I don't know how we'd come to this point, but I think it all started when Monica found a basketball under Ross' bed, raised her eyebrows, and then asked me if I played with a suspicious grin across her face. My automatic response was to throw a self-deprecating quip at her, of course, blissfully thinking that it would be the end of that conversation.
How wrong I'd been, since that sequence of events seemed to have filled Monica's head with nonsensical ideas.
Three days later, a light knock on the door aroused me from a deep, pleasant sleep. Well, almost - even though the dream I'd been immersed in ten seconds earlier had completely vanished, my body was not ready to awake just yet. A surprisingly enjoyable white noise filled my ears, the appealing heat that radiated from my comforter comforted me, and my head dove deep within my pillow, as if it were made specifically for me. I was, put plainly, in heaven itself.
But then I heard a voice.
"Chandler?" a woman whispered from the other side, and I pushed myself upright with a start. Monica? my mind wanted to shout, but my tongue was not helping. I must admit that, for a moment there, I didn't even know what hour, month, or year it was; I barely seemed to remember my own name. According to her it was Chandler, so I decided to trust her.
Since my identity was not a mystery anymore, I tiredly dragged my body across the dark room while Ross snored loudly, as if unaffected by this disruption. I swung the door wide open, and yes, Monica was standing there, hoisting a duffel bag over her shoulder.
"Hi!" she said with unacceptable cheerfulness this early in the morning. My eyes opened slightly in response, but just enough to make out whatever was in front of me. A strangled, choking noise that didn't seem to resemble any word known to man bubbled up in my throat, and Monica gave me a sideways glance. I cleared my throat a couple of times, very aware that once wouldn't be enough. Ross finally stirred.
"Saturday... early...?" I mumbled in a hoarse voice every word that came to my head in my confused state of mind, sleepily rubbing my eyes with one hand and ruffling my tousled hair with the other. Ross seemed to have stopped snoring by then. "Wait, you okay?"
"Yeah, everything's alright. I think it's 8 o'clock or something. And yes, it's Saturday," she easily said, like the thought that her words could be extremely confusing to every single, solitary human being on the face of the planet hadn't even crossed her mind. I must've looked puzzled, because she continued, "I just thought we could play some basketball or something. Remember how you said you wanted to enjoy your days as much as you could?"
Not really, I thought at the moment.
"Did you just say it's 8 o'clock?" I said around a yawn. "In the morning, you mean?"
"Of course in the morning," she answered, shooting me a glance that had 'moron' written all over it. "Anyway, you up for it? Please, say yes!" she eagerly pleaded.
I opened my mouth, more than ready to say no.
"Monica, for the love of God, go home," Ross drowsily mumbled from under a mess of sheets and blankets. "You're clearly not thinking straight."
"You shush. This has nothing to do with you," she replied, finally stepping into the room, and switching the lights on. Even though Ross' head never really made act of presence that morning and he never worded a proper response other than groaning, I clearly remember how he raised a hand, his middle finger sticking out triumphantly.
"I'm not so sure about this, Mon..." I quietly whined.
"Look, maybe you should just get dressed now, and then you'll thank me later," she turned her attention to me, dismissing Ross' obscene gesture with a roll of her eyes, and rummaging through my scattered around clothes, "and maybe organize this a little bit, too; it's making me crazy, and I've been here for a minute."
I opened my mouth again, because I wanted to fight, and I wanted to sleep, and I definitely wanted to avoid taking part in any kind of athletic event, except I simply put on the clothes she hastily threw at me, and then got dragged to wherever she wanted to go as if I were a man possessed, because, frankly, I was just too tired to contradict her.
It took us almost 50 minutes to walk to an empty basketball court in a park in the middle of nowhere (that fact alone made me want to commit suicide), and even if comfortable beds occupied my mind most of the way, I couldn't help but think of the fact that she wanted to play basketball with me. I mean, really? Basketball? Do I even look remotely good at basketball?
In any case, when we got there, Monica took the ball in her hands and then looked around the deserted basketball court for a minute, hopefully realizing what a huge mistake she'd made. I hoped, because in case mentioning it three times wasn't enough, I just wanted to sleep some more.
"You know, I don't think you've thought this through," I started, taking a pack of cigarettes out of my jacket pocket and placing one between my lips. "I mean, y'know, we're two people, and we're alone, and you want me to play basketball? It sounds kind of ridiculous, if you really think about it."
"Chandler?!" Monica half-asked, half-exclaimed. It was something I'd call a shrieking question, but I may be making that term up.
"What," I said with little care, all my attention focused on lighting my cigarette.
"Are you smoking?!" she incredulously asked, stressing all the possible syllables that those three words allowed. That's when I realized what I'd been doing, and why Monica'd sounded louder than usual.
"Aw, shit, yeah," I said, taking a first, long drag, not ready to let it go so quickly. "See how early it is? I don't even know what I'm doing."
"But you told me you'd quit," she pointed out the truth.
"True, yeah, you're right..." I said, breathing in slowly and enjoying these treasured moments as much as I could.
"So?"
"So, well, it's possible I might've lied," I admitted, blowing some smoke out of my nose. If I'm honest, the pleasure that that little cylinder held inside of it was incredibly hard to give up.
"You might've lied?" she parroted me, letting go of the basketball dramatically, as if we were in the middle of some second-rate movie. Monica's expression of pure horror when she found out a few months ago about my 'disgusting habit' (her words) was still pretty much ingrained in my head.
"Yeah, I mean, you seemed so upset when you found out I was a smoker, but I don't think I'm ready to quit just yet," I hesitated. "So, I try to smoke when you're not around, which is incredibly difficult, if you think about it, because... well, you're almost always around."
"Okay, well, I'll be less around then," she raised her arms in the air, bobbing her head, and radiating sarcasm. I thought my mind was the impaired one due to such unearthly hours, but Monica's didn't seem to be working very clearly either.
"That's not what I meant, and you know it," I rolled my eyes, taking another drag off the cigarette.
"And what was your brilliant idea, anyway? How are we supposed to play now? You won't be able to perform any physical activity without an oxygen tank or something," she pointed out.
Quick interruption: I'm not sure if my mind was simply very dirty, but I swallowed back some comments about how I'd been performing physical activities with her for months, free from any kind of medical assistance. A smirk tugged at my lips.
"I'm sorry, but I really, really needed to breathe some of this. If you want me to function properly, that is," I smirked some more.
"God, you're slowly killing yourself..." she whispered, staring at me from the corner of her eye and folding her arms across her chest. I came to the conclusion that things were better left unsaid, so I shut up, and so did she. That is, until she started to examine me from head to toe. Then, her lips seemed like they were quirking at the corners for a second, but a proper smile never really materialized, so I didn't know how to confirm my suspicions.
"What?" I asked, eyeing myself from head to toe, too.
"Nothing, it's just..." her voice trailed off, and then she squirmed, "maybe you should just stop smoking for real. You know, for me."
"Oh, please, no, don't do that. You know I'm weak when it comes to emotional blackmail!" I desperately cried.
"I don't want to blackmail you, Chandler, but..." she trailed off again, and her insecurity started to make me feel something that surpassed nervousness by a full-triple somersault. "Well, I suppose I should just tell you now. Maybe it is the right time, y'know."
"Tell me what?" I asked, taking a final, quick puff of smoke.
"No, no, forget it," she waved her hand dismissively, and I coughed out an ironic laugh.
"No, you're not doing that to me," I shook my head resolutely. "What right time? Now you definitely have to tell me."
"Okay, the thing is..." she trailed off once again, Jesus Christ Almighty, rid me of this punishment, "Chandler, I'm pregnant."
And my cigarette effectively abandoned my fingers. This is not something I clearly remember happening, but when I later searched for it in my hands, it just wasn't there anymore. I don't remember much else from these pathetic seconds, but I recall my heart, liver, and small intestine abruptly piling up in my throat, and it's possible I heavily went through the obvious benefits of celibacy, too. My tongue seemed to have been stuck in place, my whole body had tensed, and I seriously thought I was going to pass out, since an annoying hiss rang loudly in my ears.
But then, powerful laughter made my eardrum vibrate.
Wait a minute, that didn't sound right. Laughter? I must've been making things up. Oh, but no, I was sure it was laughter. But why would I be laughing when my whole life had just ended? I wondered silently to myself. I looked down, and found out it wasn't coming from me.
"Oh, my God, Chandler!" Monica said, laughing. "You look like you're about to die, I was just joking!"
What came next was a succession of blank stares and some furious blinking that lasted longer than any respectable person would like to admit.
"Jo- Joking?" I asked, my hand reflexively clasped to my chest.
"Yeah, I'm sorry!" she apologized, but she'd made it sound so breezy, her apology had somehow stopped being sincere halfway through the execution. "But look, you stopped smoking so, in a way, it worked!"
This is when my stare stopped being so blank, my blinking stopped being so furious, and I was left only with the astonishment and anger that the worst joke ever pulled had graced me with. Mind me, I cursed a lot.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Monica!" my muscles finally unlocked, and I started pacing around the empty court like an insane individual while repeatedly pushing both hands through my hair. "You don't joke about that shit, Monica. You just don't!"
"But why not?" she said, and the most sarcastic scoff the world has ever witnessed poured out of me.
"What do you mean, 'why not?'" I scoffed again. "Because it's not fucking funny!"
"Okay, look. First of all, calm down - you're probably right," she calmly uttered the understatement of the century, and I paced around some more. "But seriously, you should've seen your face. You know, maybe you'd be laughing now if you had!"
"I don't need to see my face, Monica. I just lived it!" I exclaimed, and she started laughing again. This forced me to stop pacing back and forth, because she wasn't laughing softly, no. It was more like hysterical, hyena laughs that she tried to repress with both hands to no avail.
"I'm sorry, I can't-" she continued laughing, her eyes filling with happy tears. "I don't know what's gotten into me, I'm sorry!" she said, and then blabbered something in a language unknown to human beings, so more laughter ensued. It came to a point where, after she'd been laughing alone for nearly a minute, it began to feel incredibly infectious, so almost all the anger drained out of my body and I ended up letting out a small chuckle, too. Damn. "Hah, you laughed too!"
I pursed my lips together, covered my mouth with my knuckles. "No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did!" she said, accusing me with her finger. "You laughed, you did!"
"Okay, yeah, maybe I did. But I'm still mad, okay?" I said around a laugh, and she nodded knowingly, taking deep breaths and trying to force her laughter to die down.
"But now seriously, I'm really sorry," she said after a beat, wiping her eyes. "That was not my wisest moment, I'll admit it."
"It might be your dumbest moment, in fact."
"Yeah, you're probably right..." she carefully bit her lower lip, and I chewed the insides of my cheeks. "Forgive me?" she begged, and I took on a pondering air, trying to unsuccessfully keep the suspense going.
"Yeah, sure," I said as my expression changed to a smile. "I mean, who am I trying to fool?"
"I'm not complaining, but you're a softie, you know," she said, adorably skipping towards me and resting her hands on the nape of my neck, playing with the hair there.
"So I've been told, yeah," I nodded, wrapping my arms around her waist. "But you've actually ruined me, y'know. Before I met you, I swear, I randomly punched people on the street just because I felt like it," I joked, and then she laughed. The internal fulfilment I felt every time she laughed at something I'd said is something I find, still to this day, indescribable.
"You still wanna play?" she asked, like there'd been any moment today where I'd wished to do that. "I mean, we can do whatever you want, I don't care."
"No, sure, we can play for a while," I nodded, grinning like an imbecile. I'm a weak, weak man, but you probably know that already.
"Cool," she retreated from my arms, walking towards the ball she'd dramatically dropped when she'd temporarily swapped bodies with the main character of a soap opera, "but don't hate me when I kick your ass, huh?"
"Please, let's not get overly intense, okay?" I pleaded, trying to keep the physical activity to a minimum.
"I'm not intense, baby, I was born this good!" she gloated, bouncing the ball on the floor like some quasi-professional player. I was seriously starting to get a little scared.
"Alright, Michael Jordan, settle down," I said around a skeptical laugh, rolling up my jacket's sleeves.
"The fact that we're only two people might be a problem. So, we could just try shots for now," she said, without waiting for my approval, positioning herself. "I'll start, if you don't mind."
"Sure, go ahead," I waved my hand at her, glad that my pending humiliation would get delayed by a few moments. She arched her back, chewing on her lip, and when the ball had just left her hands, I already knew she'd make a clean shot. It was that perfect. Half a second after I'd already known, the ball went through the net with ease. It wasn't that big of a surprise, though, since she probably thought her dignity, pride, and entire existence were at stake.
"I told you I was good," she chuckled, passing me the ball. "You try now."
"Yeah, whatever," I dismissively said, trying to look nonchalant in order to diminish the humiliation I'd probably suffer. What happened next caught us both by surprise: even though my technique was more than deficient, I actually made the shot, and the ball went through the net with a wonderful swoosh sound that made my insides tingle with pure pride. I raised my arms vigorously, jumped like a man on ecstasy, and screamed triumphantly into the air. Okay, so my nonchalance lasted 7 unforgettable seconds.
"Nice shot!" she excitedly said, sending a pair of thumbs up my way. "But don't get too excited, your luck will run out eventually," she said, picking the ball off the ground. This might sound crazy after what she'd said, but I found Competitive Monica somewhat endearing, and completely amusing.
Anyway, in my opinion, most of what happened after that is pretty much unremarkable: we kept this little back and forth game of ours going for some time, and while she made most of her shots, I simply didn't. I soon grew tired of being shamed, and while my lack of luck (or skills) was palpable, there were no words within the English language to describe the smug smile she was now sporting.
"Watch and weep, Bing. I'm about to destroy you for like the seventh time today!" she said, spinning the ball in her hands.
Okay, that was too much, event for a tolerant fellow like me. What could I possibly have left? Not my dignity, I was sure, but I still had my height. The difference between us was not astounding, but there were times when she looked minute in comparison, so it was worth a try. That's why when the ball was about to leave her fingers, I ran and tried to block her shot with everything I had - I succeeded.
A loud thump echoed in the entire empty park, and it simultaneously drained every bit of happiness Monica'd felt up until now. I rushed to get a hold of the ball before she did, but then found out that no such efforts were required, since she just stayed unmoving in place, her smug smile more than defunct now.
"Watch and weep, Geller!" I triumphantly laughed, and she swallowed thickly. It was nice to see our roles from before reversed, but I started to feel a little bad, so I hesitated for a second, "Hey, you okay?"
"That was not funny, give me the ball," she returned to earth, trying to take it from my hands.
"No, I'm sorry, can't do," I stifled another laugh, hiding the ball behind my back.
"Come on now, Chandler. Play by the rules," she indignantly said, with a sense of entitlement.
"What rules? There are no rules here! Who made the rules?" I teased her, loving this
"Well, those are universal rules. Everybody knows them," she retorted, frustrated. "We take one shot at a time."
"I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about," I shrugged my shoulders, enjoying her frustration more than I'd ever care to admit (at least to her). At that moment, I somehow found the flawed idea of ignoring her completely brilliant, so I turned around, and aimed at the hoop on the other half of the court.
"Oh, you little-!" she screeched loudly, losing every last, little fragment of patience in her body. Just seconds before I could fail miserably, she jumped on me from behind, pulling the hoodie of my jacket over my head, and even though Monica was far from being heavy, the unpredictability of her actions made my legs give way beneath me. The fall was just ridiculous, and I ended up with my face pressed against the concrete, Monica sitting on top of my butt. Things could've been worse, to be honest. The ball rolled away from us, hiding itself under a bush.
"Ow, what are you doing?" I rolled over, trying to lay on my back. "Don't... bully me!"
"You are the one bullying me!" she said, proving her statement by hitting me time and again in the arm. It was in a rather girly way, but still, it kind of hurt.
"Oh, come on, I'm just messing around!" Monica glared at me in a way that should've been menacing, but that I found downright endearing. "How can you not see that? You're totally blinded by your competitiveness, Mon."
A twitch of a smile started to form across her lips, and I couldn't help but mirror her expression.
"Yeah, no- I know!" she happily said after a moment's deliberation, even though nobody believed that utterly fake statement.
"Yeah, sure you do!" I repeated, matching her tone. Remember the 'you smartass' smile? Well, here it was again.
"This has been more fun than you expected, right?" she said around a small laugh, playing with the strings of my jacket. "I mean, I know you thought it was a crazy idea at first, but I just wanted to have a little fun with you, is all."
And maybe this was because I was a simple-minded guy, and maybe this was the universe rejecting my celibacy idea, but for the longest three seconds of my life, my attention on its entirety was only focused on the sweetness that surrounded her words, and on how she was sitting on top of me, and on how she was playing with my jacket, and on how I could feel her warm breath against my cool skin, and on how two stupid, thin layers of clothing were the only thing separating us right then.
A non-committal sound came out of me; a word would've been better.
"Fun- yeah, sure," I nervously stumbled over my words.
"As I risk repeating myself," she chuckled softly. "You, sir, are too cute."
"Yeah, you're probably just biased," I chuckled along with her, which then caused a couple of coughs worthy of a dying eighty-year-old man to come out me. Monica looked at me with puppy eyes, and even though she was probably too old to pull that expression off, she did it in a way that could only be considered insanely endearing.
"Please, stop smoking," she pleaded, brushing her thumb against my cheek, and I sighed ruefully.
"But why? It's not like I'm forcing you to do it," I helplessly uttered.
"No, Chandler, c'mon. You know why," she earnestly said, and I think I did.
Time slowed and stilled, and then we both leaned in closer, taking all the time we needed, as if we were magically wired to do it that way. Then we melted into an inappropriate kiss, given how we were in a public space and all, but I no longer cared. This was it - nothing else mattered then, not for those feeble seconds where we just kissed, and where it honestly felt like we were the only two people in the whole world.
Decorum flew out the window, because in that precise instant, it just wasn't about that, not really; it was about how right it felt - how right it felt in my mind, and in my heart, and even in my fingertips, it doesn't matter. They were just sensations, I couldn't make anything of them, at least not then, but during those few seconds where we just sat in the middle of that stranded court, I swear, I felt it everywhere.
Monica pulled apart in the middle of a sigh, pressing her forehead against mine and running her hands through my hair. I gave her a sweet peck on the nose, just because I felt like it. "I will stop," I then whispered into her mouth while my eyes remained closed. "You happy now?"
She smiled at me from ear to ear, and I swear again, the whole world stopped turning.
"Yes."
A/N: Tired of pointless chapters yet? Well, fear no more. You'll miss them when you find out what I've got planned next. *Evil laughter*
Am I kidding? Who knows.
I'm sorry about the delay, but I've been trying to recover from the severe emotional damage that Me Before You inflicted upon me (RECOMMENDED - if you don't mind having your heart shattered into a million pieces, that is). It took me less than 24 hours to read it, yet I have been crying 3 days over it. It was so heartbreakingly beautiful that I know look at my writing with some sort of disdain. Plus, it's kinda hard to write light-hearted stuff when you're crying over fictional characters. Oh my, Will Traynor, why would you do this to me.
That's not the only reason, though. The other is that when I was almost finished with this, my computer suffered a timely, temporary power outage and no changes were saved. Man, that made me wanna cry, too.
Anyway, please, review!
