AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'll be going on hiatus for a couple weeks since I've got exams soon and should really focus on those, but I'll be back in February! Till then, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

January 13th, 1996 – Barcelona, Spain

"So, I'm still the greatest friend in the world?"

Out on the paddock, a stranded Joey was surprised to hear his friend's confident voice coming behind him. Chandler, with his arms folded and a smug look, was intrigued to learn about Joey's sudden shift in tone.

The Italian had a coy smile, picking at the zipper of his jumpsuit. "Yeah, I thought it'd be a bad omen to start the season by announcing our beef."

Chandler twisted an unsure foot against the pavement, hands folded behind his back like a shy schoolgirl. "Do we…still have beef?"

Again, hesitance. Even if yes was his answer, it wouldn't be a clean one. There was still some sort of tension lying in the air.

Instead, Joey proposed a question. "Do you know what I want more than anythin' in the whole world?"

Chandler blinked at the unexpected response. Unsure of how to answer, Joey filled the blanks in for him.

"I wanna be on Ferrari." He said. "Nothin' would make me happier than representing my country on its team. Seriously, nothing."

Chandler ran a nervous hand through his hair, pretending the comment didn't bother him. It was no surprise he wasn't at the top of Joey's priority list, even though he really, really wanted to be.

"And not only do I wanna be a Ferrari driver, but I wanna be an amazing Ferrari driver. I want kids to look at me and start racing 'cuz of me." Joey continued, each word making a thud on the ground beneath them; heavy with passion. "I want to be a driver that everyone knows— not just F1 fans."

"And you will be."

"But I don't want that seat to just be given to me— like that." He snapped his fingers, and the gold rings in Joey's eyes grew bright with emotion. "I really wanna prove myself, y'know? I want to be the undeniable fit for that seat. Like, no one else is even a contender."

Honestly, Chandler couldn't tell where this was going. It wasn't until the next and final comment that he understood.

"I'm gonna be the guy they come to first. Not the guy that the first one recommends."

Noble was the only word that came to mind. Even if the opportunity was ready for him on a silver plate, Joey would only jump at it on his own terms. He'd only drive the red car if he was deserving of it; not just because he had money laying around.

"I get it." Chandler in fact did not. This was the kind of dedication he didn't even know was possible. Wonderful things can happen if you actually like your job, one could guess.

Joey began walking slowly down the paddock, with Chandler following close next to him. It didn't matter where they were going. "But I shouldn't have been so mad at 'ya. I mean, you were just doing a nice thing for me."

"I tried to." Chandler corrected him, cringing at his failed attempt at goodwill. "Leonard wasn't all that happy with me."

"I can imagine." Joey chuckled, before returning his gaze up to Chandler by his side— curious, almost afraid. Unsure, his lips twitched before asking, "...Did you want the seat? Like, even just a little bit?"

"Joe, the whole time I was there, I was hoping he'd slam his whiskey glass right into my head." The blunt response was nothing short of the truth. "I'd never take that seat in a million years."

Joey nodded with a cheerful hum, contentment bringing back the colour in his face. Then, Chandler said the same thing he's been saying for a long time now.

"I'm sorry for being a dick and not telling you."

Broadly smiling, Joey returned the favour. "I'm sorry for being a dick back at ya."

And with that, the boulder of pressure was finally gone from Chandler's shoulders. He clapped his hands, "Great. So, we're even now?"

This was where their playful stride ended, when Joey stopped in his tracks to focus all his attention on Chandler. "I can't keep forgivin' you forever. You've really gotta start being more honest with me, no matter what it is."

Chandler played a dangerous game testing Joey's limits; but even after countless betrayals, Joey always found it in his heart to forgive him. As if he too were afraid of losing the other man. For Joey to spare this much mercy— was it possible? The idea that maybe, Joey felt even just a smidge of the love Chandler had for him? This was hope he shouldn't allow himself, but a little indulgence never hurt anyone.

"I know, I know. But you've got to admit, things would be a lot more boring without me around." Chandler jabbed his elbow into the side of Joey's arm.

"Oh, believe me. These past couple weeks have been just a whole lotta nothing."

Around them, Chandler could hear the noises of camera shutters, nearly sending him into flight. He pushed away the paranoia, reminding himself that he and Joey were colleagues now. The only thing these photographers had in mind was their partnership at Sauber, nothing else— hopefully.

He remained nonchalant, pretending they went undocumented. "Then why not just open the door for me when I came?"

"Had to teach you a lesson." Joey answered with a shrug; smug, just like Chandler taught him. "Y'know, being teammates— it's a lot like a marriage."

Chandler almost began to choke. "What?"

"We're long-time partners, right? And partners need communication." He clarified. "Communication is key. Without communicating, how can we be good teammates?"

"Okay, fine, but don't say marriage." Chandler muttered the last word like it was obscene. "You're gonna give people the wrong ideas about us."

Joey looked around to the surrounding camera crews— surprisingly, they all seemed to be focused on the other teams. He raised a sceptical eyebrow, "I don't think they're listening."

"You'd be shocked." Chandler scoffed. Here, he figured the best way to get rid of that bothering anxiety was to finally expel it out to the world. "Actually, I found this article…"

But before he could fulfil his long awaited promise of honesty, a pair of bejewelled arms threw themselves around Joey's shoulders, and Phoebe's perky grin popped up next to his ear.

"Joeeey!" She cheered, throttling him around until birds flew around his head. The way he so easily wobbled within her grasp, it was clear she packed a lot more force than one would assume. "You were crazy good out there! I couldn't even see you! I got dizzy."

Her praise ended with a giggle, and with Joey turning around to face her with a tight hug. Chandler rubbed his own lonely arms, maybe as a simulation of what he didn't get.

Phoebe pulled away from the embrace, a red flush on her cheeks, overall looking delirious. "And that little microphone guy of yours—"

"Mike?"

"—Major cutie." She winked.

Joey shook his head authoritatively. "Hey, no flirtin' with my team. Can't have you distracting them during a race."

"Oh, please. You think I'm going to throw myself at a guy I just met? I have standards, Tribbiani." She dismissed with a wave of her hand, and only once her green eyes landed on the jealous boy watching from not too far did she realise he was there at all. "And you, Chandler— you were fast too!" The compliment came as a cheeky formality, and he could only nod as a thanks. Then she stationed herself between the two men in triangle formation, officially part of the conversation. Her impromptu appearances began to feel less like a fun surprise and more like simple invasion.

"So, whatcha' guys talking about?"

Both she and Joey gleamed at Chandler, waiting for his continuation. The old Chandler would think of something else to say; move on and let whatever was on his mind become buried in moss. But it was 1996, and Chandler's pinky finger weighed with responsibilities.

"I found this weird magazine article. They think you and I are—" His voice still got caught like net to hook, "Friends of Dorothy. Can you believe that?"

Putting himself on the opposition granted him control over the situation; absolved himself of his own crime.

The first response came from Phoebe, who after looking Chandler up and down, crushed his soul. "You're not?"

This observation, unlike most of her quirky little sayings, was entirely genuine.

"Pheebs!" Joey reprimanded her with a jab to the arm. "That's rude. He's obviously not."

"Obviously." Chandler repeated nervously.

"Neither of us are." Joey declared, devoid of his recent cheerfulness. He furrowed his brows and pointed an assertive finger to the ground they stood on. "That magazine doesn't know what it's talking about!"

Phoebe rubbed his shoulder, a giggle cracking between her words. "Calm down, pretty boy."

And with his stern defence, Chandler remembers why he couldn't afford himself any hope. Of course Joey wasn't like him— he was catholic, a real catholic. They were nothing alike. Even if Joey claimed he didn't have a problem with homosexuality, he and Chandler read the same books, and those books were clear about what happened to sinners. Turns out love is just a miserable lie afterall.

The black haired driver quickly regained his composure, then gave Chandler a proposal. "Phoebe and I were gonna head out for drinks later tonight. You wanna join?"

Enticing, truly, but he'd have to decline.

"Can't. I'm flying back home tomorrow morning, Monica would kill me if I decide to enjoy myself for once."

Phoebe pouted. "Why so quick? Barcelona will miss you."

"I know, I know— but I have to visit the dragon's nest."

January 14th, 1996 - New York City, USA

Sitting alone in the relaxed navy suit Monica urged him to wear, Chandler clinked his fork against his empty plate, waiting for his two parents to show up for the family dinner that nobody wanted. He had already read the menu front and back a hundred times, enough to recite it from memory. The glass of water was awfully shiny, and his only entertainment was to watch his own bored face warp around the curvature of the glass. Tables around him exchanged whispers and pointed fingers— there was a time when Chandler saw this and hid a smile, appreciative of his high status and the prestige that came with. Now, he wonders if he sits too gay, and if that was even possible to do. He lifted his leg that rested on his knee and sat up tall in his chair, because something about him had to be straight.

He looked to the ceiling where chandeliers burned bright, then to the polished floor, almost as reflective as his hungry utensils. A live band stood on a dark wooden pedestal, and the tunes of jazz softly echoed throughout the hall. The warm light cast a red glimmer on the tall rack of expensive wines behind Chandler's table. The air was thick with money; loud with people capable of charity, but devoid of anyone with heart. Business men and their unloving wives who turned blind eyes to beggars, and in the midst of them was Chandler, who convinced himself he wasn't anything like them. He says this, but he can't even remember the last time he left a donation at church.

His parents had no business being late tonight. The dinner was Nora's idea— a celebration for the beginning of the new season. Every January, she used all the kindness God afforded to her that year to invite Charles out for the night. It became tradition from the day a young Chandler begged and cried to see his father again, and the only way to stop the whining child was to give Charles a call and set aside all resentment she still harboured. Even through the disputes, Chandler had two parents present at the table, and that was enough to delude himself that he had a normal family.

Chandler shook his knee under the table, banging against the wood with the rapid turning of childhood memories. This, and the clinking of the fork against his plate grew louder when compounded with the high-heeled foot steps behind him. Pulling out the seat next to him was Charles, with his long off-white nails.

"Where's mom?" Asked Chandler,

Charles sat down and crossed one leg daintily over the other. "Hello to you, too."

His son gave an apologetic smile. In his pastel pink blazer and matching pencil skirt, Charles stood out against the restaurant's moody aesthetic. His earrings sparkled underneath his long, dark curls, and this was something Chandler had finally gotten somewhat used to.

Even then, Charles still caught him staring. "Is there something on my face?"

"Nothing that I wouldn't guess was intentional." Chandler replied, a nervous grin tugging at his lips. "Red suits you well."

Charles puckered his lips and smiled. "Thank you."

What Chandler had with Charles was nothing like what he had with Nora. Part of him still resents his father for leaving them all those years ago, only to strut in with his new wardrobe and new boyfriends and have the audacity to still thrive despite his crimes. Clearly he did not fear God's judgement like Chandler did, this pride came only from a non-believer.

This hatred he held for his father, however, never came out as colourful as it did from Nora. In fact, maybe he doesn't hate him anymore. He can stand being in the same room with his dad— he appreciates little moments like these, where they're able to talk and smile and forget about Australia— but the elephant in the room stomped loudly between them. This was still the man who cheated on his mother and abandoned him when he was young and danced with men in Vegas; this was still the man who was happier with Chandler out of his life.

"So, you had your first race today?" Charles asked from their cage of small talk.

"No, today was just a practice thing." Chandler leaned back in his seat, slouching exactly how his mother told him not to. "We start racing in March."

"That's nice." Charles said, his eyes keen towards the rack of wine. The French labels were much more interesting than their racing schedule, even Chandler could agree.

Seconds passed by with only the saxophone's song filling the space. Chandler adjusted the cufflinks of his suit, looking behind him to see if Nora had made her appearance yet. Even though she'd only cause chaos, at least it would give them something to talk about.

"I'm surprised Nora didn't come with you." Charles spoke up again. He didn't use his performance voice, but it was a lot more feminine than the father Chandler remembered. It must have become a habit.

"We don't really travel together." Chandler put it simply. "Having her around my race car is plenty enough, I don't need her around my personal one."

Charles found this to be humorous, and Chandler found this to be a job well done on his part. Even though his father was no longer a major character in his life, he still needed that dose of acknowledgement. The gears in his brain turned quicker while brewing another joke to keep this good stride going, but then, the wicked witch of the west had finally arrived.

In a long, slim and shimmering gold dress, Nora took the seat between the two men, and wasn't so sly when she pulled the chair out closer to Chandler.

"Nice dress." Nora's compliment came out with a hint of mockery, but Charles had long gotten used to this by now.

"Thank you." He said, reading over the menu. "It's a two-piece, actually."

"Lovely." Nora's eyes nearly rolled out onto the plate in front of her, but instead they landed on Chandler, who received a much more pleasing expression from her. "My, you look handsome today."

"It's all Monica's work." He grinned, fixing his posture in front of his mother.

Nora pinched his cheek, the long nail on her thumb nearly piercing through his skin. Then, she raised one finger to call over a waiter to write down their orders.

Chandler raised a brow. "You didn't even look at the menu."

"I know what I want." She said, then turning to the young waitress who skipped over to their table. "I'd just like your finest salad."

Once the waitress left, Nora said the same thing she always had to mention anytime they went out to eat. "This figure isn't going to watch itself."

"You're right. Liposuction is just too expensive these days." Charles snarked, tilting his head passive-aggressively.

"Well, you're no stranger to drastic changes." Nora replied, looking him up and down once again. Very quickly, Chandler knew this was going to be the hundredth year in a row where Bing family dinner didn't end well. "Seriously, what is with the get-up? This isn't Las Vegas."

"I just like to dress this way." Charles simply shrugged. "Don't be upset that you don't pull it off as well as I do."

Chandler had to swoop in and change the subject before his brain exploded and his blood painted New York in a crimson red. So, he talked about the only thing his mother would be willing to join in on. "Are you gonna be able to watch our first race?" He looked to Charles, wanting to address him by his title, but dad just couldn't form itself in his mouth.

Charles waved his hand. "Oh, please. I don't understand all of that racing stuff."

A waitress swung by to place their meals onto the table, receiving a silently mouthed thanks only from Chandler.

"There's not too much to it, you can get the basics of it pretty quickly." Nora said, biting the tiny pieces of leaves she forked apart.

"I'd say it's not enough." Charles replied. "It's just cars going around a road, I don't see what's so entertaining about that."

"Maybe ask the millions of people watching us." Chandler grumbled, picking at his stake. He could feel Nora's wide eyes burning in his side, in disbelief that her son seemed to defend the thing he hated so much.

Charles pouted slightly, feeling empathetic. "That wasn't meant to be an insult, Chandler."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't feel so good when people say your job is just 'going around a road'. It's a lot more than that."

Never did Chandler ever feel so defensive about racing, never did he care so much. But for whatever reason, hearing it be talked down on by someone else ignited something he didn't know he had within him. Joey really did spark something in Chandler, but it wasn't really the fireplace of passion that Joey had, maybe just a tiny flame.

This shut Charles down, leaving him alone to his plate of fish. Seconds passed without a trace of amendment; Bings weren't really familiar with apologies. Instead, he turned the spotlight back to Chandler. "You must be excited to get back on the track, then?"

To the surprise of just about anyone, Chandler nodded. "I think this is going to be a great year." He said with a dopey smile, thinking about his on-track companion who he'd much rather be spending his time with right about now.

Nora hummed in agreement, before taking on a more concerned tone. Her emotion could only be read through her voice, as she tried not to wrinkle. "I'm worried about that Italian, though."

"Italian?"

"His name is Joey." Chandler said sternly.

"He thinks he's an Evel Knievel, that one." The grip around Nora's fork tightened. "How was he so much faster than us yesterday? Something isn't right."

Chandler found this to be ridiculous, a humourless chortle coming out from him. "What are you saying, he's on steroids?"

"That, or maybe you're slow. " Nora pointed her clean fork to her son. "Too slow."

Chandler could tell there was some sort of accusation hiding in her words. "What?"

"You think I don't know? You're slowing down for him on purpose!"

Charles must have found this exchange a little too amusing; he leaned back in his chair with a cheeky grin, enjoying all that he was learning about his son and this Italian teammate.

On the contrary, Chandler scooched to the edge of his seat, as if this would put him at some sort of advantage against his mother. "What good reason would I even have to do that?"

"I don't know, maybe because you're the greatest friend in the whole entire world." Nora said in a mocking tone, and suddenly Chandler remembered why he dreaded his job so much. It wasn't even about the racing anymore— it was having to be with his mother so often.

Charles raised a curious eyebrow. "So a boy is distracting you, huh?"

"No— it's— it's not like that—" Chandler tripped over his own words. Though he did his best to defend himself, the red on his face likely said too much. "Look, I'm flattered that you even think I can go faster—"

Nora spoke right over him. "I know you can go faster. This isn't your best effort." She took another casual bite of her salad, which annoyed Chandler even further. Her needless criticism was just a side dish, spewed out with little to no effort. That's how good she's gotten at it. "You shouldn't be throwing yourself away all for your little playmate."

"Playmates." Charles repeated with a grin, one that annoyed Chandler far too much.

"Oh, don't push your agenda onto my son." Nora groaned, the loud clink of her fork against the plate coinciding with Chandler's stomach dropping.

Charles folded his arms. "Excuse me? What agenda?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." Nora folded her arms as well, in retaliation. "You come here in your colourful dresses pretending to be a woman for God knows what reason. You're trying to indoctrinate him, aren't you?"

"Oh, give it a rest, Nora."

Chandler's hands shivered, his steak now cold under the table's hostility. Was it worse that Charles suspected something deeper between the two boys, or that Nora was so vehemently against it? Chandler had no right being surprised, but there was still that little hope that Nora would be fine with her son being in love with a boy; that little hope that the boy would love him back; so many miserable lies today.

He wiped away the fresh sweat from his neck. "We're not— I'm not…"

"You better not be." Nora muttered under her breath, a harsh eye towards who she viewed as the perpetrator for this potential sin. "One in the family is far enough."

"What's wrong with you two?" Charles questioned with irritation. "You can't even say it. You know it won't hurt you, right?"

Nora returned a mocking grin. "If that were true, I wouldn't be divorced."

The two continued to bicker and draw attention from surrounding tables, because that's just what they loved to do. Wear sparkly dresses and catch everyone's eye and talk about their son like he wasn't sitting with them gasping for air. Chandler wasn't sure why he bothered coming to these dinners anymore when they do the same thing every single time. Was it too much to ask for just one night of peace? Especially when he gave up a night with Joey to be here?

Nora slapped her hand on Chandler's shoulder, gripping him as if she cared. "Don't ever insinuate such things about him ever again."

"Why invite me, then? If I'm such a villain?"

"I don't know. Maybe you should just stop coming."

Chandler pulled the napkin that sat daintily on his lap, wiping his mouth and then harshly tossing it to the table before jumping out of his seat. "I'll stop coming too." With that, he marched outside of the building, shaking the restaurant with each angry step he took. He didn't even bother grabbing his jacket on the way out.

He desperately needed an escape from the echo chamber, a man can only take so much arguing before he combusts. It was pathetic, really; how his parents still couldn't make peace almost twenty years after separating. More than that, he couldn't stand to witness what would happen had his parents continued talking about him— if Nora continued going on and on about how obsessed Chandler was with Joey; if Charles continued seeing through his nervous barriers— eventually, they'd figure out Chandler was gay, and for the first time in history, they'd be on the same page.

Being outside only upset Chandler even more. More and more couples on their way to have a romantic night out; arms linked together, leaning on each other's side with a public smile— none of it was fair. That should have been him and Joey. He should be in Barcelona right now spending all morning and noon and night with the only person he's ever loved. Instead, he was running away from his parents and wishing he had a cigarette on him.

The harsh chill assaulted him, but he didn't care. Chandler leaned against the wall next to the front entrance, staying within the shadows of the overhead cover just enough to stay unrecognizable to the average fan. The last thing he needs is another gossip article written about him, he can even imagine the headline now: Bing Family Troubles— or something more creative. Against Joey's better judgement, Chandler realises he can never be a writer. He can't even think of a stupid title.

Everything began to frustrate him. The way his socks itched against his ankle; how the wind continuously shoved his bangs right into his eyes; how nobody came looking for him, hammering in the idea once more that his family would never reach that loving mould he saw in Kip's home weeks ago. Chandler was a smart man, yet he fooled himself into believing all sorts of outrageous dreams. Of course his parents would fight and of course his mother would hate for him to be gay, these should have been clear since the day he was born. Still, he held faith for these little things. He truly thought the universe still had something good waiting for him. So, is he really any different from those desperate believers that he always distanced himself from? Was having faith in an almighty lord much worse than having faith that Joey loved him back? His shoes were muddied with the dust of crushed hope.

Eventually, someone entered his peripheral vision. It was impossible to not notice that bright pastel pink skirt— above it, a giant furry coat.

"You alright, kid?" Asked Charles, joining Chandler against the wall. He was still much taller than his son, but he also had a six-inch advantage at his feet.

"Of course I am." His voice wavered with a shiver. "You know me— when I get too happy, I go running away into sub-zero temperatures."

Charles smiled, and held his busy hands out. "I brought your jacket."

Chandler didn't accept it. He didn't need his father; he remembered to wear a jacket in those twenty years when Charles was gone. Well, Monica remembered.

"I'm sorry if things got a bit…" Charles searched around for a word, looking out to those same loving couples that haunted Chandler, and back to Nora who sat alone through the amber window. "Intense."

"A bit?" Chandler scoffed. He would have something more, but he didn't want to recreate what he hid from in the first place. Instead, the two stood outside in silence once again. A tumbleweed could have passed by— or in this weather, a lone snowball.

After a heavy sigh, Charles spoke up first. "I can't say I'm sorry for leaving your mother. You saw us— we drive eachother crazy. I couldn't be around her for any longer than I was."

Chandler rolled his eyes. He didn't need to hear this, it's not like he was blind. This wasn't anything new to him, it was the next thing that caught his attention.

"But…I am sorry for leaving you. I don't know if that's even worth anything all these years later, but it's true. I don't want you to think that I hate you, kid." Charles' caressed his hand in Chandler's hair, and for the first time tonight, Chandler saw his dad again.

He looked up to him with big blue eyes and a heavy heart, conflicted. It was almost twenty years too late for an apology. After everything Chandler's been put through as a result of that horrible divorce and his father's absence, Charles never deserved mercy. But Chandler didn't believe in his own mercy either, and Joey still gave it to him. So he let his dad rub his hair a little longer. This quiet didn't hurt.

"I don't want you to think I hate you either." was all Chandler could croak out. His head hung low, and would have easily fallen off without Charles' support. "I think I did at some point, but I guess there's other things to do than to be mad."

He's held enough grudges and he's had enough grudges held against him. It was all too tiring to continue being angry. Maybe not complete forgiveness just yet, but tolerance would be the new colour he'd try out today. He hopes it would be just as fun to wear as the pastel pink Charles adored. Chandler just couldn't take his eyes off of it.

"So…why do you wear all that stuff outside?" Chandler almost hesitated to ask, afraid he might have crossed into offensive territory, but it was a genuine question. "I thought this was just for your shows."

"It was." He said, dropping his hand to his furry pocket, the other still holding Chandler's coat. "But then I'd see myself in the mirror… and it finally clicked. This is what I was missing." he explained, a hopeful glint in his eyes. "This is why I never wanted those shows to end."

He'd never heard his father speak so candidly. "And you're not scared of going out in public like that?"

"Why should I be? I'm just being myself. That's all that matters."

Charles glowed as he spoke, radiating with confident joy. Chandler could judge him all he wanted; scrub his hands clean of sin after every handshake— but at the end of the day, only one person against the wall was truly happy. Only one of them was able to walk in public without needing eyes at the back of his head. Chandler didn't hate his father like his mother did, he only envied him.

It was infuriating, really. How simple he made it sound. As if there weren't people who'd want him dead for this; as if his mother wasn't inside praying her son was normal; as if Joey wasn't upset at the implication that he was, too. All these things were still carved into his chest, bleeding out into the snow beneath them. He'd never shake it off as easily as his father. Chandler swallowed back this irritation; it tasted bitter.

Charles tried once again to warm his son, handing over his jacket a little more forcefully. "You're red, honey."

This time, Chandler graciously accepted it and hurried to put the jacket on. He wiped his nose with the sleeve, not realising it was dripping this whole time. Charles made sure to zip it up to his chin for him, just like back when his boy would run for the school bus in this same weather. Chandler never knew how much he missed this— he wishes these same, caring hands were there to buckle his helmet on before he got into those younger karts.

Then, Charles put his hands on Chandler's shoulders and looked at him with misty eyes. "You're so grown up now."

Chandler didn't really agree. "I guess."

"And Joey sounds like a good friend." He said, with a knowing grin.

"He's fine." Chandler said without a breath. He was betrayed by his own whimsical smile, but at least he was already red. "But I'm not—"

Charles interrupted him. "I know."

He couldn't tell if his father was being truthful, or if he decided to spare his son tonight. If anyone would know what Chandler was, then it would be Charles, who likely saw the same in himself. Then Chandler wonders if his dad was ever like him when he was young; clutching his chest when the wrong voice made his heart race, or hoping his parents would never question why he wasn't interested in girls his age. Then, he wonders if he'd ever be like his dad. Brave enough to let God see him like this no matter how harsh the saints' judgement rained down from heaven.

Even if they didn't talk so often, it felt nice to know that Chandler had someone in his corner if he ever decided to be as open as him.

Charles rescinded his hands, as if suddenly remembering where they stood; a father and son who only talked every other month. He rubbed his hands against his own thick sleeves, alleviating his red knuckles. "We should probably return to your mother now."

"We should." Chandler echoed.

He expected his father to move, but he stood still. Something in his expression that waited. "Or— you should answer that call of yours."

Chandler raised a confused brow. "What call?"

"You know, Monica called you. She said there's some sort of vague emergency you have to tend to."

It didn't take long for Chandler to catch on. "And now I have to go home and tend to this vague emergency."

"Maybe even call Joey, if needed."

"Maybe."

They'd pull this one last prank together before they fall back into their usual droughts of contact. Charles waved a cold hand goodbye, but before he could turn to the door, Chandler threw his arms around him tight. He could tell his father was stunned; hesitating, before finally returning the favour.

Charles clutched the back of Chandler's jacket, with the mutual understanding they won't find this same embrace for a long, long time. "Good luck this year. I'll be watching from home."

"You don't have to."

"I want to." Charles declared. "I want to see what you've been up to."

"It's really not much." Chandler said meekly.

"It's okay, as long as it means something to you." Charles spoke softly. "Does it?"

Thinking of that familiar face that would get to ride the same jet as him to every track on the calendar, and would get to pass every finish line with him, Chandler knew the answer pretty clearly. Even if it was different to what he'd used to say.

"It does."