He was back in the bar. Everything was hazy - he remembered stumbling in and demanding the bartender another, another, another, but at some point the bartender had stopped giving him drinks all together. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks - why couldn't he just have a drink, god damnit?

"Phillip?"

He gasped and swirled around, banging his elbow on the edge of the counter. He winced and wrapped his hand around the throbbing joint as he slurred out, "P - P.T.?"

"Jesus, Phillip, how much have you had to - are you crying?"

P.T.'s hands were suddenly on his arms as he sobbed, snot running from his nose like a child. He blinked bloodshot eyes and hiccuped. "H-He won't let me have another drink," he pointed to the bartender like a tattling child and his finger shook "I just want another drink, I—"

"It's all right, let's just get you ho—"

Phillip slumped forward and cried into P.T.'s shoulder. The ringmaster stiffened in surprise and held the younger man away, hands on his shoulders now as he gave Phillip a curious, concerned look.

"Let's get you home," he repeated, taking a deep breath as he truly took in the look of Phillip for the first time. "Anne had to call me. She's worried sick about you."

"A-Anne?"

"Yes, Anne. You remember her, don't you? Tall, beautiful. Loves you."

(loves you)

Yes, he remembered Anne.

(she loves you)

But—

(p.t. doesn't love you)

Phillip let out another wail. P.T. only sighed and helped the man off the barstool, slinging one of Phillip's arms around his neck. He nodded and muttered an apology to the bartender as he half-stumbled out of the bar beneath the weight of the other man.

Beside him, Phillip continued to sob.

*

Anne's glare hit him the second he walked into the tent. She stood over by her brother and had been watching him climb up to the trapeze, but it were as if she had a sixth sense and could feel Phillip in her proximity.

Phillip sighed and lowered his head as he approached her. She scoffed and looked away, but didn't start hurrying in the other direction - that was a start. "Please, Anne. Forgive me?"

"Oh, so now you're talking to me?"

Phillip winced. It was true - he had been ignoring her more than he'd like to admit, but, aside from the morning he'd woken up with a hangover from hell, she hadn't exactly made any effort to talk to him either. When he'd woken up that morning, her talking had quickly turned to screaming

("do you realize how badly you could have hurt yourself?")

and it only made his headache even worse.

"I'm sorry," Phillip murmured. Anne huffed.

"Phillip, get over here!"

Phillip turned at the sound of his own name and nodded at the Irish giant, who waved him over. Anne had started to walk away by the time he turned back around, but he grabbed her by the wrist.

"What—"

Phillip kissed her, holding her body tightly against his. She gasped, but her hands - whether intentional or not, neither of them knew - moved up to entangle in the hair at the back of his head. When they pulled away, she reached up to touch her lips. Tears glimmered in her eyes.

"Let me make dinner for you," Phillip proposed hurriedly, knowing he was needed elsewhere. He didn't know what was coming out of his mouth, but he didn't - couldn't - stop it. "I know I've been terrible lately, but please - don't shut me out."

(phineas)

"I'm sorry."

Anne studied him for a moment before taking a deep, shuddering breath.

"All right," she whispered. "I'll come over around sundown."

Phillip's lips curled into something that, he supposed, could squeak by as a smile if you looked at it from a distance with one eye closed.

"You won't regret it," he promised.

*

Phillip felt the bile rise in his throat as he looked down at the letter. It was from his parents - a rare occurrence nowadays - and the words, sprawled out in his father's neat cursive, made spots of red dance in front of his eyes. He was close to simply tearing the paper in half when he heard the knock at the door.

He set the letter on the table with a sigh and went to answer the door. Anne was there, smiling brightly at him, in a simple black dress. Her hair had been freshly washed and her curls hung loosely around her face.

"You look exquisite," Phillip murmured, pulling her inside with a kiss. She chuckled as the kiss broke.

"Don't lie on my behalf," she shook her head. "This is just about the only formal dress I own."

"What about the one you wore at the pla—"

Anne's lips turned down at the corners and Phillip flinched.

"Oh, right."

She hadn't worn that dress since his parents' "the help" comment.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"No use worrying about it now," she sighed. But the smile quickly returned and she asked "What's for dinner?" as she walked into the living area.

"Roast and potatoes," Phillip said, "but I got a little sidetracked—"

"What's this?" She picked up the letter from his parents.

Phillip sighed. "An invitation. My parents have invited me to another one of their parties tomorrow night—"

"Have fun with that."

"—but I won't go if you don't want me to."

Anne's expression softened. "Phil, just because I don't like your parents doesn't mean you shouldn't have a relationship with them."

"Are you sure?"

Anne nodded and set down the invitation to cup his face in her hands. "You should go. Have fun. Besides," she chuckled, "it's just for one night. How bad could they be?"

*

Anne was wrong; it was bad.

He'd immediately been confronted by a stifling, well-dressed mass of Carlyle family members the second he'd walked in—most of them wanting to know why he'd left, if he had mental problems, if they had something to do with his drinking (which had always been a problem, and not a well-concealed one, either). His parents had been scoffing continuously at him from across the room from the moment he'd gotten there. Phillip had begun to feel unbearably unwelcome.

That was why he'd spent two hours in a back corner, drinking champagne and studying the people. Although his mind never strayed from his situation, from Anne

(you absolute liar, you're thinking about phineas)

he found himself shifting in his seat, hating the hard ball of heat growing in the pit of his stomach. He wished he hadn't had so much champagne; it always did this to him. But nevertheless, his eye was drawn to a figure at the back of the room—a tall, beautiful, and unmistakably male figure.

He watched the man for what must have been an hour—starting when he suddenly turned and made eye contact. The aristo smiled widely and made his way over, chuckling at Phillip's searing red blush.

"Alone for long, good sir?" His voice was low and sultry, and Phillip prayed to all the gods he knew for the ability to speak coherently.

"And, I fear, for much longer tonight." The aristo chuckled, and Phillip's cheeks burned with a hidden pride. "In fact, I am so shunned that I am quite surprised you—a man of quite high stature, it seems—have taken it upon yourself to alleviate my boredom."

"In more than one way, I might hope."

Phillip's breath caught, and when the aristo stood, he stood with him. Something whispered don't forget at the back of his mind, but he stomped it down, letting the unnamed aristo lead him to the back of a dark corridor behind some curtain. Phillip had two seconds to wonder how the random aristo knew of the passage before his lips were enveloped in the smell of lavender and hair tonic.

Fireworks burst in his mind, and suddenly it wasn't the aristo at all—it wasn't lavender, but the scent of whiskey and wood shavings that surrounded him, and the long blond hair brushing against his face was shorter and the color of chestnut.

His illusions shattered when the person across from him broke the kiss and took Phillip's hands in his, though. Dull pain bloomed in Phillip's heart, but he ignored it. The aristo spoke, with that smooth, beautiful voice.

"Come, sir. I grow bored of this party." He leaned closer, soft lips brushing Phillip's ear. "I can have a carriage ready for us in but three turns of the minute hand."

The implications of that last sentence ran through Phillip's head like a searing hot river, and he drew in a breath sharply. "I hardly know your name."

The blonde man smiled. "Flynn, my good sir. And I have no need for you to tell me yours. I've already figured that out."

The last sentence was punctuated with a smile that rubbed Phillip the wrong way, but he brushed the nagging feeling that something wasn't right off and nodded, eyes growing dark and large.

The aristo—Flynn—kissed Phillip's hand and led him out of the passage and the party. They slipped out unnoticed, and soon Flynn was helping Phillip into a large, fancy red carriage.

All the way to the aristo's house, they kissed in the back.