June 12th, 1995

The Monday after the Canadian Grand Prix came empty-handed. The sun barely shined through Chandler's hotel blinds, and yet again, he reached his hand out for something that wasn't there. The New York skyline, the American soil, the American boy he missed so much.

Things could have gone better yesterday, in every interpretation that could be made. Chandler was done dwelling on the race, but regret was still trapped in his head for the scene he made in his garage, and especially the way he treated Joey. Sweet, kind, Joey.

Lovely Joey didn't deserve to be shoved. Lightning should have struck down on Chandler the second he placed his dirty hands on one of God's angels. He didn't deserve to be yelled at, either. And he should have been spared from Chandler's dreaded sarcasm. He should have been kept far, far away from Chandler's toxicity, so that he'd remain forever pure. Chandler only dirtied him. And though he believed he didn't deserve to know someone as great as Joey, his heart wanted nothing more than to get closer. One of God's many messages Chandler chose to ignore.

Why did this random man have such an effect on him? Was Chandler so unfamiliar with making friends, that he immediately grew an obsession for someone who showed just an ounce of interest in him? To call it sad was an understatement, it was pathetic. But pathetic was a label he didn't mind if it meant being in Joey's good graces.

The colour of the sun meant it was early, and time to do something with the twenty-four hours Chandler wasted on an average day. Monica was a forgiving enough person to let him rest on post-race Mondays— rest, of course, holding its own unique meaning: he was allowed to sanction his own training sessions, as long as he wasn't sedentary. A fair ask for a professional athlete, one could suppose.

Normally, Chandler would do anything humanly-possible to avoid these training sessions— only to have his efforts immediately squandered, obviously— but today, he felt an urgency to go to the gym. A need to purge the emotional weight he still carried from the day before. The shame and attachment he felt for Joey was nothing more than an illness, one that he could easily sweat out in an hour of weight-lifting.

All of the drivers and anyone else associated with the Grand Prix were situated in the same high-profile hotel, meaning Chandler was free to use its facilities without fear of being harassed by paparazzi or other civilians. He made his way to the elevator, trying to ignore Monica's ghost complaining about not using the staircase.

"Not only is it faster, but you also get your steps in!" She would say. To appease the spirit of his missing gym coach, he marched in place as the elevator slowly descended.

Once he reached the ground floor, he expected to find another two or three drivers getting their morning exercise in as well— but he was on Monica time, meaning that everyone else from the paddock were likely still deciding on breakfast. He entered the spacious gym, lined with treadmills down the walls and big fluorescent lights that hadn't yet been turned on. The room was massive, able to accommodate many at once, but Chandler was the only one inside.

Or so he thought.

Sitting on one of the benches, curling a single dumbbell in one arm, he couldn't believe who he managed to run into. But it was no coincidence that Chandler managed to draw himself back to Joey. He had a sort of magnetism that Chandler always played victim to.

Still standing at the door, Chandler couldn't take his eyes off of the Italian man. It was no secret that Joey had a good physique, but now seeing his muscles free from the long sleeved shirts that caged them— it was candy for his eyes. Hard shadows laid where his muscles curved, sharp enough to draw blood if Chandler simply grazed them. His body glistened with sweat, illuminated by his own holy glow. It trickled down the single strands of hair that fell over his face, his usual olive skin now a faint red. Though he was far, Chandler could hear every heavy breath that escaped his chest.

He didn't realise he was staring until Joey's eyes met his, as if he could hear him too. The sound of Chandler's blood rushing to his face must have been strong enough to grab his attention. Chandler prepared himself to see Joey's million-dollar smile, but he didn't get that today.

"Hey there." Joey said, short and not-so-sweet.

Chandler, unable to find any of his own, could only repeat the words back, but they weren't as smooth coming out of him.

Joey looked at him expectantly, and for a second, Chandler thought the other man wanted nothing to do with him. It was a pleasant surprise when he sat next to him on the bench, and Joey didn't flinch.

"Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy."

With the verse in mind, Chandler figured it was time to have the long-awaited conversation. He kept his gaze down at the floor. "My parents got divorced when I was nine."

"...uh-huh?"

Chandler swallowed the lump in his throat. "My dad left, and everyone was going crazy about it. I mean, you couldn't turn the news on without seeing Charles and Nora Bing split in huge, gigantic letters. Like there wasn't anything more important going on."

Joey wasn't sure what he was on about, but he listened anyway. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, a curious look in his big eyes that Chandler had to appease.

"And my mom got tired of everyone talking about the divorce, and all the pity we got, so she put me into karting. So that we'd be more than the family that Charles Bing left." He reminisced, heart beating fast despite not having done any sort of activity yet. "Y'know, most parents usually just put their kids into piano or some other instrument, but that wasn't enough for my mom, I guess. I had to be a world-famous race car driver."

Chandler chuckled, and he waited for Joey to do the same, but he was silent; an invitation for Chandler to keep talking.

"You asked, and I promised, so that's why. I race because my mom made me, and I guess I never knew when to stop." He said, looking up to Joey's pity-filled eyes. "She came yesterday, actually. And I guess her being there just put me in a bad mood, and then I saw you, and— I don't know. I kind of exploded."

"I know, I was there." Joey reminded him, and while Chandler cringed at the memory, he noticed Joey didn't sound as upset anymore. Instead, he let Chandler say everything that was kept hidden for the past couple months. "Did somethin' happen between you two?"

"Yeah, the last twenty-six years." Chandler quipped. "She just…y'know, said things."

"Like what?"

He wasn't used to interrogation; anyone caring enough to continue prodding. Was this just a formality for Joey, or did he genuinely wish to know what was happening in Chandler's life?

"She wasn't happy with how I did. I wasn't spectacular." He said in a mocking voice, the hurt of yesterday bubbling through. As much as he wanted to pretend that Nora's comments didn't bother him, she always found a way to get under his skin. "And I'm sorry for taking that all out on you. That wasn't cool of me— if you want to punch me in the face or something, I completely get it. I have a very punchable face."

The gym was spacious, enough space for every resident of the hotel to stand around, yet the two men were still pressed against each other's sides on the bench. The hairs on their arms danced. A selfish invasion of each other's personal space despite the empty world around them, but neither dared to move.

"Dude, I'm not going to punch you." Joey relieved him. "I get it, you were peeved. Happens to the best of us."

"I wouldn't say I'm the 'best of us'. I'm probably much, much farther down there in the line of 'us'".

"But you're still above Gavin."

"Oh, way above."

The two shared laughter, the melody of their intermingling pitch slicing the tension in the room. This was how it should be, Chandler thought. We should never be mad at each other.

"But seriously, man, don't worry about it." Joey put his hand on Chandler's shoulder, and this time, Chandler happily welcomed it. His shoulder prickled under Joey's heat. "It was just kinda weird, you gettin' all mad and I had no idea why."

Chandler could only nod.

"And I'm sorry, too. I think I could'a been more understanding."

"No no, you've been too understanding. You've put up with enough of my whining." He held Joey up like a hero, willing to forgive Chandler of every wrongdoing he committed. So it came as a surprise when Joey ran out of mercy to spare the day before, yelling out questions Chander asked himself. Why did it matter so much for Joey to be there? The world may never know.

"You're not a whiner." His words melted the ice Nora inflicted on him. "Yesterday was nothin' to whine about. You did good, Chandler!"

"You don't have to try and make me feel better–."

"I'm not!" Joey interjected. "Even if you didn't finish high, that was still a good race! You were fast, and you kept your cool in those tight corners with all those other cars around ya,"

Chandler knew that wasn't true at all, but he let him continue.

"That's your thing. You've got control. Amazing control. Hell, spectacular control. I swear, you move around on the tracks like you've been there forever." He gushed with the same childlike wonder from their first hang-out in Brazil months ago. "You're good at this stuff, Chandler. Don't let anyone tell you that you aren't."

It took every bit of strength Chandler had to keep his excitement hidden. "I'll try."

Joey lightly punched his arm. "You won't try. You will."

The two boys locked eyes for a moment, with no other exchange of words. Just silently appreciating each other's company. Joey was the very definition of masculine; Chandler was strong, too, he had to be if he was a Formula 1 driver, but Joey bordered on macho. Everything about him was bold, unmistakeable. He was the first thing you'd notice in any room. The world could be on fire, and Joey would stand out amongst the flames, unscathed. Everything he did left a lasting impression, something that Chandler had to deal with for the past three months. And of course, there was his easy-going personality. In this moment, Chandler realised what was so mystifying about Joey— he was everything Chandler wasn't. Perhaps that's what these feelings were; jealousy, or grief over who Chandler should have been.

Joey played with his thumbs, a rare uncertainty in his movement. "So…what's it like driving with Kip?"

Kip became a common topic in their discussions. "He's cool. It feels weird being on the same team as someone as great as him, though. I feel–" Chandler searched for a word, "out of place."

"I think you fit in perfectly."

"Okay, you can't just say all these nice things because we're friends. You can be honest, that's okay."

Joey straightened his back. "Why do you think I'm lying?" He asked, much more serious now.

"He's Kip Allagash. He's been in multiple championship fights. This year he doesn't try and he's still doing better than majority of the grid." Each sentence that came out of Chandler had more emphasis in its words, and somewhere along the way, Kip became more like an urban legend and less like the guy Chandler would see next race-week. "Me? I'm Chandler Bing— no, not even. Did you know a magazine misprinted me as Bong once? Bong? People don't even know my name."

"I know your name."

"You're one person."

Joey opened his mouth, about to say something, but gave it another thought. Chandler watched as he formulated his perfect response.

"You know what your problem is?" He said.

"Oh, God, scientists have been trying to crack that one for years now."

"You doubt yourself way too much. You've got so much talent for a driver who's barely started his career, but you act as if you're already some washed-up failure. You're not even close, Chandler."

Chandler averted Joey's strong gaze, ensuring he wouldn't go blind. "Those are your words, not mine."

"Chan'." This was the first time Joey had ever shortened his name. "I swear on my ma, you are one of the greatest drivers I've ever seen. You've got potential. I don't care what your mom or what these magazines think you are, because I know you're amazing. I truly think you're gonna be the next big guy."

There was such a strong genuinity in Joey's voice. If there was anything he was sure of, it was that. This was no formality. Chandler sensed something familiar in his tone: adoration. The same kind that laid heavy in his chest when he thought about Joey. They were two boys looking at their own idols.

It was jarring to hear such admiration knowing it was about him. Chandler knew himself better than anyone, and he didn't sound anything like whoever Joey was talking to. Joey must have seen that lingering doubt in Chandler's eyes, so he concluded with "You don't have to believe me, but know I'm not just sayin' that cuz' we're friends." Friends. It was sweet with an odd dash of pain. "I'm sayin' that because I'm a big fan of ya'."

To no one's surprise, Chandler did not have a single serious bone in his body. "Fan? How rude of me, I didn't even ask if you wanted an autograph."

"Yeah, that is rude of you." Joey played along. "I don't have anything for you to sign, though. So you're safe today."

"Nonsense. Turn around, I'll give you a tramp-stamp."

This got a roar of laughter out of Joey. Perhaps it was only because he hadn't worn him out yet, but Chandler loved how strongly Joey reacted to all his jokes. Monica and Ross were far too used to his humour by now, he was lucky to get a chuckle out of them. But Joey always laughed like it was the first joke he'd ever heard.

He struggled to speak through his guffaws. "You-– you're— you are so—"

"It's okay, take your time." Chandler mockingly soothed.

"You are so weird, you know that?"

"Wow, how kind of you."

"No– no no, in a good way. You're a good weird. You know any good weird people?"

Chandler couldn't say that he did.

"I've got this friend, Phoebe— I think you'd like her a lot, actually. You both have this thing with words."

"...speaking?"

"No no no!" Joey said, clearly frustrated with Chandler's lack of understanding. He noticed that Joey wasn't the greatest with stringing words together, and while Chandler did know what he was talking about most of the time, he liked to pretend he didn't. It was fun to see Joey get flustered. "You both always have these funny responses to everything. It's like, 'how do you do that?' Y'know? Just think of funny things like that on the spot."

Chandler could have gone in-depth about how humour was the only thing he had to offer for so long, but talking about his parent's divorce was already a big milestone. This will have to wait until next week's session.

"It just comes to me, I guess."

"It's impressive. You're…clever!" He looked so proud to have come up with that word on his own. Then, that uncertainty returned. "Can I…say something kinda bad?"

"Go ahead."

Joey scratched the back of his neck. "I'm really sorry about all that stuff that happened with you as a kid— divorce and everything, but…" then he shook his head, "Nah. Nevermind. Forget it."

"What? No! What were you gonna say?"

"It's nothing. It's stupid."

"Joe." And that was the first time Chandler shortened his name, shorter than it already had been. "What about my devastating childhood?"

"I was just gonna say…" He gulped, "I guess I'm kinda glad it happened. Only a little. Because it means you're here, racing."

Chandler faked being baffled. "How could you? That really messed me up, y'know!"

Joey became flustered again. It was fun taking apart his nonchalant demeanour. "No! No! Not like that! It's just…I'm glad that it brought you to where you are now! I wouldn't have met ya otherwise!" He waved his hands in defence, and something about his eagerness struck an arrow through Chandler's heart. His idea of sorrow was Joey's idea of fate.

"That's…true, I guess."

In the big, empty confine that was the hotel's gym, Chandler and Joey filled all the space with endless talk and banter and dreams for the future; envisioning what it'd be like to share the track with someone as fun as the other; getting to share the podium together; all things that would keep Chandler up at night, too excited to go to sleep. Joey had done for him the impossible: he gave Chandler a passion. Something to drive for. Some one to drive for.

And for fifteen minutes, Joey did not have his wings or halo, and the sacred glow from his sweat was gone once his skin went dry. He was just another boy. A boy who's lungs breathed the same air as Chandler's. Sometimes, Chandler felt like he needed to get on his knees and put his hands in prayer position, and that would be the only way for Joey to hear him. But here, they sat together on equal ground.

It could even be that it wasn't Joey who lost his divinity, but Chandler who wasn't aware of his own. They sung in their own choir somewhere within the clouds— was that so far-fetched of an idea? Chandler grew comfortable in Joey's applause; in the idea that he was worthy of such commendation. It was approval straight from heaven. God created mankind in his own image, and Chandler liked to think he was included in that.