Chapter Text
The guy was dressed like Dracula. Not a cheap cape either—real velvet, shiny red lining, a plastic goblet full of God-knows-what. Steve was, genuinely, a little bit stunned when the guy strolled up to the drop in full Halloween attire, fangs and all. He considered making some cheap 'trick-or-treat' joke while handing off the duffel bag, but thought better of it.
Eddie had been way too excited about the costume—waving his hands around, laying on the Transylvania jokes like it was an audition. Steve could tell he was hoping Dracula might play along, like maybe Eddie'd found his kind of guy and they could bond over silly costumes and drug dealing. He didn’t. The guy barely spoke, just did the hand-off and walked off dead silent, cape billowing in the wind like some dramatic movie character. And Eddie’s little friend crush? Immediately squashed. It was like watching a kid drop their ice cream, the way Eddie's face dropped, the way he slowly slid the wooden stake back into his belt loop as his little jokes got fully ignored.
Oh, did Steve forget to mention that Eddie was also in costume? Yeah. When the van pulled up a block from Steve’s house—heater still running, music low and fuzzy through the busted speakers—he had the absolute joy of meeting “Van Munson, Vampire Slayer extraordinaire.” Steve had half a mind to shut the door in his face and walk right back inside.
He didn’t. What he did do though was shrug his jacket higher, pulling the collar up to hide the lower half of his face, and slouch down so far into the passenger seat that, if anyone from school happened to pass by and look inside, they’d maybe spot the top of his hair. Maybe. If the light hit right.
Eddie didn't seem to mind at all. He was endearingly proud of his stupid, last-minute Halloween costume that he kept the full gear on, cross necklace and everything, even when Steve begged him to take it off. He said it was for his nerd club after school, Spitfire or something. Said they did some fun Halloween campaign and that everyone had to come dressed in full Halloween attire. Either way, Steve found the contrast Eddie could accommodate, from nerd captain to drug dealer, grossly charming and wholly frightening.
They didn't head back right away like they always did. Usually drops went the same every time. Eddie picks Steve up a few blocks from his house (he was getting reckless, but he wasn't stupid), they don't speak on the car ride over, a bag gets handed off, sometimes cash is given upfront, sometimes Steve picks it up from Christian himself. Either way, Eddie and Steve's interactions this past month were purely business. No small talk, no grabbing dinner afterwards, no secret glances during school. Eddie played the part perfectly and it was like nothing had changed, like they were still strangers and not whatever they were now.
But tonight Eddie pulled into the empty lot behind the old hardware store after the hand-off instead of dropping Steve off in Loch Nora immediately. He didn't say why. Just cut the engine and let the silence swell around them.
If this was anyone else, any other alpha, Steve would probably have made some lame excuse to leave. Shut the door, walked away, never called them again. Probably would have never let them drive him to an empty parking lot with just the two of them and no cell service in the first place. But it wasn't a different person. It was Eddie, and stupid as it was, reckless as it probably made him, Eddie still felt safe. It didn’t make sense. Not logically. Not when Steve’s friends spent every free second making Eddie’s life hell, not when Hawkins whispered Munson like a warning.
But something in him, in his stomach or maybe higher, ached differently around Eddie. And don't get him wrong, he doesn't trust Eddie, he barely knows him. He still gets uncomfortable and awkward when they get stuck in the same room for too long. But underneath all that, buried somewhere under the part of him that never slept quite right, there was this… pull. Some strange, unshakable sense that Eddie wouldn’t let anything happen to him. Like if he really needed it, they'd be able to put aside their shit and show up for each other. Of course, that never happened, would probably be too weird. But there was still this underlying understanding soaked into his bones.
And maybe it was muscle memory—some leftover thing from the days when Eddie was the first person Steve would look for at the park, when they used to fall asleep back-to-back on the living room floor, feet tangled in old sleeping bags. Or maybe it was alpha stuff. Pheromones. Biology. Whatever. Maybe his body just knew, in the same quiet way it had always known where to find Eddie when he was scared.
Whatever it was, Steve stayed.
Outside, the sky was pitch black with little pinholes of light, streetlights flickering in and out like dying fireflies. Fog clung to the windows, soft and blurred, and it felt like the rest of Hawkins had fallen away completely.
Eddie reaches behind the seat, rustling through a plastic gas station bag Steve hadn't noticed when he'd gotten in, and drops it between them unceremoniously.
"Candy?" he offers, like it's obvious.
Steve glances at him. "You brought candy to a drug deal?"
Eddie shrugs, already peeling open a Reese's like he hadn't heard the judgment in Steve's tone. "It’s Halloween. You’re lucky I didn’t bring a pumpkin."
Steve rolls his eyes but picks through the bag anyway. Most of it was junk—off-brand chocolate, melted gummy worms, candy corn in a loose sandwich bag (gross). He pulls something out of the bag, stares at the wrapper. “What the hell is this?”
"...a Twix?"
"Uh no, this is a 'Chocolate Covered Caramel Bar' apparently." Steve snorts turning the off-brand Twix around in his fingers.
"It was 3 for a dollar. Don't knock it 'til you've tried it."
Steve takes a bite and immediately gags. “This tastes like crayons.”
Eddie’s already eaten two. “You just don’t have a refined palate.”
Steve snorts and leans his head back against the seat, lets his gaze drift across the van—sticky cupholders, fogged windows.
Whenever Eddie's around it's like Steve's brain rewinds back to summers during elementary school and sleepovers at the trailer park. His brain doesn't register Eddie as a real person anymore, hasn't for a while. He doesn't see the freak, or the drug dealer, or the super senior. Not because he's any better than the kids who called Eddie those names in school, or that he was any nobler than them. It’s just that Eddie’s become more of a memory than a person. A taller body carrying a better moment in time. Like a sunny day trapped in a mason jar.
And maybe it's because Steve never got to know him after they stopped talking. Never got to solidify in his head the person that Eddie had become while he was gone. But since they parted, Steve's only ever looked at him as a closed museum, a scrapbook collecting dust on a shelf he can't reach. So no matter how many new tattoos Eddie gets, how many crude names he's given, Steve has never been able to see him for anything other than the seven-year old boy who proposed to him with a ring pop.
He watches now as Eddie laughs at something on the candy wrapper, crinkles forming near the corners of his eyes—crow’s feet, like little parentheses that say he’s been smiling for years when Steve wasn’t looking.
And it hits him. Like whiplash.
Eddie’s changed.
Filled out, gotten taller, sturdier. More alpha, whatever that means.
And it's weird. It throws Steve off to see this person he'd locked in a timeframe actually reveal that they've been existing outside of it, changing, growing, becoming someone other than a wild kid with a missing tooth. Someone kind of well. Handsome.
Not that Eddie ever wasn't something. But this is different. This is broader shoulders under a threadbare flannel. Longer hair pulled back to show the slope of his neck. Smile lines and crow's feet and that little crease between his brows when he’s focused—like right now, trying to open a mini Kit-Kat with cold fingers and failing spectacularly.
Steve's not used to this version. Not used to looking and seeing a man instead of a memory. And it hits him in the chest, warm and sudden and a little sickening, how beautiful Eddie is now.
And how he probably always was.
Eddie’s still wrestling with the candy, muttering something under his breath about how "they make these things impossible on purpose, population control or some shit." He’s not talking to Steve, not really, just filling the air, like maybe silence is too intimate.
Steve plucks it from his fingers without thinking. Peels it open in one smooth motion and offers it back without a word.
Eddie looks at him, surprised for half a second, then takes it. "Thanks," he says, a little quiet. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t make it weird.
They eat in silence. Crinkling wrappers, heater whirring low, windows fogging up along the edges. The kind of silence that feels like it could fall apart if either of them said the wrong thing.
Steve watches his breath cloud faintly in the air. Then, without really planning to speak:
"I can’t believe we’re here right now."
Eddie glances up from his Starburst, his words are thick with saliva and sugar. "What, in this parking lot?"
Steve huffs. "Halloween night," he clarifies. "You probably had like a bunch of customers blowing up your pager. You could've made four separate runs by now."
Eddie nods like that makes sense. "Yeah. And you probably had five parties lined up. I'm sure your goons are wondering where you are."
Steve doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the half-eaten candy in his hand. "Yeah," he says finally. "Something like that."
Eddie crumples the Starburst wrapper and tosses it into the little trash pile forming in the cupholder. "Guess we're bad at prioritizing."
And that’s it. That’s the whole exchange. It's what should be the end of their night. But neither of them moves. Eddie doesn’t reach for his burner, even though it’s been buzzing every few minutes with texts from his usuals. Steve doesn’t pull out his phone, doesn’t even acknowledge the string of messages from Carol lighting up his pocket. They just sit there, shitty candy between them and kids in masks running like flashes of light outside the van. Steve watches one dressed as a skeleton trip over their own feet and burst out laughing. Eddie taps the steering wheel in a rhythm Steve can’t place. It’s nothing. It's everything. It’s warm.
Eddie doesn't drop him off for another half-hour. And when he does pull up to the empty house in Loch Nora, neither of them say goodbye. Like maybe by doing that, they could live forever in this night eating candy and breathing together. It doesn't work. By the time Steve steps into his house and hears the van rumble down the road, he feels cold again. And it's like nothing's changed.
But after that night, things actually started to shift. Not just because of Steve’s sudden, unwelcome realization about Eddie’s face. Not because they’d spent a full hour together doing something other than arguing or making drug deals. Not even because it was the first time they’d talked, really talked, in years without it turning into a fight.
But because it felt right, hiding in Eddie's van while the world flurried by outside. Eating shitty candy with him and making fun of the names on the wrappers. Sitting in a box and being the only two kids in the universe for a few hours. It felt so terrifyingly right and Steve thinks Eddie could feel it too.
So they start lingering in the weeks after Halloween. Not always. Not every time. But enough that it becomes a thing.
Sometimes they get milkshakes after a drop. Steve always orders vanilla and Eddie always orders chocolate. He'll pretend to be disgusted, will say that it "tastes like dirt" and Eddie will say something stupid back like "you taste like dirt" and Steve will roll his eyes but smile behind his straw. It's kind of how most of their interactions go. One night they mixed their milkshakes into one brown and white swirl. They passed it back and forth on the hood of the van like a flask, hiding behind the diner from the kids from school and any prying eyes. That night was freezing and Steve's head hurt from how sweet their concoction was, but he felt warm the whole night, even after Eddie dropped him off and drove away. So he always asks if they can mix flavors now.
They also fight over snacks constantly. Not real fights. Mostly just long-winded debates about flavor rankings and personal taste crimes. Once, Eddie picked Steve up already holding two gas station hot dogs. Steve had eyed them with visible suspicion, scoffed “I’m not eating that.”
“Good,” Eddie said. “They’re both for me.”
Ten minutes later though, Steve was stealing bites.
Sometimes play punch buggy with actual malice. Steve cheats. Eddie keeps score in pen on the glovebox. The van becomes a moving diner, a sanctuary from the rest of Hawkins, a box where they can live out all the late-night talks and sleepovers they missed in the past few years. They argue about stupid things. What kind of animal they’d want to be. (Steve says wolf, Eddie says raven.) Who would die first in a horror movie. (Both say the other.) Whether Christian secretly owns Hawkins. (Eddie is convinced.)
So they talk more now. Not really deep stuff, but they don't ever shut up around each other like they used to. It's easy. Stupidly easy. Eddie talks with his whole face, his hands, like the words might fall apart if he doesn’t build a scaffolding around them. Steve forgot what it was like to watch him and listen.
Eddie gets closer too. Not in a weird way, just proximity. Like when he leans across the van to grab something and doesn’t flinch if their knees bump. Or how he starts parking closer to Steve’s house. How he lets Steve fiddle with the music now or put his feet up on the seats. Once, he fell asleep in the van waiting for a late drop. Head tilted toward the window, curls tucked into the crook of his hoodie. Steve watched the rise and fall of his shoulders and thought, absurdly, Don’t move.
Like if he breathed too loud, Eddie might vanish.
And it throws him off. Because he remembers Eddie. And this version is still that same kid who once let him name a raccoon they saw behind the gas station. But he’s also not. Not at all.
So they're kind of friends now. Steve's learned a lot about Eddie in the hours they spend in his van after drops. He's learned Eddie always hums when he’s reversing. Learns he cracks his knuckles before a drop. Learns he keeps extra socks in the glove compartment because his boots are always damp. It's all small stuff. Really small stuff. But the moments pile up quiet and soft under Steve’s ribs until one day he realizes: he hasn’t felt cold in weeks. That chill he used to carry everywhere, deep in his chest and laced into his bones, is just... gone. And maybe it’s just the shitty heat in Eddie’s van. But Steve knows it's not.
Tonight is like any other night. But it's also not. Steve can tell.
Eddie looked a little nervous after the drop, eyes not meeting Steve's and fingers clenching the steering wheel rhythmically. He didn't take the turn toward Loch Nora either. Or the one to the diner. Or the gas station they buy snacks from. Steve thought about asking, but something in the air told him not to. Like if he spoke too soon, he might scare off whatever was happening.
Eventually, Eddie pulls into the trailer park. Not fast. Not like he was trying to hide it, but slow, like he was trying to decide the whole time if he was actually going to do it. He kills the engine and sits there for a second, eyes still forward.
"You wanna come in?" he asks, voice low and casual, like it doesn’t really matter either way.
They've never done this before. Well, the after-before. In the before-before, the trailer was like a second home to Steve and it was never a question if he wanted to come in. But now? In the after-before? The trailer was uncharted territory. It wasn't the diner, or some random parking lot, or even the van. That tiny, tin house was drenched in memories of hot summer days, secrets whispered under covers, movie nights under the same blanket, birthday parties gone awry. It wasn't safe like the van was. It had the potential to burst this beautiful bubble that's been built this November. But Steve's nodding before he even realizes it. "Yeah, sure. Just for a bit."
The inside of the trailer hasn’t changed much—same ratty couch, same yellowing kitchen light, same warmth. It feels worn-in, familiar in the way stuffed animals get when you outgrow them. Not because they’ve changed, you just got taller and less scared. But maybe it's just because Eddie's puttering around the same kitchen they used to sneak midnight snacks from. The counters that once reached his chest now barely graze Eddie’s hips. Steve suddenly feels too tall and too old and too late for this place.
When Eddie turns around, he's holding a lighter and a joint.
"Feel like being bad?" he asks, grinning.
Steve snorts. "Like what we're doing isn't already illegal?"
Eddie flicks the lighter. "Touché."
They settle on opposite ends of the couch and pass the joint back and forth. The first time Steve smoked was with Tommy when his parents were out of town. Tommy threw up and Steve didn't feel anything. It was Eddie's weed. Tommy boasted the whole night about how he 'conducted' an actual drug deal with the freak in the year above them, made it sound like some covert operation, like he’d stared death in the face and bartered with the devil himself. Meanwhile, Steve had barely paid attention. He hadn't cared where it came from, only that it made him feel older. Cooler. He didn’t realize, until later, that it had always come from Eddie.
All the weed Steve ever smoked in Hawkins touched Eddie’s hands first. Even now.
Eddie takes a drag, then passes the joint back. Steve accepts it with two fingers, a little slower now, his limbs warm and too long for his body. He exhales crooked, then lets out a short, half-surprised laugh.
Eddie grins. "Oh my god. King Steve is a lightweight?"
Steve glares at him, but it’s lazy, softened by the haze. "Shut up."
"No, this is big," Eddie says, leaning forward like he’s about to make an announcement. "All this time I thought you were, like, hardened. What happened to all that weed Tommy used to bully me for, huh? Thought I was building up your tolerance this whole time."
Steve’s smile falters a little, but he doesn’t look away. He takes one last hit and taps the ash into a chipped tray on the coffee table. "I’m sorry about that."
Eddie tilts his head, smile dropping a little bit as well.
"About Tommy. The others. About… all of it." Steve shrugs. The years of built-up guilt sit heavy in his stomach. "I didn’t stop them. I should’ve."
Eddie looks at him for a beat longer than usual, eyebrows raised like that was the last thing he'd expected. Then he sighs and leans back against the couch. "Yeah. Your friends are assholes."
He says it matter of fact, like he’s not trying to land a blow, just stating a long-accepted truth. And Steve agrees, yes. But...
"They’re not—" he stops, frowns. "Okay, they were. But not like… not the way you think. They’re just stupid." He thinks of Carol. "Or just bitchy. And scared of anything different."
Eddie raises an eyebrow. "That supposed to make me feel better?"
"No," Steve blurts, shaking his head. "It’s just... what it is. I dunno."
Eddie hums. "Still assholes."
"Still my friends," Steve says softly.
"Yeah," Eddie agrees, after a pause. "And you’re still here."
They don't speak for a few moments. Steve's limbs are starting to feel syrupy, like everything is happening in honey. The silence isn't awkward or calculated, just something quieter and final. Then Eddie continues, "I'll be honest I never thought you'd actually ever step foot here again. The last time you were over..."
He trails off but Steve knows what he's referencing. He doesn't like to remember that night. The humiliation from being scolded by your ex-bestfriend slash the town's drug dealer still burns in his gut at the memory. He was so stupid, coming here and asking for those pills. Eddie screamed at him. Steve slammed the door. "You were grossed out by me."
"I wasn't grossed out, dude. I was- I was worried."
That's somehow worse. God, he's such a child.
"I'm sorry I yelled." Eddie mutters when he doesn't respond.
Steve lets out a breath, itching to change the subject. "I always thought it was kinda cool how we could argue like that."
Eddie turns his head, one brow raised. "Cool?"
"I dunno." Steve shrugs, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion. "Arguing is personal. I wouldn't yell and storm off on just anyone y'know? Like even after years of no talking, we can just argue like we still care about each other."
"I thought that meant we hated each other."
Steve snorts. "Maybe... But it felt better than not talking."
"That’s the sappiest shit I’ve ever heard but yeah, I get what you're saying."
He doesn’t answer, just looks down at his knees, then up again, and smiles. Quiet. Real. A little stupid, like he just thought of the most hilarious joke that's definitely not funny at all. "Y'know... you’ve got a lotta nerve calling me a lightweight, by the way. You're the one who passed out on Pixy Stix at your ninth birthday party."
Eddie gasps, hand over his heart. "That was a sugar crash, thank you very much. Totally different medical condition."
Steve snorts. "You cried. I had to carry you inside."
"Okay first of all, I was nine. And second of all, you offered! That’s on you."
Steve grins, the haze in his head golden and easy now. "Yeah. Guess it is."
"Yeah," Eddie says, soft. "You always did enable me."
Steve chuckles. And then before he can even stop it: "I missed you."
The words tumble out of his mouth fast and hushed, like smoke. They disappear in the air just as quick. But Eddie doesn't tease. Doesn’t say anything at all. Just shifts a little closer, close enough that their knees bump. The lights flicker. The joint burns out in the ashtray. Steve leans his head on the back of the couch and closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, Eddie’s still there.
And that, weirdly, feels like the safest thing in the world.