Ahhhh I'm so sorry I made you guys wait so long - life has been really wild (guess who did great in their school play though - I did :P) ! Anyways, here's chapter 2 :D I feel like it switches perspectives a lot? Sorry if it's confusing ;)

Thank you so, so much to Hawkmaid, Blahblah, upwiththebirds33, Harry Albus Potter Dumbledore and Tripping55 for their reviews and to everyone who favorited/alerted! Love you all!

Edit: Eeeekkk I just realized that for some reason that one paragraph was all jumbled up? Something must have gotten mixed up in all the copying-n-pasting from Microsoft to Google to here I guess :P Hopefully it's fixed now!

Everyone in the circus knew that Phillip looked up PT as a father figure. It showed in everything, from the way the older man trained the younger, how he supported him in his pursuit of Anne's love, how he'd run into a burning building to save him as if he'd been his own child.

Most people in the circus knew that Phillip and his biological father didn't have the greatest relationship. Some of them were aware of how he'd been abused and tortured, – on a strictly medical basis – some knew that he'd been officially disowned, and that despite that, his parents still hadn't quit trying to convince him that he didn't belong with "all the freaks." Some just assumed they didn't like each other. But either way, it was a well-known fact that if you didn't want to be glared at, run from or cried on – depending on who it was and what mood Phillip was in – you didn't mention his father within his hearing range.

But there was only one person in the circus who was aware of just how deep those cuts ran, how much a part of Phillip's life and blood those wounds had become. Well, two people – there were many things PT spared his wife from discovering, but the past of their mutually adopted son was not one of them. They were the only ones who could calm him down when he stumbled on to their porch, shaking and bleeding; they were the only ones he trusted to care for him when he felt too ill to lead the circus; they were the only ones in whom he'd confided so many of his fears and flaws, and yet they loved him anyways.

So consequently, logically, PT should have been aware of his apprentice's overwhelming fear of failure and his desire to prove his worth, but he'd had more pressingly time-sensitive matters on his mind when he'd called Phillip into his office to discuss the circus's finances. Which the younger man was more or less responsible for.

Which, in all fairness, he most likely should not have been responsible for, considering that both he and PT were the creative spirits of the circus – neither of them was quite cut out for managing finances. But none the less, the task had fallen to him, and so here he was, timidly trudging through the mud in between tents, dread pooling in his stomach increasingly with every step.

Logically, he had nothing to be afraid of. PT had never hurt him; he'd never wanted anything but the best for him. He'd never forced him into anything, never lashed out at him for making his own decisions or ridiculed him for any idea he'd spoken.

And yet, fear was never logical, hence the slight trembling in his hands and the queasy electricity in his stomach that tried to fool him that he was going to be hurt. He wrapped his arm around his middle gently, willing the bit of nausea away, and repeating over and over in his mind that he was safe. Which didn't do much, when his father's yells still reverberated in his skull and the angry scars still burned on his back, but it was a start.

He'd mostly calmed himself down by the time he stepped into PT's office, having gotten his breathing under control and clasping his hands together so they didn't shake. His arms still hugging himself – although he made it less conspicuous by crossing them- he swallowed nervously and knocked on the door.

And It was a brave gesture, to attempt to appear composed, although a futile one, because the moment the door was opened, PT clapped his back affectionately, greeting him with his typical, hearty, "Phillip!" Which, in itself, the younger had no problem with, but it felt too much like his father's slaps, sounded too much like when he'd been scolded; the dark office with its musty smell and curtained windows brought back too many memories of nights spent in the basement of his own home, starving and alone.

"H-hey, PT." He tried to mask the stutter with a cough, but he wasn't sure how effective it had been. Cutting straight to the point, not wanting to elongate the meeting any more than was necessary, he asked, "Finances looking good?"

PT inhaled sharply, and from Phillip's experience, that was the universal sign proceeding bad news. "We're short this month, a lot. I've been looking at the statistics, and…" It had never been in Phineas Barnum's nature to be anything but blunt, so if he was hesitating, it was worse than bad. So much for having calmed himself down – Phillip was terrified once again.

You've failed. You're doing horrible. What do you waste all your time on anyways? Got another stupid ugly pet you've taken in? Does something else need to die? Do you need to be punished? Why are you such a failure? I didn't raise a son who couldn't care for himself. I didn't raise a girly coward for a son.

It was his father figure's voice that guided his mind away from reliving his real father's harsh words, as he called his name, and Phillip jerked aware, hoping that he hadn't been lost in his memories for too long. "Phillip…" PT didn't seem too worried, so he probably hadn't lapsed for horribly too long, although he did look a little concerned.

Do a better job next time, Carlyle, he scolded himself, sounding way too much like his father.

"Phillip," PT repeated, when he was sure he had his apprentice's full attention. His expression was unreadable, besides for his eyes that leaked his apologies for what he hadn't even said yet. "The crowds are… smaller, when you do the show. Not as much profit… not enough profit."

Not enough, you're not enough. You're not good enough, you aren't worth it.

"I-I know."

He couldn't get any more words out, past the panic in his throat.

PT didn't seem to notice, slamming the desk, and making Phillip jump. "I'm going to have to…"

Send you away. Punish you. Make you work harder. Give up on you. Stop pretending you were ever worth it.

This was it; this was the end. He was going to be rejected, and cast out, and made to choose between the torture of the streets or the torture of his own parents. This was the moment when everything he'd childishly hoped to gain from the relationships he'd built came crashing down.

Glancing up a bit confusedly, PT continued, "... step up and do my fair share of shows, I suppose." Phillip visibly sank in relief, curling up on himself a bit, although if one looked closer, he still appeared terrified. "Phillip, are you alright?"

Shrinking away until his back brushed against a dusty bookshelf behind him, Phillip shakily nodded, despite the fact that his heart was racing and his entire body trembling. "Just… just d-don't send me… don't send me away."

Great move, Carlyle. So strong of you. So brave. Ha. Ha.

"I mean… I'll work harder. I'll do better. I'll be better. I promise." Shaking, he braced himself on the bookshelf and flinched when PT stood up. The too-familiar sting of tears burned his eyes, but he brushed them away roughly, refusing to let them fall. He'd already messed up enough.

Gently, paternally, PT stood from his creaky wooden chair and slowly made his way towards Phillip, his expression carefully blank so as not to upset him further.

To the young, terrified man, every gentle step seemed elongated and menacing, the blank look a warning sign of barely controlled anger. It was only moments before he'd be beaten, once again, treated like garbage – like an object, rather than a human being who made mistakes and had emotions too.

"Please," he whispered, fearing that if he raised his voice too high, the precarious distance he'd kept between himself and PT might be destroyed. "Please don't."

No single tears escaped him, yet there was a wet trail leaking from his eyes and down his cheek, as every part of him lamented the idea that he'd been so, so wrong. That the man he'd confided everything in was angry at him, that it had all been fake – all the affection, all the love, all the promises. It had probably all been for money, but since he was obviously such a failure at bringing in profits – after all, no one had ever liked him, why should they start now? – there was no need to keep a disowned, high class childish adult in his company. No need to be burden anyone anymore with his pathetic little needs, or to cling to the futile hope that one day he might feel accepted.

"Please," he murmured, his voice a hoarse choke, as the space between him and his greatest-dream-turned-nightmare continued to close and the time before the inevitable happened grew shorter and shorter. "Please, PT, please…"

Undaunted by the begs of the younger man, PT didn't pause. Phillip wasn't standing far from him, but he was doing his best not to make any sudden movement that might scare him further; he felt like he was dealing with an orphaned, traumatized, injured squirrel, who was always darting back and forth, trying to be useful, scampering away at the first sign of danger. Something told him that his spontaneous metaphor wasn't too far off the mark.

Still, Phillip was crying against his will, shaking, trying to squirm away. PT was close, too close, he was going to – "Please," he whispered again, sounding like a broken record repeating the same word over and over again. "Please… PT… Father… Please don't."

At that word, PT paused, a bit taken aback. Perhaps there was more at stake here than he'd realized; perhaps this was more than Phillip simply being offended that he was less popular among the crowds. This wasn't about the profit, or pride, or personal insult. This was pure terror, of being rejected yet again.

"Please what, Phillip?" PT asked gently, ensuring that his voice was as soft as if could be above a whisper. He reached his hand out to rub his nearly-adopted son's shoulder, but he flinched away harshly, whimpering before PT's hand came anywhere close to him.

"Please…" He shuddered violently, collapsing against the wall, and for a moment PT feared that he would pass out, his near hyperventilation making lack of oxygen a real possibility. But distracting PT's worries, Phillip hugged himself fiercely, protectively, and inhaled shakily. His voice was almost too small to make out, and if it hadn't been for PT's sneaking suspicion that he already knew what was wrong, he might have missed it. "Please… please don't hit me."

And even though he'd already suspected it, it still hit PT just as hard, that the man – the teenager, really – that he loved as his son, would be reduced to this, merely at the fear that he would be hurt by him. What had those monsters done to his child, to curse him to live in such constant fear? What lies had they fed him, that he was so sure he had to prove his worth? What had they threatened to do; what had they done, that he was so sure he'd be sent away for such an unavoidable thing?

It made PT sick with anger; made him burn with revenge, but neither would help Phillip at the moment, so he did his best to channel it into affection. "Phillip… Phillip. I'm never going to hurt you. Ever." Phillip's eyes opened slightly from the frozen flinch he'd been paused in, and he uncurled himself a bit, and although the angry flash in his teary blue eyes was an improvement from the empty fear that had been there before, it was hardly a reassuring one.

"You already did." It was a near-silent mumble, but in the silence of the office, PT managed to hear it, and it broke his heart even further. Of course he had. Of course he had messed up and hurt one more person in his life that meant the world to him. It was what he did best, wasn't it? In that mad dash of emotion when he'd felt the thrill of being noticed. Of being loved by the world. It was a beautiful feeling, he wouldn't lie. It was something he'd always dreamed of; to be recognized for his talent and creativity across the globe.

But it hadn't been worth this.

"Phillip, I'm so sorry, Phillip. I didn't – I meant to…" There wasn't really any way to apologize, or to hope for forgiveness, or to make things right. There was no way to undo what had already been done, and no way to pay for mistakes that had been made. He sighed, deeply, and watched Phillip untense a little more.

"I'm going to touch you now, Phillip, is that ok?"

The younger man nodded slightly, still shaking, still crying, still obviously terrified, but the moment that PT's hand touched his shoulder, he collapsed against him, holding nothing back as he cried into his father figure's shoulder while PT held him as best he could.

He shook against him, and PT gently rubbed his hand up and down his back. "You know we all love you, Phillip."

With too much bitterness for such a soft, gentle man, Phillip scoffed. "That's what my parents said too, when they'd only known me for a year."

And PT had no answer to that, except to pull him closer and let him lean on him while he let go of all the emotion he'd been bottling up for years. "Oh, Flip…" he murmured, reverting to the nickname his daughters used when referring to the young man they'd adopted as their older brother.

A sad smile crossed Phillip's face briefly at the term, before he buried his face closer into PT's shoulder, seeking out all the comfort he could find; the comfort that he'd been deprived of for all twenty-one years of his life. He should have felt so insecure, so vulnerable, so childish. He should be hearing his father's voice screaming in his head that he was pathetic, useless, weak. He should be shaking and crying out of fear, and not relief.

But instead, for some reason, in the arms of the man who had become like his father, Phillip Carlyle had never felt more safe.

If I get enough reviews/favorites, you just might get a bonus chapter of sick Philip and mama Charity... :P