October 1987
"Chandler, you *really* need to start thinking about a major," his advisor said kindly. "Isn't there *anything* you're interested in?"
Sure. Finding Phoebe. Regenerating limbs. He had lots of interests.
"I'm sorry, sir, it's just... I'd always planned on majoring in Music Performance, and I'm having a hard time finding something else."
"Ah... yes," his advisor said carefully. "I've, uh, read your file." He cleared his throat nervously. "Your test scores show that you were really excellent in math... have you thought about accounting, or data processing?"
"Crunching numbers all day?" Chandler laughed. "I'd chew my own leg off."
"Well, your scores are extraordinary... and I see you kept straight A's in your Calculus classes. It's something to think about. Why don't I just pencil that in for you? We can always change it later."
A girl walked by the window, schoolbooks in hand, blonde hair blowing out behind her, peasant skirt rippling in the wind.
Chandler sighed. "Whatever."
***
"Package came for you," Ross called, looking up from his Botany book as Chandler strode into the room. "I put it on your bed."
"Thanks, man." Chandler put his foot up on his mattress, sliding his knife out of his boot and slicing the box open neatly. Ross' eyes were huge.
"Dude. Dude! Why do you have that... *machete* in your shoe?"
"It's not a machete," Chandler said, sliding it back into its holster and setting his foot back on the floor.
"Okay, I don't *care* what kind of knife it is... why do you have it?"
"It's for my walks," Chandler shrugged.
"God, you're a *freak*," Ross muttered, licking his finger and turning a page.
"What? I couldn't hear you over the *air purifier*," Chandler said pointedly.
"I said, 'What's in the box?'"
"Oh." Chandler sat down on the bed, pulling the box onto his lap and opening the flaps. "Jesus. She *never* gives up." He pulled out a Yale sweatshirt, displaying it for Ross. "You want this one, too?"
"What size is it?"
Chandler peeked at the label. "3X. She must have sent Consuela shopping again."
"3X? Yeah, throw it over, I'll give it to my little sister."
Chandler launched the sweatshirt at Ross' head, peering into the box.
"Any food in there, man?"
"Um, no... she sent me a copy of her latest book, I'm sure I'll enjoy *that* very un-much." Chandler wiggled a paperback with two semi-clad people on the front. "Think your little sister would want this, too?"
"Nah, but Rachel might. She loves your mom's books."
"And you're obsessed with this chick... why?"
Ross' eyes grew distant and dreamy. "Because she..."
"No-no, it was a quip, not a question!"
"Sorry," Ross huffed, going back to his book.
Chandler held the box up to the light, reaching in his hand for the last object inside. He pulled it out, his whole face falling.
"What's that?" Ross asked.
"A package of finger picks."
"A *what*?"
Chandler hefted the plastic package in his hand, staring at it. "Finger picks."
"Why would your mom send you those?"
Chandler didn't answer. Ross searched his face. "Dude! Do you play *guitar*?"
"I..." Chandler sighed. "I used to." He shoved the picks in his shirt pocket, standing up. "Here's that book for Rachel."
But Ross' eyes were already alight. "We should start a band, man! *I* play keyboards!"
"Really," Chandler said. He had a severely difficult time imagining that.
"Do you have a guitar? We should totally work something out! I've been coming up with this song, right? It's called 'Emotional Knapsack'. I'll call home, get Mom to mail my keyboards! This is gonna be awesome!"
"Ross..."
"Aw, Chandler, c'mon!"
"I'll... I'll think about it, okay? Lemme... lemme check some things."
***
Chandler let himself into the private practice room, closing and locking the door behind him, setting his guitar case gently down on the ground.
He pulled open the latches, pulling out the beautiful instrument, running his hands over it. Such a beautiful guitar, such beautiful wood, like an old friend...
The strings had rusted.
Chandler restrung and tuned, his heart beating wildly. He pulled open the bag of finger picks, sliding one onto his middle finger, wincing at the pain as the tight metal pressed into still-tender flesh.
He flexed his hand, noting with a sinking heart how much slower that finger moved than the others. It had healed well, but there'd been nerve damage; a few weeks ago, Chandler had gotten distracted and let his cigarette burn down to the filter, not noticing he was burning himself until he smelled cooking meat. The blister had *just* healed.
He picked the guitar up, propping his foot up on his case, bending over the neck.
He wrung out scales, clumsily, his middle finger skipping off, unable to keep up, getting in the way. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he tried harder, his uncalloused fingertips aching, new strings cutting into his flesh, tears in his eyes, biting his lip against the pain.
"Come on, come *on*," he whispered. A thin line of blood snaked out from his left hand, curling itself around his finger, disappearing beneath his shirt cuff. Chandler never noticed.
He moved on into a song, an old and easy one, one of the first he'd learned... the kind he could play in his sleep. The finger pick sliced through his deadened skin, more blood sprinkling on the inlaid wood of his instrument, dark red lines blurring from the sweat and tears dripping off his face.
Crap, it sounded like crap, hideous horrible crap, he'd played better than this at eight... his unresponsive finger muting strings, knocking other fingers, always a few seconds late to wherever he needed it to be. Dissonant minor chords filled the room, noise not music.
And finally, the fingerpick reached a nerve. Chandler's hand leapt off the strings, flying in front of his face. Blood soaked his wrists, his cuffs, his forearms.
Chandler screamed in rage, pain, and frustration, hurling the guitar against the wall. It wrung out a final chord and cracked, landing on the carpet, slack strings still ringing.
"Oh god... oh god," Chandler whispered, running to the wall, dropping to his knees in front of the guitar, reaching out for it with bloody hands, red handprints smearing the wood. He examined the crack, running his fingers over it.
The guitar was ruined.
***
Chandler walked through the mist of rain, eyes flicking from side to side, scanning doorways and alleyways. The key to this was looking like you knew where you were going, that you had a destination and a purpose.
He at least had a purpose.
He rounded a corner, smirking to himself at a burst of music from a nearby ghetto blaster. The Ramones... and just his *favorite* song by them, too.
We're a happy family
We're a happy family
We're a happy family
Me and Mom and Daddy
He leaned against the brick, taking shelter under an overhang, lighting a cigarette, cupping his hands against the wind and water.
We ain't got no friends
Our troubles never end
No Christmas cards to send
Daddy likes men...
"Well *that* sure takes my mind off the upcoming holiday," Chandler muttered to himself, pushing off the wall and resuming his walk.
Ross had invited him to Thanksgiving at his house this year, and Chandler was seriously thinking about it. His mom was still crushed at his college choice... she'd sent him yet *another* Yale sweatshirt last week, and his Dad... well.
His Dad could barely look at him, and was drinking more than ever.
He sprinted across Frederick Douglass Circle and headed into the Park. There was music up ahead, and a light; a small fire was burning underneath the 110th Street Arch, people taking shelter from the rain inside it.
Chandler headed towards them, gearing himself up for his standard speech, hand going to his pocket for the worn and crumpled photo of Phoebe that always accompanied him.
"Hi," he said, sliding under the arch, trailing his hand along the wet stone.
"Hey," a woman replied, warming her hands over the fire. "Cold night."
"Yeah." He turned and faced the small man playing guitar. "You're really good."
The man ignored him, continuing to play. Chandler looked up at the woman.
"Don't mind Brian," she smiled. "He don't talk. Thinks he's an antelope."
Chandler smiled, leaning against the stone, working up to his speech.
And -- click.
"He thinks he's an antelope?" Chandler said hurriedly.
"Yeah, it's the damndest thing."
Chandler squatted in front of the man. "Hey."
No answer.
"That chord -- is that Turkey Leg, or Bear Claw?"
The man looked up in shock. "It's 'Old Lady', boy, don't you know nothin'?"
Tears sprang to Chandler's eyes. He scrabbled in his pocket for the photo. "I'm looking for this girl. You taught her guitar a long time ago. Have you seen her?"
The man continued to play, and Chandler shook the photo under his nose. "Please. *Please*. You don't know how important this is!"
"Let me see it, honey," the woman said. Chandler slid the photo into her hand. "Why bless my soul, Brian -- that's Regina!"
"Regina... *Philange*?" Chandler said hopefully.
"She don't usually look *this* good," the woman said, handing the photo back.
"Do you know where she is? Please, please know where she is."
"I saw her walkin' up here... she's down at Bethesda."
"Thank you," Chandler cried. "Thank you, thank you so much..."
And he took off, sprinting through the mist, heading south.
"That boy's crazy," the woman remarked.
***
Chandler's lungs burned as he ran, puddles splashing beneath his feet, ducking under archways, passing gardens and castles, late-night couples turning to stare as he sprinted by them, a stitch building up in his side. He reached the red tiles of the Terrace and slipped, shoes giving out beneath him, falling forward, catching himself with his hands.
He looked up and saw her.
She sat on the side of the fountain, guitar on her knee, open case at her feet. Chandler stood up and walked towards her, hands fumbling in his pockets.
***
Phoebe leaned over her guitar, keeping her head down, keeping the sprinkles out of her face. If it started raining any harder, she'd have to pack up for the evening.
"Smelly cat..." she sang, "Smel-l-ly cat... what, are they feeding you?"
A white card fluttered into her case, pale against the red interior.
"Oooh, an *index* card!" Phoebe snapped. "Thanks, big spender!"
"Hi, Pheebs."
Phoebe's head snapped up, her hand strumming a last, lingering chord. "Chandler?"
She threw the guitar down, leaping into his arms. He swung her around, laughing. She stank like holy hell, but he didn't care.
"Chandler, oh my god! What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"What... what'd you throw into my case?"
"Your grandmother's address."
Phoebe blinked. "My grandmother's *dead*."
"No, she's not... but she thought *you* were. I went and talked to her, Pheebs, look... she's desperate to see you."
"Chandler, Chandler... oh my god..."
"Here," he said, pulling things out of his pockets. "These are yours... here's your wallet..." He pressed it into her hand, along with a small cloth bag, "Here are all your rings... I already took your big stuff to your Grandma's, just in case."
Phoebe stood, staring at the items she held. "How long... how long have you been looking for me?"
"Since I woke up," Chandler said honestly, running his fingers through his drenched hair.
"Oh my god," Phoebe whispered, flinging her arms around him.
***
"Hello, room service? This is room 403. You guys have a vegetarian menu, right?" He nodded into the earpiece. "Good. We'd like to order everything on it." Chandler stifled a grin. "Yup. Everything."
He hung up, poking his head in the bathroom door. "Pheebs? I'm gonna run down to the machine, get us some sodas. You want anything in particular?"
"To never get out of this bathtub, ever again?"
She'd poured every bottle of bubblebath into the huge tub, and had a blissed-out look on her face. Chandler couldn't help grinning.
***
"Oh my god," Phoebe groaned happily, mouth full of falafel. "Oh my god, Chandler." She swallowed, immediately replacing the falafel with a mouthful of potatoes. "Bumming a cigarette from you was the best thing I *ever* did."
She popped the top on her fifth Pepsi. "I could die, right now."
Chandler laughed, taking her empty plate and setting it on top of the stack. "Okay, that's it... you want me to call them back, get some more?"
"Oh god no," Phoebe grinned, rubbing her swollen stomach through her bathrobe. "In twenty minutes, I'm gonna hate myself."
She set her Pepsi aside, stretching out on the bed. "God. Sheets. I love *sheets*. I love *mattresses*."
She flopped down, wet hair streaming across the bed. "I love *pillows*."
She smiled up at the ceiling, letting her arms splay across the bed. "I'm full... I'm clean... I'm warm... I'm on a *bed*, and I'm with *you*."
"And hey... TV!" Chandler wiggled the remote in front of her face.
Phoebe pulled the remote from his hand, throwing it across the room. "You know? I don't think I've ever felt this awesome in my life, ever. So I probably shouldn't push my luck, but..."
Chandler plopped down next to her, cuddling a pillow. "But... what?"
"You know that thing, that thing neither one of us have ever done?"
Chandler's eyes flew wide.
"Yeah, let's... let's do that."
"Pheebs. Are you... are you serious?"
Phoebe grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.
***
"Where, where, where have you been?" Ross screeched, leaping up from his bunk. "I have been worried *sick* about you! You cut every class today!"
"I took a friend to see her Grandma," Chandler shrugged. He pulled the knife out of his boot and stuck it in his desk drawer.
"Uh... whaddya doin with that?"
"Don't need it anymore."
"What happened to your hair?"
"I let her cut it." Chandler smiled, touching the bizarre mess on top of his head. "With a razor."
"What are you... you don't smile! You've always got that gloomy Bob Dylan in the rain thing goin' on, and now you're... you're grinning!"
Ross sucked in air. "*You* got *laid*."
"Maybe," Chandler teased, flopping onto his bed.
"Oh my god! I can't *believe* you got laid before I did!"
"Calm down, Ross. What about that Carol girl? I thought you liked her."
"Yeah, but Rachel... I'm thinkin' maybe at Thanksgiving..."
"Hey Ross?"
"Yeah?"
"That band...? I'll do it."
"You will? Seriously?"
Chandler hugged his pillow, unable to stop the smile spreading over his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I will."
"Chandler, you *really* need to start thinking about a major," his advisor said kindly. "Isn't there *anything* you're interested in?"
Sure. Finding Phoebe. Regenerating limbs. He had lots of interests.
"I'm sorry, sir, it's just... I'd always planned on majoring in Music Performance, and I'm having a hard time finding something else."
"Ah... yes," his advisor said carefully. "I've, uh, read your file." He cleared his throat nervously. "Your test scores show that you were really excellent in math... have you thought about accounting, or data processing?"
"Crunching numbers all day?" Chandler laughed. "I'd chew my own leg off."
"Well, your scores are extraordinary... and I see you kept straight A's in your Calculus classes. It's something to think about. Why don't I just pencil that in for you? We can always change it later."
A girl walked by the window, schoolbooks in hand, blonde hair blowing out behind her, peasant skirt rippling in the wind.
Chandler sighed. "Whatever."
***
"Package came for you," Ross called, looking up from his Botany book as Chandler strode into the room. "I put it on your bed."
"Thanks, man." Chandler put his foot up on his mattress, sliding his knife out of his boot and slicing the box open neatly. Ross' eyes were huge.
"Dude. Dude! Why do you have that... *machete* in your shoe?"
"It's not a machete," Chandler said, sliding it back into its holster and setting his foot back on the floor.
"Okay, I don't *care* what kind of knife it is... why do you have it?"
"It's for my walks," Chandler shrugged.
"God, you're a *freak*," Ross muttered, licking his finger and turning a page.
"What? I couldn't hear you over the *air purifier*," Chandler said pointedly.
"I said, 'What's in the box?'"
"Oh." Chandler sat down on the bed, pulling the box onto his lap and opening the flaps. "Jesus. She *never* gives up." He pulled out a Yale sweatshirt, displaying it for Ross. "You want this one, too?"
"What size is it?"
Chandler peeked at the label. "3X. She must have sent Consuela shopping again."
"3X? Yeah, throw it over, I'll give it to my little sister."
Chandler launched the sweatshirt at Ross' head, peering into the box.
"Any food in there, man?"
"Um, no... she sent me a copy of her latest book, I'm sure I'll enjoy *that* very un-much." Chandler wiggled a paperback with two semi-clad people on the front. "Think your little sister would want this, too?"
"Nah, but Rachel might. She loves your mom's books."
"And you're obsessed with this chick... why?"
Ross' eyes grew distant and dreamy. "Because she..."
"No-no, it was a quip, not a question!"
"Sorry," Ross huffed, going back to his book.
Chandler held the box up to the light, reaching in his hand for the last object inside. He pulled it out, his whole face falling.
"What's that?" Ross asked.
"A package of finger picks."
"A *what*?"
Chandler hefted the plastic package in his hand, staring at it. "Finger picks."
"Why would your mom send you those?"
Chandler didn't answer. Ross searched his face. "Dude! Do you play *guitar*?"
"I..." Chandler sighed. "I used to." He shoved the picks in his shirt pocket, standing up. "Here's that book for Rachel."
But Ross' eyes were already alight. "We should start a band, man! *I* play keyboards!"
"Really," Chandler said. He had a severely difficult time imagining that.
"Do you have a guitar? We should totally work something out! I've been coming up with this song, right? It's called 'Emotional Knapsack'. I'll call home, get Mom to mail my keyboards! This is gonna be awesome!"
"Ross..."
"Aw, Chandler, c'mon!"
"I'll... I'll think about it, okay? Lemme... lemme check some things."
***
Chandler let himself into the private practice room, closing and locking the door behind him, setting his guitar case gently down on the ground.
He pulled open the latches, pulling out the beautiful instrument, running his hands over it. Such a beautiful guitar, such beautiful wood, like an old friend...
The strings had rusted.
Chandler restrung and tuned, his heart beating wildly. He pulled open the bag of finger picks, sliding one onto his middle finger, wincing at the pain as the tight metal pressed into still-tender flesh.
He flexed his hand, noting with a sinking heart how much slower that finger moved than the others. It had healed well, but there'd been nerve damage; a few weeks ago, Chandler had gotten distracted and let his cigarette burn down to the filter, not noticing he was burning himself until he smelled cooking meat. The blister had *just* healed.
He picked the guitar up, propping his foot up on his case, bending over the neck.
He wrung out scales, clumsily, his middle finger skipping off, unable to keep up, getting in the way. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he tried harder, his uncalloused fingertips aching, new strings cutting into his flesh, tears in his eyes, biting his lip against the pain.
"Come on, come *on*," he whispered. A thin line of blood snaked out from his left hand, curling itself around his finger, disappearing beneath his shirt cuff. Chandler never noticed.
He moved on into a song, an old and easy one, one of the first he'd learned... the kind he could play in his sleep. The finger pick sliced through his deadened skin, more blood sprinkling on the inlaid wood of his instrument, dark red lines blurring from the sweat and tears dripping off his face.
Crap, it sounded like crap, hideous horrible crap, he'd played better than this at eight... his unresponsive finger muting strings, knocking other fingers, always a few seconds late to wherever he needed it to be. Dissonant minor chords filled the room, noise not music.
And finally, the fingerpick reached a nerve. Chandler's hand leapt off the strings, flying in front of his face. Blood soaked his wrists, his cuffs, his forearms.
Chandler screamed in rage, pain, and frustration, hurling the guitar against the wall. It wrung out a final chord and cracked, landing on the carpet, slack strings still ringing.
"Oh god... oh god," Chandler whispered, running to the wall, dropping to his knees in front of the guitar, reaching out for it with bloody hands, red handprints smearing the wood. He examined the crack, running his fingers over it.
The guitar was ruined.
***
Chandler walked through the mist of rain, eyes flicking from side to side, scanning doorways and alleyways. The key to this was looking like you knew where you were going, that you had a destination and a purpose.
He at least had a purpose.
He rounded a corner, smirking to himself at a burst of music from a nearby ghetto blaster. The Ramones... and just his *favorite* song by them, too.
We're a happy family
We're a happy family
We're a happy family
Me and Mom and Daddy
He leaned against the brick, taking shelter under an overhang, lighting a cigarette, cupping his hands against the wind and water.
We ain't got no friends
Our troubles never end
No Christmas cards to send
Daddy likes men...
"Well *that* sure takes my mind off the upcoming holiday," Chandler muttered to himself, pushing off the wall and resuming his walk.
Ross had invited him to Thanksgiving at his house this year, and Chandler was seriously thinking about it. His mom was still crushed at his college choice... she'd sent him yet *another* Yale sweatshirt last week, and his Dad... well.
His Dad could barely look at him, and was drinking more than ever.
He sprinted across Frederick Douglass Circle and headed into the Park. There was music up ahead, and a light; a small fire was burning underneath the 110th Street Arch, people taking shelter from the rain inside it.
Chandler headed towards them, gearing himself up for his standard speech, hand going to his pocket for the worn and crumpled photo of Phoebe that always accompanied him.
"Hi," he said, sliding under the arch, trailing his hand along the wet stone.
"Hey," a woman replied, warming her hands over the fire. "Cold night."
"Yeah." He turned and faced the small man playing guitar. "You're really good."
The man ignored him, continuing to play. Chandler looked up at the woman.
"Don't mind Brian," she smiled. "He don't talk. Thinks he's an antelope."
Chandler smiled, leaning against the stone, working up to his speech.
And -- click.
"He thinks he's an antelope?" Chandler said hurriedly.
"Yeah, it's the damndest thing."
Chandler squatted in front of the man. "Hey."
No answer.
"That chord -- is that Turkey Leg, or Bear Claw?"
The man looked up in shock. "It's 'Old Lady', boy, don't you know nothin'?"
Tears sprang to Chandler's eyes. He scrabbled in his pocket for the photo. "I'm looking for this girl. You taught her guitar a long time ago. Have you seen her?"
The man continued to play, and Chandler shook the photo under his nose. "Please. *Please*. You don't know how important this is!"
"Let me see it, honey," the woman said. Chandler slid the photo into her hand. "Why bless my soul, Brian -- that's Regina!"
"Regina... *Philange*?" Chandler said hopefully.
"She don't usually look *this* good," the woman said, handing the photo back.
"Do you know where she is? Please, please know where she is."
"I saw her walkin' up here... she's down at Bethesda."
"Thank you," Chandler cried. "Thank you, thank you so much..."
And he took off, sprinting through the mist, heading south.
"That boy's crazy," the woman remarked.
***
Chandler's lungs burned as he ran, puddles splashing beneath his feet, ducking under archways, passing gardens and castles, late-night couples turning to stare as he sprinted by them, a stitch building up in his side. He reached the red tiles of the Terrace and slipped, shoes giving out beneath him, falling forward, catching himself with his hands.
He looked up and saw her.
She sat on the side of the fountain, guitar on her knee, open case at her feet. Chandler stood up and walked towards her, hands fumbling in his pockets.
***
Phoebe leaned over her guitar, keeping her head down, keeping the sprinkles out of her face. If it started raining any harder, she'd have to pack up for the evening.
"Smelly cat..." she sang, "Smel-l-ly cat... what, are they feeding you?"
A white card fluttered into her case, pale against the red interior.
"Oooh, an *index* card!" Phoebe snapped. "Thanks, big spender!"
"Hi, Pheebs."
Phoebe's head snapped up, her hand strumming a last, lingering chord. "Chandler?"
She threw the guitar down, leaping into his arms. He swung her around, laughing. She stank like holy hell, but he didn't care.
"Chandler, oh my god! What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"What... what'd you throw into my case?"
"Your grandmother's address."
Phoebe blinked. "My grandmother's *dead*."
"No, she's not... but she thought *you* were. I went and talked to her, Pheebs, look... she's desperate to see you."
"Chandler, Chandler... oh my god..."
"Here," he said, pulling things out of his pockets. "These are yours... here's your wallet..." He pressed it into her hand, along with a small cloth bag, "Here are all your rings... I already took your big stuff to your Grandma's, just in case."
Phoebe stood, staring at the items she held. "How long... how long have you been looking for me?"
"Since I woke up," Chandler said honestly, running his fingers through his drenched hair.
"Oh my god," Phoebe whispered, flinging her arms around him.
***
"Hello, room service? This is room 403. You guys have a vegetarian menu, right?" He nodded into the earpiece. "Good. We'd like to order everything on it." Chandler stifled a grin. "Yup. Everything."
He hung up, poking his head in the bathroom door. "Pheebs? I'm gonna run down to the machine, get us some sodas. You want anything in particular?"
"To never get out of this bathtub, ever again?"
She'd poured every bottle of bubblebath into the huge tub, and had a blissed-out look on her face. Chandler couldn't help grinning.
***
"Oh my god," Phoebe groaned happily, mouth full of falafel. "Oh my god, Chandler." She swallowed, immediately replacing the falafel with a mouthful of potatoes. "Bumming a cigarette from you was the best thing I *ever* did."
She popped the top on her fifth Pepsi. "I could die, right now."
Chandler laughed, taking her empty plate and setting it on top of the stack. "Okay, that's it... you want me to call them back, get some more?"
"Oh god no," Phoebe grinned, rubbing her swollen stomach through her bathrobe. "In twenty minutes, I'm gonna hate myself."
She set her Pepsi aside, stretching out on the bed. "God. Sheets. I love *sheets*. I love *mattresses*."
She flopped down, wet hair streaming across the bed. "I love *pillows*."
She smiled up at the ceiling, letting her arms splay across the bed. "I'm full... I'm clean... I'm warm... I'm on a *bed*, and I'm with *you*."
"And hey... TV!" Chandler wiggled the remote in front of her face.
Phoebe pulled the remote from his hand, throwing it across the room. "You know? I don't think I've ever felt this awesome in my life, ever. So I probably shouldn't push my luck, but..."
Chandler plopped down next to her, cuddling a pillow. "But... what?"
"You know that thing, that thing neither one of us have ever done?"
Chandler's eyes flew wide.
"Yeah, let's... let's do that."
"Pheebs. Are you... are you serious?"
Phoebe grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.
***
"Where, where, where have you been?" Ross screeched, leaping up from his bunk. "I have been worried *sick* about you! You cut every class today!"
"I took a friend to see her Grandma," Chandler shrugged. He pulled the knife out of his boot and stuck it in his desk drawer.
"Uh... whaddya doin with that?"
"Don't need it anymore."
"What happened to your hair?"
"I let her cut it." Chandler smiled, touching the bizarre mess on top of his head. "With a razor."
"What are you... you don't smile! You've always got that gloomy Bob Dylan in the rain thing goin' on, and now you're... you're grinning!"
Ross sucked in air. "*You* got *laid*."
"Maybe," Chandler teased, flopping onto his bed.
"Oh my god! I can't *believe* you got laid before I did!"
"Calm down, Ross. What about that Carol girl? I thought you liked her."
"Yeah, but Rachel... I'm thinkin' maybe at Thanksgiving..."
"Hey Ross?"
"Yeah?"
"That band...? I'll do it."
"You will? Seriously?"
Chandler hugged his pillow, unable to stop the smile spreading over his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I will."
