Make Believe

Frank stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest defiantly, but inside he has to remind himself to stutter out every lungful of air.

“—and Uncle Mikey will fetch you from school every day, okay buddy? You love it at Uncle Mikey’s, don’t you?”

James’ lower lip trembles, but he nods dutifully. Gerard offers him a fragile smile and brushes the hair from his forehead. James gives him a small, wobbly one in return, eyes flickering to Frank for barely a second.

It breaks something inside of Frank he doesn't think he can ever begin to repair.

After so much hostility, he can't help feeling like maybe all of this is just a terrible mistake, that they can fix it, make it work, something, because this kid, this kid deserves it. And then he looks at James, James that isn't his, James who will never really be, no much how much either of them pretend, and he feels so stupid to think he has any claim now that everything is falling apart.

“He’s down,” Gerard whispers, half-closing the door behind him. Light floods through the crack and Frank turns away, can't bear to look Gerard in the eye right now. He knows he has no right to feel betrayed that James didn’t ask for him (bed time is his thing, god fucking damn), but seeing Gerard's tired eyes and tired frown multiplies the hurt into something he can barely breathe through.

Maybe it's because he knows, deep down he knows, he's fucking stupid and doesn't deserve him. Doesn't deserve them.

Frank makes a non-committal noise at Gerard, arms still folded, and follows him into the living room. He looks… just fucking awful. Unwashed and angry, something Frank doesn't recognise in his eyes. Frank watches as he fiercely chews on that goddamn thumbnail of his, eyes not quite meeting Frank's. He focuses somewhere over Frank's shoulder, and Frank can't stop himself from thinking I used to love everything about you.

“Don’t,” he finally says, gently pulling Gerard’s hand away from his mouth. Gerard sighs shakily, running the same hand through his hair inch by inch, fingers snagging on the tangles. His eyes are red and flooding as he catches Frank's eye, and Frank has to look away, eyes faltering on the pictures on the mantel. All of it built from scratch, out of the dust, fell around them as they stood off against each other.

“Frank—” Gerard starts, hesitating when he realises he doesn’t really have much to say. I’m sorry we wasted the last four years making each other miserable, Frank's mind supplies. He chokes on a sob in his throat, coughing to mask it.

Frank stares at the photograph of them three, smiling, happy, and shakes his head, whispers with his eyes unmoving (he's scared to raise his voice; scared of what emotion might tumble out, knowing it wouldn't be fair to either of them), “I. I’ll come get my things tomorrow.” And then. “I’m just so sorry, Gerard.”

Frank thinks Gerard makes a wounded sound as he turns on his heel, but he really can't make himself turn around to check. He walks upstairs to his son’s bedroom, whispering into the small space between the door and the jamb. His voice shakes. His hands shake. He aches.

“See you later, my boy.”