A/N: I think this most definitely falls under the "short and sweet" category. Or "short and not-so sweet", however you feel like looking at it. I wrote this last night between homework responsibilities, so if it feels choppy and/or extremely cryptic, then . . . it is.
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Joey loved Chandler.
There was never any danger in the statement, because there was no danger. He loved him because he was Chandler – every flaw, every foible, every quirk and nuance, all the things that friends dissected and picked apart and swallowed because it was worth it. He loved Chandler like a brother, like a friend, like a soul-mate infatuated with the idiosyncrasies of a spouse.
Joey wanted to hold him in his room, in his apartment, in his world, so the next six, seven, eight years would progress the same as their predecessors.
Joey wanted to hear his voice when he awoke, to hear the water running in the bathroom, to worry about soap and toothbrushes and spoons as if it really mattered. He wanted to be guided. He wanted to be helped. He wanted to be cared for.
He wanted to stumble through life with the reassurance that Chandler would always be there.
His boxes were already packed and moved across the hall, the apartment striped of all his belongings until it felt naked without them.
Monica loved Chandler.
And he had made his choice.