The best thing about the rain was... it hurt.

Chandler handed the newsstand guy a ten, winced at how little change he got back, and shoved it in his trenchcoat pocket, the other hand stretching to grasp the pack of Marlboros.

Old habits. Thumbing the tab, peeling the strip off in a thin, fine line. The crinkle as he shucked the cellophane, the soft whisper of the foil as he ripped it off.

He crumpled these in a messy handful and stuffed them into his pocket. Sure, he might be a betrayer, a traitor, the worst friend ever... but he didn't litter.

Walking again, packing his cigarettes against his palm with too much force. He paused under a canopy, gazing with sightless eyes at the jumble of electronics in the store window, lighting a cigarette.

And back out into the rain, freezing droplets like tiny razors against his skin. Chandler made no effort to shield himself. He deserved this...

Sitting on Ross' twin bed, their second week at college. Ross and his little photo-pile. Him and Monica, sitting stiffly side by side, looking ready to wage war at any moment; him and his parents; him and the chess club... a triumphant Ross at twelve, holding up The Geller Cup.

And the last photo. Chandler could tell it was special just by the way Ross held it, gingerly, reverently; just the way Ross touched it made Chandler fairly sure he knew who it was a picture of.

"And this... this is Rachel," Ross had said, in the tones of someone unveiling the Shroud of Turin.

Chandler hadn't been allowed to actually touch the photo, of course, but he'd leaned in over Ross' shoulder for a gaze at the goddess who haunted Ross' nights and 75% of his waking conversation.

"Pretty," he'd said reflexively -- what the hell else was he gonna say? -- but honestly, he couldn't see what the big deal was. Moderately good-looking girl, horrible bangs, nose out to here... she'd looked like every other superficial, bitchy cheerleader type he'd run across.

Ross had let out a sound that was nearly a growl, and Chandler had realized that "pretty" was not going to cut it. He searched the little wallet photo for something spectacular, something to mollify Ross, and...

It was the eyes. They sucked you in, after a moment; there was a humor in them completely at odds with her over-manicured, pretty princess look. Something in those eyes said she was a girl to split a pizza with, who'd tickle you until you cried...

Ross cleared his throat, and Chandler realized he'd made the opposite mistake -- he'd looked too long.

"She looks like someone famous," he lied, sitting back from the photo, leaning on his hands. "Can't quite figure out who, though..."

"Carrie Fisher?" Ross said excitedly. "I think she looks like Carrie Fisher!"

Chandler snapped his fingers. "That must be it."

How many nights had Chandler lain awake, fingers threaded underneath his head, listening to Ross talk about the fabulous, perfect Rachel Green? No matter that she'd completely ignored Ross during their Thanksgiving trip home -- quelling any ideas that she had deeper levels put into Chandler's head by those eyes -- the rapturous soliloquies continued unabated. Even Carol had taken months to pierce his obsession.

God, how would Chandler feel if Ross had slept with... with...

There was no name to fill that blank, no one Chandler had ever burned for like Ross burned for Rachel.

Well, except for... Rachel.

God. Waking up with her arms around him, her small fingers entwined with his... he'd thought he was dreaming. Until he had kissed her, until he'd felt the heat of her, until he'd been too maddened to stop...

Because he was a betrayer. A traitor. The worst friend ever.

Oh, and speaking of bad friends, the ever-helpful voice in his head supplied, what about Rachel, huh?

Chandler's hands shook as he inhaled.

There was Rachel, depressed over her parents' divorce, wanting to crawl in with him, wanting a little comfort, and what had he done? Grabbed her head and kissed her, taken the whole thing out of control in an instant, taken advantage of her sadness...

And kicked her out... don't forget kicked her out. After she covered for your traitor ass by hiding in a closet for four hours.

He blinked back tears. When did he turn into such a fucking bad person? He'd always thought of himself as one of the good guys. He and Joey even had that sign, their joke, the "Nice Guys Don't Finish Last" sign.

Well, that wasn't true. Ross was nice, and look what it got him -- a "best friend" who was pond scum, and a girlfriend who...

Rain checks.

The phrase had come up over and over during Ross' rant tonight. Rachel had apparently bailed on him constantly in the short time they'd been dating... bailed out of kisses, movies, letting him come in.

Rain checks.

"Jesus, Chandler," Ross had said, his hands pressed together between his knees. "I mean, I know she needs time and all, but god -- is it ever going to quit raining?"

And Chandler had smiled, and said something funny, and known in his heart that he was the reason Ross' life had gotten rained out.

Ross' first chance with the fabulous, perfect Rachel Green -- the thing he'd waited over a decade for -- and Chandler had screwed it up for him completely.

And the worst. The worst. The thing that made him hate himself the most... was that as Ross slumped miserably in the barcolounger, telling his tale of Rachel-flavored woe, Chandler's heart had leapt.

His best friend in pain, and all Chandler had been able to feel was joy.

Rachel had spent his hotel misadventure freaked out and pacing the floor -- Ross hadn't touched her. Their dates had been disasterous and ended in an endless series of rain checks. Not only had they not slept together, the two times Chandler had seen them kiss were it. And bonus info -- Rachel was laboring under the delusion that he was dating Kathy, which explained a whole hell of a lot.

And the possessive male inside him had pounded on its chest and shrieked in triumph.

The guilt was excruciating, even more so when Ross had finally left, when he'd wrenched the closet door open, so determined to tell Rachel it was all over...

And she'd been lying there, tiny, fragile, curled up in a ball, her nose pressed into one of his old t-shirts, her fist curled up under her chin like a child.

And, god help him, all he'd wanted to do was pick her up, lay her down across his bed, and kiss her until he died.

"Pond scum," he muttered, lighting another cigarette off the dying butt of the one before.

So what had he done? Explained himself logically? Sat her down and had a nice, quiet talk?

No. He'd been fucking cruel. He'd had to be. If he'd let one ounce, one sliver of emotion leak, he'd have told her he loved her and begged her to stay...

Chandler brushed rain and tears off his cheeks. Well, there was a bonus to all this. Rachel now undoubtedly thought he was an asshole -- getting over him ought to be easy now. And she could be with Ross, where she belonged.

She doesn't belong with him. She belongs with me.

Chandler leaned against a wall, heedless of the water dripping down his face, lost in imaginings. Rachel and Ross' wedding. Their fashionable, genius children. Their house in Scarsdale...

"Ow, shit!" he cried, dropping his cigarette in pain. Unheeded, it had burned down to the filter, down to his skin. Chandler stuck his wounded fingers into his mouth, regarding the cigarette butt hissing out in the puddle at his feet.

Okay, so, he took it back.

He was a betrayer, a traitor, the worst friend ever... and he littered.