"Hurry up, you wankers, I'm hungry!" Keira had to shout over the music thumping over the stereo. It was awful music. She hated it. And she knew all the words and her hips were twitching of their own accord and honestly, fuck Orli and his awful musical taste that she'd already been forced to coexist with for far too long during filming.
She shimmied across the living room, snooping unashamedly. Hey, she'd been forced to listen to that many stories that started with "This one time me and Dom..." She figured she was entitled to a little curiosity as to the inner workings of this legendary figure. She hadn't even had a chance to talk to him yet, beyond "Hi, nice to meet you" at the door, after Orli had released him from the screaming hug he'd enveloped him in. ("Keira Dom, Dom Keira, yeah yeah now get dressed fucker, we're going out, shut up we are...") Orlando was a whirlwind, taking over the stereo, hustling the protesting Dom up the hall.
Leaving her in the lounge, snooping. All casual normalcy. Couch that looked so damn comfortable, worn and broken-in. CD cases, discarded shoes, "Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance" on the bookshelf. Framed photographs, Dom and Orli and the rest in New Zealand.
"Guuuys!" she called again.
Laughter down the corridor, and the voice that wasn't Orli's. "Fruit in the kitchen."
Kitchen, kitchen... ah, in here. A noticeboard crammed full of pinned-up recipes, notes, postcards, more photographs. Orli's arm slung around Dom's shoulder, off-centre, out of focus, tilted.
Fruit bowl. An orange and two apples and a long-dead banana. Keira took an apple, and hesitated. Hunger versus lipstick.
She sank her teeth into the skin. She could always apply the lipstick.
Taking another bite, she opened the fridge. Might as well go the whole way on the snooping front. Beer, beer, cheese, mustard, bread, juice, Papau-New-Guinean coffee in a brown bag.
God, where were they? Didn't it supposedly take less time for guys to get ready?
Keira drifted back out of the kitchen, biting into her apple again, and up the corridor, shoulders twitching to the beat. The door at the end of the hall was a little ajar, a sliver of light spilling out with their voices.
"Ow, fuck." Orli.
"Nothing, I just... ow!"
Shadows moved, and Keira peered through the crack of open-door. Dom, fastening the cuffs on an unbuttoned shirt, crossed in front, over to where Orli was fiddling with something between collar and ear.
"What have you done, wanker?" Dom asked, raising a hand.
Orli tilted his head sideways. "Necklace. Hair." Dom was reaching up, she couldn't see where, his head was in the way, but Orli winced. "Ow."
"Shut up, pansy. It's tangled."
Dom stepped closer, curling around Orli slightly to see better. He moved sideways a little, and Keira could see the stretch of Orli's neck, Dom's fingers with their rings, the snarl of Orli's pirate hair-extensions around the necklace he always wore.
"Can't believe you're still wearing this thing." Dom's mouth was close to Orli's neck. Orli hadn't moved back. He had a hand... somewhere.
Somewhere under the loose white sway of Dom's unbuttoned shirt?
"Well," Orli said, "you gave it to me."
Dom worked at the knotted hair, his fingers gentle. One hand curled around Orli's neck. Holding him steady? Holding him.
There was apple juice running over her fingers.
"There. All done. You're free."
Dom didn't move. Orli turned back to him, tilted his chin. The world was in slow motion.
Keira slipped away down the corridor, away from the chink of light. The music in the living room was overwhelming, and she stood in its centre, raising the apple to her lips but unable to take another bite.
She considered calling out again.
But in the end, she took "Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance" off the shelf, settled in a corner of the couch, and licked the juice off her fingers.
Snooping by dee
All stories are works of fan-fiction by Dee. "Fan-fiction" means that she does not own any of the core creative concepts and characters, but she does heap adulation, appreciation and awe upon those people who do hold the intellectual property rights to those concepts and characters. Further, any instances of real people are fictional, and the author does not wish to suggest any truth should be attached to the actions, emotions and words attributed to them in these fictional stories.