he coughs, chokes, on the smoke that stings his eyes. tears the color of soot roll down his cheeks. he navigates the dying structure blind, eyes screwed shut to prevent the sting.

he calls out to her, calls out to anne, but can’t hear the sound of his voice over the roar of flame. he doesn’t realize that her name never escapes his lips, doesn’t realize that his throat burns too much to make a sound.

doesn’t realize that his lips never moved at all.

he stumbles, coughs again, supports himself against a wall. somehow untouched by flame, the wood is cool against his shoulder and he relaxes, revels in the feeling. he places soot-covered hands over his eyes.

“PHILLIP!”

the playwright lowers his hands with a gasp that nobody hears. tears leak from his eyes as he frantically searches the fires of hell.

there.

a tall figure against the fire, shadow against the heat. barreling toward him.

he forces himself to swallow, parts shaking lips. his lips are cracked and dry, rough against his tongue.

“phin—“

something above them snaps.

he screams.

and falls.

the pressure on his back... too... much. his vision blurs as he stares ahead at dancing flames.

something gets in the way, but he can’t make out what that something is.

two hands tug at his shoulders.

“phillip.”

he’s already gone.

*

one... two...

phillip groans and raises a hand to rub his head.

his hand doesn’t move.

scowling, phillip looks down at his—

he can’t see anything.

my god, he wonders, have i gone blind?

heart thundering, phillip raises his hands to press against his eyes.

his hands don’t move.

paralyzed.

blind and paralyzed.

my god.

bile rises in phillip’s throat. he coughs, chokes, fighting desperately to roll on his side and vomit, but he... can’t... move.

it feels like something deep within his stomach shudders. suddenly, his sickness cakes his chin. he can’t move his hands to wipe himself off. trying to move his lips to request a towel only results in more sickness and he gags.

hands flutter across his face and wipe up his chin, but phillip is gone before he can feel them.

*

a pressure against his hand jerks him awake. he gasps, but doesn’t make a sound.

the darkness is maddening. he wants to cry.

phillip.

phillip, phillip.

he tenses. tries to look, but of course, sees nothing.

help me, he screams without making a sound.

phillip, can you hear me?

anne?

phillip strains against his paralyzed body. the voice sounds detached, like it’s coming from somewhere above him, but he can’t tell where. it doesn’t sound like anne, but then, who else could it be?

phillip, i’m so sorry.

phillip’s heart thunders against his chest. why would anne be apologizing? she had nothing to apologize for.

unless—

no.

his heart skips a beat. he winces.

you like anne. only anne.

but he knows that isn’t true.

you ran into a fire for anne.

because that was the right thing to do.

but—

no.

he tries to distract himself, tries to search for that voice, but he can’t find it. the voice had vanished. 

leaving him alone.

*

time didn’t exist in this black, motionless realm.

had hours gone by? days? weeks? months?

he had no way of knowing.

all he knew was that it felt like eternity since the last time he heard the voice. 

he had only been visited by the voice twice, that he knew of, but he had learned to long for it.

it gave him something to hold onto.

*

hi.

phillip jerks, startled. 

i’m sorry it’s been so long.

phillip’s chest floods with warmth. time didn’t matter to him, but he couldn’t tell the voice that. he yearned to, though.

god, that voice sounded like fresh honey.

things have been hell since the fire, phil. the circus is in ruins.

phillip’s heart skips a beat. sure, he had hoped, but he didn’t let himself actually believe — could it be?

charity left with the girls.

it was! it was! phillip wanted to cry. 

but, wait... what?

left?

i suppose it’s my fault. i should have never gone on tour with jenny lind.

you left me.

phillip’s chest aches.

i was a fool for letting her kiss me.

wait. what?

p.t. kissed jenny lind?

the tiny shred of hope that phillip had dared let blossom shriveled up there, inside his chest.

something warm brushes against his forehead. there’s a stinging sensation, and phillip gasps. at least, he would if he could.

that’s a nasty cut, phil. i’m... so sorry this happened.

that warmth, which phillip figures is probably a finger, trails down to his cheek from his forehead, and then further still. it rests against phillip’s lips for only a second before p.t. abruptly jerks away, taking the warmth with him.

i’m sorry. i should go.

phillip wants to scream. no! wait! please!

it’s over.

he’s gone.

*

y’know, i should probably stop coming around so often, but you make a good conversationalist when you can’t talk back.

if phillip could scoff, he would. instead, though, he simply closes his eyes... and floats toward p.t.’s voice.

everyone at the circus misses you, you know. i know they don’t come around as often, but it’s true. anne especially. she... blames herself for what happened to you.

anne. phillip’s heart twists in his chest... but out of sorrow for her. not for what he once mistook as love.

i tell her not to blame herself. if anything... it’s my fault you’ve ended up like this. it should be me in this god forsaken hospital bed. not you.

a pause.

for a moment, phillip fears that p.t. has left. 

i’m so sorry, phil. 

p.t. chokes up. if phillip were standing, he’d have kneeled over with shock.

i never should have left you.

*

something brushes against phillip’s forehead.

warm, soft, slightly chapped.

it doesn’t feel like fingers.

*

p.t.’s weight settling on phillip’s hospital bed announces his arrival before his voice does.

how are you today?

after a beat of silence, he lets out a scornful laugh.

that’s a stupid question. you’re in a coma, for god’s sake.

silence.

it stretches on for so long that phillip thinks p.t. has left.

until he hears him sniffle.

look at me, p.t. scoffs. he laughs again, but it sounds... broken. a grown man, crying more than his daughters over—

his voice breaks off. warmth envelopes phillip’s limp hand as p.t. intertwines their fingers.

i guess if you were awake you’d probably laugh at me, too, huh?

no. no, phillip wouldn’t laugh.

their hands are still warm together. it takes virtually all of phillip’s concentration, but—

p.t. gasps.

phil, did you just... squeeze my hand?

phillip is exhausted.

can you... do that again?

nothing.

oh. oh, well. that’s okay. you did excellently, phillip! 

phillip smiles tiredly to himself.

he lulls off to sleep just as p.t. presses another tender kiss to his forehead.

*

no! no!

phillip startles awake to the sounds of shouting. 

p.t. is somewhere distant, but his voice easily carries. the person — or people? — he talks to are much quieter.

i won’t let you!

suddenly, the voices are much closer. they sound like they’re talking just outside his hospital room.

i don’t give a damn what his parents think! those people have never cared for phil a day in his life—

mr. barnum, it really would be best if—

i won’t let you kill him!

*

open those pretty eyes for me, phil. please?

p.t. is close. phillip wants to reach out and touch him, pull him close, never let go.

a hand presses against phillip’s cheek and runs through his hair. phillip clings to the touch.

you don’t have much longer to wait, phil. please—

p.t. takes phillip’s limp hand, presses it to his cheek. with a start, phillip realizes he can feel. p.t.’s cheek is wet. phillip can hear the catch in his breath.

please, p.t. whispers a third time. phillip strains to hear him.

don’t leave me all alone. 

*

phillip gags.

he claws at his throat.

and then, he realizes with a start, his hands are moving. he stares down at his fingers as they scratch at his neck.

his fingers. he can see his fingers.

and they’re moving.

phillip looks up. the room is dark, moonlight shines through the window, but he can just make out the outline of a door in the blackness.

“help! help me, please!”

*

he’s already crying by the time p.t. steps foot in his room the next morning.

p.t.’s jaw drops. he looks like he’s just seen a ghost.

phillip is pale, he’s pale and skinny and has dark rings under his tear-filled eyes, but his thin red lips manage to curl into a smile.

“hi, phin.”

“phil—“ p.t. chokes. tears well in his eyes that he wipes away. he steps back, uncertain.

phillip’s laugh is hollow and hurts his throat, but it’s there. it’s there and p.t. has never heard a more beautiful sound.

“it’s okay. the nurse helped me brush my teeth — now come kiss me, you idiot, before i have to climb out of this bed myself.”

p.t. pales. “phillip, i – i’m not going to—“

somehow, phillip finds the strength to roll his eyes.

“i heard everything, phin. and i felt everything... every hand hold, every kiss...”

p.t. is pale as a ghost.

“it’s okay,” phillip whispers. “i know about charity, the girls... i heard everything. and, i want you, too, phineas.”

phillip won’t take his eyes off the ringmaster, gauging his reaction. p.t.’s eyes flick uncertainly between phillip and the door. finally, he forces his legs to work and he closes the door behind him before stumbling to the bed, practically falling next to phillip.

phillip sighs as he cuddles close to p.t. he buries his face into p.t.’s shoulder and breathes in deep, fingers tangling themselves into the older man’s shirt.

“phillip,” p.t. whispers. his brain seems to finally connect to the rest of his body and he wraps his arms around the playwright, pulling him close. “oh, phillip.”

phillip looks up, blue eyes shining, before leaning in and softly brushing his lips against p.t.’s. p.t. clings to him like his life depends on it.

neither man wants the kiss to end, but p.t. finally draws back, letting out a breath as he buries his face into phillip’s hair. silent tears fall, but neither of them mention it.

“phillip, i... i thought i lost you.”

phillip shakes his head and brings p.t.’s hand to his lips to kiss his knuckles.

“i’m not going anywhere.”

***