AN: "There could be a subcategory of Friends fanfic labeled 'Chandler Torture' - the poor guy, I think he's hurt, killed, abandoned, and betrayed far more than any of the other characters."—So true, Jess, so true! I think we should start up that subcategory…me and Monica-Bing can moderate, LOL. Well, if you all thought he was tortured before, you ain't seen nothin' yet!! LOL.
The Theory
Chapter VIII
One more point of contention
I need some intervention
Approached with vague intentions
Betray my short attention
Span the distance
Bridge the border
Beg forgiveness
Round the corner
("Everytime I Look For You"~Blink 182)
"Have you heard from Nora yet?" Rachel asked, as she and Ross walked into Monica's apartment.
"Not yet," Monica said, as she put the finishing touches on her crème brulee.
"Well, we've booked our tickets, so I guess no matter what, we're spending your birthday in Vegas," Ross laughed.
"Vegas, baybee!" Joey yelled, as he walked into the apartment.
"Sounds like you've changed your mind about Vegas, huh Joey?" Rachel asked.
"Well, I think someone needs to make sure Chandler doesn't get hurt again," Joey said gravely, looking directly at Monica as he spoke, "But yeah, I think we could have some fun."
"C'mon, Rach, let's go!" Monica stood at the front door, her plane ticket and cab fare in hand. She was anxious to get going—the faster they got to Vegas, the better. Monica had a sudden, uncontrollable urge to see Chandler, and she wasn't really sure why. Sighing heavily, she was about to yell at Rachel again when the phone rang.
"Got it!" Monica yelled, and rushed toward the phone.
"Hello? Oh, hi Nora…"
"Hey, are we going, or what?" Joey appeared in the doorway, and was shortly followed by Ross and Phoebe. Rachel emerged from her bedroom, several bags in hand, and shot Ross a look. He picked up on it, and made his way across the room to help her.
"Mon, c'mon, get off the phone, we gotta go," Ross said, as he moved toward the front door with Rachel and her multiple bags.
Monica hung up the phone, and turned to look at her friends. Her face was remarkably pale, and her eyes were lined with tears.
"Mon, what's going on?" Phoebe moved forward.
"Chandler's in Vegas. His father is dying," Monica's lower lip trembled, as she relayed the news to her friends. She now understood why she felt the need to be with Chandler now, more than ever.
The group could not get to the airport fast enough.
~***~
Chandler was slumped in the faded green vinyl chair, listening to the rhythmic beeping of his father's heart monitor. Chandler wasn't even sure that his father knew he was here. He'd only been conscious for a minute, and Chandler wasn't sure that Charles had registered his presence. Sighing heavily, Chandler leaned forward, and studied the face of the man that he had spent so many years despising. For years, Chandler had blamed his father for the divorce—for making his own life miserable. But in this moment—looking at his father's ghostly white complexion, his sunken cheeks, and his gaunt face—Chandler could not recall why he'd refused to speak to his father for so many years. Was it embarrassment? Was it really so bad, having a cross-dressing, gay father? Chandler took his father's bony hand in his, and sighed heavily.
It was time to let all of his insecurities go.
"Chandler?" Charles' voice was raspy and weak, and barely coherent.
"Hi…Dad," Chandler smiled warmly, and gave Charles' hand a light squeeze.
"You came…I didn't think you'd—" Charles was cut off by a fierce coughing fit.
"Yeah, I came. I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry I didn't come see you…I'm sorry I said I was too busy when you came to New York…" Chandler let his tears fall unchecked down his face, no longer caring that his voice had cracked, and he sounded more like the small, lost child he'd felt like all those years ago, in the courthouse.
"Shh…it's alright, son…I know…"
"Don't go…" Chandler pleaded stubbornly.
"Chandler…you'll be okay…I'm so proud of you, son…"
"Dad…dad?"
Charles closed his eyes, and soon fell into a coma from which he would never wake.
Chandler stifled another sob, and placed his head on the edge of his father's bed. Why did he always wait until it was too late to tell the people he loved how he felt about them? He loved his father…but he never told him. Whispering the words into his father's comatose ear, Chandler stood up, and stumbled out of the hospital room, and into the hallway. Charles' partner Will placed a heavy, warm hand on Chandler's shoulder, as the latter dropped his head, resigned to the fact that he would never get another chance to speak to his father. He took a deep breath, and looked up into Will's deep brown eyes. He'd never really known this man, but somehow, being around the man that his father had spent the last fifteen years with was reassuring; Will had a calmness about him—perhaps it was an acceptance that Chandler had yet to find. Unbeknownst to Chandler, Charles Bing had been sick for several years. Will had come to accept his limited time with Charles, and had cared for him until the very end. Chandler suddenly envied Will; this man knew more about his father than he did. But Chandler knew he had no one to blame for that fact but himself. Closing his eyes to center himself, he opened them only when he heard Will's gravely voice.
"He loves you, very much."
"I know," Chandler sighed. He gave Will a warm smile, before turning to walk down the long, cold corridor toward the waiting room.
He looked up, and was taken aback, but not totally shocked, by the sight before him: several feet away, stood his five friends.
Chandler walked down the hall slowly and deliberately, his heart heavy, and his eyes bloodshot. He felt Monica draw him into a hug, and numbly wrapped his arms around her. He felt like sinking to the ground, and sobbing like a child, but he didn't; he simply stood there, in her embrace, for several minutes. When he finally pulled away, his shoulders were trembling. Chandler looked at his friends, and smiled warmly.
"You came…you're here," was all he could say.
"Chandler…we're so sorry," Monica whispered, and pulled him into a hug once more.
Chandler could no longer hold in all that he was feeling. His father…his friends…his unresolved feelings for Monica…they had reached a boiling point, and Chandler could not take it anymore. He broke down completely, and was only vaguely aware of four other sets of arms taking hold of him, and supporting him in that moment.
"How is he?" Ross finally asked. The six friends had retreated to the hospital cafeteria for a cup of vending machine coffee.
"He's…he probably won't make it through the night," Chandler said in a small voice.
"Is he…how long has he been sick?" Joey asked softly.
"A long time. When he came down with Pneumonia last week, Will just knew…his immune system is gone…"
"How are you holding up?" Phoebe asked, squeezing Chandler's hand.
"Okay…I've been better…I'm glad you guys are here. How did you know?"
"Nora…she called," Monica said quickly, trying to avoid the tiny fact that they had called her first, to check up on Chandler.
"Oh," was all Chandler said, as he turned his coffee cup in his hand slowly.
~***~
It was unbearably hot, the day of the funeral. Monica shifted uncomfortably in her seat, sweating profusely, as the minister droned on and on about the afterlife.
The church was packed; drag queens, family members, and longtime "Helena Handbasket" devotees fanned themselves with their funeral programmes, each of them praying that the service would be short, and cursing the makers of the church for not installing air-conditioning. Monica sighed, and shifted again, as her skirt stuck stubbornly to her thighs. She looked across the aisle, and noted that Chandler and Will both seemed unaffected by the uncomfortable atmosphere. Both were sweating, but neither seemed to care. They both stared blankly at the casket that was sitting in the front of the church. Monica felt a wave of guilt rush through her, and immediately stopped fussing with her clothes.
Feeling her eyes on him, Chandler turned and met Monica's eyes. Monica gave him a reassuring, sympathetic smile, which Chandler acknowledged vaguely. He turned back toward the service, but carried Monica's image in his head…a reminder that he had more issues to resolve.
Monica wandered out into Charles' backyard, and spotted Chandler, seated on a small stone bench. She walked toward him slowly, then took a seat on the other end of the bench.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
Chandler looked up at her, then beyond her, to the house. She turned and looked at the group that had gathered inside for the post-funeral festivities.
"I don't really know any of them…they were his best friends…" he said sadly.
"They all know you," Monica said vaguely. She'd overheard one or two conversations about 'Charles' Estranged Son'.
"Yeah," Chandler sighed, and dug his toe into the red dirt that surrounded the bench.
"How long are you planning to stay here?"
"I dunno. You guys don't have to stay, if you need to get back," Chandler smiled politely.
"No, we'll stay as long as you want us to. We booked open-ended tickets."
"I appreciate that," Chandler smiled.
"Chandler, I…I have to tell you something. I just…I feel like if we…if we are going to rebuild our friendship, then I want to be totally honest with you."
"Okay," Chandler suddenly felt his stomach flutter.
"When Nora called…about your Dad…we, um…we were already on our way to the airport."
"What?" Chandler asked, confused.
"We…we wanted to see you, and you said you couldn't come to the party…"
"Wait…did you not believe me?" Chandler's eyes flashed.
"No, it wasn't like that…I—"
"You figured that since I never talk to my Dad, I was making up an excuse?"
"No! Well—"
"I don't believe this," Chandler stood up abruptly, and ran his hand through his hair.
"Chandler, wait! Look, I just…I hadn't seen you in so long…I missed you and I really wanted to see you…"
"Well it wasn't like I was moving to Vegas!"
"I know, I just—"
"What was so urgent that you couldn't wait for me to bury my Dad?"
"I just needed to see you!"
"Why?" Chandler's eyes filled with rage and disappointment.
"I missed you…I love you, and I just—"
"What?" Chandler stepped toward Monica slowly.
Monica replayed her last statement in her head. Oh God, what had she done? She shook her head, and looked up at Chandler, tears escaping her eyes.
"I love you," she whispered again.
Chandler felt his heart lurch, and suddenly, he couldn't breathe. He looked around for the others, but no one else was there. Swallowing hard, he stood up straight, and waited for the punch line to Monica's new joke. She said nothing. Chandler closed his eyes, and took a shaky breath. Then, without a word, he bolted for the house, disappearing into the mourning crowd.