AUTHOR'S NOTE: Im not sure how familliar you guys are with Italy's geography, so for context, Lombardy is the province of Italy where Monza (and Milan) is

Also, a slipstream is basically when a car is directly behind another car and gets a little speed boost because of aerodynamic magic

August 11th, 1996 - Hungarian Grand Prix

A Voicemail Message from Ross Geller to Chandler Bing

"Hey Chandler, I know you're busy, but I just wanted to say…man! What a race! Seriously, I was on the edge of my seat the whole time! I think Ben liked it too. He's been really into car-stuff recently, and it's probably from watching you every Sunday. But Carol would never let him into one of those, ahah."

"But man— Joey, huh? Poor guy. When his car gave out, I was all like— whaaat? Say, how's he doing? I should have gotten his number at the New Year's Eve party. Send him a message for me, will you? Give him my condolences or something. Hope you guys keep up these good performances."

"Next Sunday I've got a thing at the museum, so I'll probably miss you in…where was it, Belgium? Whatever, just wanted to call and say you were great. Tell Mon' I said hi."

August 25th, 1996 - Belgian Grand Prix

A Voicemail Message from Phoebe Buffay to Joey Tribbiani

"Joey! First of all, I'm really mad at you. I know you're all the way in Belgium, but you can't even spare a second to pick up my calls? You know what happens to bad people who don't answer their friends' calls, right? Well, I actually don't, since I always pick up your calls. Because I'm a good friend."

"Anyway…I'm sorry, I didn't watch your race-thingy today. I guess that actually makes us even on the whole betraying-your-best-friend thing. I did catch something in a magazine though— apparently Chandler crashed into McLaren? Who is McLaren? Actually, I don't really care. But I do feel bad for him! I hope he gets better soon. Tell him I said that. Oh, and tell him to stay away from MRI machines for a bit. Their magnetism is attracted to misfortune, and he's got enough of that already."

"Ughh…I miss flying around with you! I hate that I have a job here. Hey, why don't you pull a Chandler and hire me as your manager? No offense to Estelle, but she has to be kicking the bucket soon, right? And I wouldn't mind getting closer to your little engineer guy. We'll all be a happy little team!"

"So umm…yeah. Good luck next week! Must be nice to go back home. Haha, are you and Chandler gonna go on a little date again? Honestly, I'm not surprised that people think you two are dating. When you told me about the arcade, I really thought the story would end with you two kissing! I didn't say that, though. I know how weird you get about him."

"Okay. I really have to get to work now. Quit bothering me, Tribbiani!"

September 8th, 1996 - Italian Grand Prix

Monza is a beautiful city, Chandler can admit. It just loses a lot of its charm now that he didn't have his tour guide around.

It hasn't changed much within the past year. The city is still red— Ferrari flags flying even higher now that it was Italy's turn to host a Grand Prix. Turnout for today's race was high, as it always is every year. The people of Italy take Formula 1 far more seriously than any other country, Chandler noticed. He barely made it without a scratch through the hordes of fans waiting outside the paddock; hungry, throwing caps and markers while waiting for signatures. All with the prancing horse on their shirts, ready to see their historical team on the podium— even though they weren't doing too hot this year.

Which explained the burst of blue among the usually crimson crowd. Jackets with TRIBBIANI plastered on the back in big, bold lettering. With Joey's excellent performances, he's become a new fan favourite for the Tifosi, who all hoped to see him in the crimson jumpsuit soon. And Joey loved every bit of this attention— he stopped for every fan, signed every shirt, took photos on hundreds of cameras. He'd laugh and joke with strangers he'd never see again, all because they were here for him. This was his dream, now a reality. It was only missing the Ferrari embellishment.

It was not only Joey's dream, but Chandler's too, because at some point they shared dreams and hopes and aspirations. All tainted now, because Joey was willing to laugh and joke with hundreds and thousands of these red and blue strangers, but he didn't spare even a glance to Chandler when they walked past each other in the pitlane.

This only gave Chandler more time to focus on his drive. It didn't have to be a bad thing.

As much as the two boys wanted to continue ignoring each other, they weren't exactly parallel lines— Gunther still gathered them together before each race, drilling them on what he had planned, because clearly surprise orders weren't going to work.

"You two are…a lot more equal in points than I anticipated." Gunther said, his gaze lingering on Chandler. This was the most offensive thing he could have said, because why was Chandler supposed to be the one behind? Everyone in this team had their head on backwards.

"So, you guys have freedom to race. Okay? No more orders. I just want you to race. And—" he wagged a finger up, "I want you guys to keep the cars safe. Please. You can compete against each other without having to steer into one another. Am I clear?"

They both nodded; arms folded behind their backs, silent, like obedient soldiers to their captains.

"Great. Don't disappoint me" were Gunther's parting words before he returned to his desk near the garage, joined by other strategists from Sauber. This left Chandler and Joey alone in the pitlane, in between their own garages.

They refused to share words, yet neither wanted to leave first. They still weren't used to abandoning greetings and farewells.

Joey was yellow under the Italian sun. Where the New York moonlight rested on his bones, the light of Monza was harsher. It made his shadows darker, his sharp edges stronger. In this track, his helmet became a crown— for the prince of Lombardy had returned home, and was prepared to claim the trophy as one of Monza's own.

Even now, Chandler was lost in his features. It just wasn't fair, how Joey made him boil with anger, and still be the only sight he wanted to see. No matter what, Chandler was chained to his looks. It wasn't fair how Joey was everything he couldn't be, everything he never had, everything he had to beat. It wasn't fair how far away that mossy arcade was from here.

Joey's lips pursed, holding something back, before deciding on making his departure to the grandstands, leaving Chandler in his shadow. He could wonder endlessly if those unspoken words were an apology or more criticisms, but instead, he focused on where Joey landed. With front row seats, his parents and all seven sisters quickly wrapped around him before eventually sending their boy off to the track. His family held him tight, lovingly, until Joey wasn't even visible anymore; buried under a heap of black curls and teary eyes. The race hadn't even begun, and the Tribbiani's were already misty.

This was Joey's first home-race in the Formula 1 series, it was the race he had been preparing for since the very second he could walk. It's what every other Italian in the crowd had been looking forward to.

And if Joey gets to win here, it means all that travelling, all that money, all those part-time jobs were worth it.

Chandler's stomach begins churning its usual concoction of anxiety and guilt, which became his two new best friends. He counted on that nagging fear to keep him sharp, to think straight. Right now, he begins having ideas no one else will like.

His brooding is interrupted by a hand on his shoulder, and a woman who's been calling his name for minutes now.

"Chandler, I don't know what kind of pre-race meditation you're doing right now, but do it in your car." Monica's order came cold, no hint of familiarity in the curve of her words. It's how she usually gets near the end of a season, when points matter more and more and she values her work above all else.

"I wasn't meditating, I was–"

"Car. Now."

Monica wasn't angry with him after the crash in Hungary, despite his fears. This didn't mean she would turn down her surveillance— ever since, she worked extra hard to keep him disciplined, which in English, meant away from Joey. And this meant that the friendliness around track would be dialled down to a near zero— between him and Joey; between him and Monica.

He surrendered with a sigh, returning to his garage with a heavy head. In just a few months time, Formula 1 went back to the place he dreaded most. The magic went away almost instantly.

He's gotten used to the routine enough not to dwell on the technical aspects, flashing from one place to another in between blinks— from the garage, to doing his formation lap, to waiting for the lights to turn green, like blackouts in a drunken haze. Chandler was starting multiple places ahead of Joey today, fifth and tenth respectively. Starting with such a huge gap gave Chandler hope that today's trophy would go to the boy with American-only blood, but it was only he who hoped this, because the stands still cheered Tribbiani's name at the top of their lungs. Go figure.

The red lights gave way for the race to start, and Chandler defended himself well enough to maintain his position by the first corner. The first corner was always the scariest to him— all twenty cars moving in a pack together, clawing their way to the front, barely centimeters away from a season-ending collision, it did numbers on his heart. Even with three years of experience under his belt, he still bites his lip at that first corner.

Joey, naturally, didn't care the way he did. Swerving around every chicane as if he was the only person driving. How does he do everything so fearlessly? How does his heart stay still? It wasn't fair. He loved this sport instead of him.

Laps melted away under the pressure. Five; ten; fifteen; Chandler had begun to lose track. It all feels the same, blurring into one, like the old days— the pre-Joey era, as Chandler calls it. It's so formulaic, it must be where the name comes from. Push. Hold. Lift. Steer. Dodge. Attack. Steady. Slow down. Watch Joey gain up on him as he always does. Steady. Steady. Steady.

In his mirror, the second Sauber car appeared a lot closer than it was at the beginning of the race.

"What place is Joey right now?" Chandler asked into his radio.

David had clearly been drilled by Gunther earlier on into keeping the boys' competition to a minimum. "A good place. You're in a better one. Just keep driving."

"Give me a number, David, please?"

It's that desperate please that serves as a cherry on top, reminding David that they were more than just colleagues, they were friends to a certain degree. And Chandler, who knew David to have a weak heart, knew exactly how to work him.

"He's seventh."

This was followed by more of David's ramblings begging Chandler not to do anything reckless, but it was lost under the Italian chants, louder than the engine in front of him.

Joey's pace, fuelled by his childhood dreams and love for his country, increased by the second. Soon, he was wheel-to-wheel with the car behind Chandler's, ready to overtake at any second. Chandler began to understand his unpredictable nature and see the patterns; if he knew anything about Joey, he'd make his attack at the single most dangerous opportunity, just to prove a point.

And while he continued gaining distance, Chandler was still right where he was since the beginning of the race. Not too far from fourth place; barely an honourable mention.

He was about to stomp against the gas pedal, do whatever he could to claw his way up to the podium, but then, he passed by the grandstand again— and it was only for a second, barely enough to even confirm, but he was sure that it was the grandstand where the Tribbianis stood. He could feel it; those supersonic waves of love that coursed throughout the track. His foot was stuck mid-air in whatever cramped space the cockpit offered.

He checked his rear-view mirror again; Joey, going clean around the car behind and landing in sixth place, behind Chandler's wing. Only growing faster by the second; more determined by the heart beat.

This is what Monza wants. What the Tribbiani's want. Most importantly, what Joey wants. That big, shiny trophy in his tender hands. His reflection on the golden surface. His name in Monza's records. This was Joey's race to win; Chandler's race to forget about.

With Joey directly behind his car, Chandler had already given him the perfect slipstream. He pushed down lightly on the brake, slowing down just enough for him and Joey to drive side-to-side down the straight.

"Chandler?" No decision made on the driver's behalf gets past David and the technical team. "What are you doing?"

Chandler put it bluntly. "Letting him pass."

"Oh. Okay. Right." The radio engineer didn't sound too happy. "Why?"

"Joey's going a lot faster than me. He has a better chance of winning. I'm just blocking his way."

"Yeah, well, that's not really your call to make."

Joey inched further and further ahead of Chandler, surely just as confused as David, asking Mike what's going on in the car next to him.

David called out again, a nervous order likely influenced by Monica ensuring that Chandler wasn't doing the one thing he was constantly being accused of. "Listen, Chandler, you're a smart man— but leave the strategizing to us, okay?"

"Who's in the car?" Chandler asked; a rhetorical question with a hint of entitlement, "Me. I'm letting him pass."

He was doing the one thing they begged him to do back in Monaco.

From here, Joey sailed off into fifth, then fourth, and by the time the checkered flag rose high under the sun's glaring beam, he caught his first third place of his career; his first steps on the podium.

The ground shook beneath Chandler's boots from the sheer joy of Italy. If the big bang were to happen a second time, it'd go unnoticed under the crowd's cheer. The tifosi cried tears for what they hoped to be their future saviour; their reborn Niki Lauda.

He watched Sauber's celebrations from afar. Joey's pit crew rushing to get their hands on the high-finishing driver, smiles too big for their faces. Mike, who hadn't known Joey for all that long yet, held a meek grin too. Hiding his true enthusiasm but sparing the boy a firm and affectionate handshake.

It wasn't long until the podium celebrations would begin, which is where Chandler rushed off to first, wanting nothing to do with Monica and the rest of his team— or more accurately, avoiding the team who wanted nothing to do with him. Monica was probably as red as Monza's streets, with steam rushing out of her nostrils, but that was a problem for tonight's Chandler. The current Chandler watched Joey walk up the steps— curiously, with a low hanging head— and shake the hands of his fellow podium finishers, before being assaulted by streams of champagne.

His wet, olive skin glistened; his hair, slick with champagne, caught rays of sun like crests in the ocean's waves. And though he was on the third podium, he looked like the tallest man in the world. He was beautiful, and Chandler hates to admit this now because it brings a rash to his skin, envy to his stomach and rage to his tongue, but he is beautiful. The most beautiful thing that God had to offer. The thing that turned men to sin.

Joey's family pushed past Chandler, stretching their arms out high as if they had any chance to touch their decorated boy. He could count each and every one of the teeth in their wide grins, but the tears were immeasurable. His mother and sister with mascara stained cheeks, and his father with sweat staining his underarms, cried out indiscernibly, in what Chandler assumed to be Italian— he didn't know the language, but they were soft words, coated with the utmost of love, rivalling his own.

And even though his loving family was jumping front and center, Joey's eyes struck on Chandler. A dark stare, void of pride and barely visible through squinted eyes. His jaw was clenched, a vein in his forehead poking through his skin. This was not the face of a starstruck Italian kid finally reaching his dreams— so who was that, holding the bronze trophy?

It was later in the day, inside Sauber's motorhome by the paddock, that he'd find out. Chandler stood just outside the dressing room, jumpsuit zipped down to his waist, leaving him in his fireproof undershirt when he heard heavy footsteps approaching behind him.

"Why'd you do that?" Joey's voice echoed in the empty hallway— not exactly angry, but far from joyful. Not even close to content.

At this point, beating around the bush was useless. They both knew what went on during that stunt.

"It's your home race" is all Chandler says.

His back was still turned, ready for the interaction to end here, but making no effort to leave.

Joey was silent for a second, and then he said "I don't need you to gift me podiums."

And it was true, it was exactly how they started the season.

"We've talked about this before."

"It wasn't a gift." Chandler turned on his heel, now face-to-face with Joey, much closer than he expected. "You were gonna overtake anyway."

"So? Then why not defend yourself? Why be a coward?"

Chandler let out a large exhale, the kind bulls huff out. "I'm not a coward."

"Quit drivin' like one, then." Joey stood tall, not letting Chandler phase him. "If I beat ya, it's going to be because I worked for it. And it's going to be because you tried. Home race or not."

"But when I refuse to let you by, then we have problems." Chandler rebutted, and Joey didn't have a good response for that. He just bit his lip, darted his own eyes between Chandler's, refused to look away.

"No more of this. We race like real men. I don't care if we're friends or teammates or whatever. We just race." Joey declared, and Chandler wasn't sure if he was allowed to take any relief from this statement; the mention of 'friends'. "Will you promise me that?"

Chandler didn't need time to contemplate it. All he did was extend his pinky finger out.