Anne hates hospitals.

That's where people go to die. Who does she know that's ever come out of one of those places alive? No one-not the little girl that she spent two years taking care of (not being paid very well, not being treated very well, but teaching that little girl-her name was Emily, and she had the brightest green eyes Anne'd ever seen-to dance and stand on her tip-toes and spin around her bedroom), not the only mother that she'd ever known (not her own mother, who had died giving birth to her, but the closest thing she'd ever had to a parent besides her brother), not any of the people she'd seen going into those doors on her way to whatever job she'd picked up for the month (to be fair, she doesn't know if they came out, but some of them looked so bad going in that she knew they wouldn't make it through the day-she didn't go by the hospital on her way home those nights, choosing to take the long way because she couldn't bear knowing that they wouldn't be going home at all).

She's never seen anyone go into a hospital for more than a broken bone and come back out in one piece (and there are plenty of things that can go wrong, even with broken bones).

But there must be a first time for everything, she tells herself, standing outside of what is supposedly New York City's finest hospital (according to the sign in front of it, which she can just barely make out in the dark), because Phillip Carlyle cannot just confess his feelings for her and then die.

She refuses to let him do that to her. She inhales sharply through her nose, trying desperately to choke back a sob, and reaches for the door handle. When her hand falls short and she falls forward (she leaned too far forward to yank open the door, and still missed-her perception's certainly off, that's for sure, but from what? She's no doctor, she doesn't know), it's her brother that catches her shoulders and holds her up until she regains her balance. She mutters a thank you, and he nods.

He leaves a hand on her shoulder. Worried she'll fall again.

"Maybe you should sit for a minute, dear," Lettie whispers. She steps in front of Anne to get a look at her face. She doesn't say anything, but she nods in approval-she must be alright with what she sees-and brushes a stray lock of Anne's dark hair out of her eyes. To be honest, the younger girl hadn't even noticed it was there in the first place, but Lettie has an eye for these things, and Anne is grateful for the effort.

Her response is delayed, she knows, but she still sounds out of breath. It's like the world is happening slower than it should be, like everything is delayed by a few seconds. "I have to see him first." Her voice still sounds like she's on the verge of tears.

It's not worth lying to herself. She's going to keep fighting back tears until she sees that he's breathing, that he's okay, and she may not even stop crying after that. As much as she cried on the way to the hospital (W.D. half carried her there), as much as her chest is tight from worry and grief and exhaustion... She doesn't know if she'll ever stop crying again.

"Alright then, dear," Lettie whispers. "Let's go see Phillip."

W.D. opens the door and guides her into the hospital. Lettie follows behind them, her feet near-silent on the tiled floor.

It's so late that there's no one sitting behind the desk in the lobby. There's no one in the lobby period, and Anne feels like the weight of the almost-silence might be crushing her. It's strange to be in such a quiet place after the loud and busy and terrifying street outside of the now-burned-down circus. She's become so used to spending her nights among the other performers, surrounded by quiet laughter and the warmth of sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the others, that the quiet is sickening.

Anne has never liked the absolute silence, but she decides in that moment that she altogether hates it. It's so unnecessary-in a world with so much, when so many people have so little, can't everyone find it within themselves to talk to each other? Or at least keep someone in the lobby at night. It feels far too creepy in the large room. Their steps echo and their breathing is so loud from where the three of them stand, stock still and frozen, by the door.

"Well, I suppose we'd better go look for him if there's no one to show us where to find him." Lettie's voice is almost cheerful. Anne doesn't know how she does that, sounds so at ease when the world seems to be falling apart, but in the time that she's known her, Anne doesn't think that she's ever seen Lettie let something get her down.

Anne is not the kind of person that shoots biting remarks over her shoulder in these situations (she's done it before, and she's not proud of it, and she would like to think that that means she is not that kind of person), but even if she was, she doesn't think she'd be able to do it to Lettie. She's not entirely sure how anyone has ever been mean to Lettie. The woman is too kind, too motherly, for anyone to mistreat her.

W.D., now beside Anne, looks around and points in the direction of the main corridor off the lobby. There is a bit of light spilling down the hall, and W.D. says, "I think we should go that way."

Lettie starts walking without a second thought before Anne can even open her mouth to agree with her brother. W.D. grabs Anne's hand, and the Wheelers walk down the hall together-just like they've done everything else in their short and so far difficult lives.

It only takes about ten minutes to find the large room that must function as the trauma section. It's upstairs, and you can hear the crickets from the hall outside the ward. Anne steps through the open door, likely left ajar by a nurse making rounds, and her eyes land on Phillip like she's spent her whole life looking for him. It's like there's a string tethering them together, and she doesn't even have to glance around the dimly lit hall before the pull between them drags her gaze to him.

Even from the door, Phillip looks better than he had a little while before (how long had it been? An hour, a few hours?), but he still looks deathly pale. Smudges of dirt (not dirt-dust, ash, from the building that collapsed on top of him) dot his face. Dried blood contrasts the ash around the smaller cuts and scrapes.

W.D., still behind her, a hand on her shoulder (another one of those tethers that are keeping her from feeling like she's floating away, preventing her feet from drifting off the ground and her body from free floating through the roof and right up into the air) says, "We'll wait out here for you."

She turns her head to examine her older brother's profile. They've done their trapeze act together for years-their whole lives, they've been catching each other, throwing themselves off high places and laughing because they know that there will be arms to catch them down below. Anne has only had her brother for as long as she can remember, and she knows him better than she knows herself.

It's simple, her brother's train of thought. She envies that sometimes. What would it be like to look at the world through a lens like that? Anne doesn't know. It might be kind of nice, though. It's not like her brother is stupid-he's literally the smartest person that she knows. Maybe he isn't what most people would consider smart (her brother doesn't like books, but Anne realized a long time ago that there's more to life than book smarts). There's not a thing that W.D. can't deal with. But he also looks at life like he's unstoppable, and he doesn't even realize it. He looks at life like a series of problems to be solved. She's never even seen her brother let something eat at him for more than five minutes-he doesn't just sit and wallow (even she is prompted to do that from time to time). He gets up and he deals with his problems. She admires him for being so strong. She wishes she had that kind of strength.

She's always wanted to be like her brother in that respect. And then, in a bizarre twist of fate, she knows that she will have to be. If she wants to get through this, she will have to be strong.

(In the back of her head, a voice reminds her that she should not feel so strongly about Phillip-she knows that it can't possibly end well for either of them, no matter how her heart speeds up when he's near her, no matter how she feels like she could burst when he smiles or laughs. She doesn't pay it much attention.)

Anne shoves her shoulders back and stands up as straight as she can. This is not an easy feat, given how long she'd been standing outside, how much every bit of her body aches from it. She does it anyway. Doesn't bother to cover up the wince on her face. Lettie doesn't give her a look (W.D. does, but she doesn't look at him) and pats her shoulder. The older woman brushes a lock of Anne's dark hair out of her face before gently spinning her towards the door.

Anne knows that Lettie's right. She needs to get on with it.

Her eyes lock on Phillip's sleeping (unconscious?) form once more. Her breath escapes her this time, and she's not sure why, not when she looked at him a moment ago and she didn't feel like the air was being squeezed from her lungs then. So why now?

She doesn't look back at her brother or Lettie as she walked towards the man that she loved. She could feel them there, eyes on her, but the closer she got to him, the rest of the world faded away.

The lights are so dim that she can't quite see Philip until she's right next to him, slowly sinking onto the edge of the bed. Her heart half stops as soon as she gets a good look at him-he's so pale, paler than he looked from the door, and he looks half-dead.

Oh my God, she thinks to herself. This was... She could barely bring herself to think the words-it was so unbelievable, yet... She knew it was the truth. He could've died for me. Trying to save me from that building.

Anne brushes her hand over his arm, to his wrist. His skin is clammy. When she is sure that she won't hurt him by doing so, she pulls his hand to her chest and holds it there against her heartbeat. He doesn't stir.

Tears spring to her eyes, and suddenly, she is choking back a sob. Keep it together, Anne.

She doesn't know what to do. But she remembers singing to Emily when she caught cold, remembers that it distracted her long enough to ignore her terrible cough and rising fever. Phillip isn't conscious, but Anne wonders if he can hear her.

And so she sings-their song. About defying the stars, about rewriting their futures and choosing for themselves.

She sings and sings and sings-her voice nearly gives out more than once, and she's so quiet that she doubts that he could hear her if he was awake. But she sings to fill the silence and it works, even when she's sobbing through the middle verses.

Phillip doesn't wake up, but she keeps singing all the same.

-/-

She's still singing when first light begins to come through the windows of the infirmary room. And then, at some point around daybreak, something incredible happens-his fingers squeeze hers back.

It hurts, because she's been squeezing his hand like she's trying to hold onto his life itself the whole night. The muscles in her hand and fingers are sore, and she barely manages to stifle the wince that even his small squeeze back causes.

But that's okay. Anne is just happy to know that he's alright.

She remembers him reaching for her in the theatre during Mrs. Lynd's performance. She remembers him pushing her away because of his parents. And now-now he holds onto her hand with everything he's got (it's not much, but she's sure it's all the strength that he has.)

So Anne gives him the biggest smile she can manage (she's pretty sure that it splits her face in half), and forces her hand to tighten around his once more.