Disclaimer: No copyright infrigement is intended on Stephanie Meyer or her characters with this fic.

Summary: You're a werewolf, huh? Are you Michael Jackson too? Seth is ecstatic that he's finally imprinted, but he hadn't expected it to turn out quite like this. Slash.

"Fuck, that hurt."

I winced as my butt collided with the tile floor of the classroom, landing right on my tail bone. I was going to have a bruise for days, damn it. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the curious looks from the students already seated at their desks. It was the first class of the year – my first class ever, since I had just transferred – and clearly, with the size of the reservation, new students were a novelty. I found an isolated seat in the back row. Hopefully we wouldn't have assigned seating. This was Calculus, and I didn't know how successful I would be at staying alert if I ended up in the front.

I sat at my desk, glancing around while I waited. It wasn't much of a room. The tile floor was faded and scuffed, the cement walls dirty and the small rectangular window near the top of the wall in need of replacing. Two iridescent bulbs gave off a harsh light from the ceiling. It reminded me of a large prison cell. I snorted at the thought.

Several moments before the bell rang a large flood of students swept into the classroom and grabbed their own desks. Through the mass of shifting students, three figures poked up above the rest. Toward the back of the line stood three ridiculously large guys. They were all easily over six foot, dark skinned and muscled, obviously of native blood. I internally winced. It was not a good stroke to one's ego when another guy's bicep was the size of your waist. Jesus.

The shorter one – and by short, I meant not over 6' 9" – glanced around the room, looking bored. I watched him snicker when he saw the teacher first notice the three of them. Her eyes widened comically when she took in their size. I guess it was her first year, or else these guys were new too.

Eventually his gaze swept by me – and then froze there.

Eh? Was Tall, Dark and Massive making eye contact? Wow, that was an intense look. Was he okay? He wasn't blinking. Now he was… shaking? Hmm, slightly uncomfortable here. Was he going to look away anytime soon?

Huh. Time to find something else to look at. I stared down at my desk. Mike and Kayla forever. I love Fall Out Boy. Susie is a ho-bag.

A moment later someone cleared their throat directly to my left. I looked up to see the shorter Mammoth Man beaming down at me.

"Hi, I'm Seth." Seth had the most obnoxiously bright smile ever seen by man or beast. He stuck his hand out for me to shake. "Welcome to the Quileute Reservation." By the number of teeth I could see, the prospect of shaking my hand just about made his freakin' day. What was this guy on? He was entirely too happy.

I eyed him warily. "Mitchell." His face fell slightly when I ignored his hand, but he soon regained his mega-watt smile and plopped down on the desk beside me. Even sitting down, he towered over me. Not that I was that tall myself – I daily cursed my parents' genes for my 5'4" height – but even so, the guy was freaking huge. I wondered how many steroids he popped on a daily basis.

"So where you from, Mitchell?" Was this guy part of the welcome committee, or what?

"Detroit."

"Cool," he bobbed his head a few times. "What brings you to fair Washington?"

I shrugged and leaned back in my seat. "The folks wanted me out." I may have my moments, but I wasn't retarded. Living completely on the streets wasn't an attractive alternative, and if moving in with my grandparents for a year was what I had to do to finish high school, well… I'd live. As far as keeping my fix went, surely even in a small Indian reservation you could find some pot. Or maybe it would be easier. Wasn't there a tribe down south where they all smoked hallucinogens together?

"Oh," he chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "Well, I'm glad you came to the Rez. Let me know if you need anything." He gave me one last smile before turning to face the teacher as she started class.

I only half listened to the thirty year old woman at the front lecture about geometric proofs, too busy watching this Seth character out of the corner of my eye. He stretched his arms behind him while leaning his chest forward, and the very gay part of me couldn't help but appreciate, if only on the smallest of levels, that he was ripped. Like, hot damn ripped. Seriously, how often did the guy work out?

I forced my attention to the teacher. Guys twice my size that could probably break my arm with their pinkies if they were so inclined did not make good subjects for gay speculation. I sighed. What were the odds of finding a nice, homosexual male in an Indian reservation?

...

One day later I sat in the same desk as before, this time being careful not to trip and injure my butt on my way there; I had a bruise on my ass from yesterday. I leaned back in my seat and turned up the music to my ear buds. I had a solid three minutes before most of the kids would arrive, and I intended to make the most of it. But before I could completely close my eyes and zone out my surroundings, I heard a loud creak as someone slid heavily into the desk on my right side.

I cracked an eye open. Oh geez. It was one of Seth's buddies. Large, russet and body-builder.

"Hey," the gigantic man caught my gaze. "You're Mitchell Mason, right?" What the – he knew my full name? I reluctantly yanked out one ear bud to hear him better.

I opened my other eye and gave him a hard look. "Do I know you?"

He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. "No. But Seth met you yesterday."

"So he did." There was an awkward silence. I stretched my neck. Dang, I hate muscle kinks.

"I'm Antonio, by the way."

I stared. This Native hunk was claiming to be Italian? Right. "Mitchell, but you already knew that."

He nodded. "My friends call me Tony." He clasped my shoulder briefly and raised his eyebrows. What was he, part of the Quileute mafia?

"But – " and now he seemed to give himself a shake, and focused on me with new concentration. "You're Mitchell Mason."

"Yes." I snapped. Hadn't we already been through this?

"And you're – you're a guy. A male."

Was he fucking joking?

"Yeeeeeah." I stretched it out, putting as much No shit, Sherlock into it as I could. "Last I checked." Dickwad.

"Huh." He seemed to find whatever I had said satisfactory, and he leaned away from me, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The whole town was crazy. Insane. Nutzo.

There was another loud creak, only this time from my left side. Mr. Sunshine and Rainbows looked as happy as ever, and just as ready to talk as his friend had been.

"So what's up? My – uh – home skillet?" He peered hopefully at me.

Jesus H. Christ. Did he just call me home skillet? He grinned that fuckin' smile at me again, evidently waiting for my response.

Well, shit. I think he did.

"Yeah, homie g – " Do not laugh. Do not laugh. "- I'm just dope." The sarcasm could not have been thicker.

He looked slightly confused for a moment, but quickly regained his grin. "That's a good thing, right?" Behind me I heard Antonio attempting to muffle his laughter.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Was this guy for real? "Yep." I popped my lips on the p.

Seth's eyes darted up and down my face for a moment. "Bangin'!" Oh no. He wasn't finished. "How do you like my crib, home – er, dog?" The snickering behind me grew louder.

My hand dropped off my nose and I sighed wearily. "Whatever point you're trying to get across, just make it, alright?" I'd had enough of this. Whatever bully crap they were going to pull, get it over with.

"Point, my bro?" Fuck it.

Jerking up, I threw my fist, ready to punch that smile right off his face – and was promptly halted by a hand twice the size of mine. I blinked. Had he just caught my fist? I gaped uncomprehendingly. Well damn. I might be a scrawny midget, but I knew how to pack a punch, and I was fast. You didn't grow up downtown without learning a thing or two about taking care of yourself. But he had caught my incoming fist like it was an everyday occurrence. His eyes were wide, looking worried. Ha! If even my scarecrow frame could scare Muscles here, then wait until I sicked my quarterback friends on him. Note to self: Get football friends. He moved my fist back to my side and released it, now looking more like a thundercloud. Ah, scratch that. His eyes narrowed.

Shit shit shit. Second Note to Self: Do not tick off abnormally large men without a weapon. That's right, Mitchell - attack the bullies who have violent intent in mind. What I really that naïve? I cringed, waiting for the response. Please don't go for the nose. Seth leaned forward, preparing to strike –

"I'm so sorry Mitchell, are you okay?"

Wait. What?

"I was only trying to make you feel welcome. I didn't mean to make you upset." He sounded desolate. His eyes were the biggest fucking brown eyes I had ever seen. Woah, his face was close. "Whatever I said, I'm sorry." Lots of hard muscle right up in touching range. Lots of warm hard muscle. Heh. Jesus, the boy was hot.

Why was he close enough that I could feel his body heat?

"Get up off me, man." I glared at him. Almost instantaneously, he retreated to his desk. He looked like I imagined someone would if you had just strangled their kitten. What was up with this guy?

"Look buddy, I don't know what's wrong with you, but just leave me the hell alone, alright?"

Something indiscernible flashed in his eyes. "I'm sorry for offending you," he said softly.

I snorted. "Offending me? Is that what you think that was?"

He seemed to sit up a little straighter and look less like I had killed his favorite pet. "When I heard you were from Detroit, I googled some basic gangster slang to try to make you feel more comfortable," he explained. "I guess it… didn't go so well." He looked at the floor sheepishly.

I stared. He had done what?

"So," he faltered, licked his lips, and tried again. "So you don't actually talk like that, eh?"

I tried to stop it, but the corner of my mouth twitched up. He had googled gangster slang? Seth must have seen it, because his beaming smile returned with full force. He thought I spoke slang, so he looked it up. Who does that? I suppressed the urge with all my might, but a snicker managed to sneak its way out. If it was possible, he seemed even happier.

"Yeah, well, don't do it again." Seth just sat back in his seat, grinning for all he was worth. A thought occurred to me, and I calmed. "Just because I'm from Detroit doesn't mean I'm some hard core gang member, got it?" Ha. Look at me, I'm Mitchell and trying to be threatening. What's next, terrorizing small children?

He nodded, looking at me soberly. "I won't assume again." Whatever you say, man. I had successfully avoided being pummeled. I needed to celebrate; it'd been almost two weeks since my last hit.

"Sure you won't," I paused. Did I want to push my luck? Hell, sure I did. "Home skillet."

Antonio's roaring laughter bounced off the walls.

...

I looked up at the leaning pile of Bud Light with reservation. Why was it, whenever supermarkets stacked items at the end of aisles, they tried to make the next Empire State Building? The top of the pile was easily two feet above my head, and was designed in such a way that if I took a case out from the bottom of the pile, the whole thing would fall down on top of my head. I kicked the can closest to me in frustration. Shit! I forgot I was wearing flip-flops. I looked down at my bruised toes morosely.

I narrowed my eyes at the beer. No pile of cheap alcohol was going to outsmart Mitchell Mason. I looked around for something to stand on. Ha! Someone had left a footstool sitting in the aisle next to me. It made a loud scraping noise as I dragged it over. I was now a good eight inches higher, but still no closer to being able to reach the top of the heap. Damn it all.

A few minutes later, a precarious looking sack of flour was piled on top of the footstool. I gave it a hard glare in warning. Clambering my way to the top, I stretched my arms up as far as I could. Just a few inches more, I stepped on the tips of my toes and – success! The case was mine. Giving a heave, I tugged it off –

- and immediately staggered under the weight of it. These cases were heavy. As I felt the sack beneath me shift with the sudden influx in weight, suddenly my flour concoction seemed less like a stroke of brilliance.

Aw, shit.

The sack tipped to the side, and down I went, the case ramming into my stomach. I closed my eyes tightly, waiting for the impact. Oof. I would have a good sized bruise on my stomach in a few hours. Shoving the beer off me, I blinked rapidly at my suddenly white surroundings. The case must have caught the flour bag and ripped it open while I fell. I had no luck in this town.

Sighing, I scrambled to my feet, grabbed the case, and hoisted it into my cart. I'd better let the workers know that they now had a big powdery mess to deal with. Pushing the cart forward, I slipped on a particularly heavy patch of flour and barely caught myself.

"Real smooth there, buddy." A mocking feminine voice called out.

I turned and glared at her. She was tall – was there something in the water? Maybe I should drink more – and fit, with dark eyes and dark hair. Mid twenties? She was also directly in my path.

"What's it to ya?"

"I'm just a concerned citizen. Wouldn't want you to hurt somebody." Enough with the sarcasm, lady. If her expression had been less of a grimace and more of a smile, she might have been pretty.

"Yeah, whatever. Can you move?" I was originally going to try to grab another case, but now I was irritated.

"Why are you buying that much beer, anyway?" she asked, ignoring me. "You don't look 21." She raised an eyebrow. Damn it, I hated people who could do that.

"Not your business." I snapped.

She looked at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. A flash of recognition seemed to cross her face, but I hadn't seen her before in my life. "You need help with another one?"

I looked at her suspiciously. "Why?"

She shrugged. "You're a shrimp." Why thanks, I like you too. Bitch.

Still, she was right. "I guess."

Her lips twitched. "You guess you're a shrimp, or you guess you want another case?"

"Look lady, if you're gonna hand me the damn case then do it already, or else move out of my way so I can buy this."

She put her hands up in a supplicating motion. "Keep your shirt on. I'll get it." True to her word, there was soon another case of Bud Light sitting in my cart. I had to give it an extra hard push to get it moving. I watched her walk farther down the aisle to a cart that I had originally assumed to be some sort of special deal the store was holding, only I hadn't seen a sign so I ignored it; it was nearly overflowing with food.

"You're buying all that?" I motioned to the cart.

"Yeah. You have an issue with that?"

I quickly shook my head. "No, that's just… a lot of food."

She shrugged. "I have a big family. Everybody's related to somebody here."

"Oh." Still, the amount of meat, corn and potatoes was astounding.

She smiled a little. "We have a lot of growing boys, too. Just like yourself." She winked.

I snorted. My eating skills were sadly lacking. I just stopped eating when I full, which was evidently a very non-masculine trait. But it wasn't feminine, damn it.

She glanced at me again, running a hand through her hair. "You're that new kid, right? Mitchell Mason?" Did everyone know my name?

"Who's asking?" I bet it was Seth's buddy and his frickin' Mafia. I knew they had taken the "he's from Detroit" thing to heart. Well, if they thought I was going to hook them up with some drugs they had another thing coming. I felt the comforting weight of my Glock under my jacket. If anyone tried something, I was ready.

"Oh, word gets around," she said vaguely. "Say, you want to come to the get-together we're having for all this food?"

"Er," the last thing I want to do was head into these guys' turf, but it was probably better to get whatever confrontation we had to go through over then delay it any longer.

"Half of the Rez'll be there," she encouraged. "I'm sure you'll know someone. And Emily is a great cook." She gave me another smile. Half of the Reservation, eh? They couldn't do anything too horrible with that many witnesses, right?

I shrugged. "What the hell, I'll come."

...

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