CHANDLER

The first night that Chandler and Joey slept curled together, he was unsure how to feel. Overjoyed, naturally, but equally anxious and confused. It was as though after three years of friendship, it was only when Chandler committed to letting Joey go that they grew closer than ever. He wondered if it meant anything, but after much cogitation, came to the conclusion he would never be able to decipher it and opted to enjoy it instead. He allowed the warmth of affection to flood his body and cherished the fleeting contentment.

When the doctor informed Chandler that it would be weeks before his symptoms subsided, he immediately wondered what Joey would do. How likely was it really that Joey would be willing to spend every night in his bed to look after him? Chandler was terrified to be alone. Losing track of time was a frightening and alienating experience. He never knew when he might come to in the middle of a busy street or if he might commit some unforgivable atrocity in his unconscious state.

It wasn't until that evening when Chandler announced, "I'm wiped. I'm gonna turn in," that he got his answer.

"Let me brush my teeth, I'll be right there," Joey started towards the bathroom, then paused, "If that's cool."

Chandler smiled. "Thanks."

Nine more nights of Joey sleeping in his bed and nine more days of intermittent black outs came and went. On the tenth day, Chandler knew there was something wrong. Too much time had passed with no improvement to show for it. He still lost time, oscillated between freezing cold and burning hot, and was haunted with the omnipresent sense of being watched without alleviation.

He woke up Wednesday morning mildly disheveled. He could remember up until dinner last night, but everything after that was gone. It was preferable to the times he woke in the middle of the day with no recollection of how he got there or what was happening, but it brought a powerful sense of loneliness. This was doubled by the fact that the side of the bed Joey usually occupied was empty. Chandler recalled an audition being mentioned. He must have left early.

Chandler shook off the disquiet, assessed that he was late for work, took a cold shower to counteract the menopause-like mood swing he was having, and headed to the office.

"Mr. Bing," Laura greeted as he walked past her desk. She looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"Morning," he replied.

"Someone's been calling for you."

"Who?" it was unusual for his friends to call his work phone.

"He said you would know who it was. He's called ten times. It's tying up the line. Please ask him to stop."
"I know who it is?" Chandler wondered aloud.

"Here," she passed him a sticky note with ten digits scrawled on it, "That's the number. The office phones aren't for personal calls."
"Sorry. I'll tell him to knock it off. Thanks," Chandler studied the number as he walked to his cubicle and found that the area code belonged to someone in the city.

His first thought was the stalker, but he waved it away. The stalker was only a figment of his imagination, fabricated by his sick brain.

He typed in the number, pressing each digit deliberately, careful not to mistype, and listened intently to the dial tones.

"Hello," a man answered.

"Who is this?" Chandler demanded.

"Hi, Chandler. I hope you're feeling better," the voice was soft and struck a vague recognition in him.

"Did you call me here before?"

There was no response.

"Are you real?" Chandler lowered his voice.

"I…"

"You what? What do you want from me?" he was growing panicked, exacerbated by the lack of answers he was receiving, "I know you're following me!" he hissed.

"I'm sorry."

"I knew it! You are real," he exclaimed, then sobered upon the realization his fears were true, "Why are you following me?"

"Could we talk face-to-face?"

"Are you kidding me?" Chandler gawked at the idea of meeting his stalker.

"Please," the voice was unintimidating, almost pathetic.

"What for?"

"I think I can explain better in person. I'll wait for you at the pizza parlor down the block from your work. I have on a red parka. When do you think-"

Chandler slammed the phone down on the receiver, then twice more for good measure.

The walls of the room started spinning, leaving fuzzy lines and blurry colors in their wake. He held both his hands on his desk for balance. A coworker peered over their cubicle wall, but Chandler ignored him.

When the spell passed, he threw his coat over his shoulders and strode towards the elevator. "I'm sick," he said gruffly to Laura as he passed her, and God knew it was true.

Outside, the sky was leaden, covered in a solid layer of basalt gray clouds that didn't permit any sunlight to break through. It snowed last night and the once sparkling white, untrodden snow was now darkened and discolored. The chill felt good against his rising temperature.

He sped down the sidewalk and resisted breaking into a run. His stomach turned wildly to the point he thought he might throw up. This person, this stalker, had slipped through the cracks of his illness and taken advantage of him. He wouldn't stand for it.

Chandler wasn't sure what he was going to say when he threw open the shop door. He didn't have to scan the room. The man in the garishly red parka was standing beside a booth, gazing nervously at him.

Whatever Chandler expected, it wasn't him. His face was all sharp angles, thin, upturned nose, prominent cheekbones accentuated by his lean cheeks, and a sharp-edged jaw. He was several inches shorter than Chandler and freckles dotted his skin beneath piercing, cerulean eyes. He emitted an unassuming and tentative quality. He wore a beanie atop his mop of red hair and played with his hands as Chandler slowly approached.

"Hi," he squeaked and stuck out his hand. Chandler stared at him, taking in the full picture. He knew this man — he was sure of it now.

"Where do I know you from?"

The man rescinded his hand. "It's really good to see you."

Fury flooded through Chandler. After everything he'd gone through, he deserved some answers. He fisted the front of the man's parka and pulled him closer. "Tell me who you are," he growled.

The man whimpered piteously and glanced to the side. Chandler followed his gaze and saw a patron staring suspiciously at them. Chandler released and stepped away, not eager to be thrown out of a restaurant. "Sit down," he said and they both slid into the booth. He waited until the patron lost interest before he continued. "I know you from somewhere."

The man adjusted himself. He clasped his bony hands atop the table. "We met in January. I wasn't paying attention and I walked across the road. You saved me. I would have died if it weren't for you."

"Oh," Chandler remembered. It was the awkward man that enthusiastically shook his hand and praised him. "So why are you following me?"

"I'm sorry," he wrung his hands, "I felt like I never got to properly thank you. I want to pay you back somehow."

"I can promise you this is not the way," Chandler spoke flatly. After all this time, the spine-chilling fear of prying eyes and the disturbing image of whoever was following him, it was this small man who radiated harmlessness. It was almost a relief. But not quite.

"What's your name?" Chandler asked.

"James Daniels. You can call me Jimmy though."

"I'd rather not."

James grimaced. "Chandler, will you hear me out please?

Chandler didn't respond, which James seemed to take as a yes.

"I know I fucked up. I'm really sorry. I wanted to thank you and I made it way worse. At first, I was trying to work up the courage to talk to you, but you're so intimidating-"

"Intimidating?" Chandler scoffed.

"Yeah! I mean with all your friends and your serious job. I couldn't do it. Then something happened. I didn't want to stop. I admired you so much and I never had a chance at being your friend, so I kept doing it. I didn't want to upset you. It was hard to stop. I did a few times, but then you got sick and I wanted to keep an eye out for you. I thought I could help. I didn't," he said somberly, "I think I made it worse."

Chandler shook his head. "You didn't. It doesn't work like that."

"Well, long story short, I wanted to do something nice for you and then I turned into a class-A stalker."

Chandler sighed. The story took the wind out of his sails. All of his anger fell flat and he was left empty. No vindication came with the discovery or confession. "Will you stop?"

"Yes!" James nodded fervently, "Of course."

"'Of course'," Chandler laughed dryly.

James shrunk.

"Look, now you've thanked me. Can we call it even?"

"You saved my life."

"Can you stop saying that?" Chandler ran a hand down his face, "It wasn't that big a deal honestly."

"It was to me."

"I'm getting that."

James looked away, abashed. "Do you want something to eat?"

Chandler's stomach growled. "No."

"What about a Coke?" James looked at him with such earnestness.

"Fine."

"I'll be right back," James rose from the booth and bustled to the counter.

"I can't believe this," Chandler muttered to himself. Maybe he should get up and leave. James promised not to follow him anymore. Chandler wouldn't take his word for it, but the man appeared utterly harmless. He'd rather be home with Joey. Chandler wondered if he was back from his audition yet. Still, Chandler stayed, whether it be out of curiosity or something else.

James slid back into the booth and procured Chandler's soda with a glass of his own to match.

"Did you invite me here as a date?" Chandler asked.

James coughed on his soda. "Not exactly."

"Is that a yes?"
James blushed. "Thank you for coming."

"This isn't a date," Chandler said with finality, "Did you ever go into my apartment?"

"No, I would never!"

Chandler studied him for signs of a lie, but found him impossible to read. "Where do you live?" he asked, rather than 'Exactly how far do you travel to come watch me do nothing?'

"On Anderson, by the movie theater if you know where that is."

Chandler was familiar. The neighborhood was putrefying and known for its high crime statistics. "Do you live by yourself?"

"Yes."

"I guess you don't need to ask where I live," Chandler said, not hiding the resentment from his statement.

"Yeah…" James played with his straw.

"I don't get it. I'm so damn boring, I even get tired of myself."

"I don't see it that way."

"What do you do, James?" Chandler was trying to piece together a complete image of this mysterious character, unable to accept he was as innocent as he put on.

"I'm an illustrator."

"An artist?" Chandler wished his job was as whimsical.

"It's not as interesting as it sounds. I draw images for text books and things like that. Like I said, I live on Anderson so I'm not exactly rolling in money. Do you like being an accountant?"

Chandler snorted. "God no. I don't think anyone does."

"Why don't you try something else?"

"I don't know how to do anything else, and I don't really have the time," Chandler wondered if it was disillusioning for James to hear what an uninteresting and lazy person he was.

"I'm sure you can do it," James said sincerely, apparently unfazed, "Are you sure you're not hungry?"

The wafting smell of pizza was making his insides ache.

"Just a slice," James urged, "It's not a date."

"Alright," Chandler acquiesced. To Hell with it, he was already here. "Pepperoni and sausage," he withdrew his wallet and handed James a ten. He could see James debating whether to accept the money, but he relented, apparently sensing the fit Chandler would throw if he insisted on paying. That was far too close to a date for his taste.

"I'm insane," he informed the empty seat across from him.

Suddenly, he was freezing. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to rub warmth back into his arms. He fought the chattering in his teeth.

After a few minutes, James returned to the booth and looked at him with wide eyes full of concern. "Chandler! Are you okay?"

"I'm f-fine. A little cold."

"Let me help," he wormed his way out of his parka and moved to drape it over Chandler's shoulder.

"Stop!" Chandler shouted. James froze. "Stop. I'm not your boyfriend. This," he gestured to them both, "isn't happening."

"I know," James said quietly.

"Do you? I'm not who you think I am. I'm a lonely, desperate douchebag. There's nothing special or mysterious about me besides that I might be the single most boring guy on Earth. I need you to leave me alone. Let me die in peace, okay?"

James gave a small nod.

"Tell me you understand."
"I understand."

Chandler exhaled, tired once again. "Thanks for the Coke," he moved to walk away.
"Wait!" James called, "I-I wish I could take back a lot of what I did, but I know I'm not wrong about one thing: you are interesting and a good person. You can leave hating me, but I need you to know that," his hands were balled at his sides.

Chandler regarded him. "Don't call me again."

Once he was out of the parlor, and after resisting the urge to slam the glass door, he began to sway. He focused on his feet, the way his boots crunched the snow beneath. His muscles quivered, but his face was burning hot. Each step grew more labored and he opened his mouth to pant. All he could hope was that James didn't see the display of illness.

JOEY

Joey waited in his recliner unable to focus on the TV, fidgeting, and continually glancing at the door whenever he heard a sound. It was half past six, a good hour after Chandler usually returned home from work, before Joey gave up. He dejectedly stumbled into Monica and Rachel's apartment to find the whole group (sans Chandler) spread throughout. He pouted childishly at the table while none of the others took notice, blithely chatting amongst themselves.

A half hour passed and Joey said next to nothing, only growing more glum at the lack of attention, when there was a creak from the front door. It swung part way open, but no one appeared in the threshold. The group exchanged speculative glances before Ross, bravest of them all, approached. "Hello?" he called.

Slowly, Chandler shuffled inside and Ross froze in his tracks. Rachel gasped and the rest of the group stared, momentarily dumbstruck. Chandler was soaking wet, droplets of water falling from hair that was plastered against his forehead. He wore his chinos, button-up, and vest, but had lost his shoes and jacket somewhere along the way. His clothes dripped on the hardwood as he moved. His lips were pale blue and his cheeks completely drained of color. If the entire appearance weren't already disturbing enough, his eyes were glazed over and he didn't seem to recognize where he was at all.

"Chandler?" Ross said.

Monica was the first to come to her senses. "He's sopping wet! Put him on the sofa," she ordered and darted to her bedroom. Ross led a pliant Chandler to the couch and gently set him down. The group gathered around him, Joey sitting on the coffee table opposite Chandler. His vacant expression stared sightlessly through Joey.

Monica reappeared with a bundle of fabric. "Get him out of that shirt," she procured a thick sweater.

"Can you get his arms," Ross asked Joey and Joey leapt to pick both of Chandler's arms up so that the vest could be worked off.

After much struggling, they were able to dress him in the sweater. Joey took one of the towels and tried to soak up the water in his hair. Chandler appeared to enjoy the touch as he closed his eyes and leaned closer to Joey.

Monica draped a blanket around him. "Why are you all wet?"

Chandler hummed for a moment. "Went in the fountain."

It was the first time he spoke since his arrival. It should have been a good sign, but his uncharacteristically airy tone sent chills down Joey's spine.

"Why did you go in the fountain?" Rachel asked.

"I was hot," he replied, as if it were that simple.

Rachel looked to the others with mortification. Joey couldn't blame her. It was terrifying behavior to witness, but he had seen it before when his grandfather was overpowered by Alzhiemer's. It hurt to imagine that Chandler was experiencing the same pain and confusion.

"It's snowing!" Rachel said like it could change Chandler's answer.

"Snowing," he repeated.

Rachel held her hand to his forehead. "He's hot. Honey, can you get some Tylenol?"

"On it," Monica replied and went to retrieve the medicine.

"Should we take him to the hospital?" Joey asked.

"Maybe we should wait to see if the meds help," Ross answered.

"Did he seem sick before this?" Phoebe directed the question at Joey.

"Not flu-sick."

"The ANDD?" Ross supplied.

"The doctors said it would take a while before the meds started working."

Monica returned with a glass of water and Tylenol. "See if we can get him to drink some water too. It'll be good for him," then softer, to Chandler, "How are you feeling, sweetie?"

"Sleepy," he murmured.

"I don't think we should leave him alone," said Monica.

Joey agreed. "I'll keep an eye on him tonight. If it gets any worse, I'll let you guys know."

There was a collective, commiserative silence as they grappled with circumstances. Rachel combed her fingers through Chandler's hair and picked out leaves that she placed in a neat pile on a couch cushion.

"Can you eat?" Joey asked Chandler.

Chandler shook his head. "Not hungry."

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Went to the pizza place. Got a Coke."

"When?" Joey pressed.

Chandler's breathing was steady and he appeared to be on the verge of falling asleep right there. "Let's get him to bed," Monica decided.

Ross held Chandler's shoulders and walked him across the hall and into his room with Joey following on his heels. Ross flashed him a look when Joey stepped on the backs of his shoes, but didn't say anything. "I'm gonna lay him on his side in case he gets sick," Ross explained, "Just listen out for him, okay?"

"I know," Joey tried not to snap at Ross. Of course he would be looking out for Chandler. He didn't need to be told to.

"You want me to bring you something to eat?" Ross asked.

"Nah," he wanted Ross gone so that he could climb into bed beside Chandler without judgment.

"You sure?"

"I'm good. Do you think you could call him out of work in the morning?"

"Sure, no problem. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Let me know how he's doing."

"He'll be okay," Joey said, but neither were comforted.

Joey waited until Ross was gone to hurry into Chandler's room. He crawled into bed, facing a drooling Chandler, and studied his face. The color returning to his cheeks was a small relief.

"Will you open the window?" Chandler's voice spooked Joey.

"Hey, you're awake," he said softly.

"The window," Chandler repeated.

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

Chandler groaned. "It's my room."

"Okay, so you open it."

Chandler nuzzled further into the pillow. "No."

Joey chuckled. "Fine then. Window stays closed," he paused, "What do you remember today? Do you remember the fountain?"

"Went to work, then I met him."

Joey furrowed his eyebrows. "Who's him?"

"Him- James. I told you about him."

"No, you definitely didn't."

"I got soda."

"You went out with him?" Joey flushed, hot with jealousy, "Where did you meet him?"

"I've seen him around," Chandler gave a high-pitched laugh.

"I thought you were serious about whatshisface?"

"I lied."

Joey couldn't understand why he would lie about something like that. "Do you really like this new guy?"

"He likes me."

"So you met up and then he took you on a date?"

"No. I told him it wasn't a date."

Joey rubbed his temples. It was borderline impossible to get information out of Chandler when he was like this. "Are you going to see him again?"

"I hope not."

Joey relaxed. "So you don't like him?"

"I don't know," Chandler frowned, "I like you."

Joey's heart danced in his chest. "I like you too."

"I used to like-you like-you."
The excitement in his chest turned to stone. "But not anymore?"

"Why is the window closed?"

Joey sighed. "So you don't turn into a popsicle."

"I like popsicles."

###

"Joey."

Joey scrunched his eyes further closed.

"Joey," the voice hissed and a hand nudged Joey's back.

"Hmmm," Joey groaned.

"Please- wake up," Chandler's voice cracked.

Joey's eyes flew open and he flipped over to face Chandler. He was curled on his side, clutching a pillow to his chest, with fear written across his face. "I don't know how I got here."

"Hey, whoa, it's okay," Joey laid a hand on Chandler's shoulder, "You're safe."

Chandler shook his head. "Do you know what happened?"
Joey swallowed, reluctant to wake his friend up with such bad news. "We can talk about it later."

"Tell me."

It was his right to know. Joey's discomfort was not a fair reason to deny him knowing what was going on. It was a reality they both had to face. "You came home late. You were all wet and said you went in a fountain."

Chandler covered his face with a hand. "Please tell me you're joking. Does everyone know?"

"Yeah, but it's nothing to be embarrassed about. We're worried about you."

"I'm going insane."

"You're not."

They sat in the thick silence as Chandler digested what this new information meant.

"I think you should go back to the doctor," Joey said.

"Yeah."

Chandler didn't remember their talk last night, which was most likely for the best. Joey felt grimy from forcing personal information out of Chandler when he was in such a state. If he kept those secrets, it must have been for a reason.

Chandler reached out and laced his fingers through Joey's then curled in and pressed his forehead against his chest. Joey stayed very still so as to not scare his friend away. After some time passed, Chandler fell back asleep and Joey ran his fingers through Chandler's hair, admiring the curls of his bedhead.