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

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

James’ lower lip trembled, but he nodded dutifully. Gerard offered him a fragile smile and brushed the hair from his forehead. James gave him a small, wobbly one in return. After so much hostility, Frank couldn’t help feeling like maybe all of this was just a terrible mistake. But in the next breath, James wasn’t his, would never really be, no much how much either of them pretended. He was stupid to think he’d have any claim on him if (when, fuck) it all fell apart.

“He’s down,” Gerard whispered as he half closed the door behind him, light flooding through the crack. Frank was standing in the hallway, eyes shut as he listened to Gerard tell his son - their son - a bed time story. He knew he had no right to feel betrayed that James didn’t ask for him (bed time was his thing. His chest hurt so much it made his eyes sting). Maybe because he knew he was fucking stupid and didn’t deserve him. Didn’t deserve them.

Frank made a non-committal noise, arms still folded, and followed Gerard into the living room. He looked… fucking awful. Unwashed and angry and Frank watched as he fiercely chewed on his goddamn thumbnail, eyes not quite meeting Frank's own. He focused somewhere over Frank's shoulder, and all Frank could think was my fault, my fault.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, pulling Gerard’s hand away from his mouth. Gerard sighed miserably and ran the same hand through his hair slowly, fingers snagging on the tangles. His eyes were red and flooded. Frank looked away, 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 started, hesitating when he realized he didn’t really have much to say. I’m sorry we wasted the last four years making each other miserable, Frank's mind supplied.

Frank shook his head, and said softly (he was 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 sorry, Gerard.”

Frank thought Gerard made a wounded sound as he turned on his heel, but he really couldn’t make himself turn around to check. He walked upstairs to his son’s bedroom and whispered into the small space between the door and the jamb, voice and body shaking (breaking).

“See you later, my boy.”