A/N: An idea that's been brewing in my head (and probably that of most Gleeks) since the Rocky Horror Glee Show- Sam's potential eating disorder. An issue I'm hoping they will tackle on the show, but for the moment I'll have to be content with feeding the plot bunnies that have been bugging me!

This is my first fic featuring Fabrevans, so please be nice!

DISCLAIMER: Not Ryan Murphy. Glee and its characters are not mine... But Christmas is coming! *crosses fingers*

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He doesn't mean for Quinn to find out. About everything- the not eating, the exercising, the diet pills. He doesn't mean for anyone to find out, actually. If Sam had it his way, nobody would find out. It would be his little secret and as long as nobody else knew he could cope with the dizzy spells, the inability to drink more than three beers without ending up a total drunken mess, the feeling that his stomach is eating itself, even the constant taste of vomit in his mouth. If he could keep the secret, he could cope with looking in the mirror and hating what he saw.

But it comes out, eventually. If he's being honest, Sam has always known it would. How could it not? He's weak, after all, weak and stupid, so it's no wonder he lets his guard slip.

He just wishes he could have lost more weight, become less repulsive, before it all came crashing down.

One minute, everything is perfect. He and Quinn have ended up in an abandoned classroom that nobody has used in forever. She looks flawless in that Cheerios' uniform, her skirt hitched just high enough to make him think things he really shouldn't, and she smiles coyly as she pulls him through the door and yanks the blind shut. She snakes her arms around his neck, smiling up at him, and it happens again for a couple of seconds- Sam feels good about himself, like he actually deserves this goddess grinding ever so slightly against him. It only lasts a few seconds, but it's enough to make him even more repulsed. How can he even imagine that he is good enough to even want her? She is Quinn Fabray, thin and immaculate and so, so perfect and he is... he is him. He is geeky and nerdy. He snorts when he laughs. He's only a second-string version of Finn. He's flawed and disgusting and he can't even do something as simple as dieting without screwing it up. Damn those cool ranch Doritos.

"Say my name," Quinn whispers, pushing him up against the blackboard rather roughly. Sam complies numbly, because she's got way more experience than him and most of the time he's petrified of doing something really stupid and making her hate him even more than she probably already does to give himself over to the thing properly. Quinn smiles again and guides his lips down to her neck gently, making a little noise of pleasure that sends shivers down his spine. She takes his hands- they're trembling again, and he thinks it might be some side-effect of those damn diet pills- and kisses each finger slowly, suggestively.

"You don't have to be nervous," she tells him softly. "You're doing just fine."

"S-sorry," stammers Sam. "I just... I don't want to make you feel under pressure."

"I don't," she says, in that soft little voice again. "Not with you. You're amazing Sam."

As though to reiterate her point, she guides his hand gently up under the top of her pressed Cheerios' uniform as she pulls him backwards until they end up on the teacher's desk like in some bad porn movie (but minus the actual... event, because Quinn is still ultra-conservative). Sam can feel his fingers brushing against the lacy frills and bows of Quinn's bra and he knows this should be a good thing, that he should be revelling in the moment, and he's trying, he really is. He's kissing her gently and he can feel her fingers running through his hair, but all he can concentrate on is the fact that his head is spinning- and not in a good way- and that he's sort of seeing double. He tries to ignore it, he really does, but eventually it just gets too much and he does the unthinkable.

He pulls away.

He stands up. He's breathing heavily and he feels really dizzy again, so much so that he has to put out a hand to steady himself. He closes his eyes for a second, but then Quinn is clambering down off the desk and he forces himself to look at her. For a moment she looks hurt, embarrassed, but then she sees his face and concern washes over hers.

"Sam, what's wrong?" she asks, biting that full lower lip of hers. She puts a hand gingerly on his arm.

More like 'What's wrong with you?'

"I just..." he manages to choke out, and that's a serious effort because it makes him feel like Coach Beiste is dancing the conga on his temples.

"Did I go too fast?" Quinn asks, and she laughs a little. "I mean, usually it's the guy asking me that, but I know you're kinda nervous and-"

"No!" he exclaims, worried that he's put her off. "No, I just... I'm feeling a bit dizzy, that's all."

"Maybe you should see a doctor," she suggests, and the very idea makes his blood run cold because a doctor would know. "You've been looking a little peaky lately."

"No!" he exclaims, more abruptly than he meant to. "I'm OK, really, I just haven't eaten much today."

But he's lying, because Tina had a bag of chocolates some relative brought home from Europe at lunch and he ate a handful, and he wolfed down almost a whole packet of cool ranch Doritos earlier, before he remembered himself and tossed them in the trash. He can feel the junk food swirling around in his stomach, taunting him, and his jeans are starting to feel uncomfortably tight around the middle, and suddenly he absolutely despises himself.

"Are you sure?" Quinn asks, her tone gentle. "I've got a free period next, I could drive you if-"

"I said I'm fine, Quinn!" he snaps, shaking from head to toe. "Just- just drop it, OK?"

She stares at him, stunned, and he's breathing hard through his nose to stop himself jamming his finger down his throat right here because damn if he doesn't feel like his flab is rolling right out over the waistband of his jeans.

"Sam, I-"

"No, stop. Just stop, please. I need to- I need to think, I-"

"Sam, you're freaking me out now," Quinn says slowly, and she's looking at him like he's mad.

Yeah, mad for thinking you could ever be good enough for her.

"Whatever it is," she continues. "We can fix it. I've been worrying about you for a little while now and-"

"What's that supposed to mean?" he says, panicking now. His palms are sweaty and the dizziness just won't go away, and the way she's looking at him makes him think she might know.

Paranoid much?

"I just... you've been looking sort of pale," she explains. "And you've had these... well, these mood swings."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means... it means this! One minute you're happy, the next you're freaking out, then you're yelling, it's got me worried, Sam."

"No," he says, voice trembling. "No, no I'm fine. I just... I just have to get out of here. I-I have to go."

"What?"

"I- I need to... I'm sorry," Sam says, bolting for the door. Quinn grabs him by the arm.

"Sam, you can't just walk out, not now."

"I-I have to... to go..." he mumbles, because he's caught sight of his reflection in the window pain and the blob he sees makes his skin crawl.

"Sam, don't go. If you do..." Quinn trails off, the half-threat hanging in the air between them. Sam looks at her, so perfect, and part of him wants to stay. But he glances at his reflection again and that's all the motivation he needs to get the hell out of there.

"I'm sorry," he says before he goes, and he means it. Not just for this, for worrying her, but for guilt-tripping her into going out with him in the first place. Because that has to be the only reason she would do it, doesn't it? It's not like anyone could actually like him.

"Sam!" Quinn calls, tears in her voice, but he doesn't look back. He bolts, jostling roughly through the crowd (he ignores Santana when she elbows him in the groin for accidently shoving her into her locker) until he reaches the solitude of the boys' bathroom, which is blissfully empty.

He pushes open the door of one of the stalls and locks himself inside with a sense of relief. This is the one thing he does well. He kneels down before the toilet bowl, stumbling only slightly, and jams his finger down his throat like he's taught himself to. It gets easier every time, he knows his own gag reflex by now and soon it has a result. He feels a flush of triumph as the first wave of nausea hits and is satisfied when the vomit hits the toilet bowl. He keeps heaving, because he's never felt worse than he does now. Something in the back of his mind is telling him to stop, but he can't bring himself to. Quinn's face is swimming before him, hurt and repulsed, and that's all he needs to keep himself retching.

And then he hears something that petrifies him. Footsteps. A voice.

"Hello? Who's in here?"

Kurt.

"Are you alright?"

He tries to stop. He does. But once he's started, it's very difficult to end the process. He jams a hand over his mouth but the vomit is burning his throat and he has to release it. He leans his head against the wall, praying that Kurt will give up and go away.

Hushed voices. Debate.

"Dude, are you sure?" Finn. Oh God, Finn.

"Yes, Finn, I'm sure. I know what I heard."

"And you think...?"

"I'd recognise those unfortunate sneakers anywhere," says Kurt with an affected little shudder.

"Uh... uh, right," Finn says, steeling himself, and then he raises his voice. "Sam?"

Oh. Shit.

"Dude, are you alright?"

Don't say anything, don't say anything.

"Sam?" Kurt again. "Sam, are you ill? Do you want me to get the nurse? Finn, go and-"

"No!" Sam exclaims, panic riddling him. "No, no I'm fine thanks."

A pause. Maybe they believe him?

"Sam, I know what I heard. You were getting sick."

No such luck.

"No," Sam says shakily. "No dude, you're wrong, I-"

But they must here the same uncertainty in his voice that he does because-

SLAM.

Finn blasts the door off its hinges and then the two of them stand there, staring at Sam crouched in front of the toilet with an unquestionable expression of guilt on his face. They look down at him, a dribble of vomit trailing down his chin and onto his letterman jacket, and there's no point even denying it for a second. Finn looks shocked and Kurt is pitying, and it's that pity that brings the tears to his eyes.

"Shit," whispers Finn, and it's one of the few times the lanky quarterback gets a situation perfectly.

"Get Quinn," Kurt says firmly.

"No," Sam says, but the smaller boy ignores him.

"Get Quinn," he repeats. "And Mike's just outside talking to Tina, get him to stop people coming in here. Go!"

And Finn does what he's told, leaving Kurt and Sam to stare at each other. Kurt is dressed in a ridiculous sequined cardigan that would normally have Sam snorting with suppressed laughter, but today all he can do is stare and try to get rid of the lump forming in his throat.

"Dude," he says hoarsely. "This isn't what it-"

"How long?" Kurt asks quietly, dismissing his half-hearted attempt to weasel out of this.

"I..."

"How long Sam?"

"A-a couple of months."

Kurt is about to say something else, but Sam is saved by the return of Finn, followed closely by Quinn. She's obviously realised that something is seriously wrong, because she's almost yelling.

"Finn, just tell me what's- oh. Oh God."

This last is barely a whisper, and Sam feels her gaze burning him but he's too ashamed to look up. The game is up. If she didn't hate him before, she will now. He switches off, focusing on the graffiti on the bathroom stall and only catching snatches of conversation.

Santana Lopez is easier than pre-K math.

("He says it's been going on for months.")

QF = hall-of-fame MILF

("What the-?" "Mike, calm down.")

Beware the fag: Kurt Hummel peed here.

("How did we not notice?" "How did I not notice?")

And then, out of nowhere, he finds his arms full of Quinn. Or, more accurately, her arms are full of him. Quinn is kneeling on the floor and she's holding him and rocking him like a baby. He can see Kurt, Finn and Mike in the background, but all he can concentrate on is Quinn, her presence. He can't comprehend it. Why is she still here? He yelled at her, he snapped, he lied...

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into her shoulder and Quinn pulls back to hold him at arm's length, her expression deadly serious.

"Don't you dare apologise for this," she says fiercely, and she shoots him smile that makes his heart skip a beat, and that's all it takes to start him howling again. "Sssh," she soothes, massaging his back. "Sssh, it's OK baby, it's OK."

"'S not," he says listlessly, and his words are slightly slurred with overexertion. "'S not OK... 've ruined everything... I... I..."

"Hey," Quinn says sharply, pulling his face to within an inch of hers. Sam grimaces, because he knows his breath stinks of vomit and shame, and he tries to pull away but she holds firm. She strokes a stray tear from his cheek with gentle tenderness and presses her lips to his forehead. "What did I say earlier? What did I say?"

"I-I don't..."

"We can fix this," she tells him, and something in her voice makes him believe her. "We'll get you help, I promise. And I'll be here for you."

"We all will dude," Mike interjects, and Finn and Kurt bob their heads enthusiastically. Sam stares around at them all and it feels like a fog has lifted. He knows nothing is OK right now- he's kneeling on the floor in the bathroom for Christ's sake, and three of his fellow glee clubbers are staring at him, and both he and Quinn are crying their eyes out- but for the first time in a long time he feels like it could be.

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Review? Please?