Chandler set the cup down, wobbling, as his mind drifted through the seven seas.

"So what are you gonna do?"

"What can I do? One person wants to break up, you break up."

"Hey, no way! Come on, this is you guys. Call her, and work it out."

"Oh come on, we just had this huge fight, all right, don't I have to wait a while?"

"Hey, this isn't like swimming after you eat, pick up the phone!"

He could have stopped it all. He could have prevented this suffering, and yet he was too drunk, too lost to even think about anyone but himself that night. Like usual, Chandler attempted to get laid, but even inebriated club girls would not go for him. He became ignorant to the disaster that was happening across the room. The guilt surged through Chandler's mind, completely expelling Monica and that can of worms. His best friend could be dead right now, and he never got to say good-bye. To think of all they've been through, only to have it taken from him and everyone else so fast, so sudden. Life really is short, and being sad or pissed off all the time just isn't worth it.

Chandler thought about the rest of his friends: Rachel and Monica, both affected in their own ways, but equally hurt, nonetheless. Joey, who, while good at acting tough, was easy to read. And Phoebe, who simply hid her emotions, winced at any mention of Ross. Honestly, Chandler would switch places with him in a second. Ross had more to lose. A functional family, a loving girlfriend, a son, a job he didn't hate, etc. Everything that was missing from Chandler's life. It'd be easier for him to just waste away, no one to miss him. While his quiet modesty often made him believe that no one cared about him, he actually hoped this might be true in a situation like this. Things simply would have been better off. No harm, no foul. Then, he would be able to forget about her.

True, he did have feelings for Monica. At one point, he had feelings for Rachel and Phoebe too; those dissolved relatively quickly, however. Monica was the middle ground. Beautiful, yet not shallow. Fun to be around, but not eccentric. Chandler meant what he said yesterday, but his worries lied in the fact that Monica would create a false ulterior motive for his words. That he was creepy, or that he tried to take advantage of her while she was vulnerable. Chandler tried his best to seem genuine, despite not knowing if he actually was. The fact of the matter remains, however, that he loves his friends, and he would protect Monica with his life; with no romantic intention whatsoever.

Unfortunately for him, Monica had a different perspective.

To her, Chandler was the joker of the group. The funny man. The guy they counted on to eradicate any awkwardness in the room; this was untrue yesterday, however. Something became totally different about him; something serious. His blitheness nullified into pure resolve. Suddenly, she felt safe with him. Whether or not Chandler had feelings for her, he replaced that emptiness that Ross had filled. Monica was perfectly content with that; but her own feelings? No.

It was nothing more than a little crush. It had to be. If she kept telling herself this it would have to go away, right? She lived across from him for more than 4 years, and not a single ounce of heat between them. It had to be the circumstances. Monica felt exposed, and her heart was pouring out emotion ever since the accident. All of them were shaken since that night, and they were just being there for each other like good friends are supposed to be. That had to be it, right?

Chandler took another long and thoughtful drag from his cigarette, flipping the newspaper to the business section.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Joey burst through the front doors of Central Perk, clearly angry that Chandler was smoking.

Chandler chuckled lightly and put his hands up in a mock defense. "Oh no, you caught me!" He set down his newspaper. "Aren't you supposed to with Rachel?"

Joey took his cigarette and stubbed it out. "She went to work. Why'd you lie? Better yet, why are you smoking, Chandler?" He put his hand on his buddy's shoulder.

Chandler sighed heavily, putting his head into his hands. "Look man, I needed time to think. We've all been on edge. I can't have one smoke?"

"Dude," Joey paused, turning towards him. "There are better ways. Talk to me."

His voice fell pensive. "I feel guilty."

"Why?"

"I could've stopped Ross that night from ever sleeping with Chloe, but I didn't." Tears started running down his cheeks, as he stood up and turned his back to Joey.

Joey did the same and patted Chandler on the back. "Hey man, we didn't know what was going to happen. You can't let this get to you."

Chandler scoffed at Joey's attempt to cheer him up. "Yeah, but when Ross wakes up and Monica tells him what I said, he's gonna kick my ass!"

"You guys are best friends. He would never do that. Now come on. Don't you want to see him? And her?" Joey's eyes widened as Chandler turned around, and nodded. They promptly left the coffeehouse, but not before Chandler left his fear with it.

Ross turned to look at her one last time; he would never forget that beautiful face and seraphic voice as Rachel said 'I love you'. The plastic frown on her face melted as he stepped onto the ship, bound for France. The terror that had steeped through him made him cringe at the final step; it was no longer the port in New York. It had crumbled into dirt, and the skies became overcast. The sight of smoke was abundant, and the whistling of bullets were heard all around. He stood in a trench; dirty, wet, and smelled of death. Ross tried to convince himself it was a dream, but he knew it would just end up with him in another chimera. Peeking out of the hole, it was no longer France; it was the Western Front of 1918. Holding his now weightless rifle, the next sound he heard made him nauseous.

"Over the top!"

Ross simply sat down, waiting for fate to take him. Just like that night. Why the hell would he even be having a dream about World War I? What is this test he's being given? Maybe, in his dreams, he had control. He just needed to figure out how to use it. The only thing holding him back was fear; fear that he could not destroy by himself. Rachel Green. That was her name, and that was his salvation. That was the angel that would fly down from the heavens and take him home, out of this stupid cycle of nightmares. Still, there was nothing. None of the accursed wings to pick him up like last time, to melt the ice ahead. Ross had but one choice.

Fight. Fight to the end. Pass the threshold into No-Man's Land. He needed to stop running, and fight back against himself. Finally, he knew what these dreams meant. He had to fight. Not just for him, but for all his friends. To take up arms against an opposing force: his own mind. Thus, he climbed onto the edge of the trench, and stared at the vast expanse of brown and bodies in front of him. Clutching his rifle, his sanity, he dashed forward, ready to meet the enemy. His single thought was of his beloved. With his hopes and dreams behind him, Ross pushed through the barbed wire and landmines that littered his mind, disintegrating from his desire to fight for her. Soon enough, he stared into the death that were the German machine guns ahead, and smiled.

In a bright flash, Ross's lifeline had come for him, covered in the whitest satin gown, holding her precious hand out. He stood strong, and placed her upon a golden pedestal, where she can be worshipped like the goddess she is. Her skin shimmered like diamonds in the nirvana that embraced her. The barking of the guns ahead proved to be futile in their attempt to discourage his already known triumph. He marched forward, grabbing Rachel's hand, sweeping him away from the battlefield. In the mix of time and space that transported them, he gazed into her celestial eyes, and saw his entire future- with her, of course.

"Ross… I'm here now." Rachel's rapturous voice had enriched his already fiery heart.

They returned to that night. The night that neither of them ever wanted to come back to. Yet it is not about what they want; it is about what they need. And so he stood, with the barrel pointed at him again. But he did not surrender his belongings, nor raise his hands. He scrutinized his mugger, taking in his oily face and long hair. Rachel put her arms around her darling, and waited. Again, Ross smiled at his assailant, knowing it was safe. He spat into the face of the coward, and, as the New York wind blew, they were gone again.

In his promised land, Ross kissed Rachel, his spirit freed from its prison.

Freedom felt good.

AN: "Over the top!" was the command used by both sides in World War I in which troops had to leave the safety of their trenches and attempt to take an enemy's position. It was usually certain death, but it was the only way to advance. "No-Man's Land" was the large and open area in between trenches.