Screaming at the Sun | Frerard

Chapter One

Frank lay in bed, pillow over his head as he tried not to scream.

Crying was probably more appropriate in this situation, but Frank didn't feel like he could cry. He couldn't even say he'd lied to, because technically no one had ever said anything but the truth.

Frank cursed at himself repeatedly for not putting the pieces together on his own. How had he not figured it out?

None of this was real. None of it fucking existed.

It had all started on the first day of camp.

Frank hadn't planned on spending his whole summer at camp – he hadn't really wanted to either – but when the only other option was staying at a Ronald McDonald house with his mom until his boarding school began in the fall, he jumped at the chance of doing anything else. That ended up being his grandfather's summer camp: House of Blues.

Blues ran in Frank's family. His great-grandfather had played, his grandfather had played, and Frank's own father had played until he overdosed when Frank was four months old.

Frank's mother had remarried to a carpenter quickly after that, only to discover she couldn't have more children. Frank thought he had dodged a bullet there, until his stepfather's seventeen-year-old cousin got pregnant, and gave them the baby.

Just Frank's luck: That baby wound up being the most medically cursed child the family could imagine. They named him Patrick, and he had a shit ton of mucus in his lungs that caused him to stay in critical condition for the majority of his life.

Or as the doctor's called it: Cystic Fibrosis.

Thankfully Frank's stepfather had been loaded, and was able to afford all of Patrick's treatments. Frank had grown up spending most of his time on his guitar, learning to write his own music, and skateboarding through the halls of the many Ron Don houses they stayed at over the years. That was, until the scaffolding under his feet broke one morning and dropped him four stories down to his death.

Life insurance and inheritance could only take them so far, and it wasn't long until they'd been back where they started: poor and fatherless. An uncle on his stepfather's side had taken pity on Frank, and sent him to an expensive boarding school in Pennsylvania. Until then, though, Frank had the whole summer to waste.

"Fuck!" Frank cried as his skateboard landed on its side, skidding to a halt and sending him flying off. He stumbled for a few steps before catching himself on the side of the drained pool and steadying himself. "Son of a bitch." Frank huffed as he caught his breath, kicking his skateboard right side up. He placed one foot on the board, preparing to kick it forward when his phone chirped, making his hesitate.

He pulled it out, glancing at the contact before answering. "Hey," Frank said, putting it on speaker. "Frank!" Grandpa's voice drifted through the phone, friendly but urgent. "Where are you? Doors open in an hour, and you're supposed to perform at the welcoming speech! We need to start sound check." Frank's grandfather was named Frank Iero – same as Frank's father and same as Frank – but he was referred to as Grandpa by everyone.

"Heading there now." Frank said, clicking off his phone before Grandpa could continue. He was going to be late, and Grandpa was going to be disappointed per usual. Frank had been watching the camp since the start of summer, but this was the final week, so he'd decided to participate.

Unfortunately, Grandpa had seen it as a business opportunity, and when the news got out that Frank Iero would be in the camp, it sold out without hours.

That was the other thing: Frank was famous.

Turns out people had liked those songs he'd written at the hospital. The small label he'd signed to – four years ago on his twelfth birthday – soon sold him to a major one, kick-starting Frank into his music career.