Chapter 3

To: Kiku Honda

From: Arthur Kirkland

RE: I hate you

Kiku,

This is ridiculous. I refuse to do this. It is demeaning, asinine, obnoxious, a monstrous waste of time and any other synonyms you can think of.

-Art

To: Arthur Kirkland

From: Kiku Honda

RE: You don't actually hate me; your irritation is merely misplaced anger due to traumatic childhood experiences…

Art,

As your psychiatrist, I feel that I am legally and professionally entitled to prescribe appropriate measures to ensure your emotional stability and health while on the road and unable to attend therapy sessions. I believe that a journal cataloguing your experiences and reactions will allow you to work through your feelings in a healthy manner and could potentially improve your interpersonal relationships. You are a very isolated person, I am concerned that your only emotional outlet is music and glaring at the people you care about.

So, as you would say "hate me all you want, bitch, you're still writing a journal".

I apologize for the rudeness. It was terrible, but very necessary.

Please forgive me.

Kiku Honda,

Where the Sun Rises Therapy and Psychiatric Practice

To: Kiku Honda

From: Arthur Kirkland

RE: Journal

Do I have to let you read it?

Damn nosy therapist…

To: Arthur Kirkland

From: Kiku Honda

RE: Journal

If it will allow you to be honest with yourself, I will not force you to share your musings with me.

Kiku Honda,

Where the Sun Rises Therapy and Psychiatric Practice

To: Kiku Honda

From: Arthur Kirkland

RE: Fine. You win.

Here are some ground rules:

You aren't allowed to read it.

I am not sharing it with anyone

I am putting it in Google Docs so Google can steal my copyright. I don't want anyone to get the bright idea to publish it as some sort of memoir.

I'm changing names and facts as much as I want.

-Art

To: Arthur Kirkland

From: Kiku Honda

RE: Ground Rules

Arthur, we have talked about this. Your paranoia regarding Google and strong dislike of all things American is irrational and concerning. Perhaps you should address that in a journal entry. I will allow you to keep your journal private, if it makes you more comfortable with the idea. However, you are not allowed to change names and facts. Turning this into a creative exercise, while entertaining for you, I am sure, only defeats the purpose.

Kiku Honda,

Where the Sun Rises Therapy and Psychiatric Practice

To: Kiku Honda

From: Arthur Kirkland

RE: I can't win here, can I?

Fine, no fact-changing. See you when I get back.

-Art

Document 1: Art's Journal-Thing

Entry 1:

I really hate my therapist. For one thing, I didn't need therapy. At all. I am a perfectly functioning 19-year-old adult. It doesn't matter that I don't have any friends outside of work. It doesn't matter that I haven't spoken to my oldest brother in two years. Or that I still have nightmares about the night Scott flew off the handle. Nope. I do not need therapy.

But, apparently my mother, Aedant, Robin, Patrick and Kiku-the-Therapist himself all disagree with me. And now Kiku-the-Therapist-from-Extremely-Polite-Hell wants me to keep a journal while on the road. As a substitute for therapy. Which I don't need.

I'm staring at the screen, wondering what else I'm supposed to write. This was supposed to be some sort of feelings repository, right? Well, here's a list of my feelings.

I'm still pretty pissed at his therapist. Seriously, Kiku thought a journal was a good idea? Do I look like a pre-teen girl with a secret diary?

I'm moderately aggravated at my mother for backing my therapist up on everything. Apparently Kiku copied her on all of our emails or she's the world's best hacker, because not five minutes after I caved to Kiku's demands, she was calling to make sure I actually set up the document and stared 'journaling.'

I'm INCREDIBLY PISSED at my brother Scott. The bastard just published a book, a fucking book on his experiences as a teen star, his descent into addiction and eventual recovery. Critics were hailing the thing as: "Inspiring", "A gritty, honest look at the darker side of celebrity", "Chilling, and true", "Heartbreaking and soul-searching, it will leave the reader changed". My personal favorite, or least favorite, depending on whether or not we're using a scale of 'favorite to hate' or 'favorite to love', was the comment on the back cover. "You will never look at a Hail Britannia song the same. You will see the deeper meaning in the lyrics and the emotion behind the words in a whole new light. Life-changing for any true punk fan." What did Scott's shit have to do with any of the lyrics? Huh? Seeing as I wrote them I'm pretty damn sure they had next to nothing to do with his craptastic choices.

One look at the cover, one glance at the title, "Life Trapped in Rose Colored Glass: the True Story of Scott Kirkland and Hail Britannia" makes me want to kill something. Or at least throw the thing across the room. I settled for the latter, feeling a cruel surge of pride when the corner or the hardcover dented and the dust-jacket tore a bit. What the bloody hell was his problem, anyway? What kind of arse publishes a book about all the shit he put his family through? Ugh, I'm done. I can't look at that thing anymore. It's going in my gym bag, underneath my shoes, let it get all muddy. Patrick is going to pay for sending me that crap.

Entry: 2

Okay, so yelling at the nicest person you know kind of sucks. Now I feel guilty. Here's the conversation: for your reading pleasure, computer.

ME: What the bloody hell, Patrick?!

PATRICK: Did you get the book?

ME: What do you think, git?

PATRICK: Did you read it?

ME: No!

PATRICK: You should read it.

ME: Bloody hell, why? I lived it, remember? I was there, that skinny little blond kid in the back who, I don't know, wrote all Scott's music for him.

PATRICK: Art, you need to calm down.

ME: Patrick!

PATRICK: Art, it's not like it used to be. Scott's not the same guy he used to be, okay? You don't have to talk to him, but please read the book.

ME: Why?

PATRICK: Because I helped write it.

I dug it out of my gym bag. It had gotten a bit muddy. That made me childishly happy. I looked at the cover, not the just the reviews for the first time. It was a shot of all of us from one of our photo shoots after we had gotten really popular, this pic wasn't used for the magazine spread because, and I quote, the editor said "You don't look angsty and tortured enough". That was ok, because we looked happy. Robin had an arm around Aedant and Patrick's shoulders, his pale brown hair stuck up in the typical mad Kirkland fashion, clashing horribly with Aedant and Patrick's identical orange manes. The only difference between the two of the twins was gender, freckle distribution and hair length. Patrick's was in some sort of sloppy neo-modern mullet, Aedant's short and spiked up. Scott was ruffling my hair (I had dyed it green the day before, he was probably teasing me about it) and I was yelling at him, but we were both smiling. My giant of a brother, his dark red hair gelled into some sort of artfully mussed look was laughing. We all have the green Kirkland eyes. It was weird looking at all those pairs of green eyes and seeing happiness. It had been a long time.

I tore my eyes away from the picture and skimmed down the cover, ignoring the title (it was a play on the name of one of HBrit's songs, a song I had written for Aedant) and read the author line once again. There it was in big letters: Scott Kirkland, in smaller letter beside it, 'as told to Patrick Kirkland'. I immediately felt a bit guilty. But Patrick didn't need to know that.

ME: Patrick, are you saying he was too lazy to write his own biography.

PATRICK: No, Art, I'm saying that he wasn't sure where to begin, but knew he wanted to get his feelings on paper. So, I helped him out. If you don't want to reconcile with him, fine, but at least read my book.

ME: Alright. I'll read it.

PATRICK: Thanks, Artie.

So you see how I could be feeling a bit guilty and a bit like an utter bastard for yelling at Patrick. He is one of the only people I know who is just plain nice. And it gets him into a world of crap. He's way too involved in Scott's train wreck. And he wants to be involved in mine. Ugh. Bastard thinks he can save the world. Drives me crazy, but at least he never gets mad. Aedant and I have had so pretty epic fights. She's scary as hell, by the way.

So I'm going to read the book. But not right now. If I tried it right now I might feel the need to burn it and I'm generally against burning literature. Even if it is my arse of a brother's life story.

Entry: 3

I woke up at five in the morning to my phone ringing. Never have I hated the Sex Pistols so much as when they are blasting in my ear, letting me know that my mum is calling. I considered chucking it across the room, but reconsidered when I remembered how much it cost to repair my favorite acoustic guitar after the last flying iPhone punched a hole in it. Instead I tried to smother the ringing with a pillow. When that didn't work, I kicked it under the bed. That didn't help either. Eventually I gave up and answered. Here's the conversation, such as it is,

ME: Mrgrfff

MUM: Artie, please don't just gurgle at me. I know you're more awake than that.

ME: Shrrmf.

MUM: Don't tell me to shut it, young man.

ME: What d'ya want, Mum?

MUM: Artie…

ME: Mum…

MUM: Manners.

ME: Not a gentleman.

MUM: Artie.

ME: Mum, why are you calling at five in the bloody morning?

MUM: You're leaving for tour today…

ME: If you're calling me for luck when I could be sleeping…

MUM: You'll be very appreciative, I'm sure.

ME: Mum, why are you calling?

MUM: Your cousin Alfred left for foreign exchange in America yesterday.

ME: I know, he's been texting me at every layover, the git.

MUM: Be nice, Artie, he thinks of you as his big brother, he and Maddie have been living with us since they were five and four.

ME: I know, I know, I do remember my seventh year of life.

MUM: Yes, you were so cute, little seven year old you watching out for four year old Alfred…

ME: Mum!

MUM: Well, Maddie doesn't have anything to do while her brother's in America. All you kids have moved out to your own places, and you're going on tour and I'm going to be gone on a series of business trips…

ME: Mum! I am not taking my baby cousin on tour with me!

MUM: With your father dead there just isn't anyone who can look out for her when I'm gone on work business and she'll get so lonely…

ME: Mum, please don't pull the 'dead dad' card on me, your marriage was terrible, you didn't even like him when he got hit by that car.

MUM: You're taking your cousin on tour with you. Maddie will meet you at your place in two hours.

After that she hung up the phone on me and I was stuck alternatively cursing at the ceiling and trying to go back to sleep for an hour before I decided I might as well crawl out of bed and put on real clothes. I am not happy about taking Maddie on tour. She's seventeen years old, with a pretty face, a tiny curvy body, long wavy honey-blonde hair, bright purple eyes and a quiet, gentle personality. She'll get eaten alive by these music-business sleazes. Great. Now I'll be spending all my non-performing time protecting her and avoiding that crazy Francoise woman (no, I haven't forgotten that internet conversation…And no, I did not immediately Google her to see if she was as hot as people said she was… yes, actually I did…and yes, they were right. And no I do not want to meet her to see if she's that intelligent and insightful and aggravating and interesting in person. No. Not at all. She's far too irritating.)

Anyway,the buzzer to my flat's building just went off. I'd better go collect my cousin so we can meet up with Roderich and the Bad Touch Trio at the airport. This tour is going to be hell…

Entry: 4

Francoise is hot. And a flirt. I'm doomed.

To: Veronique Bonnefoy

From: Francoise Bonnefoy

RE: Tour!

Veronique,

I hope you and Maman are enjoying your trip to Seychelles. I will probably never send this email, or any of the others I've written, but I love having someone to talk to, even if it's just imaginary you. We are on the bus to the airport for our tour. Since you can't be here, I'll give you a little hint of what's going on:

"WHOOHOO! TOUR OF AWESOME! WHOOHOO!" Gilbert yells, throwing his hands in the air and yowling like a wildcat on a sugar rush. He is so unrefined, poor thing. He will have a very hard time finding l'amour.

Antonio is humming merrily and trying to braid Chiara's hair. She keeps slapping his hands away and spitting angry Italian at him. "If you're going to be putting your hands somewhere, put them here," she finally huffs, her face red as a tomato as she places her boyfriend's hands at her waist.

"Querida!" Toni cries, wrapping his arms around her waist in a tight hug. Chiara yelps and only half-heartedly tries to push him away before settling into his hug. Ah, l'amour.

The bus comes to a sudden halt outside the studio, oh, we must be picking up Art Camelot. Roderich comes aboard, a young, fair-haired man striding beside him. A young girl with wavy blonde hair trails behind him. I can see Gilbert's eyes trained on her from here. Oh, it would seem Gilbert's found his new target.

Roderich stops in the front of the bus and clears his throat, "Bad Touch Trio, this is Art Camelot. He and his cousin, Maddie Williams-Jones will be traveling with you from this point on. Do try to play nice." He sits down and I get a good look at Art Camelot.

Oh. My. God.

He isn't all that tall, but he's lean with sharp features and what must be tight muscle beneath his black leather jacket and ripped jeans. His blond hair sticks up everywhere in that hot I-can't-be-bothered-with-this way. His eyes are like hard, glittering green emeralds. He has two piercings in one ear and one in the other. But no gauges, thank god, those are just gross. He has a slightly bitter, suspicious look on his face. The only flaw I can see with that lovely punk picture is his eyebrows. They are rather unfortunate and could use a good waxing. A silver scar slices through one of them and I wonder where he got that.

"I'm Art," he says, "Not Artie, not Arthur. I've heard of you lot, your music is halfway decent but you're amateurs. Try not to make the rookie mistakes. I'm not your bloody babysitter and I'm not cleaning up your messes or solving your problems."

"Yeah, like you've done this before," Gilbert sneers.

Art gives him a hard look, "I have."

Well then, we have a hot, arrogant bastard on the bus. I will enjoy teasing him. Just desserts, after all.

Your sister,

Francoise

Author's Note: I'm so sorry for not updating sooner! I hope this long chapter makes up for it. Just for clarification purposes, Veronique is Seychelles. This is my first fanfic with anything in first person, so bear with me and I'm sorry for any OOC-ness.

PLEASE REVIEW! I Love it when I hear from people!