Posted: August 2003
Title: Allowed
Author: PippinsPeach
Fandom: Real Person Fiction
Type: RPS
Characters: EW/VM/SB, BB/EW (not sure, read and you'll see why)
Rating/Warning: PG-13, discussion of mild kink
Disclaimer: Total fiction, only in my head, but boy it's pretty!
Note: Originally written as my first attempt at contrelamontre ("show-not-tell love" challenge), but I went over the time limit and decided WTF; also this isn't a "poor little abused Elijah" story, so please don't give up on it partway through!
Summary: Understanding isn't always fun.

**"Background voices calling from a distance (See no evil, hear no evil)
Static on the line of least resistance, don't say nothin' at all"
-- Pat Benatar **

---

Quite innocent, really, the day you finally understand. But only in hindsight.

Because it all starts with a simple moment of play. Wrestling Elijah to the carpet is always easy, as is tickling him, then pinning him face to face. You're older, more experienced at all this. The Elderly Hobbit, as the rest used to tease, but over the last six months, that's stopped. You kiss his nose and laugh at his struggling, like every other time, but what's this? Frantic strength, more than usual, teeth clenching your shirt collar, a muffled moan. You back off a bit, cocking your head. "What?"

"Nothing." A tad defensive there, yeah? A hint of gratitude, even, though it's swiftly covered by a light knee jab into your ass. "Get off me."

"No." Lazily, you relax your weight, folding your arms across his collarbone and smiling down at him. You change your voice slightly, dropping it to imitate the assistant director. "What *have* you got up your arse, little man? How many times have I instructed you to set that on vibrate? No ringing mobile butt plugs allowed." Teasing, but not really. "Had a rough night of it?"

"Fuck. Off. Bill." Elijah strains underneath, and you hold your position just long enough to make your point before rolling off onto the floor. Laughing, but not really. Because you notice the way he moves. Quickly, along with an unnatural carefulness, as if he's been bruised. Has he? When you cock an eyebrow, contemplating this, he hops to his feet, cat-like grin all over his face. "Anyway, I've rented those..."

"Shut it." You say this gently, but it's said now. Finally.

He blinks back at you. "What?"

"I said, shut it. I haven't come here to be handled and lied to as if I'm one of your public relations problems."

Leaning against the fridge, he merely shrugs. "Then don't be one, I guess."

What does *that* mean? But you already know. You've all known, for weeks now, respecting his privacy as the adult he is. But this is too much. "You think I'll talk? Or go to the police about it? What if I won't?"

"You are so off the fucking mark..."

"Because I won't, Lijah. Not if you need my silence." It's more than you've ever dared say. *Not if you need me*, you'd rather say. But you know better. This isn't the time. Someday in the future perhaps, after this thing he has with Viggo is long over with. "You want my word? You have it."

"Don't need it. I already told you before that you wouldn't understand. So lay off." That blue stare, spinning. It can hypnotize you, play tricks on you, convince you that there's nothing at all wrong in the world. "I'm not a fucking kid anymore, so drop it. Please." He opens the fridge, digging in it, and when he emerges, his smile beams out as if nothing's happened. "Pick out a film, would you? I rented a bunch of Sean's, like you said last week."

Back to normal, you think, imagining him saying it aloud instead of whistling. *Yeah, Elijah, you do that. Get me a beer, tell me to choose the film. Maybe I'll run out for pizza. Maybe you can fake two hours closeness with me, whilst we watch the film and never say a word.*

"Actually, I think I'll be going." You catch the beer as it sails through the air, and you hold it back out, not moving. "Here, really, take it. Got things to do, anyway."

"Don't go. You want to know? For real? You want to know all about it?"

The questions angle sharply, getting louder as Elijah comes to stand directly in front of you. Those eyes should be cold, but they're liquid warm, and you wish you could toss a tiny stone into them, just to see the rippling. "Want me to take off my shirt and show you?" He waits, and you finally shake your head. "No? Then fuck off about it and sit down."

Instead, you wordlessly take the bottom hem of his shirt into your hands. It's a jersey, white with maroon sleeves, and as soon as your fingers touch the thin material, beginning to lift, he moves closer, probably out of habit. Or so you decide as you inhale the duskysweet scent of his shoulder, lifting the shirt higher, as gently as you can.

"Turn round."

"No."

"Please," you whisper. But he remains motionless, head bent, breathing hard, and you know that if you kiss him at this moment, if you stand a little closer, if you reach down and...but no. No. Would it have to be confessed? Would it bring on more punishment? Maybe Elijah desires that punishment, craves it. *You wouldn't understand*, that soft voice repeats in your head, and you pull him close anyway, feeling a sharp gasp against your chest.

Looking down, you can see the marks now on his back, if you strain just enough to look beyond the rolled up material that's clenched in your fist. You don't know what you imagined, but this isn't as bad. *Welts*, you think, feeling sick, but they're fading, waxy, moist where someone has rubbed ointment on them. It's impossible to tell what made them...a hand? Paddle? Belt? Some sort of cord? Your fingers lightly slide across one, and Elijah stands still when you back away and smooth the shirt down over his back. "It's not so bad...c'mon, don't look at me that way."

"Not so bad?" You release him then, and lower yourself onto the couch, unable to look at him just now. The television is muted, showing some boxing match. You'd rather like to believe him, but the feeling of teeth yanking your own collar tight, moments ago, won't allow it. "Do you *hear* yourself? Why do you..."

"It's about trust. If it's too much, I say so. If not, it happens. And I like it." Elijah giggles a bit, glancing beyond you. "It happened right here, actually. Last night, on that couch."

Silence falls between you, and without warning, you can envision Elijah bent over the couch's plushy arm, not two feet away from where you're sitting. Struggling, tied perhaps, gasping for air as Viggo lifts his hand...oh, you cannot think about it any longer. "Listen to me. You have to end this. How can you let him hurt you?"

"You don't understand. He wouldn't...this isn't...it isn't about hurting me. It's about limits, and giving myself completely over to him, and it's really about *him* trusting *me*. How can you be so much older than me and not...fuck, I knew you wouldn't...just forget it."

"Right, I'm supposed to just forget that Viggo put those marks on you. Not a chance, friend."

"Actually, *friend*, last night, it wasn't Viggo at all." A secretive smile peeks out just for a moment before shifting into a wry grin. "It was Sean. But I don't think he'll be back, because he got emotional afterward, because I was crying, y'know...'cause it hurt a little, just for a while. You know how he gets, quiet and all that, like a bomb that's about to go off. So he went home."

Sean. And there, on the floor next to the DVD player, sit four of Sean's movies. Are you supposed to watch him play his usual bad-ass criminals now, knowing that he did this? "I don't blame him," you finally say. "I think if I'd hit you with a belt and made you cry, I'd
throw myself off a bridge."

"C'mon, it wasn't a belt. It was just a ping-pong paddle, and as far as the crying's concerned...it's part of it, see?" Elijah's voice is so soft, so close to your ear as he climbs up to perch behind you, sitting on the back of the couch and draping his skinny arms down onto your chest in a lopsided hug. "It feels good, in Viggo's arms like that, afterward. Look, would it make you feel any better if I told you that I do it to him as well? He lets me." You can feel that little smile again, next to your neck. "Sometimes I wait till he begs for it. He likes it harder than I do."

Try as you might, you can't envision Viggo, with all his strength and mastery, allowing this for even one second. "You're telling me that he..."

"Yes...look, forget telling you, because I can't. You have to feel it for yourself, to really understand, I guess. It's a feeling that happens after everything else, and..." For a few seconds, Elijah seems at a loss for words, which is so unlike him that you would laugh, if
you could manage to breathe properly. "That's what it's about, 'cause I belong to him, sorta, and I like it that way." Is he blushing? He is, and his breath is hotter now. "Don't make a big deal out of it, Billy. Be a friend and let it go."

"Alright." Dead wrong, you've been. Wrong about all of it. This isn't the time, no. This boy's years beyond you, wanting things you don't have it in you to give. His hand is bony, held like that in both of yours, squeezed tight before you let it go. "Let's go out instead."

*****

THE END

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