A/N: So this story was inspired by Book 2 of Breaking Dawn, which was incredibly refreshing in its perspective. Basically, the Quileutes are amazing, and I've always been more fond of them than even the main characters. Seth is one of my favorites, so I've decided to continue his story by delving into the pages of his quirky and ridiculous (and totally masculine) man-journal. But if you're a fan of the vampires, don't worry. Expect plenty of cameos. There are just a few things I want to address before finally getting on with it:
This story is rated M for strong language, sex humor, and underage drinking. To sum it all up, Seth's a teenage boy.
Also, please do not assume that any of Seth's views are shared by me. He may make comments at times that are offensive, and I'm certainly not aiming to offend. :]
You should know that this story was mostly written on a whim and to help cure the writers' block I had (and still have) for one of my other stories. I'll be completely honest up front and say that I am not being as careful with this story as I would be with others. So, if you see inconsistencies, typos, and other really crappy things, please feel free to point them out. But don't think that this is me just posting random crap online: I actually do care about Seth and the story I'm trying to tell.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or mentioned plotlines associated with the Twilight Saga. They are all the rightful property of Stephenie Meyer.
Well, This Sucks: Life According to Seth
April 23, 2007
I'll be completely honest here. I've never really understood those movies where a stereotypical protective figure (i.e. parental unit, ridiculously compassionate lover, 2D best friend) allows the protectee (child/conflicted lover/other half of contrived best friend thing) to foolishly chase after their deepest desire (the bad boy/another man/the dude they've both been crushing on), saying it's all right because, well damn, the protectee is happy. I mean, okay, maybe I'm totally self-absorbed and selfish and all that, but no one's happiness is more central to myself than my own. I could never blow chunks about someone else's happiness due to a wrong choice ensuring my own because that's…that's fucking masochistic.
Especially when my mom's happiness is being caused by the fact that she's absolutely no-doubt-about it banging my friend's dad.
Here's the scenario:
Protector: Me, the "loveable and irascible" Seth Clearwater, as described by Quil Ateara Jr.
Protectee: Sue Clearwater, my mom. My dad died, so I'm man of the house. I gotta look out for her.
Foolish Desire of Protectee: To get it on with Charlie Swan.
Vicarious Happiness Felt on Protector's Part: None.
I can't make things any more clear than that. See, although I'm not really what you could call a mama's boy (Paul can shut his fat mouth), I still look out for her, you know? Perhaps it's unnatural for a guy to take such a close look at his parent's perspective, but it's not hard to feel where she's coming from as far as losing a husband and having to raise two wolf children on her own: IT SUCKS. She's gotta be miserable. Heck, for awhile, despite my ability to explode into a ball of fir at whim and will (which is fucking awesome), I was still a total mess because, well, Dad was dead. It must have been a billion times rougher for Mom.
But I've got limits. Sucky life or not, she can't just go screwing the next single dude that lands on her doorstep. I don't care how hot he is.
(Disclaimer: I have not, under any circumstance, ever thought of Charlie Swan as "hot." Christ. I was just trying to make a point. I mean, I'm just assuming my mom thinks he is. That at least would explain some of her behavior.)
The problem I've got with this is that she's kind of tossing mine and Leah's lives out the window in the process. Dad died barely a year ago (I'm not thinking about it, I hate thinking about it, I won't think about it), and there's been a lot of weird shit going on, what with vampires and demon babies and stuff, and the last thing we need is our mom running around like some teenager with her sweetheart.
I'm trying so hard to be understanding here. I want my mom to be happy, I really do, but I can't quite find it in myself to be totally okay with this. If I were trapped in the fifties or whatever, I'd totally call Charlie a "swell guy," cuz he is. He's a police officer, and if he was in one of those shitty B movies about renegade cops or something, he would definitely be one of the good cops. He's got a sense of humor, is totally laidback, and sort of turns a blind eye to the fact that his daughter's the immortal stuff of legends. It's not him I've got a problem with.
It's him and my mom together.
I'm not kidding when I say they're like teenagers running rampant about Washington. No one's safe—not in La Push, not in Forks. If this were college, they'd be taking advantage of the whole sock on the doorknob thing.
NOT that I've ever caught them doing the horizontal tango, but—
God, shit, who ever came up with that term? It's wretched. My eye is spasming kind of.
NOT that I've ever caught them "getting busy," (pardon me while I puke out the window) but I have been unlucky enough to walk in the house while they were making out on the same couch where I play video games, thank you very much, and Leah told me about this one time she heard mom using pet names while she talked to him on the phone. I'd share these names, but, trusty man-journal, I'm not sure your pages could handle it.
Mom says that she and Charlie are "just dating," that I need to understand her "needs and her right to heal and move on." But I'm not sure that she totally gets my issue. I can (almost) handle the part about her moving on from Dad—even though it's hardly been a year. It's the fact that I have to witness every aspect of this so-called healing.
I just wish she'd take therapy or something.
April 25, 2008
I was caught having dirty thoughts again.
But for the record, this is NOT MY FAULT.
No, seriously. I mean, yeah, okay, I may deserve the broken radius in my left arm, because my mental images of Rachel Black stark naked were…God, they were hot, and I guess they were pretty accurate since I stole them right from Paul's gutter of a mind, but for God's sake, does no one think to beat the crap out of PAUL? He's the perv who had the thoughts in the first place while in wolf form. Jeez.
The thing is, Jake's not really a rational guy. All instinct.
You sicko! You bastard! Did you really think the old 'Paul corrupted my brainwaves' excuse was going to work? my fearless Alpha roared to the musical background of my limb cracking. He had me pinned up against a tree, his Christmas ham-sized paws forced against my furry chest.
Of course, the last time Paul's thoughts were ever able to taint my sanctuary of a mind was…oh, last September. But there was no way in hell I was going to allow Jake to go all Alpha on me and abuse me just because my mind is a steel trap when it comes to naked women. That sort of thing is hardwired into every male's nervous system, I think.
A low, feral snarl ripped from his throat and I could see the gleam of his teeth in my face despite the gloom of the Washington forest surrounding us. You can't even hear Paul's thoughts anymore! he menaced. The leaves around us, fresh and springy and not at all dead enough for grade-A rustling, managed to whip up a good rustle anyway, just to sound threatening in tandem with Jacob's seething anger.
Hot naked bodies aren't exactly an image you forget, Jake!
I could smell the bile on his breath that rolled up from his stomach. His thoughts were too fast for me to understand, too scrambled. I heard snippets though, and it all basically came back to one point: NOT MY SISTER.
I didn't want to do what had to happen next, but I couldn't see another way out of it. Because (crazy as it sounds) I actually kind of like my arms and legs intact and functional. But my tough skin was beginning to burn under the pressure of his paws, and my lungs felt crushed and restricted. So I risked the possibility of needing eleven years of serious therapy and mind-yelped, Remember that time you saw Leah phase back into human form?!
And by "that time," I actually mean "those times," and I honestly wasn't keeping track, because who in their right mind keeps track of all the times he sees his sister—
I AM NOT FINISHING THAT SENTENCE.
Fuck it. There are no happy thoughts. Because both to my benefit and my detriment, my plan worked. And quite without my permission, Jacob conjured up certain images that probably should have contained censor bars across specific parts of my sister Leah's anatomy. A let out a high-pitched whine and batted at his head with my paw.
Stop it, God, ew, mind soap! Mind soap! Do you see my point, Jake?
He was reluctant and clearly oblivious to my horrified twitching. Well, I…that is—
No stuttering 'round the point. When was the last time you happened to witness, um, that?
Jesus, I don't know. A month ago, maybe—
AHA! MY POINT EXACTLY!
That's completely different—
No, it's not. Now please, I can hardly breathe, and your breath isn't helping matters.
Jacob finally backed off, but he wasn't through yet. A took a few grateful wheezes as I lowered back to all four paws, careful not to put pressure on my fractured leg. I may have upped the theatrics for Jacob's benefit (oh, look at me, pity me, I'm gimptastic you son of a bitch), but whatever. Like he even cared. But no one mentioned Rachel to trigger a memory, he finally thought, suspicious, and I could see that his hackles were raised.
Dude, c'mon, just chill. The psyche of a teenage male cannot fully be explained. Why certain memories are recalled at certain moments in time has never been clear—
And I did. For about three seconds.
All I'm saying is, you're taking it out on the wrong guy. I mean, if that's a memory of Paul's I caught over six months ago, only imagine—
I really should learn to keep my mouth shut.
Needless to say, with Jacob's aid, the fracture in my leg quickly become a complete break, and I was forced to hobble back home while Jacob sped ahead of me like a complete and total show off. Our patrol was far from over, but I don't think either of us gave a crap. Sam sometimes tag-teamed with us and had people out too, and since I had plenty of time to take in my surroundings as I stumbled home like a poor, defenseless cripple, I could taste the scents of Jared and Brady in the air, familiar and yet slightly off, different. A result of the fissure between our packs.
Of course, we're all friendly now. Having separate packs is mostly a matter of sanity, especially since about eighty other kids started phasing back in December when the Cullens decided to have a vampire reunion over at their home in Forks. Luckily, Sam picked up all those kids, leaving Jake's pack to consist of just me, Leah, Embry, and Quil. I can live with hearing only four voices in my head.
Shit. The whole lot of us need therapy if you ask me. Only four voices, sure, no biggie.
But that's life, I guess. At least I didn't come home to Mom and Charlie swapping spit on my gaming couch again.
No, this time they were in the laundry room.
April 26, 2008
"You know," Jake said when I joined him for general chillage at Embry's earlier this afternoon, "I'll never understand what Edward could possibly have been thinking when he told me you had some of the kindest, purest thoughts he'd ever heard."
Jake apologized for breaking my arm when I came over, and I told him it was cool, because it wasn't like I hadn't accidentally cracked a rib or two of his when I first saw thoughts of Leah naked in his head way back when she and I first started phasing. It's sick and it's unhealthy for us to be so nonchalant about breaking each other's bones, or so Mom says, but life is just different when you're a shape-shifter. I mean, it's not like we're sending non-wolves to the ER with our super wolf strength, so I don't think it's that big of a deal. We break bones, we apologize, we move on. Besides, it's not like I can stay mad at Jake for too long—he's my Alpha and my friend.
Anyway, I lazily flipped through the channels (using an only slightly wonky arm that had been broken only yesterday) from where I sat with my entire lanky form sprawled across the sofa, ignoring the glares Embry tossed me for having totally commandeered the remote. "He said that?" I asked. "Is he gay?"
"Um, I'm gonna take a stab in the dark here and say no."
I snorted, but couldn't help feeling a little bit smug. "Lord only knows what that says about your thoughts, Jake."
"Can it, kid."
Just when I'd settled on some weird Japanese game show that involved contestants running insane obstacles courses and really crappy voice-overs for the announcers, Embry started laughing.
"I'm just—" he said, and broke off for a second to compose himself. "If Cullen's gay, then that makes Bella the hottest man I've ever seen."
Can't say I blame Jake for chucking the bowl of Doritos at his head.
April 30, 2008
So today I was reminded of another reason why hanging out at my own house is just not a good idea.
See, on the days that Charlie isn't around, either sporting the blue or fishing or whatever, Mom sometimes isn't totally sure what to do with herself, and thus is prone to Ideas with a capital I. The last time she had one of her Ideas, I ended up spending about eighty years of my life toiling out back as I tried to construct the perfect peace garden. Mom, for her part, just stood off to the side and told me what I was doing wrong. And before that, I had to listen to all of her really bad rhymes as she tried to make it big in the greeting card biz. Let's just say that she failed.
I'm not trying to totally knock every single one of my Mom's Ideas. She's pretty creative actually, and artistic as well. But whenever she tries to expand her artistic horizons beyond making kickass quilts and pillows, things sort of go awry. She says she doesn't want to be the stereotypical woman who can't do anything more than sew and crochet, and hey, I hear her on that one because I don't exactly want to be the stereotypical guy who sits around on the couch all day drinking and scratching his beer belly. That's just not cool. I just think she's a little misguided in her attempts to branch out.
"Hey Sethy," she said this morning as she slid nonchalantly into the living room/family room/rec room of our tiny, comfy house. I almost dropped the controller I was holding and felt my stomach curl up. She only called me Sethy when she was about to torture me.
"Hey Mom. Urrrrggghhh." The groan of dread was unintentional. But I have this issue with keeping my feelings to myself.
She sat down on the opposite end of the couch and took a small sip from the cup of hot tea she was holding. "So, I've been thinking…."
"Not another peace garden, I hope. Cuz, uh, working on it sort of had the reverse effect."
She shook her head, still looking calm and cheerful despite my thinly veiled wariness. "No, this isn't a project of mine. This time, it's about you. About your future."
I stared straight ahead at the TV screen in front of me, where Link was frozen beside Epona on pause. This could not be good.
"You've been away from school for almost an entire year, and I think it would be really wonderful if you at least went on to get your high school diploma."
And suddenly it all made sense. This was LEAH'S fault.
Starting in the fall, she's going to be taking psychology classes at Antioch University in Seattle, which is all gung ho about taking on older students and is interested in getting college educations for Native Americans, too. Never mind that we're going broke so she can take these classes. She's really adamant about advancing her education and all of La Push seems to be rooting for her. I can't begrudge her for wanting to make something of herself, but I can begrudge her for putting ideas into Mom's head.
"Mom," I said, not sounding as cool and even as I'd hoped, "I can't just go back to school. For one, I'm gonna be a total moron since I'm a year out, and for two, I kind of look like I'm twenty. The word that comes to mind is creepy."
"Well Sethy, that's why I want to enroll you in summer school."
I dropped the controller and it landed face down. Link accidentally sprung back into action, and he and his horse swayed gently on the spot, breathing when I could not.
A small crease formed between Mom's eyebrows. "Yes, summer school. You need to get a good refresher before you can jump right into your junior year."
This was not… No. DOES NOT COMPUTE.
"But I look like I'm twenty!" I wailed. Perhaps my freakish shape-shifter genes could save me.
Mom was not to be shaken. "But your records state that you're sixteen."
"I'll look like a total moron who's failed four times!"
"But you haven't, and your teachers know that, and that's really all that matters, sweetheart."
NO IT'S NOT. MOM'S WRONG. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG.
I clung onto whatever hope I could find. I whimpered, "But QTS doesn't even offer summer school."
She smiled sweetly. "But Forks High does."
And that was basically the end of it all. So whether I like it or not (and I'm definitely on the "or not" end of things here), I'm going to spend three days a week this summer crammed into some tiny desk at Forks High and looking like some stupid failure in remedial classes so that I'm not only caught up, but so that I can salvage my GPA which I basically trashed towards the end of sophomore year after leaning I had awesome wolf transforming skills.
I'm not against getting an education or anything. It's just…
If I choose to keep up this transforming thing, I can be a teenager forever. I can keep La Push safe by turning into a wolf and beating down any and all predators that come near. Isn't that enough of an occupation? I don't want to be a brainless idiot or anything, but I was sort of thinking that my school career was over. Really, I could almost handle returning to Quileute Tribal School for my last two years. It's the whole "school during the summer" thing that really cramps my style.
And now my arm's starting to feel funny, so I think I'm gonna stop for today.
But seriously, I am never hanging out in my own home again. It's hazardous to my health.