Author's Note: Last Chapter of 1996! I know I say this all the time but updates aren't going to be as quick as they used to, school has gotten a lot more busy than i anticipated...
September 22nd, 1996 - Portuguese Grand Prix
Transcribed Excerpt from a Post-Race Interview Between Timothy Burke and Tag Jones - Broadcasted on ESPN
JONES: Wow, Burke! Congratulations on tying the championship up early! That's a real achievement!
BURKE: Oh, you're too kind. Thank you, really.
JONES: And the second one of your career. Man, so young and already so accomplished.
BURKE: Thank you, thank you, but it's not just my doing, it's the whole team. I'm so fortunate to have such great mechanics and engineers and a fantastic car. And also a teammate willing to work with me.
JONES: I guess not every team has that, huh?
BURKE: Uh-huh…
BURKE: And it's a shame, people are quick to blame the cars or the development team, but the drivers play a part in it too. It's really important for teammates to have good chemistry, or else nothing gets accomplished.
JONES: I see, I see…
JONES: This is your last race for Williams, it must be hard to depart from the legendary team— and from your dad.
BURKE: Oh. definitely. Williams has done so much for me, I couldn't be more thankful. And working with my dad is absolutely fun. He's my number one supporter, obviously.
BURKE: But I'm excited for this new chapter of my life at Benetton, and I'm really ready to try new things there.
JONES: Any words on who will be taking your seat?
BURKE: I really can't say…
JONES: Come on, just a little hint?
BURKE: Well…let's just say…it's someone who gets into a lot of action.
October 13th, 1996 - Japanese Grand Prix
Anticipation wasn't as high as it usually would be for the very last race of the season. Timothy Burke— the miraculous little wonder kid he was— gained enough points throughout the year that no matter what, he'd remain victorious by the end of the weekend. But the season goes on regardless, and there was one more Sunday left for Chandler to agonise through until he's allotted his glorious winter break.
His garage was silent apart from the sound of machinery. Monica, who was once Chandler's best friend, then his second, now back to first, held a grudge against him. He'd repeatedly betrayed her trust, proven time and time again that his priorities laid elsewhere. Whether it was appeasing Joey or beating him, his focus was never on the drive itself, and it wore her down. So, perhaps she wasn't his best friend anymore. Now they were just driver and manager— and when the checkered flag rises and the season is over, he's not sure what they'll be, or if Monica has any respect for him left.
Still, she does her job, and it's what makes her an infinitely better person than Chandler.
"Take the car to its limits, do what you want with it— you know, within reason." She said, keeping her eyes fixed on her clipboard. "We're not too worried about damage. New car next year, anyway."
Chandler nodded with an affirmative hum.
"And be weary of both the Minardi's. They were really fast during qualifying yesterday. You know where you're starting, right?"
He nodded again. "Sixth."
She scribbled something down on her clipboard, tapped her red pen against her lips exactly three times, and went off without a goodbye. This was how it's been for a little while now.
Out on the Suzuka track, cars had begun lining up to their starting positions, meaning it was Chandler's time to do so as well. But with this being the last Sunday of the season, it also meant it was the last Sunday forcibly spent with mother dearest.
Nora seemingly materialised out of nowhere; suddenly emerging from the shadows, like the monsters under his childhood bed. With her long claws on his shoulders, she gripped the fabric of his jumpsuit.
"We need to talk."
He tensed up, and for once, had a reason for wanting to start the race. "I really need to get into my car, mom."
"It'll only take a minute."
But she didn't wait for his confirmation. He was already being dragged out before Nora could finish his sentence, taken out to the end of the pitlane where fans from afar tried their best to peer in. Whatever she wanted to discuss, he was grateful that she had enough mercy not to do it in front of the team— but out in the open, he couldn't imagine the amount of snapshots being taken; how many people were watching the little boy being scolded by his mother.
Finally, her sharp stride came to a halt, and now both hands were fixed on his shoulders. "Chandler, you have been acting unbelievably childish this past season. With your little rebel streak and all your tantrums—" She began, clearly irritated as ever, because she didn't refrain from making any expressions. He knew it was serious when she made the risk to form wrinkles. "And don't think I don't know that this isn't because of that damn Italian."
Out of her mouth, it sounds like a slur. She says it the same way she says Helena.
"I don't know what's going on between you two—"
"There's nothing going on." He lied.
"Listen, Chandler, whatever is going on between you two, I need you to use it."
He wasn't really sure what she was getting at.
"Chandler, I've never seen this much unprofessionalism from you— but I've also never seen this much…drive. When you two became friends, you started looking forward to these races. And now you two are fighting, and you're actually doing something on the track! You're trying!"
Her scold quickly turned into crazed words of praise. It was a shade he'd never seen on his mother before.
"What are you saying?"
"Channel it." She said. "Whatever this is— anger, jealousy— use it. Think about it. Just…I don't know, Monica is better at these motivational things." She huffed. "Just try."
Everyone in his life had been begging him to try; to persevere; all for different reasons.
Before he could even give his formality nod, she slapped him on the back and launched him back into the pitlane. "Now get into your car, and actually listen to me for once."
He came stumbling back to the two Sauber garages, and noticed the other car was already missing from its spot. Typical Joey, never wasted a second away from the track.
Chandler put on his helmet— shiny, smelling like Monica's usual disinfectant, meaning their friendship was still okay— and boarded his car. Starting position, formation lap, wait for lights, it's nothing new.
Joey was starting right behind him, in perfect view within his rear-view mirror. If Chandler could see through his helmet, he was sure Joey grinded his teeth until they were just dust. He probably wanted nothing more than to beat Chandler one last time until the next season.
And when the lights went out, Joey was quick to make a move on Chandler. Immediately steering to the left to get around him, only to lose that proximity by the first turn. Still, Joey was glued to the back of Chandler's car, following him through all the turns Suzuka had to offer.
All Chandler could do was follow Nora's advice— whatever it was that he felt for his teammate, it was strong enough to bring him to the track every other weekend; strong enough to make him fight.
The two blue cars zoomed through the track without letting go of eachother— every overtake Chandler made, Joey joined in. They swapped places often but they moved through the track as a single unit— as a team— clawing their way up to the podium as close as possible.
By halfway through the race, Chandler and Joey held fourth and fifth place respectively, just breaths away from champagne.
Joey continued his relentless hunt— squeezing Chandler to the very sides of the track, close enough not to be penalised but just enough to scare Chandler. At some point their tires even touched, but they got better at this dance. They fought without hazard.
"He's on your tail—"
"You think I don't know that?" Chandler snapped at David's obtuse radio message.
"Just be careful. You guys have great pace." David said. "Please. Don't mess this up."
David often gave very specific advice, telling Chandler exactly what to do— much to the driver's reluctant frustration. But today, he had only a single humble request for Chandler. And he never sounded more afraid.
Chandler tightened his grip on the wheel, surprised his fingers had any more strength left in them. He could picture his reflection in the Japanese trophy, his daydream continuously interrupted with Joey shadowing him.
It's the kind of performance he expected from the beginning; the two sailing together— wheel-to-wheel, hand-in-hand— claiming positions with every lap. It's the kind of performance that should end with them jumping out of their cars, leaping to one another, becoming one when adorned with their medals.
Unfortunately, he had a strong feeling this would end with both of them in the gravel yet again.
With only a few laps left, Chandler was second and Joey was third. Ahead of them was only Timothy, who continued to fight despite his championship trophy sitting comfortably at home. This was where Chandler began to shake, knowing how close he was to a top three finish, knowing how much this would mean to the team if the boys could prove they're capable of working together.
Sweat trickled down his neck, he pushed against the uncomfortable feeling.
Chandler had him in all the curves— he could ride around the edge with perfect precision, having the caution Joey lacked to carry out a turn; the other driver had been reprimanded for his reckless drives and had to practice holding back in corners. But the straights, that was Joey's territory. Within just a year he knew how to extract the most speed he could from his car. He took Chandler's ability to understand the cars, its needs, its limits, to bring it to the maximum. He had God's grace on his side.
And on the final lap, down the backstretch was where he finally made the move, swerving around Chandler in a blink of an eye, one final swap between the two teammates. They sailed past the checkered line after what was undoubtedly Sauber's best race in years.
Williams celebrated their driver's final win with the team, along with their victory in the constructor's championship— a surprise to no one. What was surprising was Sauber placing third, uncharacteristically high for the team that usually hung around in the midfield. It meant they played their cards right with their young drivers.
Chandler didn't get a chance to see Joey right after reaching the finish line. Even after all they've been through this year, he owed his teammate a congratulatory handshake at the very least— a hug if he felt confident enough. But Joey was quick to run to the podium, probably as part of their ongoing contest outside of Formula 1: who can avoid each other for the longest.
The top three drivers walked up the stairs to the podium, Chandler lagging behind in Joey's shadow. They reached the stage and took to their respective pedestals; Chandler being in the same exact spot he kicked the season off.
Timothy stood in between the two. The American national anthem played for the first place driver, but it represented the full podium today. Chandler smiled at the sight of a podium full of Manhattanites— what a coincidence.
And as the theme played— and Timothy sang his heart out— Chandler snuck a glance to the second place podium, where Joey already returned the gaze. Chandler figured he'd be quick to turn away, but for the remainder of the song, they locked eyes. Their first podium together of their careers, their friendship, and it was stained with knowing that both boys would go straight back home, no late-night detours.
The bottles of champagne were thrust into their hands as Bizet's song was played, with green and yellow confetti flying around the three. The cool bottle felt good in Chandler's hot hands, slipping around in his sweat. He thinks about the last time he and Joey lugged around bottles of champagne, and how the moonlight rained down much like these sprays of alcohol. How in the snow they stood close enough for their foggy breaths to warm their noses, and on this small stage they still kept their distance.
He's so pathetic. He just can't stop thinking about him. Meanwhile, Joey probably forgot all about that night. He has bigger things to worry about— his brush with victory, his silver trophy.
And now, summer break would begin and the two Sauber boys didn't have any obligation to be together, no excuses for Chandler to hang around his apartment. It'd be another summer break lost in silence. How did Chandler always manage to mess things up? Why couldn't he keep things good for longer than a handful of months?
Perhaps this was the saints' message telling him that they weren't meant to be. Their friendship, an anomaly; their rivalry, what God intended the whole time.
Chandler bit his lip under Timothy's oblivious champagne attack. Of all people to love, it just had to be the one person he shouldn't.
October 13th, 1996 - Portuguese Grand Prix
Transcribed Excerpt from a Post-Race Interview Between Joey Tribbiani and Tag Jones - Broadcasted on ESPN
JONES: Joseph! I'm glad I caught you!
JONES: Second place, you must be ecstatic right now. And in your first year? I've run out of praise, but you have to know how big a feat this is.
TRIBBIANI: Thanks…man, it's been such a great year. I'm just so glad I finally get to be here with all the big guys, y'know? It's a dream come true!
TRIBBIANI: Well, not entirely, 'cuz my dream is to win. So this is more like a…dream come half-true. Or three quarters.
JONES: Whatever you say, Tribbiani.
JONES: Anything else you have to say about your first year in Formula 1?
TRIBBIANI: I just need to thank Sauber-Ford for giving me this opportunity. I mean, they just lost this amazin' driver, and they decide to replace him with me? I'm just happy they had that kinda trust in me.
TRIBBIANI: I hope I didn't let them down. Next year, I'm gonna make 'em regret not signing me sooner!
JONES: You're just so confident, I really admire that about you.
JONES: Now that you mention next year, any big plans for this summer break?
TRIBBIANI: I'll be goin' back to Italy to visit my family. Going tonight, actually.
JONES: How long?
TRIBBIANI: Uhh…two months. Maybe three.
JONES: That's a long time.
JONES: Final question before I have to get to Timothy— I think I've asked you before, but now that the season's done, I really need to know.
JONES: What has it been like to drive along and fight with— and against— your friend as a teammate?
TRIBBIANI: Hmmm,
TRIBBIANI: Well, one can only imagine, I guess.
October 13th, 1996 - After The Race
A storm of knocks came at Joey's door later that night. Chandler wasn't far from the media pen— he overheard Joey's interview with Tag, and there were a couple questions the Italian left unanswered.
He should have been in bed by now, getting enough rest to fly back home the next morning— but too angry to fall asleep, he stomped down the hotel corridor in his loose pajama pants and an old Speed Racer T-shirt.
After minutes of hesitance on Joey's part, he finally opened the door for his seething teammate.
Chandler had no time for greetings. "What the hell does that mean? One can only imagine?" He pushed his way into Joey's hotel room, shoving his teammate back with more force than he initially planned. "What are you, the Riddler?"
Normally, Joey was like a strong boulder that could never be moved, but he stumbled back once Chandler thrust his hands against his chest.
On the hotel bed were piles of messily folded clothes, and by Joey's feet was a wide-open suitcase, only half-packed. Joey was fully dressed in a comfortable cable-knit sweater and navy coloured jeans; he looked put-together, ready to leave Japan— ready to leave Chandler.
He didn't entertain the physicality. "It means I'm giving you what you wanted." Joey said in that nonchalant manner Chandler couldn't stand right now. Paying only half of his attention to Chandler's tantrum, he continued tossing stacks of clothes into the open suitcase. "You never wanted a friend, I get that now"
Tonight had made it official. Chandler Bing and Joey Tribbiani are not friends. The hairs on Chandler's neck stood up.
"What makes you say that?" He fought back a desperate quiver, keeping his back straight and standing tall. His height was the only thing that let him feel an ounce of power.
"I don't know, maybe it's how you don't think I'm good enough to win on my own so I need to get the team to hold you back. Or how you keep your whole life a secret from me even though I'm always tellin' you about mine." Joey grumbled, but the words were sharp enough to be discerned; to hurt. "Or how you try to crash into me."
Chandler sighed— his new catchphrase. "I'm not trying to crash into you. I'm trying to—"
"Win. I get it. You've made that clear. You've made a buncha things clear."
Chandler was used to anger— both his mom and Monica were prone to outbursts. Even he himself had trouble managing his fury sometimes. But Joey's passive-aggressiveness was something he could never shake off. He felt small.
"Like?"
Joey threw the last shirt in, a soft thud when it hit the suitcase. Now, he was looking square at Chandler, with the same look as a bull seeing red.
"You can't handle competition! You're not special anymore because there's a new new guy on the track that's doin' good, and you hate that I'm gettin' more attention than you!" Joey's voice grew louder, his New York accent thickening as it usually did when he became angry. He stumbled around the suitcase, coming close to Chandler's face. "You only race because you want to be rich and famous."
He didn't know what he was talking about— it's what Chandler wants to delude himself with, so he can chalk this all up to be a mistake said in the heat of the moment. But Joey sounds as sure as one can be when he says "You shouldn't even be in this sport."
Chandler's chest was heavy with deja-vu. How many times have they stood just centimeters away from each other, feeling each other's angry breath, stewing in silence and waiting for the other to go away? Waiting for a punch or a slap or a kiss?
His jaw clenched, and for once, Chandler thought carefully about what he would say next. He thought Joey knew him well enough to understand why they were still here, but clearly not. It's his fault for being so dishonest his whole life.
"I hate fame. I hate being rich. I hate being the spoiled kid everyone wants out of the team because they also don't think I should be here." Chandler hissed, brows furrowed so deep that he couldn't even feel them anymore. He spoke even though all he could hear was his own explosive heart beat. "But y'know what? I still race. I race because you race, Joey. I race because you actually give me something to look forward to in this absolute shitfest of a sport."
It all rips out of him before he can catch up to his mouth and shut himself up.
Shitfest may have been a step too far, especially considering that this sport is what Joey dedicated his whole life to. Chandler has as well, but Joey actually cared about it. He probably wouldn't want to hear someone calling it a shitfest.
And so, it would be entirely appropriate for Joey to become even more angry than he already was.
Chandler's cheek tingled, foreboding an assault once Joey pieced two-and-two together; reading between the lines to find why Joey motivated him so much, because it wasn't just rivalry. Instead, Joey's hands stayed unclenched at his sides, and his jaw hanging low while all he could do was stare back at the burning boy. His eyes were wide like a doe's, frozen in time.
A quiet filled the room where neither one said a word— which had sort of become the norm between them, but what differentiated this excruciating moment was that they were not in avoidance of each other. There was no running away or stolen glances, these small four walls of the hotel room made it so that all they could look at was each other. All they could wait for was for one of them to say something to break them out from this curse of silence.
Chandler's throat had that post-vomit sting, and he wishes he never opened his mouth. His whole life, he perfected the art of keeping things to himself, so why fail now?
Approaching the door were sharp footsteps, those of high-heeled shoes like the ones Nora wore but much heavier and quicker to be hers. Chandler watched as Estelle appeared into view from the door frame, her voice loud like nails against a chalkboard.
"Joey! We gotta leave soon!" She called out, then noticed Chandler and his pink cheeks standing in front of her driver. "I didn't know you had company." She said, with a click of her teeth.
Both men whipped their heads around as if they were caught in the act. Joey couldn't form any coherent words, only vague sounds left his lips.
"The car's waitin' out front, get your bags ready before the driver screams my ear off!" These were Estelle's last words before she pulled out a cigarette from her pocket— that she absolutely was not allowed to have— and lit it before she left for the front lobby of the building.
Chandler bit his lip, this wasn't how he wanted to leave things before Joey left for Italy. Inside, he screamed for God to grant one last miracle and let Joey turn around with a smile on his face and for him to say the magic words: that he misses him, that he forgives him, and that he loves him, and that he and Chandler were still friends. Lovers could wait— he just needed to hear that they were friends.
But Joey swallowed hard, and picked up another stack of clothes from his bed.
"I really need to get going." He bent down and shoved whatever was left into his suitcase, zipping it shut with haste. "And you have to get back to New York tomorrow."
There was a finality to his words; things were over between them before they had ever really begun.
"That I do." was all Chandler could croak out.
This was his cue to leave, which he took; slugging out of the hotel room without another word and shutting the door behind him, his hand waiting on the knob for a few more seconds as Chandler listened in. Hoping to hear a sob, or words of regret, or really any sort of noise— but there was nothing, as if Joey had already left.
Who was he kidding, Joey left a long time ago. He probably had enough of Chandler's nonsense since New Year's day. It wasn't mercy that kept Joey at Chandler's arms, but pity. Even that, Chandler wasn't deserving of anymore.
His own hotel room was a few doors down as always. Carrying a day's worth of exhaust, he only wanted to sleep this shame off and fly back to New York immediately, to sulk in the privacy of his own home. Of course, Chandler Bing never gets what he wants, and as long as God was alive, there would always be another thing waiting for him.
He turned the corner to see Monica waiting at his door; her back leaning against the wall, her dark hair frizzy and unkept. She looked up once she noticed Chandler, a wide-eyed look as if she saw a ghost.
With wide arms, Chandler approached her cautiously, ready to comfort her after whatever it was that left her at his door like this— but she tensed up once he got near, holding her own arms so that he wouldn't touch her. This is how he knew who this was about.
"Mitchell." She spat through gritted teeth.
Chandler blinked. "Gavin?"
She nodded, taking heavy breaths and exhaling steam. "He got the seat. At Williams."
Williams. The word sounded devoid of life from the usually hopeful and ambitious Monica, who now looked black and white and like she was going to explode.
"Apparently they wanted a safe option." She went on, "and to them, Gavin is safe. Somehow. Can you believe it? Gavin? Safe?"
She was smiling, but Chandler didn't feel like this was a moment to laugh.
"And you…you've been too reckless. Defying team orders. Oh, and that crash…it just wasn't what Williams was looking for. Even though they really wanted you last year."
It was dark; one of the lightbulbs that made up Chandler's future burst and died. Monica had gone on and on about Williams since he first set foot in a Formula 1 car. Part of him felt like it was a guaranteed signing, when he'd pass Richard Burke in the pitlane and exchange a wave, imagining himself with the blue logo on his jumpsuit.
He didn't even want it that much. He had no right to look at Monica with the miserable expression he had, and pretend that this was a shared dream between them.
Still, it hurts. He can't say he didn't try for them. Richard Burke was now just another person on the long list of people that didn't want Chandler.
"That was your thing." Monica croaked, a tremble in her voice, watching her years of hard work go down the drain. "You were calm, you didn't let things get to you— what happened?"
A question with the world's most obvious answer.
She sunk her face into her palms, but she didn't cry.
"You were so close. So, so close."
She didn't cry, but she was absolutely heartbroken.
"I mean, what will your mom think?"
She had the reaction Chandler was supposed to.
"And I told you, didn't I? Not to get attached to Joseph. And what did you do?"
Get attached to Joseph. But he wouldn't say that out loud, at risk of watching the wall turn red with her splattered blood— or his.
"I did everything I was supposed to. I did my job. And you…"
Chandler wasn't sure what to do anymore. There wasn't anything he could say that could make this better because no matter what, it was clear what he had done. He threw away his shot at one of Formula 1's top teams because he liked a boy.
"And the thing is, you're not even talking to him anymore. So what was it all for, huh? What was all of it for?"
He asked himself that very same thing.
Chandler had gone about everything in the worst way imaginable. Pushing his friend away to focus on his career but not taking his career seriously just so he could stay close to his friend— how on God's green earth did he possibly think he could do both of these things? Have his cake and eat it? Now Joey hated him and he'd be stuck in Sauber for the rest of his life, with a manager who would quit her job if they weren't tied together by their personal lives.
What Chandler wondered was why she wasn't more angry, how she could still look him in the eye after costing that seat at Williams.
But then, she ran her hands across her face to let the blood back into her cheeks, and she stood tall with her hands on her hips, because Monica Geller always had a solution.
"There might be another team that still wants you."
He took a moment to think, then vehemently shook his head.
"I can't." It was the first time he heard his own voice in what felt like forever. "I'm not going to Ferrari."
Monica frowned, she needed to get through to him now more than ever. "Give me one good reason why, now that Williams is done with us."
The world was screaming at him to make the right choice. God watched him be stupid time and time again. They stood here with stiff backs and quivering lips all because Chandler couldn't make a decision for himself.
But this is the one thing he didn't regret, and knows he won't, so he tells her what he should've the first time.
"It's just not my seat. It belongs to somebody else."
Author's Note: Hope this wasn't too melodramatic of a chapter, but also, who doesn't love melodrama?
Also, fun little fact- Friends has multiple Speed Racer appearances! Ross has a poster of it in his old apartment and Chandler wears a Speed Racer shirt in The One That Could Have Been. This makes me happy since i LOVE the Speed Racer movie and its my fav racing movie of all time (but i havent actually seen the original cartoon). So, there IS some canon to Chandler's involvement in racing! And this ISNT a farfetched AU!