November 15th, 1995

In his dreams, the American sun peeks through his own windows, and he's wrapped in the arms of glorious New York. Chandler sinks deep in his white sheets and falls to the ocean floor, but it would still be his home. At the end of his fingertips laid his sleeping friend, peaceful and almost fragile. A touch too rough would surely crack him, so he forever remained right at Chandler's fingertips.

In his dreams, Chandler carefully watched the rise and fall of his friend's chest. He'd hum to the tune of his breathing, and brush the dark strands away from his eyes. The thick line of his collarbone was better than any pillow; the warmth of his chest better than any blanket; even in slumber, he had so much to offer. The perfect man. The perfect friend.

In his dreams, Chandler knew they were just that. In mere seconds, right before his friend would open his eyes and say his first words, Chandler would wake up to his usual solitude. Though he knew it was all a fabrication, he savoured every second before the alarm rang. Breathing in the mixture of their scent and brushing his fingers along his arms— he felt so real, so electrifying, he felt like everything Chandler ever missed out on.

In his dreams, this was their Garden of Eden. They would both lay naked on the bed, afraid of nothing. Shame was not real here, nor was sin. No concern of eternal damnation— no concern of anything, really. They'd live peacefully with the animals, and his friend would stay asleep even through the echoes of birds chirping. And Chandler would laugh at how heavy a sleeper he was— but quietly, because he wanted to protect their peace. Let them go unnoticed in a place far away from racing tracks and flashing cameras. It was just them. Here and forever.

But in reality, Chandler laid on his bed like a corpse washed on shore. Alone in the Australian hotel, morning of his final race of the season. Soon came his temporary escape from all that ruined him.

He gripped at his sheets, met with the empty space shaped like his friend, mourning his presence. He was here just a second ago, but the bed was cold. No imprint from where he should have been. None of it was ever real, and Chandler would remind himself that that was a good thing.

He dragged his hands across his face, wiping off the exhaustion and calculating just how much longer he can get away with staying in bed. A couple more minutes would be fine— ten, even. No one would notice if he was still in bed for a half-hour, or maybe an hour. Perhaps he could stay in for the whole day and no one would tell the difference.

But dreams have a knack of just not coming true, so before he could curl up back into his blankets and fantasies, Monica marched a parade at his door.

"Are you up, Chandler? You should be up by now. Are you up?" Her voice echoed from outside the hotel room. "I know you're up, you're just ignoring me. Right? Are you up? I'd rather you be childish than still asleep."

"I'm up." He groaned. With all the might in his body, he managed to trudge out of bed and unlock the door for his manager.

Monica was already dressed, somehow. Her hair done neatly on-top her shoulders and in respectable attire with her lanyard around her neck. A portrait of the perfect manager and the perfect woman. Perfect, but also profane. Never sacred.

"Hey, I don't know if you know this, but you're a Formula 1 driver who's about to race in a couple hours. In case it slipped your mind." Annoyance coated her words.

"Yeah yeah, but I'm up, aren't I?"

"Let's hope." She pushed past him and into his room without so much as an invitation, or even a proper greeting. She looked at the lone arm chair across from his bed, where his racing jumpsuit spilled onto the floor. Monica whipped her head back at him, disgusted with this disorganisation.

He picked it up so that she wouldn't kill him right there. "Come on, it's the last race. Let me be a little sloppy."

"This is actually the last on the list of times I can let you be sloppy." The last word coming out with a hint of mockery. "This is a big day, we need you on your A-game."

"Ohhh, I forgot! They're awarding a magical 400 points to the winner today!" Chandler grimaced. This race was not nearly as important to anyone below 3rd place in the championship standings, whose chances of winning the title were lost a long time ago. Chandler didn't have much to fight for today.

Monica clicked her tongue. "Just because you're not in the champion fight doesn't mean you can slack off. The team wants to set up a Kip win today, so you're back on defence." She sounded troubled any time she discussed this particular strategy, but soon her hope— or what Chandler called, delusion— would light up her voice. "But! Every race is another opportunity to show Burke what you're made of— which is Williams material, of course."

The Australian circuit was a difficult one— a narrow street track with lots of corners. If Chandler pulled off a high quality performance here, that would definitely prove impressive to Richard.

She must have noticed the lack of enthusiasm from her star driver, because she dipped back into friend-mode and put a reassuring arm on his shoulder. "Why so gloomy?"

"Do I need to say it again?"

She sighed. "It's the last race, Chandler. Just stick it out for a couple hours. Then you're free to do whatever you want."

"Not true, you'll have me doing training all break again."

"You're free to do whatever you want after morning." She smiled.

There was nothing to be upset about. This was just her job— and more importantly, it was his too. Just a couple more hours. That's all it was.

He swallowed back his complaints and returned the smile. "Let's get on that track then, yeah?"

She knew it was pretend, but Monica loved his faux confidence. "Get into that jumpsuit, kid!"

The pitlane bustled with noise, with only minutes left until drivers would be strapped to their cars and the race would commence. Reporters invaded every garage and talked to every Formula 1 affiliated person that wouldn't turn them away. From the garage next to his, Chandler could hear Kip on what would be his final pre-race interview. He kept one ear open to eavesdrop.

"Right now, you're fourth in the standings. Is there any hope for a sudden title grab?" Tag Jones, always at the scene of the crime, held his microphone closer to Kip.

"Yeah, well, it might be a bit too late for that now." Kip chuckled. "But that's not something I care about right now. I'm just hoping to end this season on a good one, y'know, winning my final race. That would be nice."

"We're all going to really miss you around these parts, Kip."

"I know, I will too. I've been here for so long." He ran his hand through his blonde hair, looking around at the career he's loved more than life. "But that's just it. I've been here for so long, and now it's time to move on."

"Well, good luck to you, Kip. We wish you all the best for you and your wife after this."

Chandler watched the horde of reporters skip right over his garage, likely wanting to get a hot piece from Timothy before what everyone assumed was his easy win. He pushed down whatever offence he felt from not being asked to speak into a microphone.

Kip sounded so sure of things, not a single trace of fear for what came next. Even without any certainty to hold onto, given his promise of giving up racing forever and focusing solely on starting a family, he spoke without a stutter. This was the sort of peace that felt imaginary to Chandler, like a fairytale. The best part was that Kip would leave as a highly respected figure of Formula 1, with hundreds and thousands of fans watching at the edge of their seats for their hero's last performance. Chandler would love that sort of recognition, but with journalists tripping over themselves to talk to Timothy, he'd just have to be content with living in mediocrity. He had a decently sized fanbase, that was nothing to complain about.

Chandler fell back onto the nearest stool, a hurricane of anxiety wreaking havoc in his stomach. Charles was flying in today to watch the race— would he and Nora be able to stand being in the same room as each other, or will Chandler come back to a murder scene in his garage?

David, on the desk next to him, took notice of his discomfort. "Nervous for the race today?"

"Nope. I'm breezy." He lied.

David chuckled. "You're gonna be fine, don't stress out too much. That's my job." he said, with years of worry making eye bags under his eyes. Chandler always undermined his work.

He gave a meek smile as a thanks, but then came his next thing to worry about.

Joey strutted into the garage, and though Chandler could see his lips moving and was sure that words were coming out of his mouth, Chandler couldn't hear anything. It dawned on him what today meant; not only will his parents be in the same room and rip a black hole in the fabric of time, but Joey would have to be there to witness it. The ones who made him this way; the Original Sin.

"You good?" Joey's voice ripped through the high-pitched ringing. He already sat down on the stool next to him, leaning closer to inspect his distracted friend.

"Yeah." Chandler coughed out. "Just nervous. I'm supposed to help Kip secure his last win but, y'know, I'm starting seventh." Disappointment was interwoven in his words.

"Nah, you've got this. I believe in 'ya." Joey always said this same exact thing, but it felt just as fresh every time.

Chandler would have to perform some damage control, because having both his parents and Joey all in the same room without his supervision was a recipe for disaster. He grabbed Joey by the shoulders, ushering him out of the garage and down the pitlane.

"Listen, Joe— why don't you watch from the grandstands today?"

"What?" Joey attempted to push against Chandler, an immovable object trying to thwart an unstoppable force. "Why?"

"Y'know. The garage is getting crowded with you and Monica and my mom and all those mechanic guys. You'll have lots more breathing room out here!"
"I mean, but every other time has been fine?"

"Joey." They stopped in front of the access point, where the crossing to the bleachers began. "It's really important to me that you get the civilian view. Maybe I look better from the garage! I need to know what all these regular people are seeing!"

It was absurd, but he knew Joey to be a believer.

"I'm not sure it'll make a big difference, Chan'." Joey was hesitant, looking across the track to the grandstands and waving to fans with a weary smile. "You're not really makin' sense."

"Please, Joe? Pretty pretty please?" Chandler clutched Joey's hands tight into his own, and while he didn't have those same big empathetic eyes, he hoped his whining was enough to convince Joey out of the garage. "It would mean the world to me."

Joey looked down at his tight grasp, then back to the concern on Chandler's face. After a moment of deep contemplation, he obliged.

"Alright, if it's really that important to ya."

"Oh, you have no idea." Chandler brought him into a tight hug, followed by a pat on the back, because that always negated the intimacy of the close embrace.

Joey pulled away, looking across to his new destination. "Well, good luck from afar, I guess. Not that you'll need it!"

They bid farewell with a fist-bump, and Chandler thanked God for another day where their friendship remained safe. No— he was done with God, there were no thanks to be given.

With cars beginning to line up on the grid, Chandler jogged back to his garage to find the scene he dreaded all day. One that would trigger awful memories from when he was young.

One one side, in a dress too short and heels too tall, stood Nora. Her arms crossed with a nasty grimace on her face. "You only want to come watch your son once he's successful, yes? What a kind father you are." She spoke with Chandler's tongue.

On the other side stood Charles, but in his Helena clothes. This was something he began to do recently— go everywhere in drag. Chandler could never understand the thought process behind this. "Right, and do remind me, why we got married in the first place? I doubt you'd get anywhere near me if my shoes were made of dirt."

"I wish they were." Nora looked him up and down, "Dirt is more manly than leather strappy heels."

Monica stood fearful behind the two, watching them bicker back and forth. She clutched her clipboard close to her chest; normally, she was not afraid to speak her mind, but she figured staying out of Chandler's parents' business would be for the best. However, once she locked eyes on their missing driver, she immediately shoved past his parents and grabbed Chandler by his jumpsuit collar. Pulling him close, her morning's disappointment rang clear.

"Where have you been?!" She scolded, her voice sharp. He couldn't blame her for the frustration, they both knew what was on the line. "The race is right about to start! You can't just disappear to nowhere!"

Nora watched in awe, as a mother who never cared enough to raise her voice.

"I'm sorry, I was…" Chandler began, but realised none of it was important. "Nothing. Nevermind. I'm ready to go now."

"You should have been ready minutes ago." Monica's disappointment was clear, even more so after their morning talk. "Whatever. Go get strapped in."

The surrounding mechanics hurried to help Chandler into the car and send him on his way. Amongst the chaos, Charles still attempted to get a few words in. His eyes were locked on Chandler's jumpsuit,

"Why does it say Red Bull? I thought this was Sauber-Ford." Charles asked, one finger to his awfully hairless chin.

"This is Sauber. Red Bull is our main sponsor, hence the advertising." Nora explained with a holier-than-thou attitude. Chandler was disgusted by her use of the word our, never wanting to be part of the same group as her. "Maybe you'd know if you ever bothered showing up to any of his races. Or any of his birthdays, for that matter."

Chandler felt the all too familiar pit in his stomach, from every argument that played in the background as he brushed his teeth. He could only play the mediator for so long.

"Excuse you, I catch some of these races at home, you know." Charles shot back.

"I couldn't be more grateful." Chandler forced out, he just wanted an end to the fighting. He assumed that by the time he was an adult and out of the house he wouldn't have to face this sort of situation, but here he was; well into his 20s, wanting to lock his bedroom door and shove his ears under a pillow.

Once fully strapped in, Chandler began to slowly drive out into the pitlane. Behind him, he heard the final words before his final race.

"Good luck out there, kid." Charles called out, an unfamiliar act of support.

"He doesn't need luck. He's good enough as is."

"I'm just being nice, Nora."

And then their voices went small, and Chandler was driving the formation lap on the track, finally landing at his starting square.

There was something to worry about at every angle. On his helmet was the onboard camera, documenting to the whole wide world every little mistake he'd make. Ross would be one of those people, sitting at home with his son and yelling at the television screen anytime another car would overtake, as if it'd make a difference. In the cars ahead of him was Kip, counting on him to make this final race a good one. In the Williams garage was Richard Burke, who he'd been trying to impress since the beginning of his career. In one garage over, his own, was Monica, his biggest cheerleader; Nora, who was indebted to; and Charles, who was about to see his son in action in person for the very first time.

And of course, his beacon of light, he who turned holy scripture into nothing more than a bad joke, sat in the grandstands. Even from this far distance, Chandler could see him perfectly. The wrinkle of his smile. The highlight in his eyes. The hands that held his not too long ago.

Then suddenly, the lights went out— Chandler snapped back to the track, and with his latest start of the season, the Australian Grand Prix commenced. He kept his hands tight on the wheel, surging down the straight and protecting his position from Gavin behind him, who was looking for an overtake. It was Chandler's duty to stay back, let Kip do his thing, and do whatever he could to make sure no one would touch Kip at first place.

"Listen Chandler, you're only three places below Kip right now." David called out through the radio. "Kip is already close to Timothy, so if he gets this, that'll put him in third. You've got a two second gap behind Paolo, we just need you to increase your pace."

One thing that always annoyed Chandler was how everyone spoke to him. They didn't understand how hard it was to drive these cars. He couldn't just drive faster; or just suck it up and pretend to enjoy racing. He couldn't just do better, like everyone told him to. And if he wasn't able to follow these commands, then he was just a bad driver. But they didn't get it. None of them did. All they cared about was what place he'd finish.

Chandler went around the first corner, and though he was always supposed to look ahead of him while driving, he shot a glance to where Joey sat. His friend was standing up now, yelling at the top of his lungs with fists in the air. This brought a smile to Chandler's face, reminding him of months ago in Monza— their silly ride around the arcade for nothing more than a hug and a giggle. If he pretended he was still there, that beyond the track was the neon patterned carpet instead of large crowds, then maybe he'd calm down a bit. If he pretended Joey was the one right ahead of him, then he'd actually want to get closer.

Quickly, Chandler passed Paolo and made his way to sixth. However, at the next chicane ahead of them, Kip lost his position to Timothy, who swiftly overtook from the inner line. The two Saubers were now at fifth and sixth place; together like the team wanted, but too far back for comfort.

"We need you to be careful here!" David said, "You two need to move together!"

Kip accelerated down the straight, with Chandler following close behind. He kept his foot heavy against the pedal, summoning all the force his body could possibly produce. Chandler's hands held everyone's hopes and expectations, heavier than the steering wheel, slipping around in his gloves. His head burned with all these eyes carefully watching him, counting on him to excel. To be spectacular. To prove he was the driver he was destined and doomed to be.

And for Joey, he needed to prove that he could do it. That racing wasn't something he was going to give up just because he didn't like it. Joey needed a partner next year, and the year after that, and there was no one suited for that role like Chandler; no one who understood Joey like he did. From the day they first locked eyes in Switzerland, Chandler was unknowingly part of a vow with himself; to love and cherish Joey for the rest of his life, as his teammate and friend. He needed to pass the chequered flag with the promise that he'll do that a hundred more times with Joey at his side.

All the different headlines ran circles in his mind. He was a talent in the making; a spoiled child playing with cars; Formula 1's next big hope; and the undeserving driver that plagued the sport. But Chandler had to put aside every inkling of doubt for even just an hour if he was going to prove those critics wrong. He had to show everyone watching that he was going to make it, and so, he tightened the grip on his wheel and pushed the gas even further. The car squeaked pleas; begging for Chandler to acknowledge the limitations his team gave, but he continued pushing. Whether he liked it or not, there was one true God watching him, waiting to see if the years of torment really did shape a capable young driver.

They approached the eighth turn. To prove he had guts, Chandler dive-bombed ahead of Ki, but severely miscalculated just where he would land when cutting through the corner. Kip slowed down for the turn, but Chandler dived straight into him, a sharp screech where his wheels refused to turn. Everything was a mix of blurred shapes and deafening noises, until both cars went straight into the barrier with a bone-jarring thud. Scraps of their cars went into the air, with metal and debris raining onto the track after the grand crash. Without a second to wait, the flag-bearer waved a red flag, and the cars around them were ordered to slow down and immediately return to the pitlane.

The smell of burnt rubber coursed through the area, and right above his visor, Chandler could see the horrified look of fans in the seats ahead of them. Few people were still screaming from the sudden collision.

"Chandler! Chandler!" He heard through his radio. "Are you okay? We need a response."

In the nanoseconds it took for Chandler to combine with his teammate, he made his first prayer in months: that he wouldn't come out of this alive. But like his dreams, his prayers never came true either.

"I'm fine." He heaved the unfortunate outcome into the radio, still shaking from the violent throttle of the car.

Chandler laid nearly limp in his seat, and the marshals immediately arrived on the scene to evacuate both drivers out of their cars. Why was it that he couldn't ever get it right? Why was someone as disappointing as Chandler granted the responsibility to appease so many people? He didn't deserve to be rescued. The car should have caught on flames and taken him with it; that would get him used to the afterlife he'd be sent to, anyway.

The marshals took hold of his arms and pulled him out from the cockpit, and with how little cooperation he offered with getting out of the car, anyone would easily presume he was dead. He flopped around in their arms before eventually finding his balance and standing on his two feet, assuring the world he was fine for now. His first instinct was to look for Joey in the crowds, but they were on the opposite side of the track from where Joey watched. Did he see Chandler for the failure he was? His heart sank at the thought— of everyone watching him today, Joey was the one who mattered most.

Then, Chandler looked at the catastrophe behind him, hoping that somewhere in the clouds of dust, his teammate would be standing tall just like him.

Kip came out of the crash holding onto two marshals, and thankfully, with minimal bleeding at most. But Chandler's relief was short-lived, when the two teammates met each other on the track, and Kip had a murderous glint in his eyes. The kind of hunger a predator had before launching at its prey.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!?" He screamed while being ushered away from Chandler. "What the fuck was that!?"

His fury lit up the space between them, hotter than the death-trap they called a cock-pit. Chandler had one job: to protect Kip, guard him from the vultures trying to take his spot, but the only danger to his victory was Chandler himself. He had flown too close to the sun and now, Sauber didn't have anyone to finish the race. There were far more curses from the blonde man, but he was already taken off the track for medical inspection, leaving behind a trail of anger that Chandler would never be able to shake. Kip finished the season without a result, with nothing to look back on and remember. A nullified finale.

With the race put on indefinite pause, Chandler limped back to the garage where he'd have to face everyone who's efforts he threw away. He was so distracted with potential success, with dreams of returning to welcoming arms, that he wonders now how Jesus ever found the strength to remove himself from worldly temptations. Had Christ gotten a taste of the victory Chandler was propped up for, would he still have devoted himself to serving God? Or would they both have been young men doomed by the wheel for this endless search of approval? Beneath the helmet, the Lord's love was not enough to sustain them. Chandler needed every person on Earth to give him their attention, or this miserable career would never be worth it.

After walking for forty days, he was met with a silence in his garage so suffocating that his skin turned purple. The second his foot reached the garage lines, Monica leapt onto him, no concern of worsening any possible injuries.

"Are you alright?" She asked into his chest, clutching him close like a lost child finally found. He placed his hand softly on her back, not to hold her, but to prove something was left of him. He appeared to them like a hollow husk.

Moments like these were conflicting. He could feel the tense of her shoulders, the scolding she held back, how desperately she tried not to unleash her rage. After reminding Chandler time and time again to take things more seriously, to be more careful, he goes ahead and crashes out. He could always blame it on the car and say the wheels locked up, but they both knew better; she knew yelling would do him no good, and he knew lying about what happened was pointless. The technicians in the garage all watched his onboard footage— no technical failures, just a lack of care on Chandler's part. As always.

Nora stood like a statue, looking exactly as she did how he left her. Despite that, there was a strong vitriol in her expression. It wasn't expected of her to look at Chandler as a son, but right now, she looked at him like char on her ashtray— disgusting, needing to be disposed of. Chandler tried to not care about his mother and her opinions, but his heart sank to the Earth's core. Deep down, he was still the little boy hoping to find his drawing on the refrigerator, but no parent would want to commemorate such a failure of a child.

"I'm sorry." He finally mustered, a pathetic waver in his voice. His fingers fidgeted, but he did not know if it was from pain or fear. Probably both.

"Sorry." Nora chuckled. "He's sorry."

"I should have been more careful."

"He thinks he should have been more careful." She announced to the garage of mechanics with a wide grin on her face. His mechanics and technicians all kept their attention elsewhere, a desperate attempt at removing themselves from the Bing family's melodrama.

Surprisingly, Charles came to the boy's defence. "Don't speak about him like he's not in the room."

"Don't tell me how to talk to my son!"

"He's my son too!" The two continued to bicker.

"Bullshit!" She yelled, and somehow, Chandler could feel the cameramen from outside zooming in their lenses. "Was he your son when you left us? Huh? Was he your son when you slept with that damn pool boy!?"

"Listen, you two need to leave!" Monica ran in between them, holding both arms out to keep distance between the two. "If you're going to argue, you do it somewhere else!"

"Oh, get off me!" Nora shoved Monica's hand away, her cold blue eyes still locked on her target. "You don't even deserve to be here, Charles. You've never cared about his career. You have never supported him the way I have."

"Well, what is there to support? The kid crashed!" And with this, whatever unconscious hope Chandler had of rekindling with his father, immediately shrivelled up and died. "You've spent all these years and all this money on your little race cars and this is how he does? I don't know about you, but it seems I haven't missed much."

Nora pointed an accusatory finger at him. "You dance around in women's lingerie for crying out loud! You do not get to speak about his success!"

With no prospects of the two backing down, Monica took Chandler by the hand and ushered him out of the garage, leading him to the ambulance that would run the obligatory post-crash medical screening. Neither of them exchanged a word on the walk, and the sound of the surrounding race drowned out. Commentators were likely trashing him on live air right now, and Monica likely agreed in silence, but Chandler wouldn't know. He didn't care. He tried not to, at least.

After the medics unfortunately deemed him fit and healthy, Chandler returned to his hotel, defeated. Washed up on his bed yet again, wishing for it all to be over, even though it already was.

It was his intent to stay in the hotel forever, rot in the blanket until his corpse became nothing more than fly-food. Only then would he be useful, as fodder for the surrounding ecosystem. All he was was a waste of a F1 seat, waste of a child, waste of fresh air. Everyone who decided to help him was only ever inconvenienced by him. Kip was so graciously his mentor for so long, and this was his payment; being pulled away from his one single wish to end the season on a high note. Chandler should have died before birth.

Then there was a knock at his door, one that sounded almost as miserable as him.

"Go away, Monica." He'd been fending her off all day since he was let go from the race. Simply put, he didn't want to see anyone for the rest of the night, or frankly, for the rest of his life.

"It's me." Called out what could only be Joey. "Can I come in?"

The colour drained from his skin— Chandler couldn't possibly face Joey after that disaster of a race. He feared that he'd open the door and his ex-friend would spit in his face and call him a fraud, but Chandler knew better by now. Joey was not capable of such hate.

He slowly opened the door, trying not to reveal so much of him through the crack of light. He was embarrassed of the dishevelled state he let himself fall into.

"What do you want?" He hissed.

Joey repeated his request. "Can I come in?"

"You can say whatever you need to from out there."

"I just wanna talk to you, Chan'. I wanna make sure you're alright."

He peered through the small gap between door and frame, eyeing the other man up and down. "Did Monica send you?"

"Nah. She doesn't know I'm here."

His heart skipped a beat, and finally, he let the boy inside.

Joey immediately swung his arms around Chandler, pulling him into a tight embrace. "You don't understand how scared I was out there, dude! One second, you're doin' amazing, and then the next, you're in the wall! I nearly thought you died, man!"

Chandler's body stiffened under his touch, but betrayed by his desires, he leaned into him. Letting the arms of glorious New York envelop him. It was instinct to chase this feeling.

"I thought so too." Chandler breathed out, holding Joey close to his shoulder.

"I'm so glad you're okay." Hurt coursed through his voice, and it killed Chandler to hear him so low. It killed him to know he did this to his own friend.

"I'm sorry. For letting you down." Chandler grew embarrassed at the sound of his own voice cracking, proving him to be weak.

"Don't be sorry. There's nothing you can do to let me down."

This was the part of his dreams he never got to see after waking up, where there was no world outside of the bedroom, and they'd spend eternity exchanging body heat under homely covers, finally together. But a shiver ran through Chander's spine, one that reminded him to stay away from temptation. He pulled away from the hug, leaving enough space for the holy spirit.

The sudden chill of separation was jarring, but Chandler still needed a spot in heaven. He sat back down on his bed, facing away from where Joey stood.

"So…uh— who ended up winning?" He asked, knowing full well he'd rather not know.

"I don't know, I already left before it finished."

"Really?" Chandler whipped his head to the so-called racing fanatic.

"I was so freaked out over what happened to you! I tried gettin' to your garage but none of the security guards would let me get near ya. Seriously, what's the point of those lanyards if they don't do anythin'?" Joey flopped down on the empty space next to Chandler, falling back and laying down on the bed.

Chandler pondered. "You can flash them at girls and they'll find you hotter than before."

Ignoring the implications, Joey laughed. "Sure, that. But it was awful not knowin' what happened to you. I ran all around trying to find where they took ya before Monica told me you were fine."

Chandler looked down at his fiddling thumbs, not trusting himself to look at his friend. These indescribable urges were getting stronger by the day— to grab him, become one with him, in a way he'd never understand. He was under some sort of spell, and he never wanted it to be broken.

"Everyone probably hates my guts right now." Chandler let the concerns fall out. "You should have seen Kip. Seriously, if that crash didn't kill me, he would have."

Joey patted him on the back. "Give him time. He'll come around."

"I'm not so sure he will."

"Then forget about him! Who cares what he thinks?"

"Me!" Chandler turned to face his friend, still laying behind him.

Suddenly, Joey sat up, now only centimetres away from Chandler. "Alright— who's opinion do you value more, his or mine?"

"I can't answer that, Joe." He absolutely could.

"His or mine?"
"Yours." And he absolutely would.

"Then listen when I tell ya it was just a mistake. No different than any other crash that happened. It's not your fault that it just so happened to be on his last race, maybe he shouldn't be retiring so early! Ever thought about that?"

The lengths Joey would go to defend him were immeasurable. Truly, an admirable amount of room in his heart to support and uplift his friend whenever he could. It was almost laughable— but Chandler wouldn't laugh to mock him, he'd laugh to thank him. For keeping things light after a day shrouded in darkness.

Chandler leaned his head on Joey's shoulder. "Thanks for being here, Joe."

"Don't mention it." He said. And they probably wouldn't. Many soft moments like these have slipped through unspoken, which comforted Chandler. It meant this was nothing out of the ordinary for a pair of pals like them.

The next morning, they'd go back to being regular Chandler and Joey who talked about girls and sports and all things that made boys into men; but when the sun was making its retreat and left behind a sky of pink, it was their time to let things go unspoken. Enjoy each other's presence as if they'd never see eachother again. Joey was the only person who made silence so bearable, nearly preferred.

And with the winter break officially having started, Chandler grew excited at the possibilities that would come upon them. Of all the things they could do, far from those race tracks and flashing cameras; far from everybody's judgement, and even God's. Dreams had a knack of not coming true, but sometimes, they came really, really close.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter was originally supposed to end on a much sadder note with Joey being disappointed with Chandler's carelessness, but honestly I couldn't even bring myself to do that considering everything thats coming up soon...Chandler has been through enough and will go through so much more, so i dont think it'd hurt to let him have this little happy moment. 5 more chapters left of 1995!