"Phillip? Are you coming?"

Anne stood in the doorway, still in costume, wig in her hands, and leaned her head against the doorframe. Phillip snapped his head up and glared at her. His hair was ruffled, his eyes dark.

"Do you not see all this?" he spat, motioning toward all of the finance and advertising paperwork littered across his desk. "Barnum," (he only referred to the man by his last name when he was truly annoyed), "will have me working here 'til the year 1900 with these damn double shows he's insisted on performing."

Anne's face fell.

Phillip sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, all right?" He ran his hands over his face. "Just...go home. I'll see you tomorrow."

Anne left without another word.

Phillip sighed again and melted back into his work, but it was harder to concentrate. He felt the beginnings of a throbbing headache coming on.

Time melted away from him as he worked in utter silence for a little while, half-focused, eyes almost crossing as he scanned over the words, the numbers, the percents. He jumped when he heard someone knock at the door.

"Damnit Anne, I thought I told you—"

His breath caught in his throat when he looked up and saw P.T. standing in the doorway. The older man smiled.

"Phin? I thought you'd gone home already."

"Could say the same about you," P.T. responded casually, dropping himself into a spare chair.

"Not with all this paperwork," Phillip muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Um..." He fiddled with the pen in his hand. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be home with Charity and the girls?"

P.T. sighed. "Charity and I had a fight."

"Oh?" Phillip looked up, perhaps a little too quickly. A quick burst of...something twisted in his stomach. "What about?"

"She thinks I'm overworking the troupe with these double shows—"

"That makes two of us."

"—and won't listen despite my repeated explanations as to why these shows are a good thing," P.T. finished, oblivious to Phillip's mumbling.

"I - uh." What was he supposed to say? That he hoped P.T. and Charity would work it out? Kiss and make up? "I'm sorry, Phin. Is there anything I can do?"

"Don't worry about me." P.T. brushed away Phillip's concern with a flick of his wrist. "What about you?" He smirked.

"Wh-What about me?" Surprised by the sudden change in conversation, Phillip fumbled for words.

"You and Anne are spending a lot of time together, aren't you?" That coy little smile returned to P.T.'s lips.

The tips of Phillip's ears flamed red with embarrassment. "I don't believe that's any of your concern, Mr. Barnum."

"What's with the formalities? You can tell me, can't you, Phillip? No secrets between men, huh?"

Phillip almost choked on his own spit. What did that mean?

(why are you so worried? It's not like—)

"Have you taken her to the rooftop yet?"

(—you've got anything to hide. Right?)

Phillip began to gather up his things, blindly stuffing paperwork into his drawers and folders. "I really should get going, Mr. Barnum. It's getting late and—"

"You weren't rejected, were you, Phillip? You shouldn't have been, the rooftop always works—"

Phillip stared at the man, mouth agape, sweat starting to form on his brow.

(tell him. tell him how you coupled with a whore, a whore, a—)

(you're staring! what would Daddy say if he caught you staring at a man too long? whores are bad, but men, men are—)

("Father, Father, stop! Please stop! It won't happen aga—!")

Phillip Carlyle almost felt sick with revulsion as he hurried out of that office, forgetting his things. Bolting out of that room faster than a lightning strike, he left P.T. alone and gaping after him.

He left so fast he was almost running. Running, running, running away from—

(you fool! have you no composure? now he'll know something is wrong, he'll know and—)

"SHUT UP!" Phillip screamed, falling to his knees in the street.

Around him, people stared. Carriages stopped. Children quieted.

"Wanna go home," Phillip moaned. He trembled on his hands and knees, pebbles digging into his palms. "Wanna go home, wanna go home, want Anne, wanna go ho—"

Lies, a secret voice, a very deep, secret voice whispered inside of Phillip Carlyle. You don't want Anne, you want—

Phillip fainted in the middle of the street.

...

Anne almost threw her wig on her dressing table, fuming. W.D., who was packing up next to her, looked over and frowned.

"That's some attitude, Annie. Did something happen?" His eyes darkened, and he left the end of the sentence--

(did he hurt you, annie?)

hanging in the air, unfinished. Anne scoffed and stormed into the small cubicle reserved for the ladies' costuming.

She was in there for almost twenty minutes before W.D. went after her. Knocking on the wall beside it before pulling the curtain to the side, he knelt down next to her and moved her hands from where they had been plastered onto her face. She had been crying quietly, and he wiped a tear away with his thumb, speaking softly to her like he had when she was little and had been afraid of the dark.

"Anne? Annie, what's happ--"

"W.D., am I annoying?"

W.D. started, brows furrowing. "Annie, why would you ever think that? You're sweet, caring--"

"That's not what I asked, W.D., I need to know." Her voice broke, and he could see her face beginning to contort again. In a frantic effort to keep her from bursting into tears, he drew her into his arms, shushing her gently when she began to whimper.

"You're perfect, Annie. Let nobody tell you otherwise." Knowing she'd tell him what was wrong when she was ready, he let her go, smiling gently and tipping her head up to face him with his thumb. "Now, Annie, go get dressed. You can hardly go out in a corset and tights, can you?"

...

P.T. sat in the office chair, bewildered. He hadn't crossed a line, had he? All the same, Phillip had sprinted out so fast he could have had a hot poker attached to his behind. Probably nothing, but he worried anyway.

He sat there for a few more minutes, staring pensively at Phillip's empty chair, still swiveling slowly from the momentum of Phillip's swift departure. Sitting here was doing him no favors, he recognized, and he abruptly got up, casting a quick glance over the papers on Phil's desk before grabbing his hat from the hook near the office door and marching out.

...

There was commotion outside the circus. Women and children stood huddled around a sort of accident, giving the ambulance on the spot a wide berth. P.T. frowned. Upon closer inspection, he realized it wasn't an accident at all. Just the ambulance, and a crowd of people.

Something told him he needed to get closer, and so he did, squinting at the face of the man being loaded into the carriage. He'd seen that face before; it was strangely familiar--

His eyes widened, and he pushed past the crowd, yelling for them to let him through. They did, muttering under their breath, and he ran up to the carriage, turning to one of the men loading Phillip into the back.

"Excuse me; my name is Phineas Taylor Barnum; I'm this man's business partner--"

The man looked at him with a slight expression of annoyance. "Yeah? Whaddya want?"

"I'd like to know why he's being carted away in an ambulance; I think I have the right to--"

"Yeah, yeah. Your partner passed out in the middle of the street. We're bringin' him back; it's common procedure."

P.T. stared, mouth open. Phillip had passed out in the middle of the street...he was usually calm, collected; what on earth could have--oh.

P.T. had increased the number of shows, unknowingly dumping four times the amount of work on his partner's head. He himself hadn't gotten off any worse for it, so naturally, he had assumed nobody else had--oh, he felt bad now.

Furrowing his brow, he stepped into the carriage next to Phillip without a second thought. The doctors complained at him, but he paid them no heed, letting the stretcher-loader he'd talked to explain.

He'd have to take some of the work himself; now that the advertising was out he couldn't go back to one show a day.

Looking at Phillip's pale face on the stretcher, he felt a twinge of guilt. He should have listened to Charity.

After he accompanied Phillip to the hospital, he figured he'd go right home and tell her just that.