Chapter Text
Were it a hangover, Phillip would count it among his worst.
He's hunched over a waste basin on the ornate Persian rug in the guest bedroom of the Barnum household, expelling what's left of the meager contents of his stomach, head throbbing in time with every movement. He would like nothing more than to return to his earlier, blissful state of unconsciousness, but at this point he knows it's futile to try.
Were this just another hangover, he would crawl back to bed after he'd finished, close the curtains against the watery sunlight on the way, pull the coverlet over his head and listen to the sound of his own breathing until he fell into a state of listlessness, regretting everything that had led him to this point of misery, but knowing with a worse feeling in his heart that regret wouldn't stop him from doing it again.
As awful as his worst hangovers could be, Phillip has still spent the better part of a decade seeking refuge from the mess of his life in a bottle of whiskey, and though he is well aware any succor gained there will be ephemeral, he, like most, is a creature of habit.
But the rub of it all today, the irony that the part of him that isn't busy gagging can only laugh at, is that for once he hasn't done this to himself, has in fact been – if not completely abstaining – drinking with far more moderation since he joined PT Barnum's Menagerie and Circus. The even bigger irony, however, is that the circus, the place he loves, the people he would openly call family were he a braver man, is in fact the reason he feels so wretched right now.
Though that isn't quite right, and Phillip can hear PT's voice in his head protesting that it's not the circus that's gotten him into this predicament, not even anything Phillip's done (though he's not sure he would agree with that sliver of absolution). Instead, his current misery lays wholly at the feet of a society too narrow minded to extend understanding and compassion to anything beyond the small scope of what it considers acceptable, and, more specifically, can be attributed to the cruelty and ignorance of the pair Barnum will only refer to as 'those people,' but whom Phillip must call his parents.
Whoever is to blame, though, Phillip is the one bearing the brunt of the consequences, and he spasms once more over the basin, fingers clutching at the wool fibers beneath him. He's so focused on that action, on keeping his brain from sloshing too much inside his skull when he moves, and not tipping forward into his own mess, that he doesn't hear Barnum approaching until the man has settled on the rug right beside him.
“Not feeling any better, I see,” PT says as he wraps a warm arm around Phillip's waist and palms the younger man's clammy forehead. Phillip groans in response, and though he considers shaking Barnum's grip loose he finds the contact far more soothing than he cares to admit.
“Poor thing,” Barnum adds, thumb rubbing against the cotton nightshirt over Phillip's ribs. Phillip aches to protest that he is in fact a grown man, not an ill child or an injured animal, but he lacks the ability to do much other than slump bonelessly against PT's solid figure.
Barnum lets him rest there for several minutes before Phillip feels the rumble in the other man's chest as he asks, “Are you finished?”
With what? Phillip wants to ask in return. With puking up what must be my stomach lining by now? With all of the bad decisions I've made that led me to this point? With my parents, and their high society, and every stifling expectation that's ever been used as a cudgel to beat me down? With your overbearing concern, and mother-henning, and infuriating kindne – but he stops that train of thought there. Barnum doesn't deserve any of it, and he instead focuses on the cool pressure of PT's fingers against his brow.
He nods once, gingerly, doesn't trust himself to speak without his voice breaking, though he supposes he could blame that on spending what feels like hours yakking up everything he's ever eaten or drank, and not the note in Barnum's voice that makes his eyes tingle and his throat burn for entirely different reasons.
“Alright then,” Barnum replies. “Why don't we get you back to bed?” He drops his hand from Phillip's forehead, and before the younger man can even register how he misses its presence, is gripping Phillip's elbow and pulling him to his feet.
Phillip's eyes open when he gets upright. That may have been a mistake, and the colorful paintings and red curtains framing the wide windows of the Barnums' guestroom start to swirl in his vision.
“Oh,” he mumbles as the room tilts and Barnum tightens his grip.
“We just got you up, Phillip, let's not go right back down to the floor, hmm?” Barnum says lightly, and Phillip doesn't need to see the older man's face to know the small smile that will be tugging the corners of Barnum's mouth upwards.
“Mmhmm,” he replies as he presses his face into PT's shoulder. After a moment of that, they shuffle to the unmade bed where Phillip has idled most of his day, and Barnum eases him down to the rumpled sheets.
“I wonder if we ought to send for a doctor...” Barnum muses as he pulls up the linens, and amends himself as Phillip's eyes fly open and his whole body flinches. “Shit, Phillip, I'm sorry. I won't do that if you don't want me to.”
I don't, Phillip would shout if the idea hadn't stolen the breath right from his lungs. He wonders if at some point that word won't make his heart stutter, his fingers clench into fists. “I'm fine,” he rasps.
Barnum sits on the edge of the bed. “Not hardly.” He sighs. “I confess I've no idea if your current state is a...ah...typical reaction to...ah...” Phillip marvels at the rare sight of the consummate showman PT Barnum unable to find the right words.
“Being drugged out of my mind?” He asks, less hoarse this time. “It's not too unusual.” Barnum's eyebrows rise, and Phillip stammers, “I...uh...some of my...I had friends who...partook in this sort of thing. When I was younger.” God, he's made enough terrible decisions in his life, he doesn't need Barnum to think he's indulged in that particular vice, too.
Barnum summons a weak smile. “Well, pity they aren't here to give us a little guidance, isn't it?”
“Pity they aren't here at all anymore,” Phillip responds before he realizes what he's saying. Barnum's eyes widen and his smile vanishes. “I...sorry,” Phillip adds.
Barnum shakes his head. “Don't be.” Phillip looks at hims until he drops his gaze and eyes the bedroom door. “Maybe you would feel better if we got a little food in you.” Phillip moans. “Some water, at least?” That idea churns Phillip's stomach too, but he has to give the other man something, needs to wipe that look off his partner's face, so he nods.
“Wonderful!” PT beams at him and pats his knee through the covers. “I'll be right back.”
Phillip listens to the other man's footfalls across the room, the quiet creak as he pulls the door open. “You'll feel better soon enough, Phillip. I promise.”
Liar, Phillip thinks but says nothing, just watches the shadows cast by the barren branches outside the windows creep across the room.