anything about it before, and I never specified it at an earlier time to make incoming ones less stressful to deal with, but even so I just. I don't know, I don't.
I don't know exactly when it'll happen, but it's the most likely thing to happen from here. I think I'll modify some stuff about how I handle the daily-crabbys blog to make it easier on me when I come back, but I'm not entirely sure what that'll be. I've never managed a successful daily posting account before, I haven't the slightest clue how to make it all easier on me.
Sorry that this has gotten so long, I didn't mean to rant. There's just so much that I feel like I need to say.
This isn't something coming out of nowhere, and it isn't going to be immediate. I've thought about wanting to do this for a while, and I know I did this already not too long ago, but I didn't really change anything for myself, so I'm just burnt out a lot faster.
Sorry again, both for the length of this and the fact that it's going to happen, but I've just got to make things better for myself before I carry on long term. I really just fucked myself over by not doing this the first time, but if I don't do something about it eventually then I'll just end up hating this blog too much to continue.
🦀💜
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