Keira left me ice cream, cake and a note. *rubs the back of his neck* And it really got me thinking about everything I've done since... well, since all this started back in France.

I love my brother. I've loved him for most of my fucking life- in one way or another. But he's got Ryan now, and he's happy. *takes a deep breath* And I want to be happy, too.

*walks into the trailer's small bedroom and starts packing, happy that Reese isn't around, while he's doing this*

I've decided I need to go somewhere, to get away. This thing with Reese, it's not real. It's just another fucking attempt on my part to control Hayds' relationship with Ryan. And that shit is going to stop, and it's going to stop now.

*grabs his suitcase, leaving Reese the keys to the house on the counter, along with the title, transferred into her name* Reese gets the house, because she's been putting all the fucking work into it, and I won't need it anymore. Plus, I read through her divorce papers when she was drunk the other day, and Ryan got her house, so I guess it's only fair that she gets Hayds' house.

*grabs the keys to his Navigator and walks over the Keira's, leaving her the keys to the SUV in an envelope, with a note inside that just says "I'm sorry for driving you crazy, kiddo," on the front steps*

*calls the cab company from his cell, climbing into the car, and decides to stop by Jonny's, before heading to the airport, still completely unsure of his destination*

*gives the cab driver directions to Jonny's hotel, then dials Hayden's cell, almost hoping it's going to go to voicemail*

I've been making arrangements, I have. *smiles happily, pulling into the valet parking area of the hotel Jonny is staying at* It's taken some legwork, but I've a plan in the works. Aye. And it's a good one this time.

But for now, I've tracked down Jonny, and I think it's about time I pay a visit to my bonny lad.

*tosses his keys to the valet, whistling softly as he gets into the elevator*

*pulls his SUV up to Jude Law's house, turning off the engine, but not getting out just yet*

I honestly find it hard to believe that Jude Law would invite me to dinner, but Jonny said I was invited, and while I was originally thinking of standing him up, recent occurrences with Reese, along with something Hayds said, have made me reconsider.

*rests his head against the steering wheel* Bottom line? I can't believe Hayds is fucking plotting against me now. He's never done deceptive shit like this before, and I don't really understand what the fuck he's trying to make happen here.

It's kind of like this thing with fucking Reese. She isn't going to get the fucking midget back, so I don't even know what fucking game we're all playing anymore. And me fucking around with Jonny? Isn't helping matters either. I realize that. But at least he's open about what he wants from me. Sex. No small talk, no emotions, just fucking sex. That I understand. Reese? I fucking don't understand.

*opens the car door, walking slowly to the door, figuring at the very fucking least he can find out why Hayds is jealous of Jude tonight, and maybe scare Leo into telling him what the fuck Hayds and Jonny were up to at the club the other night*

Last night was a feckin' bit of alright. Didn't feckin' start out that way, since I had feckin' June Dicaprio up me arse for the first half, feckin' natterin' on like he's feckin' Paris Hilton in a confessional. Jaysus, I feckin' hate people that won't shut it and insist on gabberin' on all the livelong day about nothin' but themselves.

And then there's the tiny bleedin' fact that I couldn't get a feckin' glace from Himself, the feckin' producer, who wasn't for anythin' but arguing with his half-bright little brother. Finally had to go feckin' cut in on 'em to get some attention. And then the bastard drags me out of the pub and feckin' threatens to put me out on the side of the feckin' tarmac if I don't tell him what the feck was up last night. Jaysus, I can go home and get treated like shit in Dublin and get a decent feckin' pint afterward to make up for it. Feckin' Americans.

But then we ended up at a feckin' hotel, where Himself was treated to the wrath of yer lad Jonny, leadin' to me finally getting his arse back in bed again. Didn't feckin' run home this time, either. And then, this mornin' I invited him to dinner at Jude's. Which reminds me, feckin' better call Jude and tell him.

*lights up his tenth cigarette of the morning and dials Jude's number*

*sighs, getting out of his SUV outside the Troubadour*

Hayds called me and asked me to meet him here tonight. Alone. He wouldn't tell me why, but I'm not exactly an idiot. I know he's up to something. I've been taking care of Hayds since he was just a little shit. I know when he's being deceptive.

I don't have any clue what he's up to, but he's up to something, and after our last talk, when we fought about Reese, I'm pretty fucking sure it has something to do with her. He has this idea that I would help Reese take Ryan's kids, which I fucking wouldn't do. Fucking with Ryan is one thing- the little shit took Hayds from me- but screwing with innocent kids, is something completely different.

*rubs the back of his neck* And the fucking truth is? I don't know what the fuck I'm doing with Reese anymore. Shit.

*hands his keys to the valet and walks into the club, seeing Hayden almost immediately, and walking up to his table*

Hey, baby brother.

What a relief to be home, darlings. Not that several days of Sadie's company wasn't enjoyable. Actually, it was quite amusing, as Rafferty spent most of it bonking her over the head with things. And pointing out mating animals on safari, and explaining the process of reproduction to his mother, who was quite interested and not at all embarassed. God bless American tutors.

*kisses Leo hello and wanders outside to the poolhouse, hoping to find a clue where Michael's gone to and finding Michael's note there*

*sits down to read it, frown increasing as he goes*

*walks back into the main house, calling out* Leonardo, darling, will you come here for a moment, please?

*holds up a hand as Leo walks in the kitchen door, answering his ringing phone*

*sits on the kitchen counter, staring at Michael's cell phone, which is sitting on the kitchen island and ringing endlessly*

Jude's been calling that phone all evening. *pinches the bridge of his nose*

At first, I thought Michael was just ignoring me in the pool-house, given what happened last evening. But after knocking at the pool-house door, and not receiving any answer, I came back inside and noticed that the money he'd left on the kitchen counter was missing.

And then his cell started ringing. And with Jude gone, I don't think he'd go anywhere without the cell phone, if he had any intention of returning.

*sighs when the house phone rings, walking toward it slowly, knowing it's Jude on the other line without even looking at the caller ID*

Hi, Handsome.

I am not feckin' poutin'. Just because I go out to a feckin' pub and meet up with the very bastard who sent me to feckin' rehab, and then fuck him in my feckin' limo, and then invite him home, only to get turned the feck down, does not mean I'm feckin' poutin'.

Nor does it feckin' mean that I'm sittin' by the feckin' phone waitin' for the feckin' bastard to call. I got better things to do. Make movies. Go see me girlfriend. Wank off in the feckin' bathroom, for Christ's sake, and I'll think about his feckin' brother while I do it and feckin' Tove Christensen won't even enter me feckin' mind.

I am NOT feckin' poutin'.

And Ewan McGregor's single again. Found that out last night, and it isn't as though I haven't been in feckin' love with him for ten years. Which reminds me, meant to give Jude a ring and find out why he left the feckin' love of his life, and what the FECK he's doin' back with Leo Dicaprio. Things bloody well change when a man goes to rehab.

*lounges on the bed, watching TV, until he's antsy enough to actually pick up his phone and dial Jude, needing to talk to someone*

*is sitting at the bar of the Troubadour, sipping on a mojito, and trying to listen to Jonathan Rhys Meyers over Michael's screaming on stage*

My babysitting duties have expanded from taking Michael to visit his friend in the hospital, to bringing him here. To the Troubadour.

He got a call this morning from one of his bandmates, letting him know that the opening act for Soul Asylum had canceled, and that Pagoda - Michael's band - was being offered the gig.

As soon as I sat down at the bar, I was promptly joined by Jonathan Rhys Meyers, who I've met once or twice, but never really talked to. And just minutes later, Tove Christensen joined us. I have to admit, I'm looking forward to talking with Tove, given the fact that he and Jude seem to have some sort of historical animosity.

Unfortunately, none of us can hear a thing over the wail of the electric guitars and Michael's screeching.

*smiles, deciding to just watch the show, and worry about talking later*

Michael is loud, which I expected. Unless he's singing a ballad, in which case you barely hear him over his guitar. It's somewhat adorable, and I have a feeling that the screaming teenage girls in the front row agree with me.

*feels the cellphone vibrate in his pocket, and steps away from the bar just as the band stops playing, the announcer stating that the main act will come on within a half hour*

*looks at the caller ID, smiling when he sees that it's Jude, and walks toward the back of the club*

Hi, handsome. Miss you. Miss me? When do I get you back? *smiles and listens* Yes, he's fine. His friend is fine. We're at the Troubadour. *listens* No, no. Not a date. His band is playing, or rather, just finished playing. *listens* I just ran into Tove Christensen and Jonathan Rhys Meyers at the bar, and I was considering asking them out for a bite with Michael and I. I miss adult conversation. *laughs* Actually, he was adorable. You should check out one of his shows when you come back, but I warn you, you might have to fight off the teenage girls. *nods* Let me see if I can get through the throng of adolescents. One second, sweetheart.

*makes his way through the screaming girls, to the backstage door, handing Michael the phone and mouthing 'Jude,' and 'I'll be at the bar'*

*walks out of her room with her towel and a book to read while she waits for Jonny to arrive*

*climbs into the Jacuzzi and settles in putting her glasses on and picking up where she left off in her chapter*

Wonder what is keeping him...

*goes back to reading*

*slips on a pair of stone-washed, faded blue jeans - going commando - and a white wifebeater*

*adjusts key necklace*

*talks to self*

Okay, so it's not the middle of the night, but I'm fekkin' starving. French food leaves something to be desired in the first place, and six fekkin' weeks of institutional French food even more so.

*pads barefoot out of room, wanders slowly down to kitchen*

( Pardon Me Hardon )

The Jonathan Rhys Meyers Confessional Series – Opus #5


*walks into Confessional, stands in front of camera, arms folded across chest*


Dear Diary, Father Forgive Me, and Sports Fans…

I’m back.

In the last possible place I want to be at the moment.

Due to ‘excessive and uncontrollable abuse of alcohol’, the esteemed fuckstick producer of this farce conspired with me handlers and had me committed to rehab for six weeks.

I hate everyone.

I had an interesting time in rehab this go ‘round. They didn’t have a lot of structure there to begin with, and I got out of most things simply because I’m fortunate enough to neither speak nor understand French. The only thing that kept me from going completely gone in me head was spending vast amounts of time wanking. The odd thing about that was my fixation with thinking about Christensen the Younger whilst doing so, which rather surprised me. Fancy that.

When I got back to the castle late last night, I went straight for me liquor stash.

It was gone, of course.

I’ve decided that, although I’m contractually obligated to remain here for the duration, I’m not really going to participate. I’m just going to stay in me room, and venture down to the lovely kitchen in the wee hours if I should feel the need for food. That’s it. And continue me private Hayden-inspired jackoff sessions, of course.

If anyone wants to see me – and I can’t imagine why they would – they know where to find me. And they’d better goddamn sight be bearing something alcoholic if they expect to set foot inside me door.

I need a drink, I need a fuck, and I need to go home.

*looks at ground, then back up at camera* *looks forlornly sad*

You’re a long way from Ireland, boy.

*stumbles into Confessonal, Grand Marnier bottle almost empty,slams door shut, doesn't bother to sit down*

Dear Diary, Father Forgive Me, and Sports Fans...

( The Jonathan Rhys Meyers Confesional Series, Opus #4 )

* Ewan fidgets, contemplating the door before him. He's taken his own advice and decided that *he* needs to socialize with an old friend. He hasn't seen the man -- really seen him -- for years. Maybe it's time. He takes a deep breath and knocks on Rhys Meyers's door *

Confessional #3 - Jonathan Rhys Meyers

 

*staggers awkwardly into Confessional Room, full bottle of Grand Marnier in hand, no snifter, lit cigarette between fingers, still wearing black sweat pants and grey, cropped off Reebok t-shirt*

 

*slams door closed loudly, spins around and drunkenly shushes door with index finger pressed to lips*

 

*walks to chair, gingerly sits down*  *runs fingers through stringy, greasy hair, rubs fingers together and makes a nasty face, wipes oily hand off on sweat pants*

 

*addresses camera*

 

Dear Diary, Father Forgive Me, and Sports Fans: I'm completely shit-faced, in case you haven't noticed. *giggles, takes swig of brandy straight from bottle, raises bottle to camera*  Slainte! *takes another drink and a drag off cigarette*

 

*sighs heavily*  This is really long. I mean, really, really fekkin' long. *runs hand over face*  This, uh... "Confessional" has become me best friend.  I'm not sure why, but I find meself able to say what's on me mind and what's in me heart here, things I can't otherwise say to anyone, anywhere. *licks lips, smiles sadly*  How fucking pathetic is that?  *rubs eyes with fingertips*

 

*blows sharp breath out, pained expression on face*

 

I don't even know what day it is.

 

*gulps some more Grand Marnier, sits bottle on floor next to chair, almost topples out of the seat*

 

( The Jonathan Rhys Meyers Confessional Series, Opus #3 )

*standing in hallway outside of room, talks out loud to self*

How much fucking time can one relatively small girl spend in the bathroom?   I'll tell ya. 

All. Fucking. Day. 

 I'm beginning to think she never actually comes out.

And the toiletries and the cosmetics - they're everywhere. On the vanities, on the floor, in the closet, in the drawers and cupboards, on the edge of the fucking tub, on the shower floor.  Honestly, how many goddamn different varieties of facial cleansers and hair conditioners does one person really need?

And then there are the scary little electric appliances that look like some sort of bizarre genital torture devices.  The one that says "Super Crimper" frightens me in particular.  *shudders*

If I do manage to ever see the inside of my assigned loo again, I'm leaving the fucking seat up.

*squirms, walks across hallway, knocks on nearest neighbor's door*

*recalls it's Janeane Garafalo's suite after knocking*  

*cringes slightly, seriously considers just going back into own room and opening a goddamn window...*

 

*settles into chair, brandy snifter and lit cigarette in one hand, runs fingers of other hand through hair*

 

Hello again dear diary, Father Forgive Me, and sports fans.  *grins wryly*

 

It's been less than a full day since my last confession. I needed to talk to you, though, Funny, how one can get oneself into so much trouble in so short a time.

 

( The Jonathan Rhys Meyers Confessional Series, Opus #2 )

*rolls over in bed, yawning and stretching, rubbing one hand sleepily across his eyes, peering fuzzily at the clock until the numbers rearrange themselves into coherency*

One o' clock in the morning....

*groans, lies on his back, spread-eagled with the pillow over his face, runs his tongue fuzzily around the inside of his mouth, sighs heavily at the thought of the long trek to the kitchens for something to drink*

I need a refrigerator in my room... have to ask Tove about that.

*frowns at the thought of Tove and their talk earlier in the evening, a talk he doesn't even want to think about right now*

*swings his legs out of bed, searches around until he finds a t-shirt to go with his boxers, resists the urge to add a button down over top of it, and pads off to the kitchen for a drink*

Quite odd, but I'm feeling as if I should be greeting someone here.  'Dear diary', or 'forgive me Father for I have sinned', or perhaps 'welcome, sports fans'.

 

At any rate... I have a great deal to confess, so this might take a while.  It's been eleven years since my last confession... *chuckles*  No, I'm joshing.  Seriously though, I do have some things on my mind, some concerns, and this seems as good a place as any to express them, even if it's only meself listening.

 

( The Jonathan Rhys Meyers Confessional Series, Opus #1 )</o:p>

*pushes open the door to his designated room, exhausted*  *gasps, pretty mouth drops open*

Fabulous.  Utterly fabulous.

*admires the black, white, and many shades of grey palette, the soft, billowy curtains, complimentary abstract art on the walls and, guh.... the wrought-iron canopy bed - queen-sized, naturally -  with ten pillows, each in a unique, color-coordinated sham*

How the fuck did they know that little tidbit?

*sits on edge of bed, bouncing slightly to test the box spring and mattress 'squeak factor',  notices a small, beautifully wrapped package sitting on the night table under the black-and-white Tiffany lamp, picks it up, unwraps it carefully*

*quizzically wrinkles up his adorable nose as he lifts the gift from the box*

*admires the beauty and workmanship, but continues to look perplexed*   *holds the delicate, platinum necklace chain up in front of him*   *an ornate, platinum key turns lazily, swinging slightly like a pendulum*

*spies hand-written notecard in the bottom of the gift box, picks it up, reads it out loud*

Don't let it out of your sight.  Keep it a secret. You'll know when to use it.  Say 'hello' to NP.

*scrunches up face distastefully*

Sounds like fucking Haiku... who the fuck wrote this?

*turns over notecard, nothing written on the back*  *puts chain around neck, slips platinum key underneath neck of shirt shirt and shivers, the metal cold on his bare chest*   *lights cigarette, takes a deep drag, tilts head back and blows smoke toward ceiling*   *puts notecard in back pocket of his black, skintight, corduroy jeans, throws gift box, lid, and wrappings in wrought-iron wastebasket next to night table*

*takes another Marlboro drag, fiddles with platinum key through his grey oxford shirt, heads out the door to figure out who the fuck 'NP" might be,,,,,*