Hello all. I needed to write something fluffy and fun and just for me, and this is what happened. I hope you enjoy and leave some thoughts. The chapters are short, more like oneshots I guess.

Chapter 1

He was always Phinn, to her. To his associates, he would be Mr. Barnum. To Phillip, he would be P.T. But at the age of seven, when they'd first met, "Phineas" was too much for her tongue. And far too pretentious. So he was Phinn, the tailor's boy.

Those first years were a blur, a kaleidoscope of memories sliding past each other, each more colorful than the last. On sunny days, he pulled her up into the fat branches of oak trees and showed her the sky, made her see animals in the clouds. Phinn could paint with his words, and as they grew older she'd often tried to convince him to put them on paper. She imagined children would devour his stories, if only they were in ink. But Phinn couldn't stay still long enough to write. He was perpetual motion, personified. He picked the brightest flowers and presented them in messy bouquets before they chased each other off her father's estate and down to the shore. He dared her to splash in the surf even as winter turned the spray into icy droplets that stung her cheeks. He dove in, full speed, always. He gave her her first kiss, chaste and tasting like salt from the frigid sea.

And then, the year she turned twelve years old, she was swept away to a school in Massachusetts to learn the tedious and exhausting art of how to walk perfectly straight and never, ever think for herself.

The day he came back for her was a memory so clear and bright she could still smell the fresh roses the servants had cut and placed in the airy foyer. She hadn't seen him in twelve years. All she had was a stack of letters and some fantasy in her head of where he'd gone and what he might look like now.

Fantasy was wrong.

She'd imagined a vagabond - the same gangly frame and too-long hair. The same raggedy clothes, just adult-sized. Instead, standing inside her door frame, backlit by the setting sun, was almost a gentleman. She imagined he'd spent hours shining his shoes. She was sure the clothes were second-hand, but they were perfectly tailored. The gangly boy had grown tall and slender, with long, exquisite fingers that nervously clutched his father's top hat. He'd tried to tame his hair, but she could catch a hint of flyaway curl even in silhouette. Then he stepped into the foyer light.

His eyes hadn't changed.

And his smile was just as mischievous.

"Charity."

He spoke her name. A boy's falsetto had become a soft baritone. She didn't hear anything else that was said. She didn't hear her father swearing she would be back. Didn't hear Phinn making impossible promises. She just followed him. She took his hand and her hair flew behind her in white-gold waves as they ran. And after he dug in his pockets for the money to secure them a carriage into the city, she let her head fall against his shoulder. She watched the sunset and she let her mind wander, let her words become poems she never wrote down:

Some people long for a life that is simple and planned

Tied with a ribbon

Some people won't sail the sea 'cause they're safer on land

To follow what's written

But I'd follow you to the great unknown

Off to a world we call our own

She would follow him.

Anywhere.