Title: Eat Yours Word
Rated: T – language, eating disorders (trigger warning), suicidal thoughts/possible attempt (trigger warning), possible character death (trigger warning), mentions/depictions of child abuse (trigger warning) and mentions of sex
Summary: A Facebook group that bashes show choirs start to make eating disorder jokes related to Sebastian when he unintentionally loses weight. When his family falls into pieces after Kurt and Blaine accidentally out Sebastian, he decides to take advantage of the rumours by feigning an eating disorder for attention. Trigger warning: eating disorder. No endgame decided.
Author's Note: I posted this in another account but thought to come back to posting to this one. I thought to start this account a long break from fanfiction writing with an ED fanfiction. Yes, this does end up with Sebastian getting an ED. Also, since I have received comments before about it, I want to say that English is not my first language… Enjoy.


Eat Your Words

Chapter One


Sebastian was sitting at the edge of his harder-than-his-history-exam mattress, in his mouse-sized bed. His plaid bedsheets were on a heap on the floor, next to his shiny polished mocha-brown loafers. Sebastian had his outdated iPhone clutched in his hands. Did you know his iPhone was so ancient he could pass it off as vintage?

Sebastian heartily scrolled through Bash-Up Mash-Up's Facebook page.

He needed something to brighten his day up. Sebastian had a calculus exam that morning that he didn't study for.

This was because Sebastian did not even take calculus. This will be dealt with later, however.

He paused when he landed on a picture of Kurt Hummel in eye-gauging purple, standing outside the Lima Bean. One hand was holding a coffee that Sebastian knew had as much fat as a box of Skinny Cow fudge bars, and the other hand clutching what apparently to be a massive full-fat, fudge-filled chocolate bar.

'It seems to us that the fantastically fagulous Kurt Hummel had decided to appear before the Lima Bean, dressed in the most erotic shade of reddish purple. In this case, gay can both mean 'happy' and 'will suck dick for free if you buy me a MAC moisturiser!' This mangenta male model continues to remind all homosexual men to stay in the closet… At least, until they could find something more interesting to wear than a flock of extinct bird feathers glued together with melted purple Crayola.'

Sebastian collapsed into a fit of laughter on his unmade bed.

This Facebook group was all the show choir rage as of three weeks ago when the group launched. It was now hotter than a stripper in fondue. Nobody in the show choir room breathed in case they were having their photos snapped that instant. They typically took their photos outside or inside the Lima Bean, a popular hotspot for all tacky show choirs. Including his own tacky show choir. At least that was how it started out as.

There were a few times where there were pictures taken from houses, across streets and in shady bars. Fun.

Sebastian remembered a post where they once zoomed in on Rachel Berry's face when she was sipping on a soy chai whatever for her delicate throat muscles. The BUMU Group mentioned that her jaw was sharp enough to cut through her boyfriend's doughy stomach and give him the abs he so desperately desired. That post Sebastian had screenshotted and looked at in times of complete distress—like the times he remembered that he did not win Regionals and was currently stuck doing 'charity events' for the rest of the year. Sure, his performance had been dedicated to a guy whose life he fucked up but when did this karma thing work exactly?

He'd been nice for a total of five days. He at least deserved a new car. His bent-up Bentley was getting him nowhere (fast). Sebastian kept on getting fined for driving as slow as a disabled turtle running through quicksand.

Sebastian had a new notification from the group. He licked his lip in interest. It was about him. That was the first time the group had ever posted about him.

The humour from Sebastian's face disappeared when he saw the picture they used.

It was a picture of Sebastian was standing outside the Lima Bean, dressed in a black button-down and a pair of form-fitting black jeans. His boots were black too. Momentarily, Sebastian admired how photogenic he was. He also thoroughly believed that they were going to make a jab at the fact that he must mourning his loss at Regionals. By the way, that picture had to be weeks ago because he couldn't find those fucking pants anywhere now.

Then, sixteen-year-old Sebastian Smythe decided to read the caption and felt his blood boil.

'Sebastian Smythe decked in all black to remind everyone that he has just about as much curves as Kate Moss in the 90's—and that he's so anorexic he doesn't breathe just in case air has calories. There were multiple anonymous tips flooding in noticing Smythe's lack of (table) manners during Regionals, suggesting that Smythe is (literally) starving for attention!'

"SEBASTIAN!" his mother yelled out from downstairs. "Do you want WAFFLES or PANCAKES for breakfast?"

Sebastian looked at the time and realised how late he was going to be. Dalton was in walking distance from his house, but his mother insisted that Sebastian drive there with his car just in case someone wanted to mug Sebastian. Yeah, like it mattered. Unless they were underage and wanted to get into gay bars, he doubted that they'd benefit from his paltry allowance (which he did not use to buy lunch but instead spent it on overpriced coffee he couldn't really afford).

"How about EGGS?" Nathalie emphasised loudly on any food item she was offering. "Do you want EGGS?"

Sebastian scrunched up his nose. He did not have time to eat breakfast if he wanted to get to his exam in time to fail it.

"Coffee!" Sebastian replied automatically, as he looked for his Dalton uniform. "The Nescafé one… Cappuccino!"

He shoved his phone into his pocket. He made his bed, and staggered to put on his Dalton uniform as quickly as possible. He buttoned his blazer and absentmindedly reached for his belt to keep his pants up.

Who the fuck took his measurements the first time? A bastard that couldn't measure anyone over five-foot-five!

"I'm NOT giving you just COFFEE!" Nathalie yelled out. "Do you want EGGS? I'll make you EGGS!"

His mother sounded like she was going to torture him with the eggs rather than they feed him the damn things.

Sebastian stared at himself in the mirror. What a joke. Dalton pants were supposed to be slim fitted. He made a mental note to leave a strongly worded message with the occasional fuck you and who the hell even pays you? to his five-foot-one tailor when he came back home. What? Being nice for five days was hard work—and it wasn't like he was throwing sea salt slushies to a ten-year-old with a moustache. Sebastian was just leaving constructive criticism! And he should because there was enough room in his pants to shoplift at least three variations of Pepperidge Farms' Milano biscuits!

"Sebastian, do you have a razor?" his sister called out from her room. "I need one today."

Sebastian rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe this. The one day of the year where Lena wanted to shave her massive hairy cunt and it had to be the day where he was too busy to annoy his black-haired, brown-eyed sister about what kind of guy she met last night that was so special that he deserved her effort into looking sort of like a woman.

Sebastian left his room, giving an unused razor to Lena. "What does he look like?" he said in a whisper because he did not want his mother to hear the fact that he was interested in a guy. Nathalie didn't know Sebastian was gay yet.

"Not your type," Lena pushed him playfully. "He doesn't put out for months. I've been working my way at him for nearly a year now. He's just decided to sleep with me. It's romantic. I love him." Sebastian looked horrified.

Realising the time, Sebastian walked downstairs as fast as possible. He stood by the doorway, waiting for his mother to fix his tie. Yes, his mother still did his tie.

Just as she was redoing his tie, Sebastian caught sight of the clock. Shit. He shoved his hot eggs from the shiny, new pan into a Tupperware container and grabbed his coffee-filled thermos. Sebastian gave his mother an obligatory kiss on the cheek because if he didn't, she'd think he didn't love her anymore.

He bolted out of the house before his mother could tell him to get her a jug of 2% milk when he came home that day.

Sebastian shoved his heavy, tattered Nike backpack at the front of his car and then walked to the nearest trashcan to dispose of his eggs. He scrunched up his nose. Just the smell of plastic and scrambled egg made Sebastian's stomach reel. Look at him. Sebastian had the allowance of a thirteen-year-old and a car of a seventy-five-year-old that kept on saying that the first car he ever owned still ran 'smooth' (as smooth as frozen honey out of a jar.) The only reason he was in Dalton was because his obscenely rich grandmother decided to pay off his tuition, because she thought that he could do wonderful things… and she was right. Sebastian didn't know he could strike the fear of death into a freshman just by insulting his flute-playing and telling him that his boyfriend must be so unsatisfied with his blowing skills.

He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. This was not a cappuccino.

Sebastian snorted to himself and placed his keys into the ignition. Well, if it wasn't his mother's way of telling him that if he didn't get his ass to school right now, he was going to be latte for his calculus exam.