#i did some report on barnum in middle school so i knew enough about him to go

[asterisk-666666]

me: I have a high tolerance for musicals being stupid and not making sense as long as it’s fun and cool

me: except…. the greastest showman

[aslanjadecarlyle]

Runaways Running The Night (Barlyle)

Modern AU

Title: Runaways Running The Night

Word Count: somewhere around 16,000, I don't even know man

---

Twelve.

That was the number that haunted Phillip Carlyle since he was eight years old.

Twelve visits to the hospital (more than that, if you counted the false alarms). Twelve surgeries. One of them was for his leg, but most of them were life-threatening, and all of them cost his parents a great deal of money. They were wealthy now - Phillip's father landed a job as some major executive when he was eleven and he himself wrote plays that, all things considered, rolled in quite a bit of cash. Even his mother, a woman who never worked a day in her life, was a money-saving goddess who learned how to tuck away cash back during the days when they struggled for an extra dollar.

But back then - starting from the day Phillip was three days old, up until just before his eighth birthday - all Phillip Carlyle knew was the inside of hospital rooms. With a total of twelve surgeries, he made visits to the children's ward of the ER more than once a year. But, in his eight year old mind, it was the IV that scared him more than literal brain surgery. He developed a lifelong phobia of needles early on and often had to be held down, kicking and screaming, despite the unbearable pain in his head, as the doctors injected him before he was put under with the sleeping gas.

All together, Phillip Carlyle was afraid of three things any normal eight year old boy shouldn't have to think about. Needles, for one - and death. Phillip was terrified of death. Having had life-threatening surgeries all his tender eight years of life, he was plagued with terrors about black, eternal nothingness - so much so that his parents considered taking him to a child therapist. They never did - unsurprisingly, his father bitched about the costs - and so Phillip grew up with an unrelenting, inescapable, paralyzing fear that only worsened and worsened as he grew older.

A month before his fifteenth birthday, he attempted suicide ("if I have to die, might as well get it over with") and, soon thereafter, developed panic attacks. He was dragged to therapy just once after he was caught in his attempt to take his own life, but never again after that - the therapy session was forgotten (he himself could hardly remember the details) and, as he got older, he learned to keep his anxiety and panic attacks to himself. He learned to control most of them, to weep about his paralyzing fears of growing old and dying in the middle of the night when nobody could help - or hit - him. He never attempted after that, never even took to harming himself, but the lonely tears came often.

The third thing Phillip Carlyle was afraid of... was his father.

Jonathan Carlyle did much more than bitch about the costs of his son's expensive medical coverage. When Phillip was still a child, he would hit the boy - throw him against walls, smack him, scream at him. He would laugh when Phillip hit his head - his condition, called hydrocephalus (loosely meaning "water on the brain"), required a shunt implant and that shunt, while magnetic, could pose serious dangers against Phillip if it malfunctioned and he wasn't rushed to the hospital in time. The condition was not technically terminal, but, if his shunt happened to malfunction (meaning, failed to drain the excess fluid from inside his head), a severe build-up of cerebral fluid would press against Phillip's skull - applying so much pressure, in fact, that he would be dead within hours if left untreated.

Once Phillip's father became successful and the Carlyle family found themselves in the public eye, the physical abuse stopped. The man could have continued the abuse, if he so desired - on top of having a life-threatening neurological condition, Phillip's body was also wracked with one-sided cerebral palsy that spread down his left side, half-paralyzing him below the waist - he walked with a permanent limp and, though he had control over the fingers of his left hand, he was overall physically weakened by the condition. He could walk, yes, he had no need for a wheelchair, but he could not so much as move the toes on his left foot. He was no match for his father, who was strong and able-bodied and could fling him around like a rag doll if he so desired.

However, Jonathan Carlyle could not afford the risk of the media noticing Phillip's black and blue bruises. So, most of the physical abuse stopped - in favor of emotional and mental torture, harsh words and threats that cut into Phillip's skin like glass. They were just words, he knew, just facts of life - but sometimes they still hurt when he cried at night over the maddening feeling of wanting to move his toes, but never being able to succeed because his foot was, really, hardly more than a deadweight. The cruel, damning words spiraled again and again in his head, never relenting except for when he finally succumbed to slumber.

"Limpy, limpy legs." (This particular insult was started by a student at school - Jonathan Carlyle overheard Phillip weeping to his mother about the offensive names one night and took great pleasure in using it against his son himself).

"Special needs bitch." (This name originated after a fight with Phillip's mother - though they never separated, they had teetered on the edge of divorce for a long while, and Jonathan had screamed this at his son, blaming him for the divorce, before storming out of the household. Unfortunately, they'd never gone through with the split).

As if the abuse at home wasn't enough, Phillip attended public school throughout high school and had to deal with the narrow-minded likes of able-bodied students and faculty there, too. He would never forget a particular incident Freshman year - though he had no mental disabilities whatsoever, the high school he attended enrolled him into a class for the severely mentally disabled. After just one day of being talked down to as if he were a child, Phillip came home weeping to his mother. At first, she was hesitant to do anything - insisting to Phillip that he needed to "learn his place" amongst the able-bodied norms of society. However after her son broke down in a school counselor's office the following day, Elizabeth Carlyle finally relented and they were able to pull him out of the "special" class. They spoke none of this to his father, in fear that the man would lash out.

Though, he came to find out, he never quite fit in with his supposedly "normal" classmates, either.

Years passed, graduation came and went, and Phillip, relieved to finally be out of the hellhole that was high school, turned to playwriting. He went to college (his anxiety crippled him even more so than he already was, but he couldn't bear to be around his hellish father any longer), studied literature, and became a fairly well-known playwright within a few years. Of course, his talent wasn't the only thing to make the news - his disabilities always made the headlines too, sometimes overshadowing the plays themselves. The able-bodied "normal" people always had to point out the permanent flaws that wracked his body, as if a disabled person finding success was some sort of mind-blowing miracle. On the other hand, when they weren't drowning him in empty, fake, sugary-sweet drops of praise, they lashed out at him. The characters in his plays rarely shared his disabilities and the reporters ragged him for it. They did not approve of his finding escape in characters that could wiggle all ten of their toes - something that he would never, ever be able to do.

On top of that, he was alone - the one and only sort-of girlfriend he'd had mid-Junior year broke up with him after finding out that he felt no attraction... between his legs. No matter how hard he tried, he could not make his body want sex - and the mere thought of faking it, of lying with someone even though he could not get his own sexual organs to work, absolutely repulsed him.

Nobody wanted to be with a freak whose body was half-broken.

Nobody wanted to be with a freak who could drop dead thanks to the ticking time bomb in their head at any given moment.

***

P.T. Barnum was not a stranger when it came to making the smallest amounts of money count. Still, it hurt - he was a self-made man and having to return to a lifestyle not much above his childhood of sleeping on the streets was a slap in the face. His company had suffered greatly thanks to his wife's embezzlement of millions. The money was hidden away somewhere - neither Barnum, nor his lawyers, could figure out where to even begin looking - and his wife... was dead. They'd found her at a remote home in some South American country - he couldn't remember which one. Her death came as a shock and he did miss her, but he couldn't help the relief that invaded him, too. Despite her name, Charity was a greedy woman - she'd grown up in wealth all her life and wasn't used to sharing. The scandal with Jenny Lind - a remarkable singer Barnum had met while on a business trip, but felt no real attraction for - had sent the woman over the edge. The last time he'd seen her, she'd threatened a court case against him - for what, exactly, he didn't know.

Thank the good God above he'd never had children with that woman. Though he did miss her nieces - Caroline and Helen - something terrible.

After his business began to fail, Barnum was forced to move from his sprawling mansion to a tiny apartment in an apartment complex filled with people who had absolutely no sense of humor. He tried going out, tried to move on with his life, but there weren't many places he could afford with his now extremely-restricted budget. The few dates he did go on bored him - the women were often left disappointed after finding out about all the money he had lost, and the men, well... even though this was, really, his first chance to explore the hidden realms of his sexuality in twenty-some odd years, he'd quickly learned that most men who felt the same attractions as he weren't looking for someone quite so much... older. Barnum could not ignore that he was a man in his mid-forties, and most of the men his own age had been harboring passionate relationships in secret for years - jumping at the chance to finally marry once the verdict became legalized nationwide.

Though a formerly successful suit-and-tie businessman, Barnum was truly a man of light, of passion, of laughter. He was not meant to live life alone in a dusty little apartment overlooking New York, and the drab days took their toll as he tried looking for work. He started to wilt, started to disconnect and forget why the life he was given was worth living at all.

And then Phillip Carlyle moved in across the hall.

P.T. was no stranger to Phillip Carlyle's work. He'd even gone to see a play once or twice himself, though he never much cared for sitting around and watching people talk on stage. Mostly, he knew Phillip Carlyle's name because of the news. When the reporters weren't talking about the young man's parents, - with whom the man, for reasons unknown, had a strained relationship - words like "cerebral palsy" were constantly tied to his name instead. That, and some odd, rare neurological condition that Barnum couldn't quite remember or place the name of.

He was surprised to see the young man move in - it was no secret that the Carlyle family was swimming in money, and the man himself had his own fairly successful profit, so why had he chosen to move into a dumpy little complex? It was a mystery that even P.T. Barnum couldn't figure out.

Still, Barnum was not asking these questions when they first bumped into each other. Phillip was a private man - didn't even come to the door when Barnum tried to introduce himself properly - and so their first exchange had been a chance encounter in the elevator.

"Ah, finally - the one and only Phillip Carlyle, in the flesh!" Barnum grinned, eyes beaming, teeth flashing white. Stunned, Phillip shrank into the corner of the elevator and tried making himself as small as possible. P.T. noticed that his left hand hung limply in front of him - Phillip had most control of his bad hand, but letting it hang was a habit that he sometimes fell into, without thinking, in public. Face flaming, he wrapped the fingers of his right hand around his left wrist and drew both hands to his chest.

"You - You know who I am?" Phillip asked.

"Well, of course. There's no escaping the Carlyle name."

Phillip's face burned even brighter and he stared down at his feet. He could not wear slip-on shoes - they slid off his bad foot and, foot being paralyzed, he could not easily work it into certain shoes in the first place. Instead, the dress shoes he wore were specially designed, and one was bigger than the other, as his bad foot was about half a shoe size smaller than his good one.

Eyes trailing back up to look at the grinning man in front of him, he said, in a voice so quiet he seemed almost afraid to speak, "and who, may I ask, are you?"

Barnum continued to smile as he held his hand out. "Phineas Taylor Barnum, at your service."

Phillip timidly took his hand and shook it - the playwright's hands were soft, used to writing instead of hard, physical labor. "Barnum? As in—"

Barnum's smile faded into a frown as they dropped hands. "Yes, yes. I... would rather not get into the details of my company at this time. It's been a rough few months, you understand."

Phillip nodded and stared down at the floor. Before Barnum could get another word in, the elevator stopped with a 'ding' and the doors opened. Phillip was quick to get out of there, but he limped as he hurried and Barnum took notice in the awkward way in which the man walked, dragging his left foot across the floor.

"Hey, wait a moment," Barnum called, stepping out of the elevator himself. Phillip tensed, then slowly turned to face the older man.

"What do you want?" he sighed.

"You've lived down the hall from me for days now and I hardly know a thing about you, Mr. Carlyle," Barnum explained, corner of his lip curling up into a slight smirk as he dragged out the man's family name. "How about going out for a drink? On me."

He really couldn't afford to be offering this man - despite his name, still a complete stranger - a drink, but... ah, well. He'd worry about that later.

Instead, though, alarm flashed in Phillip's ocean eyes.

"I don't drink," he mumbled hurriedly.

He limped away without another word.

***

Barnum hadn't seen Phillip since the encounter in the elevator last week. The younger man purposely made sure to avoid him - Barnum didn't quite know why, but he had suspicions that he might have come on just a... little too strong, perhaps. He couldn't help it, though - he craved human interaction like a drug, and nobody in the complex even bothered to talk to him.

Now it seemed that Phillip wouldn't, either.

Ah, well. It hurt more than it should, seeing Phillip hurry away from him like he was a man on fire, but... what could he do? Apologize, perhaps, but he wasn't quite sure what he'd be apologizing for - and he was fairly certain Phillip wouldn't let him get a word in inch-wise, anyway, without taking off.

It'd been about a week since speaking with Phillip in the elevator, and Barnum was sat in his apartment, newspaper clippings spread before him on the coffee table. He couldn't afford a decent computer - he was practically living on fresh air, yet again - and so he was forced to comb through the newspapers for a job like it was the 1980s and he was on the verge of going homeless all over again.

He was interrupted from his mind-numbingly boring search (seriously - did anyone in New York genuinely enjoy working full-time jobs?) by the sounds of a shout and a startled scream coming from down the hall.

Immediately casting the newspapers aside, Barnum jumped to his feet (almost, he thought, chuckling to himself, like a superhero ready to save the city) and left his apartment. He entered the hall just in time to see someone slam Phillip's front door shut, head low, black hair in his face, grumbling to himself as he buttoned up his jeans. He had a t-shirt on and angry, frantic scratches down one of his tanned arms.

Eyes wide, Barnum watched the man go - he seemed a bit older than Phillip, perhaps in his late thirties - and waited until the man disappeared around the corner before approaching the front door of the apartment himself. He hesitated for a moment, then rapped his knuckles on the door three times.

"Phillip? Are you in there? It's me - Phineas."

Silence.

He called for Phillip again and, when he didn't get an answer, hesitantly tried the doorknob. The door was still unlocked and swung open with ease. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Barnum stepped into the little apartment and shut the door behind him.

He was first stunned by how... neat the apartment was. Phillip had moved in not very long ago, but everything was tucked away, all prim and proper. Though the apartment itself was small in size, Phillip had chosen to splurge some of his money on finer works of furniture - the kind of furniture that Barnum had seen taken away from him after the Charity fiasco. Among the furniture, Barnum took note of the tall bookshelves standing floor-to-ceiling against the walls. With just a brief glance, it appeared that Phillip had everything from Shakespeare to Kurt Vonnegut to J.K. Rowling.

Barnum was snapped out of his inspection of the bookshelves by a high-pitched, frantic barking coming from a partially-opened door. A small Yorkshire Terrier appeared in the doorway, and Barnum chuckled as it snarled at him.

"Hey there, little guy. Have you seen Phillip around?"

At the mention of his master's name, the Yorkie silenced - then tilted its head and whined. Turning its back on the man, it retreated into the room it came from. Barnum hesitated for just a moment before following it in.

Phillip sat on a bed, legs drawn up to his chin with his arms wrapped around them, face buried in his knees. The Yorkie climbed onto the bed and whined again, lying its chin on Phillip's arm.

"Not now, Benji," he choked.

Instead of obeying, the Yorkie - Benji? - pawed at Phillip's arm and whined. Sighing, Phillip lifted his head.

"What do you wa—"

He froze upon seeing Barnum standing in the doorway. His face lost all color and his breath hitched, starting to come out in short, little gasps. Benji whined and nuzzled his face in Phillip's arm as his panicked eyes fixed themselves on Barnum.

"What are you doing here?" he gasped.

"I apologize," Barnum said, motioning toward the front door. "I heard a scream from my apartment and came out to see what was wrong. I saw a man leave here and I... are you all right?"

Barnum was alarmed to see Phillip lower his head, tears streaking down his cheeks. He hugged his legs closer to his chest and Benji whined as he climbed into Phillip's lap.

"I'm fine," Phillip muttered. "Please - just go away."

Barnum glanced toward the exit again, but turned back to Phillip. Sighing, he approached the bed and sat on the edge. Phillip cringed, but didn't say a word.

He was fully clothed, but Barnum had to ask - "Did he... hurt you?"

"No," Phillip choked.

"If he hurt you, Phillip, I can—"

"We've been...seeing each other," Phillip spat out. He sniffled and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Nothing serious, but a - a few dates, off and on, these last few weeks. I told him that I didn't - that I didn't—"

He froze and choked up, burying his face into his knees again. Barnum hesitated, then slowly wrapped his arm around the younger man's slumped shoulders. Phillip flinched, but didn't pull away.

"You didn't what, Phil...lip?" Barnum asked, adding the second syllable to the man's name as an afterthought.

"I - I don't—" Phillip took another deep breath and rubbed his eyes. "I... I don't feel—"

His voice cracked and another sob escaped his throat. Benji whined, placing his front paws on Phillip's stomach, and the younger man dropped a hand to scratch behind the dog's ears. Almost subconsciously, he rested his head against Barnum's upper arm.

Surprised, Barnum slowly wrapped the arm around Phillip's shoulders and pulled him closer. Phillip lifted his head then, and tried to pull away, but Barnum shook his head no.

"It's all right," he murmured. "Take your time."

"I'm sorry," Phillip whimpered. He lifted Benji up and buried his face in the dog's soft fur. "This is so embarrassing," he muttered as Benji started to frantically lick his tear-stained cheeks.

"Can you tell me about that man again?" Barnum coaxed. He didn't have children, but the way in which he spoke reminded him of the way he would talk to his dead wife's nieces.

"You wouldn't understand," Phillip murmured. He shifted, repositioning his seat, and Barnum took notice that, while his right foot was bare, his left foot was still encased in a white sock.

"Try me," Barnum challenged. He lifted an eyebrow and a familiar smirk played at his lips.

"Would you want to be with someone who didn't want sex?"

The question was blunt and Barnum stared at the younger man a moment as the words sank in. He tilted his head to the side, lips just slightly parted.

"Is that why that man stormed out of here? Because you... rejected him?"

Phillip sighed. It was long and heavy and sad, and, for reasons he couldn't quite figure out, Barnum's heart twisted in his chest.

"I can't... bring myself... to want anyone," he muttered. Then he laughed, bitterly. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this. You're a fucking stranger. But I can't... I don't—" He motioned toward his lap and Barnum, unthinkingly, followed with his eyes. When Phillip sighed again, he jerked his head upward to meet the younger's eyes, mentally smacking himself. "I don't feel anything... down there. I can't - my left side is paralyzed below the waist. I can't move the... muscles... necessary..." He drifted off, face burning bright red. He buried his face in his hands again.

Finally finding his voice, Barnum cleared his throat. "Nobody should want you just for sex, Phillip. And nobody should ever, ever attempt to force you into it."

Phillip didn't look up and didn't say a word. After a minute passed with no reaction, Barnum - not even thinking about the fact that this was only his second encounter with the man - impulsively drew Phillip into a hug. Benji yipped, caught in between the two men, and scrambled out of Phillip's lap. He barked in irritation before settling by Phillip's feet, carefully watching Barnum's every move.

Phillip managed a small chuckle at the dog's antics, and Barnum smiled as Phillip slowly wrapped his arms around him, returning the hug. Slowly, Barnum moved his hand up into Phillip's hair - pausing only when he felt a peculiar bump near the back of Phillip's head.

"Did he hit you?" Barnum inquired at once as they pulled away.

"What?"

"That man, did he... strike you? When you refused him?"

Phillip frowned. Then he brought his hand up to the back of his head, rubbing a finger over the spot where Barnum had his hand just moments before. Realization dawned on him, and his face fell. He stared at the wall.

"That's just my shunt," he muttered.

"Your... what?"

"The only thing keeping me alive," Phillip scoffed. "Surely you've heard about my 'condition.' All the reporters eat it up."

Barnum stared at him, blankly.

"Hydrocephalus. The shunt itself functions as a drain, and redirects the cerebral fluid build-up on my brain."

He got nothing, but a tilted head and confused smile in response.

Phillip sighed heavily and shifted to get up off the bed. "It's all right. I don't blame you for... for not knowing. People are so blind to all of the disabilities and sicknesses plaguing the world unless it's somehow impacting their own lives—"

"I'm sorry," Barnum interrupted. He reached out and curled his fingers around Phillip's wrist. The younger man looked down, wide-eyed, then back up at him, but didn't say a word. "I've heard of it, I've seen it in the papers. I just... forgot for a moment. Please, stay?"

Phillip stared at the man. He wanted to say no, but a feeling of...something...

(longing)

overcame him and he nodded, taking his seat next to Barnum once more. Barnum smiled softly and reached his head around to trace the odd bump in Phillip's head once more, fingers encased in the ultimate softness of his hair.

"Does it hurt?"

"My... shunt?"

Barnum nodded wordlessly.

Phillip shook his head. He reached back, his fingers tracing over Barnum's hand. "I haven't had a surgery - shunt or otherwise - since I was eight years old. Almost twenty-two years." He smiled wryly. "That's a lot in this game. I have no way of knowing when the next malfunction will be. And there are some things that I can't do because it might fuck up - I've never been on a rollercoaster with loops. And I collapsed in an underground cavern once, when I was fourteen, because different gravitational pulls can put too much or too little pressure on it."

Barnum's smile fell. "I'm sorry, Phil—"

"Don't pity me," Phillip snapped. Then he cringed, and sighed. "I'm... sorry. It's just... after dealing with pitying comments all your life, it gets really old really fast. And I'm not even halfway to sixty yet."

Barnum nodded, not knowing what to say. He glanced over at Benji, who had curled up, asleep, at the far corner of the bed.

"Well," he cleared his throat, standing after a moment of silence. "I'm glad you're okay, Phillip. I didn't mean to intrude, and I do sincerely apologize for barging in like I did. I'll leave you alone now."

He turned, with the full intention of leaving the room.

"Bar - Phineas, wait."

Barnum had to hold back a gasp when he felt a soft, warm hand intertwine their fingers. He looked down at Phillip, who looked up at him with bright, uncertain eyes.

"I... I don't drink, but I'd... still like to take you up on that offer, if that's all right? Perhaps somewhere with less alcohol. And... people." He wrinkled his nose.

A low, hearty chuckle erupted from within Barnum's chest. He gave Phillip's hand the tiniest of squeezes as he nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"I think we can figure something out."

***

There was nothing in the world that Phillip loved more than books.

When Barnum suggested, upon thinking back to all of the shelves he'd seen in Phillip's apartment, going to a hybrid coffee shop/book store a few blocks down, Phillip couldn't hold back his excitement. He'd flung himself at Barnum, arms wrapped loosely around his neck, before it registered with him what he'd done and he backed off quickly, murmuring apologies under his breath.

Barnum assured him that it was fine, he didn't mind, but on the inside his heart swelled. He cursed himself, telling himself that it may have been man storming out of Phillip's apartment earlier, but that didn't mean Phillip wanted anything to do with him in... that way. They were still practically strangers, he wasn't even out to Phillip yet... and, even if he was, Phillip wouldn't want him. He was so much older (and had been ditched because of his age time and time again), had too many financial troubles...

But, God, Phillip was beautiful.

He sat at a table, sipping his coffee (that he could barely afford) and watching with a smile as Phillip roamed the endless bookshelves. He came back with a stack of three or four books and set them on the table.

"Careful," Barnum chuckled, eyes roaming the spines of the books, taking in the titles. "You'll spill your coffee."

A light pink blush settled over Phillip's cheeks as he finally sat down and took a sip of the drink Barnum had ordered for him. Grimacing, he reached for the sugar.

Barnum laughed.

"What?" Phillip scowled, dipping a spoon into the sugar. "We're not all barbarians like you, y'know."

"Phillip, that coffee is already five shades lighter than the coffee gods ever intended coffee to be. How sweet do you need it?"

"I won't be happy 'til I've gone into diabetic shock, thank you."

Barnum laughed - a loud, rumbling sound that instantly brought attention to their table - and took a sip of his own near-black drink. Phillip eyed it with disgust, nose scrunched up, tongue poking out from between his lips.

"I tried black coffee once. Never again."

"I added sugar!"

"Yeah - maybe a speck."

Barnum smiled around his mug as he took another sip.

"Psychopath," Phillip muttered, shaking his head again. But the corners of his lips lifted up into a tiny smile, too.

***

The kiss upon Phillip's cheek was impulsive, accidental. Phillip stepped back, eyes wide, hand up to his face.

Barnum's eyes were equally as wide, equally as horrified. He swallowed, hard, and half-expected Phillip to run into his apartment, lock the door, and never speak to him again.

Instead, a slow smile spread across Phillip's face and he traced a finger along Barnum's jaw. He tilted his head, staring at the older man for a moment.

"Thank you for today, Phineas," he mumbled. Then, he slowly reached up and returned the kiss to Barnum's cheek.

He went inside and Barnum walked down the hall to his own apartment, face warm and belly doing somersaults like a schoolboy with his first crush.

***

A few nights later, after a trip down to the park (an outing together that, thankfully, wouldn't cost Barnum any money), they found themselves in Phillip's apartment. The sun was just beginning to set and, instead of parting ways like they normally would, Barnum simply followed Phillip inside.

Benji barked in that high-pitched, shrill sound, but seemed to remember Barnum - the man who'd been stealing his owner away these past few days - and settled down quicker than the first night the man and canine had met. Phillip smiled and knelt down, not caring that he was getting dog hair all over his dark pants. He hugged the dog to his chest and buried his face into Benji's soft fur.

"Family pet?" Barnum asked. He sat down in an armchair, crossing one leg over the other.

Phillip looked up, his face bright red. He clutched at the dog and Barnum was alarmed to see tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. He uncrossed his legs and sat perched at the edge of the seat, face contorting with concern.

Benji, sensing his owner's distress, licked Phillip's cheek and whined. Tears fell from Phillip's face, matting into the Yorkie's soft fur, and he shook with the effort to even out his breathing.

"I-I'm sorry," he gasped. "He's an... e-emotional support dog. Because I c-can't—"

He choked on a sob and Benji licked his face again, whining. Then the dog looked over at Barnum, with an expression of freakishly human-like concern crossing his face, and barked.

Barnum dropped to the floor and slowly crawled toward Phillip, who was still on his knees. He wrapped his arms around the younger man and felt him shake underneath his touch.

"Shhh," he murmured. "I'm sorry, Phillip, I didn't know—"

"N-No," Phillip whimpered. He scratched behind Benji's ears and the dog licked his face again. As the shaking slowly began to subside, he held the dog to his chest like a mother cradling an infant. "I... I know it's stupid. H-He's supposed to help...c-calm me down," he trembled with the effort to speak, "b-because I... I have... a-attacks, and—"

"You don't have to explain anymore, 'Lip," Barnum murmured - the nickname slipped out like honey and he didn't even realize it.

"I'm a... a f-freak," Phillip muttered. He couldn't even look at the man. "I can't even c-control my a-attacks anymore... I—"

"None of that," Barnum snapped. His tone was sharp, but he held Phillip close and stroked his face, his hair. "Lots of people have anxiety, Phillip. Lots of people have support animals. Please don't think you're anything less because of it."

Phillip hid his face in Barnum's chest and Barnum just sat there, holding him close, until he was ready to look up again. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"None of tha—"

"You didn't let me finish." Phillip managed a tiny smile on shaking lips and rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry f-for... not even showing you around. I'm a terrible apartment host."

Barnum stared at him. As Phillip shifted, edging out of Barnum's hold, and stood up (Benji hopped out of his arms), the older man laughed.

"Yes," he teased. He looked at the main living space, which was designed as a living room and kitchen in one, and grinned. "Please, show me around this sprawling apartment."

Phillip smiled again, shakily, and held out his hand. Barnum took it, stood up, and was led on a five-second tour.

The last place they ended up, somehow, was the bathroom. It was hardly big enough to accommodate both of them and they stood almost intimately close.

"I - I don't think I have anything that'll fit you," Phillip muttered, eyeing Barnum's chest with pink-tinted cheeks.

"I could run to my apartment," Barnum offered. "I'll be right back."

"Are you sure? You don't have—"

"I live right down the hall, Phillip." Barnum teased, lightly playing with the collar of Phillip's shirt. "I'm not going to die in some freak fire while I'm gone."

Blushing harder, Phillip nodded. He walked Barnum to the door, with Barnum promising he'd be back in just a few minutes.

Back in his own apartment, he retrieved a change of clothes for that night and the next day. He stopped in the bathroom to brush his teeth, and he packed the toothbrush with him before exiting his own apartment. He paused again to close and lock the door, and then made his way to Phillip's residence, feeling like an excited little kid going to his very first sleepover.

Phillip's door was unlocked so he stepped inside. Phillip himself was nowhere around in the living room or kitchen, and he smiled to himself as he pushed open the bedroom door.

"Hey 'Lip, I—"

He paused.

Phillip stood facing the door, pajama bottoms on and in the process of taking off his shirt. He stared at Barnum like a deer caught in headlights and quickly yanked his shirt back down... but not before Barnum caught sight of the scars.

There were several littering his chest and stomach, but he zeroed in on one in particular. It indented deep into his skin, right above his naval, about three inches long, vertical, with a bunch of tinier horizontal markings crisscrossing it. Further down, below his naval and just above his waist, was a fainter, horizontal scar - one that was hardly visible, but it was aligned directly beneath the harsher, bigger marking.

Slowly, Barnum looked up into Phillip's eyes - shining with tears again that threatened to spill over. The younger man said nothing as he sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.

"Phil—"

"You weren't supposed to see that."

"Phil, that scar looked... like it's been messed with—"

Phillip shook his head. "My... mother... wanted any surgery scars to be as close together as possible so they wouldn't... blemish multiple areas of my body. S-So each criss-cross represents a new shunt replacement - except they extended the most recent one, the one I got when I was eight, a little further down. That's the fainter one."

"And... the others?"

Phillip laughed bitterly. "You can thank my father for those. My mother's scar rule doesn't really apply when he took time out of his days to permanently remind me of what a fucking burden I am."

"He... hit—?"

"He did a lot more than just hit," Phillip sighed. He didn't go into further detail after that - his breathing was clipped as he struggled not to cry again.

Barnum strode across the room and enveloped Phillip in a strong, comforting embrace. The younger man buried his face in Barnum's shoulder, soaking his shirt with the tears that he couldn't hold back.

From the living room, Benji yelped. Then he came running.

"It's all right," Barnum whispered over and over again, rubbing the younger man's back. The dog at their feet whined and stood on his back legs, trying to get Phillip to pick him up. Phillip didn't notice and the dog settled for lying at his feet, nipping at his toes.

His toes that, Barnum noticed, were encased in socks.

"Phil..." Barnum murmured, holding the man at arm's length, tilting his chin up to look him in the eye. "Scars are nothing to be ashamed of, darling."

Phillip gasped at the nickname, but then he shook his head and jerked his face away. Barnum cupped his cheek in his hand and brought the man to face him again, as his other hand slowly lifted his shirt. Phillip tensed, but didn't try to yank away.

Barnum used the hand underneath Phillip's shirt to run a thumb over a jagged scar, slightly raised on the skin. He didn't ask for an explanation, but Phillip closed his eyes.

"A bottle," he sighed.

Barnum paused, and tilted his head.

"I d-don't drink because I'm... scared of accidentally blacking out and hitting my head," Phillip muttered. "When I was... nine or ten I found my father blackout drunk on the ground in the kitchen - this was before we were in the public eye all the time. I tried to wake him up and he... cut me... with pieces of a bottle that had shattered after he'd dropped it."

"Oh, Phillip."

Phillip closed his eyes again, tears wettening his lashes. Barnum half-wanted to lift his shirt further, to massage every one of the younger man's horror-filled blemishes, but he let the shirt drop and gently cupped the playwright's face in his hands.

Phillip's eyes fluttered open. "Phineas, wha—"

Barnum's lips were warm on his and his lips parted as he gasped, feeling his body tense. He was rather impartial to kissing - the idea of another person's saliva in his mouth didn't particularly appeal to him - but the way Barnum held him - one hand cupping his face, the other pressing into his back - made him relax and, slowly, he raised his hands up to entangle his fingers in the other man's hair.

The idea of being anywhere near another person's exposed genitals still repulsed him, made his skin crawl, but this... yes, he thought he could get used to this - to Barnum - just fine.

Barnum broke the kiss slowly, as if wanting to hold onto Phillip for as long as possible. His hand left Phillip's back and rose to cradle his face. Phillip leaned into the touch, blushing pink and smiling softly. He bit his lip, and Barnum chuckled.

"You're beautiful, 'Lip," Barnum ran his thumb along the other man's jaw before pulling him into a tight hug.

As Phillip laid his head against Barnum's shoulder, he had to fight to hold back the same tears that Barnum had, moments ago, kept from falling. He'd had a few relationships over the years, but none ever lasted long... and nobody ever called him beautiful. He was a cripple, whether he liked it or not, and nobody ever wanted the extra burden that came with the possibility of brain surgery looming over every corner. Hell, they didn't even want a person who couldn't—

Who couldn't—

"I can't," Phillip whimpered, pushing Barnum away. He pressed his hands to his eyes - he cried more than enough around Barnum. He wasn't going to cry again here, not now.

"What's wrong?"

He flinched when he felt the familiar rough, soft hand against his cheek. He kept his hands to his eyes.

Not here, not now.

"I can't give you what you want," Phillip whimpered again, dropping his hands from his face as he took a frantic step back.

Benji barked.

"'What I want'? Phillip, darling, what are you—"

Barnum paused, mouth forming a slight 'o' shape as he looked at Phillip as if seeing him in a whole new light.

"You think I won't want you... because I can't... fuck you?"

Coming from Barnum, it sounded so stupid and Phillip bit his lip so hard that he drew blood, just to keep from crying again. He winced and mentally kicked himself - why are you so weak, Phillip? why? - and shrank away as Barnum tried to reach out. The older man grabbed him by the wrist, his grip loose, but Phillip flinched against the wall nonetheless.

"Please don't... don't h-hit me," he whispered, cowering against the wall, trying to make himself as tiny as possible. He could feel the blood dribbling down his lip, to his chin, could taste something metallic on his tongue, but he didn't care about that. Instead, he brought his hands up to his head - his father knew all his weak spots, who's to say Barnum didn't, too? - and squeezed his eyes shut.

On the floor, Benji barked and barked. Whining, he clawed at Phillip's pajama leg and, sensing his distress, turned to growl at Barnum. He sat perched with his ears pulled back - despite being such a small dog, he was ready to attack if need be - and snarled at the older man.

"Phillip," Barnum's voice broke and he cringed. "I'm not going to hit you."

He wanted to approach him, but, between the dog and the fact that Phillip looked ready to flee if he so much as touched his shoulder, he held himself back and watched with helpless eyes.

"Please, darling. I would never..."

He drifted off when he noticed Phillip peering out from between his fingers like a child cowering from a neglectful parent. Then, he realized, like a sharp punch to the gut, that perhaps Phillip was. Barnum was a big man and older by at least fifteen years. And that man that Barnum had seen angrily stalking out of Phillip's apartment several days ago, the one that had practically started all of this... he had to have been older than Phillip by at least five years, if not five more. If he had reacted in a violent way to Phillip rejecting him for sex...

Barnum was not a stranger to emotion, but, ever since Charity turned his life upside down, the more sensitive side to the businessman had, for a lack of better words, taken a backseat. There was a period of time before Phillip moved in, alone in the apartment complex, where Barnum had felt... empty, but not necessarily sad. The depression that had hit him in that short period of time had been something out of lack of motivation. Not true despair.

Now, though, as he stared upon a weeping man he had only known for a few weeks, true sadness hit him. For the first time in a long time, he felt a hitch in his breath that might suggest tears. He was horrified that Phillip had been misused so much, misguided so much, that he would be genuinely led to believe that he deserved to be hit, physically abused, over something as... over-exaggerated as sex. Sex was good, but, despite what the modern expectations of society wanted everyone to believe, it didn't define everything in a relationship.

And Barnum, truth be told, could live without it. He was getting older, it was not the most important thing in his life. Hell, wed to Charity, it never really had been.

"I'm not going to hit you," Barnum said again, voice like a low rumble, thick with emotion and coming from deep within his chest. He stayed back, knowing his place, but his fingers twitched - he yearned to hold Phillip.

Then he was struck with an idea.

Barnum turned and left the bedroom. Crossing into the semi-familiar living space, he hurried over to the bookshelves and selected a random book. Taking a deep breath, he set the book on the coffee table and then called for Phillip.

No reaction.

Barnum stared at the doorway to the bedroom, biting the inside of his cheek. Then he grabbed the book from the table and went back to the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

When the door shut with a 'click,' Phillip jumped. His hands fell from his face and his eyes widened in alarm.

"I'm sorry," Barnum said at once, opening the door again. Then, he sat on the bed with his book in lap and motioned Phillip forward. "Sit with me?"

Phillip backed up, face as white as a sheet. His hand hung in front of him again, but this time he didn't take notice.

"I've got a book for you," Barnum told him. He held up the book so Phillip could see the cover.

The words blurred in Phillip's teary vision, but he just managed to make them out. "The... N-Night Circus?"

"Have you read it?"

"Not... yet," he whispered.

Barnum reached out, without rising from the bed, and this time Phillip let him hold his hand. He gently pulled Phillip forward and the younger man sat next to him on the mattress. They sat practically thigh-to-thigh and Barnum could feel him shaking.

"Can you read this to me?" he requested softly, handing the book to Phillip.

The book shook so violently in Phillip's trembling hands that Barnum wasn't sure how the younger man could even read the words on the page, but he did. As he started to read, his voice slowly evened out and his hands stilled.

"The c-c-circus arrives without w-w-warning..."

***

Phillip finally fell asleep slumped against Barnum's shoulder, The Night Circus falling into his lap. Barnum kissed his forehead as he laid him down and, before tucking him beneath the covers, he slowly removed the man's socks.

He paused, and sucked in a breath.

Phillip's right foot was normal, but his left one, the one effected with cerebral palsy, was smaller and narrower. His paralyzed toes flexed slightly in his sleep, giving a tiny implication of movement, but they bunched together, unable to move on their own. The second-to-smallest toe seemed somewhat overlapped by the two surrounding it, and the padding on Phillip's big toe was rough with callouses from the way he carried himself on that particular foot.

Glancing up at Phillip's sleeping face, Barnum kissed his cheek and pulled back. Balling the socks and tossing them into the hamper, Barnum got off the bed, gathered his clothing, and went to change in the bathroom. Upon returning, he crawled underneath the covers and drew Phillip close to him. Tension still thrummed through the younger man's sleeping body and Barnum cradled him to his chest as he rubbed his back.

He fell asleep with Phillip held tight in his arms.

***

Barnum was woken in the middle of the night by a cry.

Turning over, he peered sleepily at Phillip, who had the covers thrown to the side. He stared down at his feet, chewing at his healing lip.

"Phil?" Barnum mumbled. Glancing blearily at the clock, he saw it was just past two in the morning. "What are you doing up?"

His head snapped upwards and he looked at Barnum in alarm. "Where are my socks?" he asked.

"I... put them in the hamper." Barnum sat up, confused, and watched as Phillip scrambled for his dresser and pulled out a fresh pair. As he slipped them onto his feet, Barnum said, "you don't have to do that."

"Yes I do," Phillip whispered, choking over his own words.

"Phil—"

Phillip sighed as he glanced down toward the end of the bed, where Barnum's own feet were still covered by the blankets. "You have perfect feet, just like everyone else. You... You don't know how maddening it is to not be able to move your own toes. I don't want to see them," he said, avoiding Barnum's gaze.

With a sigh, Barnum reached out. Something troubled was hidden in Phillip's eyes and he had a feeling it had something more to do with just feet. Phillip let Barnum take him, but did not reciprocate.

"Talk to me," Barnum urged. He tilted Phillip's face up, peered into his eyes. "You have bags underneath your eyes, darling." He sounded awestruck, like he was just discovering them for the first time. How had he not noticed before that Phillip wasn't getting any sleep?

"It's not important." Phillip shook his head.

"You're losing sleep."

"It's nothing I'm not used to."

Barnum stared at him as he tried to figure what to say that would make Phillip talk to him. Phillip shifted, crossing his legs so he sat criss-cross style, and sighed.

"It's nothing, Phineas. Please," he rested his hand against Barnum's cheek, "don't worry about it."

"I want you to be able to talk to me." Barnum took hold of Phillip's wrist, lowered the playwright's hand from his face, and slowly rubbed circles into Phillip's palm. "You don't have to be afraid around me," he lowered his eyes, "please know that."

When he looked up again, Phillip's lips were trembling. He pulled his hand away and scooted toward the edge of the bed. Barnum thought he was going to get up and leave the room, but he simply sat, perched on the edge of the bed, and leaned forward. He shivered, though Barnum wasn't sure if it was because he was cold, or because of the words that he confessed.

"I have... anxiety attacks, alone at night."

He sounded like he was fighting to spit out every word, but he didn't sound ready to cry. Barnum shifted behind him, and wrapped his arms around Phillip's shoulders, holding him close.

"We can get you help," he whispered, though he didn't have the slightest clue how he would afford it. He showered Phillip's neck with lighter-than-air kisses, silently urging him to continue.

Phillip sighed. "A therapist isn't going to help me, Phineas. At least, I... I don't think they will. It's not something that - that—"

He paused, hesitated. Barnum laid his head on Phillip's shoulder, silently urging him to continue.

Phillip's next confession was whispered so silently that Barnum had to strain to hear him.

"I stay up at night thinking about... f-fearing... death."

Barnum took a deep breath. His parents both passed when he was a child, his father going when he'd been about fifteen. He knew how scary the thought could be - though, his experience with death had been more losing the people around him. Not so much worrying about it himself - he took it more as, simply, a fact of life.

"Phillip, we all—"

"You don't understand," Phillip whispered. "I can feel it."

"I—"

Barnum didn't know what to say to that.

Phillip trembled, but didn't cry. "I had... my first surgery when I was three days old. They had a week to install the first shunt, or else I would've died without ever knowing life. Growing up, I had... a dozen surgeries, one on my leg, but the others all shunt related. They were all fucking terrifying, but there was one in particular when I was five. My parents almost waited too late - when my shunt fucks up, I only have hours. Hours, Phineas, and my father refused to take me to the hospital because he thought I was making the pain up. It wasn't until I collapsed that they... r-rushed me there, almost too late. My parents almost had to buy a child-sized c-coffin because I couldn't get myself to the hospital."

Barnum felt a lump in his throat. He buried his face in Phillip's hair.

"I can... feel it. The blackness, the nothingness, the feeling of nonexistence. I've... always been highly empathetic." Phillip struggled to take a deep breath, struggled to force air into his lungs. "I don't have to experience something to know what it feels like. And I - when I imagine death, that's what it is. Nothing."

It was dark, Phillip had his back to Barnum, but he could hear Phillip sniffle. Regardless of whether he was crying or not, Barnum brought him into the tightest, warmest embrace, and guided Phillip's hand up to his own heart.

"As long as you feel that beat, you don't have to be afraid," Barnum promised.

Turning, Phillip found himself captured in a kiss. It was slow, Barnum's lips were warm, and he sighed against the older man's mouth. Barnum pulled them chest to chest and Phillip swore he could feel the thrum of the older man's heart. When they pulled away, Phillip put his hand to Barnum's chest.

Hands on Phillip's arms, Barnum slowly laid back, pulling Phillip with him. Phillip shifted, fitting next to P.T. like a puzzle piece. He wrapped his arm around Barnum's chest, drinking in the heat and his heartbeat, as he sighed.

"As long as I'm here, you won't have to go through that alone." Barnum's hand was in Phillip's hair, running through the soft, slept-on locks, gently thumbing over the indentions that marked Phillip's shunt. Phillip whimpered.

"I wouldn't want to wake you—" he started.

"You've been alone for so long, Phillip. I don't give a fuck if it's nine p.m. or four a.m. Wake me up. Whatever you do, just please don't go through those terrors alone again."

"Phin—"

"Promise me."

Phillip looked at Barnum. His face was hidden within the shadows of the dark room, but his intense eyes glittered, locking onto Phillip's. Slowly, Phillip finally nodded as he laid down against Barnum's shoulder.

"I promise," he whispered.

***

Before they went back to bed, Barnum urged Phillip to take off his socks.

He protested at first - he didn't want anyone taking notice of his messed up foot, not even in the privacy of his own bedroom - but finally relented after quiet, heartfelt promises telling him that it was all right, it was just a foot, it was just the two of them in the room (besides Benji, who slept curled by the door), and nobody would make fun of him for it.

So Phillip went to bed with his socks off, legs entwined with Barnum's as they slept face-to-face.

***

Weeks passed, slowly dissolving into months. They became even closer, stayed with each other more and more. Phillip started to crave Barnum's warmth and his gentle, loving touches that he danced across the younger man's body.

Sometimes, when Barnum was asleep, Phillip would lie awake. But though the ever-lurking threat of death always lingered at the back of his mind, that's not what kept him up at night and he never felt the need to wake Barnum. Instead, as he looked upon Barnum's sleeping face, he would kiss his hair, his eyelids. He would hug Barnum close and wonder how he'd gotten so lucky.

If they'd never met in that elevator, who knew whether they'd ever end up speaking, despite living right down the hall from one another?

Worries did still plague Phillip, though. Sometimes, when Barnum tightened his arms around him, or rose his hand in greeting, Phillip would flinch. He couldn't shake the fear that, someday, Barnum would snap - demand sex from him, perhaps even try to force him down. The playwright couldn't figure out how Barnum hadn't, yet - hell, if Barnum pleasured himself at all, it was never while Phillip was around. He had no idea how a man like P.T. could stand being with someone who wouldn't - couldn't - perform sexually.

He tried his best to hide these feelings from P.T., but P.T. wasn't blind. He noticed when Phillip would recoil away from his touch.

They had taken up to reading together, which often featured Phillip reading to Barnum in his living room. They were about a third of the way through The Night Circus and that day, Phillip settled himself in Barnum's lap. They both wore sweats, enjoying a lazy, rainy day inside, and, so long as Barnum didn't try coaxing the organ between Phillip's legs to life, he could relax. He enjoyed settling in the older man's lap, Barnum's arms around him, book opened to their next advancement in the world of magic. Barnum would often lie his head back, close his eyes, and soak in the sounds of Phillip's silky smooth voice as he read to him.

That day, however, as Phillip read, lost in a world of magicians and dark competitions, he felt... fingers. Creeping up his inner thigh, getting dangerously close to a certain spot below his waist.

He gasped and moved so quickly that he practically tumbled off Barnum's lap, to the floor. The book slammed shut on the tips of his fingers and he winced - from shock rather than pain - but everything happened far too quickly for him to even register what was going on.

Barnum shot up, sat up straight in his seat, and looked at Phillip with wide eyes. He rubbed at his face as he asked, "What's happened? Are you all right?"

Benji had taken to tending to Phillip and was already in his lap, licking at his fingers. Phillip used his free hand to wipe at his eyes. As he gazed upon Barnum now, he didn't see a smirking man with wandering hands - rather, just a man in sweats and disheveled hair who looked half-asleep, having started to lull off to the sound of Phillip's voice.

Phillip's face burned bright and he glued his eyes onto the dog in his lap. He looked up only when he felt fingers lifting his chin, and shied away from the touch.

"Phillip."

Barnum's eyes held nothing but concern. A lump formed in Phillip's throat that he couldn't force down.

"Did I do something wrong?" Barnum asked, quietly.

"N-No," Phillip gulped. "It's... stupid."

Barnum sighed and rubbed his thumb across the younger man's cheek. Instead of shying away again, Phillip leaned into the touch. "I notice when you flinch away from me."

Phillip froze. His eyes flicked to Barnum's like a deer caught in headlights.

"I'm not going to touch you," Barnum swore, "not unless you want it. Please, darling. Trust me."

Phillip glanced down at Barnum's other hand, the one that he had rested on his knee. That hand wasn't touching him, not in any way, but Barnum saw the way he looked at him, like a child waiting to be disciplined by a parent.

"Phillip." Barnum pulled away and rested both hands on his knees, palms facing upward. "I. Will. Not. Hurt. You."

Phillip closed his eyes. In his blackened vision, he saw the man he'd brought back to his apartment several weeks - months? - ago. He saw the man hovering over him, shirtless, a hand raised, ready to strike if Phillip didn't lie on the bed like a good little boy and take it. It was only when he'd screamed, and clawed and kicked the man that he'd left the apartment, growling and grumbling under his breath.

"—with me? Are you with me, 'Lip?"

Barnum gasped when Phillip kissed him, falling backward and briefly supporting himself on his hands when he felt Phillip's lips on his. Then he straightened up, kissing back just momentarily before gently pulling Phillip away from him.

"I'm sorry," the younger man murmured, encircling his arms around Barnum and lying his head on his chest. He felt a comforting hand on his back and sighed. "It was an accident. I know."

"You keep apologizing." Barnum chuckled, but his words held a hint of despair underneath. "You don't ever have to apologize for what you do and don't want."

"But—"

"It's okay, Phil. Now, c-mon—"

Barnum was interrupted when Phillip squeezed him, hugging so tightly that Barnum gasped. He laid his head against Barnum's chest and breathed in deeply. Barnum rubbed his back as he exhaled.

When the first "I love you" escaped Phillip's parted lips, the room stilled.

***

Realization over when he'd just said dawned on Phillip a few seconds after the words themselves escaped his lips. He blushed and fumbled, making up some excuse as he stuttered with embarrassment.

Barnum kissed him to shut him up.

"You deserve the world, darling," Barnum mumbled as the kiss broke. He ran his hand through Phillip's hair and lightly massaged his scalp. "I will do everything in my power to give it to you."

A content little sigh escaped Phillip's lips. He closed his eyes, snuggled close, and held Barnum tight. They still sat on the living room floor, but he pressed himself as physically close to Barnum as he could get and Barnum himself leaned back against an armchair to support himself upright.

Phillip was content and his embarrassment had faded. He was relaxed, well and truly, and his eyes stayed closed as he leaned into Barnum's massaging fingers. Most every fiber of Phillip's being was focused on the hand in his hair, the thumb running lightly over the two little bumps that marked his shunt.

But a teeny tiny part of Phillip wasn't focused on Barnum's touch. It wasn't focused on Barnum's lips as he pressed them, gently, to Phillip's forehead. No, that teeny part of Phillip was busy attempting to send alarm bells ringing throughout the rest of his head. That teeny part was trying to get the rest of Phillip's brain to focus on what it, and only it, had picked up on.

Phillip told Barnum he loved him. And, though it slipped, he had meant it. Whole and truly.

Barnum told Phillip he 'deserved the world.' And he meant it, whole and truly. He would do everything in his power to make sure Phillip did not feel alone or afraid again.

But he had not said 'I love you' back.

***

Barnum wasn't sure whether he could tell Phillip.

Most of the money Charity had stolen from him, months ago now, had finally been recovered. He was contacted immediately and, after verification that the money was his, it'd been returned to him in silence - no big newspaper articles or celebrations about it. He was a wealthy man once more, but... truth be told... he wasn't sure he wanted to reinstate his business.

Being with Phillip made him realize how fucking valuable life was, and P.T. Barnum was no man suited for any ordinary job. Of course, being as wealthy as he was, he was certain that no average person would call his job "ordinary," but it was... boring. He'd come to realize that he hated his suit-and-tie, 9-to-5 life. Despite the hell Charity put him through, and despite the crummy little apartment he was now living in, it was almost as if she'd sent him on a little vacation - and now that he'd gotten a taste of freedom, he never wanted to go back.

And, had it not been for Charity pulling the rug from beneath his feet, Barnum could not be certain that he would have ever met Phillip.

Phillip.

God, words could not describe how much he'd fallen for that man. Being with Phillip made him come alive and appreciate life for what it truly was - precious. He desperately wanted the younger man to love himself, to accept himself for his flaws, and that passion, that desire, to help Phillip battle through the demons that had haunted him all his almost-thirty years of life had not dulled, not since the moment he'd met the man in the elevator.

When Phillip told Barnum he loved him, in such a casual state - sitting on the living room floor together, the playwright sleepy against his arm - Barnum's heart swelled and he'd nearly cried then and there. He wanted to hug Phillip, to shower him in kisses (as corny as it sounded), and twirl him around. He wanted to tell Phillip that he loved him too, God he loved him so much, and that he would be treasured, the way that he was, for the rest of Barnum's natural life.

But, for the first time since begging for money on the streets, Phineas Taylor Barnum found himself absolutely, positively tongue-tied.

He wanted to trust Phillip. He did. But he couldn't help it - what if Phillip learned of his reclaimed fortune and took off with it, just as Charity had?

There was no real reason to fear this - Phillip himself was quite wealthy already, and he'd told Barnum he loved him before he knew of Barnum's reinstated profits. But the fear twisted at his gut nonetheless... and he missed his opportunity.

So, instead of telling Phillip that he loved him too, so, so much, he stayed silent. Like the foolish man he was, he blurted out the only other thing that came to his mind.

"You deserve the world, darling. I will do everything in my power to give it to you."

Phillip did deserve the world. God, he deserved it so much after all he'd been through during his mere three decades of life. But, despite everything screaming at him to tell him, Barnum could not bring himself to add on those three little, but oh-so-powerful words to his vow.

If Phillip noticed, he said nothing of it.

It was not late, but the rain outside had started to lull the young playwright to sleep, and Barnum lifted him in his arms to carry him to the bedroom. He removed Phillip's socks and tucked the young man in, but he himself had to leave - he had a call to his bank to make.

***

The headache came like any other. Phillip woke up groaning - his head pounded and he ached all over, but he'd had aches worse than this with the common cold.

Turning, he realized the bed was empty. Benji replaced Barnum and laid, snoring, on the older man's pillow. Phillip reached out - his fingers swam blurry in front of him - and stroked the dog's soft fur, but Benji laid unbothered.

When he tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness hit him. He groaned and collapsed back on the bed and against the pillows. He was rubbing his forehead when Barnum strolled into the room, dressed, a lazy and teasing smile on his face.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Carlyle," he chuckled.

"Afternoon?" Phillip muttered, squinting. His head hurt too much to think and he winced.

Barnum nodded and gestured to the clock on the nightstand beside the bed.

Phillip turned his head, gasping in pain, and tried to read the clock. He could vaguely make out a 12 before his vision went fuzzy and he collapsed, groaning, against his pillow.

His head hurt even worse lying down.

Tears formed in Phillip's eyes. He shakily called Barnum's name.

The man was by his side in an instant, pushing his hair back. "Are you all right?" he quipped. His face blurred.

"Medicine," Phillip groaned, "and water. Please."

Barnum nodded. He tried to help Phillip sit up, but his world exploded in pain and he cried out as he fell back against the pillows again. Lying down, his head legitimately felt like it was about to explode.

Phillip sobbed with the pain.

He heard a faint whining noise and then felt a tiny Terrier tongue on his cheek. He reached blindly for Benji, but then a blurry, bigger figure was in front of him, handing him a glass with something in it that moved and splashed.

"Here," Barnum urged, voice laced with concern, "take this."

Phillip struggled to sit up so Barnum hand-fed him the pills and held him up as he drank water. His hands shook so terribly that the water splashed over the side, soaking his hands and pajamas.

He felt the bed shift with new weight, and then strong arms were around him, pulling him close.

"Are you all right?" Barnum murmured worriedly in his ear. His vision was still blurry, but he felt a feather-light kiss against his earlobe, felt the warmth of Barnum's lips, and relaxed a little.

"H-Help me stand up?"

"Are you su—"

"I need to... bathroom. I need the bathroom."

Barnum nodded - just watching the motion made Phillip's head explode with new pain - and helped Phillip up, a firm grip on the younger man's arm.

Gasping through the pain and the ever-blurry sight, Phillip took the tiniest of steps forward.

And collapsed to the floor.

***

He came to, screaming, when he felt the IV needle pierce his arm. He thrashed and thrashed, trying to yank away from the needle sticking out of his skin, but doctors held him down. Doctors, and—

And familiar hands, a familiar scent. Familiar eyes that blurred together in Phillip's panicked state.

"Phin," he gasped. He could feel the tears wettening his cheeks, but doctors held his arms down and he couldn't wipe his face. "P.T.!" he cried out, feeling a familiar eight-year-old fright. "Phineas!"

He gasped and struggled for breath. Barnum's hands were on his face, brushing the tears away. He felt the briefest ghosting of lips against his own.

"I'm here. I'm here."

Barnum was crying.

Why was he crying?

He shouldn't be crying.

Phillip tried to reach out. His vision blackened at the edges.

From somewhere far away, he heard someone ask, "can you rate the pain, Mr. Carlyle? On a scale of one to ten—"

"Ten!" he screamed out. "Eleven! Ele—"

Phillip Carlyle swirled around and around, and tumbled into blackness.

***

He faded in and out of consciousness a few times before the actual surgery, but he only clearly remembered one thing.

The CAT scan.

He used to call it a spaceship when he was younger. It was a big, round machine that was supposed to take pictures of his brain. They put something on him - he wasn't sure what it was, but it was supposed to prevent other parts of his body from being scanned. It was like a big, heavy bib.

He remembered coming in and out of consciousness. He remembered entering the spaceship, he remembered heavy pressure on his chest, and he remembered the doctors taking x-ray like photos of his brain. He remembered the clicks, the murmured talking between doctors in the room. He remembered voices telling him to stay absolutely, positively still.

He didn't know it then, but Barnum was also in the room. Biting his knuckles, watching his boy go into the CT

(spaceship)

machine. There were tears on his face. He was shaking, crying, coming completely undone, and all he wanted, more than anything, was to be held. To be held, like he was a child again, and rocked, and told everything was going to be okay.

But he couldn't be held, he couldn't be rocked, he couldn't be told everything was going to be okay because his boy was about to have life-threatening

(life-saving)

brain surgery.

Phillip Carlyle remembered nothing after that.

***

When he came to again, all was still. He groaned and lifted an aching arm to shield his eyes from the achingly bright light.

Everything was still.

Everything was silent.

His head didn't hurt anymore, he observed. But his stomach hurt like—

"Am I in hell?" he muttered.

"Afraid not, darling."

A warm blush erupted throughout the entirety of Phillip's body and he looked over at the source of the voice. Barnum sat in a chair beside the bed. He was smiling, but his eyes were red-rimmed and his face was pale. He reached out to Phillip and grazed his fingertips, but then pulled back like he was afraid to touch the man in the hospital bed.

"Phineas?"

He licked his lips in discomfort - they were chapped and dry, and his throat scratched with thirst. His tongue was dry, heavy, and tasteless in his mouth. He swallowed, but all that did was fuel the fire ravaging his throat.

He felt Barnum clasp his hand between both of his, and he watched with bleary eyes as the older man brought his hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. Barnum had been crying - Phillip could feel the wetness of his tears drip onto the back of his hand.

"Phillip," Barnum rasped, "oh, God. I thought I lost you."

Phillip smiled, but it was weak and the corners of his lips trembled.

"Just another shunt surgery is all."

"You collapsed, darling. You don't even - you probably don't even remember speaking with the doctors, do you? Or going into surgery?"

He remembered the IV needle, and the spaceship. That was all.

When he reported this to Barnum, he was stunned to hear the responding sob that erupted from his throat.

"God, Phillip, I've never been so... fucking terrified—"

He was interrupted by a doctor who knocked onto the door and came into the room. The doctor was pleased to see that Phillip appeared to be much more coherent, and he reported that the surgery went well - his old, failed shunt had been removed and replaced with a newer, stronger one.

"Hopefully we won't see you here again for another twenty years," the doctor teased. Phillip did not laugh.

He told Phillip that he would have to stay overnight for observation, to make sure the new shunt was working well, but that was not new news. Phillip had vague memories of staying overnight at the hospital after his surgeries as a child. They often served him pancakes in the morning.

Then, the doctor dropped a bombshell that shattered Phillip's world.

"Your parents are here to see you."

***

"My parents?!" Phillip rasped after the doctor left. He had mere minutes before they came barging into the room. "What are my parents doing here?!"

"Relax," Barnum mumbled. He knelt beside the bed and gently took Phillip's face in his hands. "If they get out of hand, we can ask them to leave."

"Does - does anyone know? The media, the reporters—"

Barnum took a deep breath.

"I saw reporters outside the hospital, yes," he admitted. Phillip's stomach clenched with fear. "Physical copies probably won't be published until tomorrow, but online - it wouldn't surprise me to find your face in an article, at this very moment."

"Oh, great," Phillip sighed. He leaned back and his eyes stung, but whether it was from exhaustion or tears, he didn't know.

"Please, just try to relax. It'll be over in no time." Barnum took hold of his hand.

"But—"

"I know it'll be hard," the older man mumbled. He leaned forward and softly pressed his lips to Phillip's, "but I will not let either of them touch you. I'm here, and," he paused, deep whiskey eyes looking into tired blue, "I - I love you, Phillip."

***

Phillip was a fool for hoping, for even daring to hope, that the encounter with his parents would go over well. Yet, despite everything he'd experienced by his father's hands, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope in his stomach as they awaited Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle's arrival.

That flicker quickly burnt out.

"Well, well," Mr. Carlyle's familiar sneer sent a jolt of fear down Phillip's spine, "I should've known you'd never amount to anything, boy."

"Like this is anything I could control," Phillip snapped. "Hydro—"

"Yes, yes, we know all about your condition. Have you forgotten who kept you alive your first eight years?"

Mrs. Carlyle rested a hand against her husband's arm. She murmured something that Phillip couldn't hear, and Mr. Carlyle relaxed his shoulders - but the sneer was still plastered on his face like he was looking at a pile of dog shit on his shoe.

"I see you've picked up more than one condition," he spat.

Phillip's eyes flickered over to Barnum, who stood, broad-shouldered and head held high, in the corner and took it. Phillip gulped. Barnum may be older than he was, but that didn't mean he deserved to hear Mr. Carlyle's paralyzing (no pun intended) words, either.

"Leave Phineas out of this, Father," Phillip commanded, quietly.

"Oh?" Mr. Carlyle laughed - a nasty, nasally sound. "It's got a name! How sweet."

"Honey," Mrs. Carlyle placed her hand on her husband's arm. She dropped her voice, but Phillip could still hear. "That's Phineas Barnum."

Mr. Carlyle stared at his wife, but realization dawned in his eyes after just a moment. With a sneer, he turned to Barnum.

"So," he began, eyebrow raised, "your wife is gone, you've lost everything, so you've taken to fucking my son?"

Phillip's face flamed bright red and a lump formed in his throat. His eyes flicked to Barnum as the older man clenched his jaw.

"Your son is not an animal, Mr. Carlyle," Barnum began. "I realize it's none of your business, but, if you must know, I have not, and will never, 'take to fucking your son.' Phillip deserves so much more than—"

"Phillip deserves what?" Mr. Carlyle scoffed. "Phillip is a cripple, Mr. Barnum. He can hardly think for himself, let alone—"

"How dare you speak about your only son that way," Barnum spat. "He is your flesh and blood. He is the carrier of your family name. He is—"

"He's a fucking freak, is what he is."

Phillip had all but curled himself up in the hospital bed when Jonathan Carlyle came over and slapped his son straight in the face. Crying out, Phillip shrank against the bed with stinging eyes as he struggled to hold back tears and soothe his cheek all at the same time.

The smirk was on Mr. Carlyle's lips only a second before Barnum had him up and pressed against the wall. Jonathan Carlyle's advancing age betrayed him as he clawed at Barnum's hand in an attempt to get the pressure off his throat. Barnum did not squeeze hard enough to choke him, but the elder Carlyle would need to wear a scarf or high-collar shirt if he wished to hide the marks that would inevitably form on his skin.

"You will never touch him again," Barnum hissed through his teeth, all but spitting in Mr. Carlyle's face, "do you understand me?"

He let go of Jonathan Carlyle then and the man fought for breath, tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he sucked in unrestricted air.

"I'll have you arrested!" he threatened, pointing a shaking finger at Barnum as he straightened up. "I, I'll—"

"I don't think so," Barnum tutted, shaking his head. "If you do choose to press charges, Mr. Carlyle, my lawyers will see to it that you serve the time for child abuse and neglect that you should have served twenty years ago."

Phillip's eyes flicked to the door. His father had closed it upon entering, and he hadn't noticed until just then. It was the only reason nurses weren't barging into the room and Barnum and his father weren't being led away in handcuffs.

"Lawyers?" Mr. Carlyle barked out a laugh that made Phillip flinch. It reminded him of his younger days, when his father would stand over him with a cane, laughing and cackling into his ear as he cowered on the floor. "What lawyers? Your bitch of a wife saw to it that you don't have a shred of a dime left, Mr. Barnum."

In response, Barnum just laughed.

"I may have married a talking dog," he said, ever-familiar smirk curling at his lips, "but she wasn't nearly as smart as her canine counterparts. Did you really think that money would stay hidden away forever, Mr. Carlyle?"

Phillip's eyes widened.

Barnum... had his money back? Since when? Why hadn't he moved out?

Why had he... stayed?

Mr. Carlyle's expression mirrored his son's, though neither of the older men took notice to Phillip's shock. Mrs. Carlyle had backed herself into a corner and watched the escalating scuffle in silence, hands pressed up to her mouth. She had tears in her eyes.

"You don't—"

"I do," Barnum grinned.

Jonathan Carlyle's face reddened. "I will not see to—"

"The only thing I would like to see to you doing, Mr. Carlyle, is turning around and walking right out of this hospital room."

"Phillip—"

"—is a grown man who can make his own decisions, no matter how you view his mind or his body."

Mr. Carlyle stood there, in silent rage, for what felt like a lifetime. Then he turned, grabbed his wife by her arm, and stormed out the door.

The door slammed shut behind them.

Phillip laid in silence, trying so hard to hold back his tears that his skin trembled with the effort. When Barnum knelt, delivering a feather-light kiss to his mouth, he couldn't hold back his sob. Despite the awkward angle, Barnum sat there and held him until he cried every last tear he had in his system into the older man's shirt.

"I'm s-s-sorry," Phillip choked as he pulled back.

"Please don't. You've got nothing to apologize for."

"Ph-Phineas," Phillip whispered, his lips trembling, "the m-money—"

"We can discuss that later, but I suspect a doctor will be barging in here at any moment given the racket we just made. Straighten up now, darling. Wipe those tears and look pretty."

Barnum finished the statement with a smirk, and Phillip smacked his arm. His was exhausted, physically and emotionally, but Barnum's familiar teasing ways had him blushing like a lovestruck teenage girl.

"Phineas, your shirt—"

"Don't you worry about that. Sit up, now."

Phillip nodded. He sat up in bed just as the door opened and his doctor poked his head into the room.

***

The first thing to greet them upon their arrival home the next day was Benji. They could almost hear the Yorkie's yaps from a mile away.

Phillip dropped to his knees just inside the doorway and Barnum chuckled as he nudged the door shut. Benji scrambled up Phillip's chest, nails finding a hold in his shirt, and his laughter lit up the whole apartment as he leaned back against the wall, being assaulted by a small Terrier tongue.

"He missed you," Barnum commented, smiling, as he dropped his coat across the back of a chair. Phillip stood up with the dog in his arms.

"Has he eaten?" Phillip fretted. "He probably needs to go out. We were gone all night, I—"

"Relax, darling. I stayed here last night."

"You did?"

Barnum nodded.

Phillip looked around the apartment, taking note, for the first time, of how everything was neat, but, upon closer inspection, had the slightest look of disarray about it. A chair at the kitchen table was slightly crooked, not pushed in all the way. There was a book on the coffee table that hadn't been there yesterday. Benji's food bowl had crumbs at the bottom, and he had a fresh bowl of water about half full.

Phillip looked down at the floor. When footsteps and a familiar hand tilted his face up, he kissed Barnum, the dog held in between them.

"Thank you," he mumbled as they pulled away.

"Common courtesy, 'Lip. Something that your father, I bet, couldn't even define if we asked him."

The tiniest of smiles tugged at Phillip's lips and he sighed as he lowered himself onto the couch. Benji squirmed to get out of his arms and small nails clacked against the floorboards as he scurried off to find a toy.

"I should probably let him out," Phillip decided out loud, having not been seated on the couch for a full two minutes before he attempted getting up again. He was stopped by Barnum's hand on his chest, pushing him back.

"In a minute. We need to talk." Barnum sat on the couch, holding Phillip's hands in his. When Phillip avoided his gaze, he said, "it's nothing to be afraid of, 'Lip. We just need to talk about what you've found out. Please, look at me."

"The money," Phillip stated as their eyes met.

Barnum nodded.

Phillip's eyes were glued to his hands again. His hands which were in his lap, nervously twisting and untwisting.

"I understand," Phillip sighed, causing Barnum to tilt his head as he listened. "You've got your money back. You'll want to move out and move on. I... get it. I'll miss you." A lump formed in his throat. "But I get it."

"Phil—"

"You'll probably want to go back to your home, right? That big, sprawling mansion - it was all over the news when you moved out."

"Phillip, the bank took that home away from me. It's not mine anymore."

"Oh. Well, I guess that's okay too, right? You can look for a bigger, better home. You don't have to live in these stuffy little apartments anymore."

The remark confused Barnum. If Phillip thought the apartments were so 'stuffy,' why move in in the first place? Phillip wasn't as wealthy as his father, but he was not a poor man by any means.

"You live here," Barnum pointed out. "You live here, but I know you've got more than three dollars in your bank account, Phil."

Phillip scoffed, but something caught in his throat. Something... like a cry forced back. Tears unshed.

Barnum did not miss it.

"What's wrong?" he asked, bewildered. Drawing Phillip into his side, he leaned in and kissed the younger man's forehead. "Tell me."

From the floor, Benji watched them with interest. Alert and ready to comfort his owner if it came down to that.

"It's easier here," Phillip admitted, voice low. "Here I'm not... surrounded by wealth. It's easier to hide here, to pretend that I don't have all the money that I've... received over the years."

"Received? Phillip, your plays sell out theatres! You didn't receive that money, you earned it."

"But I don't deserve it."

A beat of silence. Barnum stared at Phillip, stared at his sad, withdrawn face and his slumped shoulders.

"What do you mean... you don't... deserve it?" Barnum asked slowly.

"Look at me, Phineas! You heard my father. I'm a cripple. A good-for-nothing fucking cripple. I became successful on accident. The media don't care about my craft, they care that somebody lesser than them found success. My disabilities make bigger headlines than my shows! The only reason people go is so they can say, 'Phillip Carlyle? Oh, yes, that poor man. He probably needs the money for all of his medical expenses. I thought I'd buy a ticket or two, help the cripple pay a few bills.'"

His voice shook so badly by the end that Barnum could barely understand him. Benji was barking his little head off, whining, nudging against his distressed owner's leg. Phillip fell back against the couch, hands over his ears.

"I don't deserve it," he muttered over and over again, under his breath, "don't deserve it, don't deserve it, don't deserve it."

"Hey." Barnum took hold of Phillip's hands and gently removed them from his ears. "None of that. You deserve success, Phil. You earned it. You worked for it."

Phillip looked at Barnum in silence. He wasn't crying, but pain etched itself deep into his features. Barnum ached to hug him, but he needed to stay focused on what he was getting ready to tell him.

"You can build a name for yourself without your father's money. We can... do that together, if you'd let me help you."

"Wh-What?" Phillip gulped. "What are you saying?"

A single tear rolled down Phillip's cheek and Barnum wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. He took a deep breath. "Awhile ago, I was contacted saying that the money Charity had stolen from me had been found. I waited to say anything because... well, I was afraid." He chuckled drily. "I was afraid of losing you, and... truth be told I was afraid to go through a replay of the Charity incident."

"I would never—"

"I know you wouldn't, and I've known that all this time, but still I... wanted to hold back. But then you... then you had to go to the hospital and I—" his voice broke and he cringed. "I was so afraid of losing you, Phillip. I was so afraid and I hadn't gotten a chance to tell you that I love you—"

Even though it was his second time hearing the words come from Barnum's lips, Phillip's heart leapt up in his throat.

"—and I was so afraid of you... dying... without knowing the truth." Barnum's voice trembled and he sucked in a breath. "I wouldn't be able to handle going away, knowing that something might happen to you here alone. Phillip, I—"

He paused.

Phillip's fingers threaded with his. He laid his head on Barnum's shoulder, suddenly tired but silently coaxing Barnum to continue.

"I would... like you to move in with me."

Almost as soon as he settled down, Phillip found himself lifting his head again. "What?"

"I want you," Barnum traced Phillip's lips, running his finger along the little crevice between Phillip's chin and bottom lip, "to... move in with me. If you'll allow it."

Phillip stared at Barnum, lips parted in shock. At first, he didn't say anything. He couldn't find the words.

"Or not." Barnum dropped his hand. "That's all right, too. I shouldn't have assumed—"

"Of course I'll move in with you."

Barnum's eyes lit up. Phillip knocked him against the arm of the couch as he threw himself at the older man in a hug, body sprawled on top of Barnum's. He littered the man's face in quick, feather-light kisses. Barnum squeezed the younger man's body to him as he laughed, practically humming underneath all of the sudden attention.

"I love you," Phillip mumbled as he finally settled down, still stretched out on top of Barnum. He sighed and laid his head on the older man's chest. "God, Phin, if you hadn't come to my apartment that day—"

"You'd still find a way to wrap me around your little finger," Barnum chuckled, lifting Phillip up to kiss him again.

From the ground, Benji barked. They parted and turned their heads to stare at the dog, who whined and wagged his tail under the sudden attention.

"Somebody's jealous," Barnum mumbled. "Don't worry, fur ball, you'll be coming with us too."

Phillip just laughed and kissed him again, threading his fingers into P.T.'s soft hair.

A new life... with Phineas Taylor Barnum. The man who'd come to his rescue seemingly seconds from teetering off the edge.

***

When Barnum read off the numbers, Phillip had tears in his eyes.

"We did it," the younger man breathed. "Oh, God, we did it. We're doing it."

He couldn't help the tears that flowed from his eyes, soaking Barnum's shirt. But, for the first time in a long time, they were tears of joy. Barnum turned away from the computer and held Phillip close, murmuring soothing words into his ear.

After moving from his apartment, into a home with Barnum, the two had launched a campaign. Called Runaways Running The Night, their campaign took disabled children from abusive homes and matched them up with parents - some disabled themselves, some not - looking to foster or adopt. With both Barnum's and Phillip's names glued to the movement, their campaign gained traction quickly - the numbers of disabled children rescued skyrocketed, with the numbers of successful fosterings and adoptions starting to creep up behind it.

Phillip still feared death and growing older - he figured he always would - but his fear was manageable now, and Barnum found him a therapist willing to work with his death anxieties.

Benji helped at home too, of course.

And there was one more thing that P.T. Barnum and Phillip Carlyle added to their growing legacy.

The office door opened and the two men broke apart as they turned to greet Keisha. Anne, the girl's nanny, wheeled the seven-year-old into the room, smiling through the girl's shriek.

"Mr. Phillip! Mr. Phineas!"

Chuckling, Barnum knelt down. Keisha threw her umber arms around him in a hug, her eyes sparkling bright from behind her glasses. Phillip knelt down, too, and ruffled the girl's hair before teasingly taking hold of her stuffed unicorn.

"Pretty soon, you'll be able to call us both Daddy," Phillip promised. The girl beamed and he chuckled as he leant forward to kiss her cheek.

Anne smiled as Phillip stood up, her eyes flickering to his hands. "I see you've made it official, huh?" she teased, eyeing the silver band.

Phillip blushed. Chuckling, Barnum pulled him into his side as he kissed his cheek.

"Lunch today," Barnum confirmed.

"He told me he wanted to discuss Runaways numbers," Phillip confessed. "I should've known—"

"I took him to the rooftop of our old apartment building," Barnum grinned.

Anne beamed at the two, about to congratulate them both when Keisha tugged at her hand. She knelt down and Keisha whispered something into her ear.

"She wants to know if she can be the flower girl," Anne repeated, smiling, "and Mr. Scruffles," the unicorn, "wants to be the best man."

"Well, of course." Barnum grinned, ruffling the girl's hair. "What kind of flowers would you like, Miss Keisha?"

"White roses!" the girl declared.

"Ah, excellent choice. The symbol of purity." His eyes flicked to Phillip's. Phillip ducked his head and blushed.

"What's purity, Mr. Phineas?"

"Ah, I'll explain it to you later. For now - let's go home."

As Barnum interlocked his hand with Phillip's, he struggled to hold back tears. The four of them - Phillip, Phineas, Anne, and Keisha - left the office together. As they left, Keisha launched into a song she'd learned that day at school.

They were going home.

---

A few things:

1. I KNOW that this fic is very hope-heavy with things like Barnum totally, 100% accepting Phillip's asexuality and his disabilities. I purposely wrote it to be overly idealistic. It was kind of like... therapy, for myself?

2. In my case, cerebral palsy effects my right side. Not my left. Lemme tell ya, the paralyzed toes frustration is very real and very aggravating. I have had somewhere around a dozen surgeries, but the numbers are slightly off. I have had one leg surgery and two eye surgeries (I did not include partial blindness in this fic). The rest were shunt-related. I have not had a shunt surgery since I was 7, and I have not had a surgery in general since I was 8 (the last one was for my leg). However, a relapse could happen - the hospital descriptions are based solely on what I remember as a 7 year old.

3. Mr. Carlyle is largely based on the fandom headcanon that he's an abusive dirtbag. I was not, and am not, physically abused. I also have never been abused for being asexual, but that's because I'm not out publically. Forcing asexual people into doing sexual acts is a VERY real fear for a lot of aces and Phillip's concerns are legitimate.

4. A lot of the things Phillip experienced in high school really happened, or was based on, things that happened to me. I was called "limpy limpy legs" by some asshole in the hall. I was not put into a special-needs classroom, but I was treated that way in a real club (that assisted severally mentally-disabled people) that I did try to join. I did sob my eyes out in a counselor's office at one point, but that was because of an emotionally-abusive dirtbag ex-stepdad, who really did call me a "special needs bitch." However, unlike Mr. Carlyle (as stated in #4), he was not physically abusive. And he WAS kicked out. My breakdown in the office finally convinced my mom to get rid of his psychotic ass.

5. The anxiety and the death/aging existentialism are very real. I do not have a support dog, but we might be training my dog (no, not a Yorkie, and no, not named Benji) to become one. Also, I KNOW Phillip has a lot of breakdowns, and cries a... lot. It's very real.

6. I generally am against people who don't know what they're doing writing fics with majorly disabled people because they often come off as having lots of ableism (I, for example, would not dare to write a fic about being autistic), but I am all for disability education. We need disability education! Why? Because my biggest representation as a person with right-sided cerebral palsy is Nemo. That being said, I hope you learned something :)