Screaming at the Sun | Frerard

Chapter One

The major label wanted quiet songs – and only quiet songs – so that's what Frank wrote. It wasn't his style, but it's what the industry liked. Once, Frank had shown them a heavier song he had written. He thought it was quite good with its harsh-toned guitar and screaming vocals, but the label had hated it with a passion. They threatened to end the contract, which wouldn't have been a problem, except for the fact that it was supporting almost all of Patrick's treatment.

And that was all that really mattered, in Frank's opinion. Not that Frank was the sentimental type, but he knew it should have been his brother here, not him. Patrick would have loved this camp, far more than Frank ever could have.

Frank pulled out his phone, texting Patrick.

F: Camp's starting soon, and I have to perform blegh

The three dots appeared almost instantly, before showing, Patrick's reply.

P: Being popular must be sooo hardd. Poor you.

Frank laughed, shaking his head. Patrick was so weird.

F: yeah, whatever

Frank shoved his phone back in his pocket as he reached camp, walking out of the woods and down to the front desk.

"Frank!" Brian called, brightening as he saw the boy. "Where the Hell'd you wander off to this time?"

"The drained pool," Frank shrugged, motioning to the skateboard under his arm. "It's the only flat place within a couple miles."

"You're lucky Grandpa loves you." Brian said. "Being two hours late? On opening day?"

"It's the camp's last week of the summer." Frank defended himself. "And he doesn't love me, he loves my fame."

"Don't say that." Brian warned, but Frank brushed it off. "I'm going down to the stage." He turned, walking down the stairs to the back entrance. The front doors of the stage were outside, but Frank avoided using them if he could.

Frank walked down the black and dusty stairs, his feet knocking against the hard floor. The weak yellow light from the ceiling reflected off the shiny posters on the wall, and Frank ran his fingers subconsciously over one as he passed.

"Frank!" Grandpa called, and Frank put his hand up in greeting, rolling his skateboard under the stage for later retrieval. "Hey."

"Go get your guitar, and let's start sound check!"

✰✰✰

Frank slipped a necklace off, over his head, tossing it back and forth between his hands as he waited backstage. He could hear the chatter of a couple hundred kids as they sat down, and he sighed, bored. Frank's feet swung beneath him and he tapped the toes of his Vans on the floor impatiently.

His phone let off a buzz, and he glanced at it with interest. Mom.

"Hello?" Frank asked, and his mom's worried voice responded. "How are you, Frank?"

"Good," Frank said quickly. "What's going on?"

A pause. "It's Patrick. His team wants to start him on new medicine, and – "

"Do you need money, mom?" Frank cut her off. "You can just ask me directly, alright? It's not embarrassing."

"Frank, it's . . . complicated." His mother said quietly. "The medicine – it's urgent. Patrick needs it very badly."

Frank frowned. "I'll ask James if I can get paid earlier this week." He said, practically hearing his mother's relief. He'd told her over and over that she could ask Frank's agent herself, but her pride was too high. "Thank you, Frank. You know how sorry I am to ask,"