Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Twisted reality, hopeless insanity,

I told you I was okay, but I was lying…

I was dancing with the devil, out of control,

Almost made it to heaven, it was closer than you know…”

~ “Dancing with the Devil,” Demi Lovato

It was just another part of his body by now. A second heart, a sixth finger.

A third kidney.

Phillip had chuckled at the irony of that one, tipping back the flask and relishing in the familiar burn. It trailed fire down his throat, slowly working to blur the world around him.

The world wasn’t worth seeing, anyway. Phillip had learned that long ago. Had learned that lesson well enough that his first drink had opened a door he’d yet to close.

His first real flute of champagne. A stuffy after party to a friend of a friend’s newest play. Fake, plastic smiles. Biting, slanderous small talk. An elite, high class pocket of the world filled with backstabbers masquerading as your very best friend. Damned if you ever forgot to bring along your own dagger. Damned if you weren’t ready for polite, verbal combat.

His first honest to God glass of whiskey. A bar serving as the party after the after party. The detox that would help him forget that two days later, he would have to attend another such social event.

Fake, plastic smiles. Biting, slanderous small talk. Sometimes, Phillip found he could barely breathe.

Suffocating.

Drowning…

The discovery that champagne could soothe all that—could make the gossip a little less biting and the plastic smiles a little less fake—wasn’t the way Phillip had wanted to deal with life. Life was meant to be vibrant, exciting, and worth living.

Not suffocating, condemning, fake, bitter…

Flutes and flasks, however, quickly turned out to be the easiest, most readily available method of coping that he had been able to find. The champagne helped him breathe, and the whiskey and bourbon numbed the aching. That deep ache that had settled in his chest somewhere around his late teens and had refused to let him go ever since. Refused to leave him be, instead making itself at home in the internal chaos.

Another swig had him draining the flask completely.

Not ideal…

Standing in the wake of what was most definitely his worst play yet with an empty flask had felt like a recipe for disaster.

That’s when Barnum had shown up, whisking him off to an empty little bar and rescuing his night.

It was only later, after the hangover had faded into an all-too-familiar kind of memory, that Phillip Carlyle realized Barnum had done more than rescue one bad night. The man might have just single-handedly saved his life.

The change of scenery that the circus brought was enough to make Phillip want to rethink the flask branded to his waistcoat pocket… but wanting and doing were two entirely different things. One didn’t simply cut out an organ without adequate preparation. Without sufficient reason to do so.

Reason.

It wouldn’t do to throw it out altogether without a good reason. Beyond that, he’d tried going cold turkey on sobriety once or twice before… and it tended to make things worse rather than the desired ‘better.’

But he was all right. He could cope with slowly starting to drink less. There honestly wasn’t much of a point to keeping a steady buzz when the circus provided its own form of excited static. Still, who was he to refuse a celebratory glass of whiskey with Barnum every once in a while?

He was all right.

He was all right. He knew his limits and how to stay halfway sober when he needed to while still enjoying that warm buzz. He knew his limits and how to push them past the point of all caring and comprehension. Like a finely tuned piano forte, Phillip could play his addiction to whatever tempo the current situation required.

And the situation he found himself in that night required nothing less than a total blackout.

That was all right, wasn’t it? His night—probably his whole life—was falling apart. He deserved this.

It had already been a hell of a long day, so trudging home only to find the doors shut and bolted at the one place he called home earned this. After all, he’d only been with the Barnum Circus for a precious few days. He hardly knew anyone besides Barnum. What else was he supposed to do? What else did he have? Barnum had gone home for the evening to be with his family, and most of the other performers still refused to look at him through anything less than thick-rimmed spectacles of scrutiny.

Not that he blamed them. He was an upperclassman invading their little pocket of the world. He didn’t belong there in the same way they all did. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t belong anywhere…

Kicking a stone, he surveyed the city strip. Warm lamplights guided travelers down the cobblestone, inviting them to try one of the many amenities Manhattan offered. Shows, dance halls, brothels, bars… But Phillip only had the latter on his mind.

The real question came down to whether he would rather enjoy a nice barroom or get this over with in the solitude of his and Barnum’s office. Back at the circus, he had a desk of his own, a place to lay his head when it became too heavy with whiskey.

Back at the circus, however, there were rooms where some of the performers stayed… and they didn’t need to see this.

This, a definition found exclusively in the Carlyle Dictionary of Familial Language. Noun: a propensity for disgrace and scandal in the form of frequent alcohol consumption, often taken to extremes. This: To be pronounced with heavy intonation and an appropriate amount of disdain. Example: Phillip, why must you disgrace the family with this? Must you always behave like this?

He might just have to add another section to the definition, Phillip mused as he settled into a corner at the nearest bar. A section that included the circus in This…

There wasn’t any point in starting slow. He may have a whole night ahead of him to drag it out, but the thumping in his chest and the anxiety swirling in his head weren’t going away until the blackout.

So. Phillip motioned the barkeep for a double. Better get to it.

Downing the first shot brought with it a warm comfort. The kind he could lean into like a fond caress. It had been an eternity and a half since he’d received any real comfort of the like from a human being, but a solid glass of whiskey was a good stand-in.

Alcohol served as the glue for the shattered pieces of his life. Another sip, another patched-up shard. Another shot of bourbon, a new outlook on the world. A fuzzy one, to be sure, but one that came with padding for the pain.

The second bar in the strip was reserved for when he wore out his welcome at the first, and the third ate up an hour or two that he couldn’t for the life of him remember.

Most of the time, he would stagger home when he’d had enough, but that option was off the table now. Sleeping in a corner booth had been a decent backup home once or twice over the years.

Yeah… that could work…

If whatever was jabbing at his knee would stop long enough for him to enjoy a little shuteye, that would be lovely. After he dozed a bit, he could make a decision. And yet, it continued to poke his leg, prodding him awake when all he wanted in this world was to remain a resident of the blissful darkness.

Awake.

He pried his eyes open.

When had he fallen asleep?

“Mmm, wha…?”

Someone stared up at him.

Up…

That should be a clue, shouldn’t it…?

His brain managed to comprehend the fact that he was sitting slumped over a desk, but couldn't match a name to that face.

When had the bar scene faded into the chaotic decor of the circus office? And why was someone staring at him like that?

Wait…

Phillip knew this person. Knew him from… somewhere.

But where?

“I saw a light on when everyone’s supposed to be sleeping. Thought you went home hours ago, swell.”

That’s right. The sarcastic voice was familiar where the blurry face was not.

Charles.

Humming, Phillip propped his head up and tried to balance it on a shaky palm. “Couldn’t, uh… Couldn’t get in.”

“Yeah, no kidding, genius. Didn’t anyone ever tell you? That’s what the door is for.” The shorter man gave him a once-over, arms crossed like a disappointed parent. Phillip held back a wince. He’d had more than his fair share of that recently. “Did you even manage to make it up the steps of your oh-so-grand mansion like this, or did you turn back when the going got rough?”

Like this.

Phillip couldn’t stop the laugh from bubbling up his throat, no matter how much it burned. Even in the circus, maybe this was all he would ever be. A chronic alcoholic.

His one and only act.

After all, everyone has an act… Right?

“Told you… couldn’t get in.”

“What, did your parents finally tell you to hit the road?”

There was a hint of something softer in Charles’ tone this time around, and yet Phillip couldn’t help but lend a certain biting edge to his own.

“They didn’t hav’to. Tha’s what locks’re for… genius.”

It took a moment for the understanding to dawn on Charles’ face, but when it did, he choked out a curse.

Reaching for the flask in his waistcoat pocket was more than second-nature. It was as simple as breathing. Even while trapped in the fog of drunkenness, Phillip could still manage to unscrew the cap and take a drink.

The cool liquid didn’t taste like anything by this point. Just a scorching sensation that numbed him to his very core, turning his mind to ash and his liver to rubble.

“Your parents locked you out then, huh?” Charles gave a little nod, his gaze turning to the flask. “Yeah… I guess that’d do it. But… Well, don’t you think you’ve had enough for tonight?”

Shaking his head hurt, so Phillip let it thud down atop the desk. “Not until it’s gone.”

“The alcohol?”

“The pain.”

A thin sliver of silence cut through the air, giving Phillip time to take another sip from his flask.

The man was short, just over knee-high… but Phillip hadn’t counted on the play soldier’s agility.

Somehow, Charles got on top of the desk and began prying the flask from his fingers. Not a difficult feat, by any means, since Phillip could hardly register any feeling in his fingers anymore.

But still. It was the principle of the thing.

“Hey… I need that…”

“Yeah? Well, Barnum’ll be here in a few hours, always working so damn early,” he muttered almost as an afterthought. “If you want any more, you can get it from him, but I think you look like you’ve had more than enough.”

Phillip grumbled a few words under his breath that even he couldn’t make out, much less Charles. Then, he heaved a sigh. “S’nce when do you care?”

“Since now, I guess.” The small man shrugged. “Since you decided to traipse in here in the middle of the night looking like Death chewed you up and spit you out.”

Giving the man a long look, Phillip ultimately shrugged a shoulder. “Fair ‘nough.”

He wasn’t in the mood to argue. Wasn’t in the headspace to wonder why the one performer who had been the most vocally against his presence was now the only one who seemed to give a damn.

It was too late—or early—to wrestle with such thoughts, and it wasn’t as if his brain was sober enough to do it properly, anyway.

“Just…” Charles shot him a look he couldn’t decipher, but that was fine. The world was blurring to perfection and Phillip was more than ready to go along for the ride. “Take care of yourself, swell. All right?”

Phillip hummed, eyes slipping closed as he added a brief nod for good measure. Maybe now Charles would leave him alone. Leave him to wallow in his own decaying mess of a life.

Life’s been decaying for years. Are you only just noticing it now…?

When he cracked his lids again, opening them to the cold world—why was it so cold in the office all of a sudden?—Charles was gone. How long ago he had left would remain an eternal mystery.

That’s fine…

Everything was a mystery when this happened. Nothing made sense, and simply accepting this fact was a relief. It meant he didn’t have to try, and in this state, no one really expected him to.

He needed another drink…

It took one long, hazy moment to realize his fingers were grabbing at air.

Funny.

Phillip searched his waistcoat pocket, half-determined to rip the thing off and shake it upside down if he had to, but his hand kept coming up empty.

Nothing.

How could there be nothing…?

Where—?

The answer hit him like a slap in the face.

Charles.

In his strange and sudden concern, the small man must have taken the flask away with him.

Right.

Just my luck.

Just my…

Something pricked the back of his mind. A memory that, though faint, could be the key to unlocking the rest of his night. The key to ushering in the last of the fog.

A shared few glasses of whiskey. In this room. Not too long ago…

That awful hangover after the night he was first coaxed into joining the circus.

“I’ve found the best way to ease a hangover,” Barnum had said that first day, his grin flashier than ever, “is to nurse a nice shot of whiskey over ice. We don’t have any ice in the office, of course, but it works just as well neat.”

And he had pulled that blessed bottle from the bottom drawer of his desk.

The desk Phillip had been resting at for hours now.

Bingo.

It wasn’t one of his better moments, fumbling and flailing just to get a simple drawer to open, but he supposed the same could be said about much of what he had done that night.

Doesn’t matter.

Nothing really mattered, did it?

Phillip had no answer to that, to the grand question of life and purpose and meaning and—

All that mattered in that moment was the end result: the smooth neck of the bottle clutched firmly in his hand. Shaky fingers took several tries before successfully popping the cork, and Phillip only wasted a mere half a second before pouring the liquid down his throat.

The burn was as welcome a feeling as the edging of darkness that came with it.

Just a little more…

He wouldn’t drain the bottle. That would be rude, right? And though everything else about him might have been impaired, his manners were still mostly intact. Years of relentless training to be accepted into high society couldn’t be so easily erased with a few shots of whiskey. If they could, Phillip supposed he would have doubled or tripled his drinking habits if only to lose that part of himself completely.

Maybe then he could have fit a little better into the circus. Maybe then his parents wouldn’t have to care so much.

Or they still wouldn’t care enough, but you just wouldn’t care that they don’t care and…

It was time for another drink. Just a little more.

Just enough to let the darkness swallow him.

Just a little…

…Phillip.

Go away.

Phillip!

The darkness had just welcomed him into a warm embrace when that warmth suddenly disappeared, making room for needles of light to take turns at stabbing his eyelids.

Go away—

“Phillip!”

A hum caught in his throat, morphing into a cough he couldn’t swallow down in time. “Burning” was not quite the right word to describe the feeling of sheer death that plagued him as his body rattled with the violent movement.

As the coughing subsided—thank God—Phillip blinked away as much of the haze as he could, allowing a familiar figure to come into view.

Barnum was the only name that came to mind, though Phillip knew there were a few initials thrown into the mix that were alluding him.

Annoying.

“Phillip.” Barnum’s face was twisted, so Phillip decided to just close his eyes. That was better. He wouldn’t have to see the irritation, now. The disappointment. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here” didn’t seem appropriate. The man was looking for a solid answer, not sarcasm.

But apologies… Apologies were always appropriate. They always fixed everything. Always got a body out of trouble. Always lessened the inevitable pain of—

“S’rry…” Phillip barely felt his own hand through the numb tingling as he washed it over his face. “Didn’t have anywhere else t’go but… here.”

Barnum was asking what happened. He wanted to know the When’s, How’s, and Why’s. Through the haze, Phillip could hear more than a hint of concern in the ringmaster’s tone, but he wasn’t entirely sure what that was supposed to mean.

What happened…? That was a good question. A good… good… What did happen?

Oh. Right. The truth hit him with enough force to send his fingers reaching for the bottle.

The bottle, he realized as he blinked upward, that was firmly grasped in Barnum’s hand.

Huh.

“Charles said your parents kicked you out?”

Phillip snorted. “If y’already knew… why’d you ask me?”

“Because I want to hear it from you. Your side of this.”

This. Phillip wanted to bite out a bitter laugh, but that would take too much energy. Hurt his aching head far too much.

Of course, Barnum would look at this the same way as his parents.

The real question is: why don’t you?

The only answer Phillip had to that was to tell the annoying voice in his head to shove off. He could only deal with one voice right now and that was the one coaxing him back awake. Reminding him that he had work to do. And asking him how the hell he ever used to function like this every morning?

Somewhere along the line, he supposed he had simply gotten used to it.

“Phillip…?”

Right. Barnum was still there. Why?

His father always left him alone when he was like this, as if ignoring the problem would make it go away—or at the very least, make it a problem that didn’t need to be acknowledged by polite society.

“‘M f’ne…” Phillip replied, feeling his eyes slip closed again. They were just too heavy to hold up anymore. Maybe more sleep could fix that… “‘S not your probl’m. It’s mine… You shouldn’t hav’to… hav’to…”

What are you doing? The words danced on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t manage to work them past his lips. The lethargy was too great, pressing him toward sleep. Blessed sleep.

If he were asleep, he wouldn’t have to worry about why Barnum was pinching his wrist. Wouldn’t have to think about why the ringmaster was lifting one of his eyelids and letting out a bold string of curses. It was all gibberish, anyway. All useless, unintelligible—

Yanked out of the gentle hand of sleep, Phillip found himself leaning upright against Barnum’s shoulder, his feet refusing to do much more than flop all over the floor.

“Come on, Phil, don’t do this to me.” There was a certain edge in Barnum’s tone, the kind that sent chills of fear curling down Phillip’s spine.

Before he could reply, he floated into the air. That was… concerning. Or, it would have been if the haze around his mind wasn’t so thick. If he could take a moment to think, to breathe.

At least you don’t have to walk.

That was a benefit, he had to admit. Wherever they were going, Phillip was more than content to float there on a cloud, especially with his legs out of commission for the time being.

The only catch was the fast motion. The sudden rushing around was making him queasy…

“Lettie! Water, now!”

Water would be good. He couldn’t remember ever being so parched in his life.

When sleep called to him again, he didn’t have the strength to resist, and for a sweet few minutes, the world was black. It was calm.

Then, the waves came crashing down on him at full force. Real waves of thick, cold water.

Drowning, Phillip used to believe, wouldn’t be the worst way to die.

Now, he would give anything to survive.

Anything.

He didn’t know how long they had been sitting there, and he frankly didn’t want to. The cobblestones of the alley had long since stopped digging into his skin and bones. The lingering numbness had made sure of that.

It was a peaceful alley. Phillip hadn’t ever noticed that before, the way the narrow street running alongside the Barnum Circus building seemed to create a small pocket of peace. A break from the chaos of the bustling thoroughfare beyond.

Barnum had been a steady presence beside him all morning, a rock amidst the crashing waves. Amidst the nausea, the numbness, and the haze. With his unexpected mainstay in place, Phillip stole a few more moments to catch his breath, to clear his mind. To blink the blurry world back into focus.

Whatever Barnum had given him to drink in his intoxicated state, it had done a good job of purging his stomach. As the residual sickness continued to burn his throat even after his stomach had no alcohol left to cough up, Phillip figured the remedy had worked a little too well. The nausea still lingered, but the clarity prickling his mind told him the worst was over.

For now.

What about next time…?

And there would be a next time. No matter how often he vowed to give up drinking for good in the throbbing wake of a hangover, the siren song of the bottle was always too alluring to resist.

You have no willpower, that’s what it is.

No… Phillip scoffed. He had the willpower, he just didn’t particularly enjoy the world when it wasn’t sparkling with that warm buzz. Not the world I’ve been living in before the circus, at least.

Before the circus…

Phillip stole a glance at his companion. The ringmaster’s face was taught with lines that weren’t around yesterday. Lines Phillip knew he’d put there.

Taking a breath, he tried for a bit of levity first. Something to break the ice that had been freezing between them since that final bucket of water Barnum had thrown over his head.

“You know,” Phillip began, adjusting his back against the building, “I could’ve done without being drenched within an inch of my life.”

“Yeah?” Barnum huffed. “Well, I could’ve done without walking into the office and seeing you like that this morning, so I think we’re even.”

“Touche, I guess.” Holding back a shiver as a breeze filtered through his soaked hair, Phillip let his gaze fall to the ground. “It won’t happen again.”

At least, not here.

I promise.

He bit his tongue before the words could be released. Those two dangerous words that had the power to inspire change… or to steal away the only steady thing in this world on which he could rely.

A strong buzz and a blinding haze.

“Maybe,” Barnum replied, his tone thoughtful now. “Maybe not.” Phillip felt the man’s eyes shift toward him and forced himself to keep staring ahead. He wasn’t sure if he was prepared to face those eyes yet… and the disappointment they would bring. “All I want to know is why?”

Blowing out a sigh, Phillip shrugged. “I guess… I guess last night just seemed like the final nail in the coffin. I knew something like this would happen if I threw my lot in with you. I figured I might get disowned sooner or later, but I didn’t care. I still don’t, but… It all happened so fast, I could hardly breathe. I didn’t… didn’t expect it to happen that soon.”

“Your parents kicking you out,” Barnum said, the words more of a confirmation than a question. “Did they even have the decency to leave your things on the front step?”

“No, but if they no longer want me in the house, then I’m sure they don’t want reminders of me there, either. Getting my things shouldn’t be an issue.” Unable to look at the pity beginning to pool in Barnum’s eyes, even in his peripheral vision, Phillip let his lids flutter closed. “I knocked for what felt like hours, thinking there had to have been some sort of mistake.” He shook his head, fighting for a good, deep breath. “With nowhere to go and in the absence of a solution, I… I did what I always do.”

“What, drink yourself half to death?” And Phillip supposed he couldn’t fault Barnum for the hard edge that coated his voice. Not after everything the man had done for him that morning.

“No, just drink.” A wry yet weak grin tugged at his lips as he glanced at his partner. “You remember how we met. You told me about the day you first picked me out of the crowd. When have you not seen me with a glass or a flask in my hand?”

“When you were watching rehearsal yesterday afternoon.” Barnum’s reply came far too easily for Phillip’s liking… and it was almost obnoxiously confident. “When you first dug your fingers into the finance books up in the office. And then there was that time a day or so ago when you were getting to know Lettie. I don’t recall seeing a flask or a glass. Just a good, old-fashioned smile.”

“Right, well…” Phillip straightened, adjusting his shoulders as he worked up the energy to stand. “Last night was a mistake…”

“Damn right, it was a mistake.” Barnum had smoothed out his tone by now, and Phillip sighed in the wake of this newfound gentleness. This blessed calm. “A mistake that’s not going to happen again. Not if I have anything to say about it,” came the soft yet determined afterthought.

They both glanced at the shattered glass that littered the ground a few feet away. The result, Barnum had explained, of that last bottle of whiskey being thrown out the window before Phillip had been rushed downstairs. He could see it in his mind’s eye, Barnum melting all his worry and anger into the object, then hurling it out the second-story window.

The mental image sparked a thought, a hope… That maybe someone out there cared a little bit more about this than Phillip had initially thought.

A moment later, Barnum shoved himself to his feet, the arm he extended providing the boost Phillip’s waning energy had needed. Grabbing hold of it felt like being secured to a sturdy lifeline after an age and a half of being tossed about in a stormy sea.

“From now on,” the ringmaster said as he hauled Phillip upright, “the office is an alcohol-free zone. I can’t control what you do on your own time, but as long as you work for the circus, I’d like to see more smiling, more laughing… and less drinking.”

“You forget,” Phillip replied, feeling both relief and a certain level of anxiety spike through his veins, “I own ten percent of the circus.”

“Then you can find a small ten percent of the building, maybe a corner in the back somewhere, and drink ten percent of whatever’s in your flask at the time. That is, if you can manage to get the thing back from Charles…” Barnum’s grin held no room for further compromise. If their hands weren’t firmly clasped together already, Phillip suspected he would’ve sealed the deal with a handshake.

Whether Phillip was willing or not.

Apparently, a laugh wasn’t the response Barnum had been looking for because his brows dipped at the sound and tightened his grip. “I’m serious. You scared me back there, and I don’t think you even want to know how close things got. Now, do we have a deal?”

Whatever buzz had been clinging to Phillip in the aftermath sobered almost instantly at this allusion. Pointing out to his boss the sheer one-sidedness of this “deal” didn’t seem as productive as a firm nod. After all, he had no one to blame for this but himself.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he nodded. “Deal.”

“Good.” Barnum sported a sly grin. “Now, I would normally say you could take the day off, but you did this to yourself… and there are a few bills that have been piling up these last couple of days…”

Phillip couldn’t help but chuckle. “How did you keep your finances in order before you took me on?”

“Between you and me?” Lowering his voice, Barnum whispered, “I didn’t. But don’t tell Charity that.”

“If she chose to marry you, I’m sure she already knows.”

Barnum’s laugh was contagious. Phillip had been with the circus a full day when he learned that fact, but in that moment, he could only manage a smile. Laughing, he’d found only minutes ago, didn’t do anything good for his worn throat, nor for the nausea still swimming in his stomach.

Besides, there wasn’t anything worth laughing about when the future seemed so uncertain. Part of him wondered if he could truly survive without alcohol.

He never said no alcohol, just not in the office.

True.

And yet… there was another part of him that wondered if he could do it.

If his flask was just another part of his body these days… how hard would it be to cut it out?

Phillip swallowed.

He would think about all later.

After he was done dealing with the hangover.

Chapter Text

“Thought I knew my limit,

I thought that I could quit it,

I thought that I could walk away easily,

But here I am, falling down on my knees…”

P.T. Barnum made the world worth seeing. It wasn't until joining the circus that Phillip began to notice the vast array of colors he had been missing over the years.

Long, hazy years, clouded by alcohol and regret.

Until that morning, his flask had been just another part of his body. Not an organ he couldn't live without, per se, but one that would surely be missed in the event of a sudden absence.

Sitting with Barnum in that alley, though, with a sledgehammer pounding spikes into his skull and the lingering taste of everything his stomach had purged still clinging to his mouth, Phillip had resolved to do away with it completely. Rip the second heart out, cut off the sixth finger, burst the third kidney.

Barnum told him that he didn't want to know how close he'd come to not waking up again, and Phillip wholeheartedly agreed. Just the thought was enough to inspire change. Besides, if he wasn't allowed to drink in the office anymore, and if drinking anywhere in the circus was going to be frowned upon by the man in charge, then he figured it would be as good a time as any to quit drinking once and for all.

His world was slowly filling with color again. Why would he want to dull it with whiskey and wine? And hadn’t he been trying to quit for years now?

Funny. Trying… Not very hard at all, he wasn’t ashamed to admit, but it was never too late to try harder. Right…?

The first order of business after returning to the office had been to solve Phillip's newfound issue of homelessness.

"I won't hear any other suggestions," Barnum declared, ending their impromptu, yet minor, argument. "You'll come home with me tonight, and that's final. Tomorrow, you can start looking for a space to rent."

Reminding Barnum that he would be fine on his own would work just about as well a third time as it had the first and second times, so Phillip dredged up a smile.

"If that's the way you want it," he conceded, "all right, then."

Barnum gave a satisfied nod. "Good. It's about time you met Charity and the girls. They've been asking after you every hour of the day."

Phillip couldn't help but chuckle at this. "Please don't tell me you've been filling their heads with anything less than the truth."

"On my honor as a gentleman," Barnum replied, "nothing but the truth... And maybe a little extra sprinkled on top." The added wink didn't do much to ease Phillip's apprehensions, but he knew he was locked in all the same.

The second order of business was getting past the hangover, which, as Barnum so graciously reminded him, wasn't something he could cure with half a dozen cups of coffee.

But even if it was all in his head, the coffee helped. At least, it seemed like it helped enough to get him through the morning. Holed up in the office, Phillip wasn't bothered by any sort of noise... until practice started.

In all fairness, Barnum had warned him before dipping out that the day was "about to get crazy." Waving off the concern, Phillip had shot the man a grin.

"It's nothing I haven't heard already."

There had been a certain flair in Barnum's grin that he hadn't been able to decipher in that moment...

Now, however, as the distant cacophony filtered up the stairs and under the crack in the door, Phillip began to get the picture.

He might have heard the noise of the circus before, but he hadn't experienced it during a hangover of this proportion. The sound pierced his head like a bullet, each high note and battle cry shooting through his skull without mercy.

You did this to yourself.

This...

Phillip took a breath, easing his hand off his head, which had been cramping in its vain attempt to shove away the pain.

This would never happen again.

He wouldn't allow it.

He wouldn't—

A clang reverberated through the building and Phillip reached into his pocket, only to freeze when his fingers brushed against air.

You can't even finish making a vow about this without grabbing for it. How do you expect to slog through the rest of the day? The rest of this life?

His flaskless fingers curled, clenching until nails bit into his flesh.

I can do this.

I don't need this.

All he had to do was last until practice finished, then he could focus on going through the finances… while he suffered through that night's show…

Resisting the urge to bury his face in his hand took more self-control than he felt like he had, yet somehow, he managed. It took a quick redirection of his attention, and soon enough, he was going through that morning's mail. Barnum wouldn't be thrilled by the bills or the bank's reminder of his monthly loan payments, but that was a conversation for a later date. No need to stress over it now. No need to—

In the small handful of days he'd been with the circus, Phillip had learned that Lettie Lutz had a simply angelic voice. One that was angelically high.

If his head exploded within the next few minutes, he wouldn't have been a bit surprised. In fact, he figured he would have been grateful for it. That way, he wouldn't have to suffer through the pain of his own mistakes.

But you're used to it by now, aren't you? At any rate, you should be...

The corner sofa felt gloriously soft, its sheer comfort being his only real indication that he had migrated there from the desk in a rush.It was the pillow he pressed over his head that served as the icing on the cake. It muffled the outside world, easing the pain if only slightly.

Sleep it off. That had always been his advice to himself before the circus. Before Barnum.

As Phillip felt his eyes slip closed, a half-hearted justification filtered through his mind.

It was too early to be awake and functioning, anyway. Especially after last night.

Especially after all this.

He would be a better man when he woke up, but for now, he didn't have the strength to resist the alluring pull of sleep.

"Head still giving you trouble?" Phineas spared a glance at his young apprentice, studying the slight pinch in Phillip's face before turning back to his evening newspaper.

Better to keep it casual for now. No matter what the little outward gestures said to the contrary—a brief smile here, a dismissive wave there—he could tell the kid was still suffering.

Phineas had to give him credit, though. Meeting the whirlwind that was both Caroline and Helen would be enough to throw anyone a bit off-kilter, and yet Phillip had smiled brightly, laughed heartily, and indulged the girls to their hearts' content.

And they had adored him for it, begging him to stay and live with them "forever and ever."

Charity had won Phillip over with a warm meal and her usual welcoming demeanor, whispering to Phineas before whisking the girls upstairs to bed that she "just might keep the boy, he's such a dear."

Such a dear. Phineas snorted, flipping the page. That was one way to put finding Phillip poisoned half to death by the only thing in this world he seemed to love.

I hate to break it to you, kid, but I don't think it loves you back.

Expecting some sort of dismissal, Phineas was surprised when Phillip leaned against the armrest of the sofa, fingers pressing white rings into his forehead.

"You have no idea..."

After tucking the girls in for the night, Charity had disappeared into the kitchen to fetch them all some tea and coffee, leaving the living room fairly quiet. Phineas had since been using the slower change of pace to monitor his apprentice. Typical hangover symptoms were to be expected, and that was all well and good, but the anxiety from that morning had yet to fade. It had taken forever and a day for the adrenaline rush to disappear, and now it seemed there were a few vestiges of worry that continued to linger. Refusing to let him go. Ignoring his silent pleas for peace.

Phillip was fine.

He's getting what he deserves. There's no need to dwell on what's been over and done with for hours.

Folding his paper—the headlines that day were mediocre at best—Phineas flashed a grin that sparkled with mischief. "Sorry to hear it. Would a little trumpet music help? I found one in an old box from whoever lived here years ago and I've been dying to try it."

The glare Phillip sent flying his way was sharper than one of Deng's throwing knives, but that wasn't what got Phineas' attention. It wasn't the thing that added a little sobriety to his string of good humor.

No, that honor belonged to the slight tremor that shook Phillip's frame. Barely noticeable, at first. Had Phineas still been reading his paper, he figured he never would have seen it. Any attempt to convince himself that it was merely a trick of the tired eye got tossed out the window when a light trembling hijacked Phillip's hand. As if sensing the disturbance, even with his eyes closed again, he pressed his fingers deeper into his forehead. An effort to control the shaking, Phineas guessed, or perhaps to ward off the headache.

Whatever the case, it sent the ringmaster's brows dipping into a tight knot.

"Phillip...?"

The young man hummed, making no effort to open his eyes. Phineas tried not to think of a time when he feared those eyes would stay closed for eternity.

Before he could continue—though what he was to say, he hadn't decided yet—Charity floated back into the room.

"Tea for the tea lovers," she said, handing Phineas a decorative cup, "and coffee for the hangovers."

The smile Phillip gave her in thanks could hardly be termed as such; his eyes were no more than thin slits. Yet, even through such a tiny space, pain managed to bleed its way out into the open.

"So," Charity began as she claimed the space beside Phineas, "what did I miss? I hope you two weren't discussing business on such a lovely evening."

"If he were even capable of discussing the topic right now," Phineas told her with a smile, still keeping the corner of his eye on Phillip, "I still wouldn't bring it up. Business matters belong in the office, and that's where they should stay."

His wife shot him a knowing look. "Yes, they should, though whether they will is anyone's guess."

It was a hint at a familiar disagreement, one Phineas was all too happy to let fade into the comfortable silence that had begun to blanket the room.

Comfortable, with a catch... That pinprick of concern still lingered in the back of his mind.

He looks all right.

It was a one-off scare.

It won't happen again.

Exactly. Phineas took a breath, relaxing finger muscles that threatened to clench into fists. I'll make sure of it.

The day had been hellish, and that was putting it lightly. The Barnums were such a lovely family that Phillip felt guilty for not feeling up to his usual self. It all served as just another reminder why he had tossed his flask in the garbage bin back at the circus.

Only reaching for it a handful of times was something he counted as a small victory—and the fact that Barnum hadn't seemed to notice the addictive compulsions added to the feeling.

Despite the relative peace of the evening, Phillip had to keep from sighing in relief the second Barnum declared that they should all turn in for the night. Keeping himself awake had been a chore all day, which led him to believe—to hope—that falling asleep would be as blessed as it would be easy.

The clock on his bedside table laughed at this ridiculous belief with every tick, tick of its gears.

He had read once that simply lying in bed was just as restful as sleeping, but whoever had written that was obviously a fool.

A fool who had never once lain awake for hours on end with no sleep in sight.

Reminding himself that this was all his own doing had become a tired refrain by that point and no longer brought with it the familiar cushion of guilt. Instead, Phillip found himself fighting to keep from drowning in the numbness that pressed in at all sides.

Sleep... Just... sleep.

Please...

Please—

The distant murmur of voices pulled him out of the darkness, and it took him a long moment to realize he had been sleeping.

When he drifted off, he couldn't say, but he cursed the muffled tones for waking him. Whatever they were talking about, couldn't they have waited until morning?

Waiting the voices out didn't work. Fifteen minutes in and they were still just as chatty as ever. It took a pillow over his head to remedy the situation. To block out the rest of the world so he could get some sleep. However, the more he pressed the cushion into his skin, the louder the voices grew, until they were practically shouting at him.

That's it.

Sliding out of bed, Phillip ventured into the hallway, hell-bent on telling whoever it was to shut up. Unless it was Charity. Or either of the girls.

So, basically just Barnum. The voice was loud enough, it was probably him, anyway.

Still air and silence greeted him.

An empty hall. A vacant room.

Nothing.

As Phillip stood there, stranded in the hall like a lost child, his brain tried to convince him that he'd imagined it all.

You're just hearing things. You're stressed, it's fine.

But... It sounded so real. So... So...

The voices continued just as suddenly as they had stopped, picking back up in the middle of a hushed conversation.

Though it took more willpower than he cared to admit, Phillip forced himself to retreat into the guestroom.

Just Charity and Barnum having a late-night conversation.

That's it.

It was all the proof he would get short of barging into their room and telling them to quiet down.

And that would have to be enough.

It's not your house. You're a guest here, remember that. Just... Phillip took a breath. Try to get some sleep.

Right. Try...

If sleep touched him at all that night, he didn't remember it, and when he woke up the next day, the violet patches under his eyes made sleep feel like a distant memory.

A hangover wasn’t supposed to last this long. At least, not any sort of hangover Phineas had seen before.

They had spent the better part of the morning lazing about the kitchen, feasting on cookies and lemonade. A “special event,” Phineas had told his girls under Charity’s watchful eye, considering they had such a special guest, and that they had better not expect cookies every morning.

That had been fine. A nice rest bit for them all, to be sure, but especially for Phillip and his drooping eyelids.

That had also been hours ago. Now, they were halfway through the afternoon and the young man looked like he hadn't had a good night’s sleep in days.

The last two tenement buildings had received Phillip’s lax seal of approval, and it hadn’t taken long for Phineas to realize the kid was just phoning it in. Nearer to the circus had been Phillip’s only stipulation, which narrowed their search down slightly, but not by much. As they began exploring a third building, Phineas started to wonder if there was even a suitable room available for a decent price.

Ten percent of the circus only went so far when it came to room and board.

“I just saw a rat run underneath the bed,” Phineas commented, keeping a careful watch out for Phillip’s reaction. “Does that bother you?”

His apprentice merely rubbed a twitching finger against, if Phineas had to guess, a throbbing temple.

“No, it’s fine,” came the mumbled response. “I can make do.”

Phineas raised a brow. “You want to live with rats?”

“I never said I wanted to,” Phillip shot back. “I said that I can.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you won’t have to, then. How much sleep did you get last night?”

Phillip was alert now, face twisting in confusion as he stopped his examination of the cupboards. “What do you mean, I won’t have to? You just said—”

“I lied. There aren’t any rats. And you’re avoiding my question.”

“You’re avoiding mine! What do you mean, there aren’t any rats? You just said—”

“I was testing you,” Phineas explained quickly, eager to move past the topic and on to why Phillip seemed about ready to drop dead. “Do you realize you’ve spent all day approving of conditions that aren’t even fit for rats?”

Phillip gave a sharp roll of his eyes. “Beggers can’t be choosers, now can they?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you have to settle for the slums.” Feeling his proverbial hackles beginning to rise, Phineas forced himself to take a deep breath. “That’s beside the point for now. You’re still avoiding the question: How much sleep did you get last night?”

“As much as one can get on a hangover, I suppose,” came the muttered response as Phillip returned to half-heartedly examining the cupboards. “I would have slept better if you and your lovely wife hadn’t spent the whole night talking.”

Though his voice held only a hint of sarcasm, it was bitter all the same. Phineas felt a laugh of disbelief burst from his chest. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The talking,” Phillip stressed, as if by drawing out the syllables, he could get Phineas to understand. “At some point in the middle of the night, you and Charity started a conversation. A very loud conversation. I could hear it even with the doors closed.”

With the doors…

Phineas blinked, that wary prickle he’d felt the previous evening returning at full force.

“Phillip…” he began, trying to keep the concern out of his voice, “Charity and I went to bed when you did. We slept through the night.”

Now, it was Phillip’s turn to sport a twist of confusion on his face, making a slow turn back toward Phineas. “Then… who was talking…? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. If we can manage to find a room before the end of the day, I won’t have to worry about that kind of thing again.”

A sort of static irritability charged the air, a stark contrast from the Phillip Carlyle that Phineas had come to know. None of it made sense. The small tremors, the unwarranted frustration, the phantom voices…

As Phillip tugged at his collar, Phineas noticed for the first time that day the thin thread of sweat glistening on his neck and hairline.

An “Are you all right?” danced on the edge of his tongue, but he couldn’t be sure it would be well-received. In fact, he could say with near-certainty that his concern would only make Phillip’s demeanor worse.

Swallowing a sigh, Phineas said, “Well, if we can’t find anything today, you’re welcome to my guest room for as long as you need it. There’s even a smaller room downstairs, toward the back of the house. No one sleeps down there. It would be… quieter.” The last part was an afterthought tinged with confusion.

Because Phineas would swear on his father’s grave that no one had been talking in the dead of night. However, that wasn’t a bear he wanted to poke. Not when Phillip seemed on the verge of snapping at the slightest remark or inconvenience.

Right. Time for a different tactic.

Phineas made for the window, finding it harder to pry open than any normal window should be. Strike two for this place. The first being the cobwebs that decorated nearly every inch of the ceiling.

All right, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but still…

“Is it just me,” he began, keeping a watch on Phillip out of the corner of his eye, “or is this the stuffiest room we’ve been in all afternoon?”

Hook.

Like a moth to a flame, Phillip was drawn almost instantly to the window and its cooling breeze. “I think it’s just the weather in general. I swear, I’ve been soaked in sweat all day.”

“Strange… It’s not that hot out. Nothing like yesterday… Now, that was heat.”

Line…

Phillip snorted and pulled his tie loose, closing his eyes as another breeze brushed past his face. “We must not be living in the same world, then, because this is the hottest day New York’s had all year. I’d put money on it.”

“Perhaps… Unless I’m the one who’s perfectly fine on this mild day…” Phineas said, fixing a stare on his apprentice, “...and you’re the one trying to convince us both that you’re fine when you’re not.”

Phillip’s glare was scorching as it shot Phineas right between the eyes. “Why don’t you just come out and say what you mean instead of insinuating. I’ve lived a lifetime of gossip and implications, so I don’t need any more from you.”

“All right, then.” Crossing his arms, Phineas faced the boy head-on. Phillip, for his part, tried to stand taller, straightening his shoulders in a vain attempt to compensate for their height difference. And yet, any intimidation he’d been seeking fell to pieces the minute his fingers began fumbling to continue unbuttoning his collar.

… and sinker.

“Something’s wrong with you. I’ve been wracking my brain since last night trying to figure it out, all while you seem content to pretend that everything’s fine.”

“I’m sorry?” Phillip bit out a sardonic laugh. “Something’s wrong with me? Did you mean for it to come out like that, or are you truly trying to insult me?” Before Phineas could open his mouth, Phillip held up a hand. “Never mind. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m fine.”

“See? This is what I’m talking about. In all my years, I’ve never seen someone so fine suffer so badly.”

Offense was quickly masked by frustration as Phillip’s scowl deepened. “Well, get used to it. Not everyone can plaster on a Barnum Patented Smile and hide all the ugly parts of the world away.”

“This isn’t something you hide,” Phineas pressed, and it took every last ounce of self-control he still possessed to refrain from shaking the young man by the shoulders. “This is something you beat. But you can’t do that—and I can’t help you—if you won’t tell me what it is. Are you coming down with something? Is it stress? Is it what happened with your parents? Is it literally anything else?”

Give me something, kid. Phineas searched Phillip’s gaze, coming up emptier than the dingy apartment. Give me something…

But Phillip’s eyes only clouded. A guarded mask that had once been fading with each moment spent at the circus now returned at full force. “Is this because of what happened yesterday morning? Just because I had one bad day doesn’t mean everything is all of a sudden wrong with me.”

Phineas couldn’t stop the scoff that cut through his throat. “This doesn’t look like one bad day to me. Try several.”

“Look.” The fact that Phillip was also using up a significant amount of self-control was not lost on Phineas, if the boy’s deep, measured breathing was anything to go by. “We’re out here to find an apartment. While I appreciate your help, I don’t need it applied to every aspect of my life. So, either stick to the point of the day, or leave me to finish this on my own.” Yanking at his collar once more in what Phineas could only imagine had now become an unconscious habit, Phillip blew out a sigh. “I’ll be back. I need some air.”

And while Phineas didn’t miss the way Phillip stumbled a bit on his way out the door… he knew there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.