Chapter Text
It was Halloween night, and Eddie should’ve been making absolute bank at any of the various ragers being thrown across Hawkins right now, but now he was stuck at home writing his stupid history paper at his stupid desk and day-dreaming about all the stupidly fun decisions he could've been making that night instead.
The dealing was an unspoken but understood fact between him and his uncle. Eddie knew Wayne was aware of it, was disappointed by it, by him, and that was just about the worst feeling in the world, really. It went against Wayne’s primary mission in life, which was to ensure Eddie didn’t end up anything like his father— and, frankly, that was pretty high on Eddie's list of priorities, too.
At the same time, though, bills didn’t pay themselves, and money didn’t grow on trees— not on any trees in Hawkins, anyway; Eddie had checked. Wayne’s job at the plant was steady work, and the union kept it steadier, but money was still tight year-round. An extra $50 or even $100 every weekend went a long way in keeping the lights on and cheap, microwavable food on the table.
Besides, it might've been different if Eddie was getting high on his own supply 24/7, but Wayne knew he mostly just stuck to pot himself; it was wasn't like Eddie didn't partake in the really fun stuff on occasion, but that made it harder to deal. He preferred to off-load the stronger shit Rick gave him to Hawkins High’s upper-ranks, who were either too stupid or too drunk to know how badly they were being ripped off.
Usually, the promise of extra cash ensured Eddie wouldn’t get more than a huff or a grunt as he bounded out the door with his lunchbox, off to Tina’s, or Tommy’s, or whatever other asshole's house was hosting that night’s festivities.
However, Wayne had gotten a call from stupid Mrs. Barteau on Tuesday about Eddie’s most recent test grade, and Eddie was told, in no uncertain terms, that Hellfire and Corroded Coffin would be mere figments of his imagination unless this history paper was turned in on time.
And, y’know, yeah. Eddie got it. God knows he was upset, albeit unsurprised, to be repeating senior year again, so he understood why Wayne was being such a hard-ass all the sudden.
But that didn’t mean Eddie couldn’t groan and pout all the way through the Spanish Inquisition, even if Wayne had left over an hour ago with a stern reminder to stay put— and a slightly softer reminder that there was a candy bowl on the counter chock full of Tootsie Rolls.
Damn it, Eddie loved that guy.
But, shit, was that love enough to be reading this much about fucking Ferdinand and Isabella?
Eddie threw his textbook across the room, where it fell onto his mattress with a particularly unsatisfying thump.
He would kill for a distraction right now.
The trailer park kids were smart, just like Eddie’d taught them. They'd gotten in their costumes early and went around the park ringing everyone’s doorbells, but by the time the streetlights had come on, they’d all biked down the road a ways into the nicer neighborhoods to get the good shit: Reese’s peanut butter cups, Snickers, Twix, you name it. They weren’t quite close enough to Loch Nora to get the really fancy crap, but it was still better than suckers and peppermints from Melvald’s clearance aisle.
With the older kids still gone and the little ones long since tucked into bed, the trailer park had settled down for the night— which was a double-edged sword for Eddie.
On the one hand, it was pretty quiet out, with little to distract him from his essay besides the birds cawing outside and the neighbors’ television.
On the other hand, with little to distract him from his essay, Eddie didn’t have any excuse but to actually work on the damn thing.
He finished something that could pass for an introduction and even made some headway on the second paragraph, but his focus—and his fourth Tootsie roll—was interrupted by a bang somewhere outside, shortly followed by muffled shouting.
Eddie didn’t panic, but he did straighten up to listen closer.
He’d defend Forest Hills to all the classist assholes in Roane County to the grave, but he couldn’t deny that it was, at the end of the day, a trailer park. Everyone's homes were shoved pretty close together, and no one's trailer was exactly soundproof. It wasn’t rare to overhear some drama when a wife found out about a girlfriend, or when a drunk stumbled home to find his crap in the yard and the locks changed, or when red-and-blue lights came looking for trouble.
(“Trouble,” to be fair, occasionally meant Eddie, but the neighbors were usually solid. No one narced on him so long as he kept his guitar unplugged and his drugs out of reach from their kids.)
Sometimes the drama itself became a feature of the park. A lot of people spent their evenings relaxing outside with a cigarette and a beer. They’d claim it was relaxing, anyway, but Eddie had a feeling a good number of his neighbors were just waiting for some excitement to break out so they could all listen in.
(Eddie couldn’t even judge them that much. He remembered that unbearably hot summer when he was sixteen, when he and Wayne couldn’t bear to do anything but lay on the floor with all the windows open and a veritable army of fans plugged in. On the boiling July day when everyone heard Mrs. Bianchi shout—“The baby’s not even yours, asshole!”—he and Wayne nearly fell over each other in the rush outside for a better listening spot.
All his neighbors had the same idea, apparently, and when Mr. Bianchi came storming out of his trailer spitting curses, everyone had to grab the nearest rake or garden hoe and pretend the rock-hard, sun-bleached earth under their feet was suddenly very interesting. Eddie still laughed about it every time he saw the little not-Bianchi racing around his mother while she pulled weeds.)
Eddie was about to brush the sound off as nothing and go back to his essay, but another smattering of bangs came— nothing like gunshots, but still, loud enough to be concerning. They sounded more hollow than bullets, he thought, like the sound of a fist against a wall. He knew that sound well enough himself.
Eddie stood up and wandered to the window, peering through the curtains.
Immediately, he knew it was the trailer straight across from theirs with the trouble.
The door was wide open, and though their curtains were drawn, he could hear two people shouting now. If he listened intently he could tell it was a man and a woman, but their voices sounded slurred. Drunk, then, both of them.
Eddie rolled his eyes, but he didn’t go back to his books just yet, because he knew a man didn’t live in the trailer. But a girl did.
He hadn’t met the people who’d moved into the trailer across from theirs yet. It’d been weeks, maybe even a month or two, so he wasn’t going to wander over to introduce himself now. His uncle had probably brought over a pie or something back when they first moved in; that was something Wayne would do.
But Eddie did know it was a woman and her daughter. He’d seen their matching red hair as they left for work and school respectively, but hadn’t said a word to either. He was pretty sure the girl was a freshman; on the rare occasion that Eddie woke up to his first alarm, he’d seen her trudging onto the high school bus in the morning while he unlocked his van.
He felt bad about that now. Maybe he should offer to drive her in the mornings, after her parents were done being so... drunk and shout-y.
Something felt off about the whole situation. From the sound of it—and Eddie had a good ear for such things—the two adults were too drunk to do much harm to one another, unless there was some serious weaponry in the house. And Eddie doubted that; the woman he'd seen didn't look like the type to pack heat. Yet he felt like he couldn’t go back to his essay until he knew the girl was safe.
It was Halloween, though, he reasoned. The kid was probably off with her girlfriends, all dolled up in their costumes and going house-to-house like the other kids in the park. Or maybe she’d decided she was too old for trick-or-treating; maybe she’d found her way to one of the ragers that Eddie wanted to be at himself.
Yet that also made his stomach churn. Even if he wasn’t dealing there, some people at the parties had surely gotten their hands on something. How old were freshmen? Like, fifteen? Shit, Eddie didn’t even like selling to sophomores, but Tina, or Tommy, or whoever— surely none of those asshole cared who got the crap so long as they got enough cash for it.
As the shouting increased in volume, Eddie stuck his head out the window and looked around. No one in the other trailers seemed to have noticed; if they had, they were electing to keep themselves out of it.
He swore under his breath; sometimes having a narc in the neighborhood was worthwhile.
Eddie was debating whether or not to wander outside “for some fresh air,” because no one else was doing a damn thing, and he needed to make sure that girl wasn’t dodging beer bottles or dinner plates chucked at the wall. He’d been there himself, before Wayne got to him, and the stupid, sappy part of himself that Eddie always tried to shove down was a bit too insistent tonight.
However, just as he was about to grab his shoes, Eddie noticed movement on the far side of the trailer.
The shouting continued, but a window in the rear was being shoved open, and suddenly beat-up Converse and blue jeans were scrambling out. A shock of red hair followed in a rush as the kid missed the milk crate under the window and fell hard on the dirt, but luckily she landed on her ass— Eddie knew from experience that was preferable to a wrist or ankle, no matter how big a bruise it left.
She’d barely fallen to the ground before she was scrambling to her feet and rushing across the road— rushing towards his trailer, Eddie realized with a sinking feeling in his gut, and he matched her speed as he stumbled down the hall and to the front door before she reached it.
She only had enough time to bang on the door twice before he was wrenching the door open, and he found himself face to face with a redheaded kid.
Her eyes were filled with tears, hands trembling, and chest heaving, and a thin line of blood was trickling down from a cut on her cheek.
Still, her shoulders were squared, and her gaze didn’t waver as her red, puffy eyes met Eddie’s.
“I need to use your phone,” she panted. "Please and thank you."
She pushed past him before he could formulate a response or even step aside.
And so met Eddie Munson and Max Mayfield.