*FIA is the governing body of Formula 1, chassis refers to the general base of a car, Tifosi is the Italian word for "fan" (used for Ferrari fans).
March 31st, 1996
The Brazilian Grand Prix was nearly cancelled. Weather reports ahead of race day only became more and more concerning, predicting rain storms that would surely send cars off to their demise.
"And even in the heavy rain, Joseph Tribbiani comes riding home in seventh place! Amazing control from Sauber's new driver! He really kept his composure today, didn't he?"
However, it would take the FIA a lot more convincing to shut down an event.
"And what a chaotic race that was! Six different crashes— that's one way to start the year, huh?"
"Poor Chandler, straight into the barrier right before he could finish the race. An unfortunate weekend for the American who would have placed fourth today."
He jumped out of the car, his first instinct to find Joey's worried face in the garage. He keeps forgetting things are different now; his friend had his own race to worry about. Chandler was happy that his teammate finished, but it didn't stop his own rage. He punched the chassis of his car over and over as if that would turn back time. It never did.
"And both Ferrari's coming home together at fourteenth and fifteenth! This is a never-seen-before performance from the Scuderia— what could be causing this slow pace they've been cursed with?"
Italy's pride was held in the only Italian driver who managed to pass the checkered line. The Tifosi gained a new idol.
April 7th, 1996
A mild day in Argentina came with less safety risks than the last Grand Prix, but it wasn't exactly smooth sailing for a certain American driver.
"What an overtake that was from Tribbiani! He went clean around his teammate's car, no remorse!"
"Do we think that was a plan from Sauber? Or does the new guy have something to prove?"
Joey was gone before he knew it, blazing away from his car to attack whichever unsuspecting driver waited ahead. Chandler could have defended better; he knows this; but to risk a crash would only let the whole team down. It's not like Joey had much of a choice— the track was narrow. He had to pass by. Chandler shouldn't take things so personally.
"And the Italian driver finishes in fourth place! Right ahead of Chandler Bing who comes home at fifth!"
Fans have taken a great liking to Joey already. He came as a great surprise to everyone who expected him to act as a second driver— out of three races that passed, he placed higher than Chandler in two of them. Nothing to worry about, though. Chandler was still scoring points. Just slightly less. Whatever.
"Tribbiani is doing exceptionally well for his first year, isn't he? Much like his American teammate— Sauber must really have an eye for new talent."
No other allegations followed him. He didn't bribe a team principal; he didn't pay for wins in feeder series with mommy's money; all of Joey's achievements came from raw discipline and talent.
Chandler wishes his year of beginner's luck came with this same privilege, but the past is the past. He's glad his friend is so loved.
April 28th, 1996
"It's down to the final lap! They're breathing on each other's neck! Blink and you'll miss it!"
Chandler and Joey were wheel-to-wheel; one wrong steer, and they'd both go straight into the gravel. Sweat trickled underneath his helmet but Chandler did what he did best— he followed the racing line exactly, giving a clean performance as per usual. Joey lacked this perfectly precise control but he kept enough composure to stay in his own cockpit; no one from Sauber would go flying out just yet.
"It's the last turn! Which Sauber driver is going to snatch fifth place?"
The checkered line approached rapidly— cameras were ready for the photo finish— but as the Italian flags waving in the grandstands hoped for,
"It's Tribbiani who makes it into the top five! This is his fourth race where he outplaces his teammate— makes you wonder, did the wrong Sauber driver make his departure?"
Chandler bites his tongue. He keeps a smile for Joey.
His friend runs to his family— all with front row seats. They came from Monza to Germany's Nürburgring for the European Grand Prix. It was the closest they could afford right now, but the second Joey's championship bonuses come through at the end of the season, they'll be on the plane route to every race on the calendar. They all congratulated their son and brother how Chandler wanted to— they held him how Chandler wished to— there were a lot of things he couldn't do right now, sticking around for the podium celebration was one of them.
He returns to his garage unsure of why his chest swelled with so much pressure. Monica was the first to approach him, with an empathetic hand on his shoulder.
"They're only saying things like that for entertainment." She reassures, in a mild tone that told him she was only sparing his feelings. "You know how commentators are."
He brushes her off, paying no more than a formality nod. He has no words worth saying out loud.
"It's all just bias." Nora cuts in. She's here too, but she's off during the next month. Book tours and all. "Of course they're favouring him— they're all European."
Germany and Italy weren't exactly close, but it's enough of an excuse for Chandler not to kill himself tonight. Monica could tell he wasn't wholly satisfied— salt lingered in his expression. It was that bitter look she hadn't seen since those Joey-less races.
May 5th, 1996
"Just a second away from the podium, Joseph finishes the San Marino Grand Prix in 4th place! Magnificent!"
"Sauber's been putting up a surprising fight this year! Looks like the Swiss team has a chance for the constructors' championship after all!"
Chandler comes home in eleventh place. His front wing was clipped after minor contact with Gavin which set him back. Whatever. He doesn't mind. He's happy for Joey.
Sauber holds their arms open for him like he was their miracle child. Joey was the team's saving grace; a beacon of hope after Kip's departure. He transformed Sauber into something entirely new; something capable of beating even Ferrari— but maybe that could be attributed to Leonard's own managerial mistakes.
Joey has eleven points, Chandler has seven.
He used to be able to forget about it all. The two boys would go out for dinner or explore the city in the time they had before they moved to the next Grand Prix, and Chandler's mind focused only on the burning touch of Joey's hands when they'd hug. Now, five races in— the itch lingers. It scratches at his neck when Joey isn't looking. It keeps him from shaking Joey's hand with full sincerity.
He's happy for Joey. He has no reason not to be.
May 19th, 1996
By now, Joey's face was inescapable. On every magazine— from Teen Beat to Sports Illustrated— he was the man of the month for three months straight. A media darling who had everything to offer; he was funny like Chandler but not as edgy, much more palatable to the average person; he was magnetic, carrying a contagious smile to every paparazzi photo snuck of him; he had a face perfect for billboards and posters, putting him in the bedroom of every teenage girl who finally decided to give Formula 1 a try; and worst of all, he was a good driver. Insanely good. Much better than anyone— even Chandler— could ever fathom.
Every race weekend came with deja vu. Just when he thinks he understands the extent of his talent, Joey manages to surprise him yet again; always hiding something up his sleeve.
Chandler would be lying if he said he wasn't just a bit jealous. Only a bit— because at the end of the day, this was Joey they were talking about. He deserved every single good thing that happened to him— yet Chandler still emerged from every Grand Prix with clenched fists and gritted teeth. An invisible force tugged at his arm anytime he'd go to congratulate his high-achieving friend; a voice told him that the wrong driver was receiving all the praise. His demons had switched alliances— it should have been Chandler who attracted all this positive attention.
The media became weary again. Just when Chandler felt like he had defeated the allegations of nepotism, here Joey came strolling along and demolishing the foundation. That was a real driver, not Chandler. He was back to being the spoiled kid playing in mommy's car. He can't let that happen.
He's looking out at the beautiful city of Monte-Carlo through his pristine window. The sheer blinds flew along with the wind, and he kept his focus on the light whistle of the fabric to keep himself grounded. The sea looked impossibly blue; it was the kind of scene you'd only see in movies. The old technicolour ones that Joey showed him every now and then— films that seemed uncharacteristically sophisticated for the childish man, but he'd always go on about Cary Grant was the greatest of his time, and Chandler pays close attention to the passionate glint in Joey's eye. It's not as strong as when he boards a car but it's hard not to notice. The Joey he remembers when he looks to the sea feels different from the Joey that beats him every race.
Monica stood idly for a while. She had been here since Chandler woke up, but the two exchanged only a few words. She tried keeping things sweet, but the girl could only bite at her nails for so long.
"We need to talk." Her voice was stern, and even from behind, he could tell her arms were crossed. In the deafening quiet of the Monaco hotel room, he could hear her foot lightly and impatiently tapping against the carpeted floor.
He turned around with one arm over the back of his chair, part of his gaze still stuck on the sea outside. It's not hard to guess why so many of his driving peers live in Monaco.
"What do we need to talk about?" He asked, innocently, but it was clear as day what bothered her as of late.
"Joseph Tribbiani." This was the first time in a long while that she used his full name. "He's becoming a problem for us."
A loud sigh escaped from Chandler's lungs, his head sinking to the floor. He knows what's about to come but he can't bear hearing it from his own friend.
"You haven't outplaced him since Australia." She began pacing in circles around the room, her posture straight and stiff. "You're supposed to be the number one driver. You can't let a rookie beat you like this." Suddenly, she came to a halt, a raised eyebrow that he became all too familiar with. "You're not letting him beat you on purpose, right?"
"No!" He launched himself out of his chair, no attempt to hide his offense. "Why does everyone think that?"
"You two became best friends, and now all of a sudden he's outdoing you every race." Monica spoke with an accusatory tone, one that she had sharpened over the years. He could let Nora's comments slide, she was critical since the second he was born. But with Monica, there was a time where they could talk about something other than racing. When his mistakes were something she could comfort him over, not something she needed to chastise. Those days were long gone, sailing away in the waves of Monaco.
Chandler didn't have the energy to entertain this; he's explained himself before. What nobody seemed to get was that Joey was just naturally quick. Chandler wishes he was good enough to even consider letting him off easy.
Though, It was possible he really was slowing down on purpose; some part of his subconscious was stuck to the boy like glue, and would do anything to see that enthusiastic glow— including, perhaps, giving up.
But if that were true, he wouldn't leave every Grand Prix with such unexplainable anger. So it was just another one of those dead-end thoughts that did him no good. A trail that, no matter the path, just meant he wasn't doing good enough.
Monica took notice of his hesitance— his quivering lips that so obviously held back an answer neither of them believed. She stepped closer until her hand was on his chair, and she towered above him.
"You just need to up your game. That's all." She grinned an ignorant, condescending grin. Like she knew of a secret method to automatically become skilled. Everyone knew of it, apparently, and Chandler was the only one behind the curve.
"Right, sorry, let me just turn on my talent. Why didn't you remind me sooner?"
"I did!" She hissed, holding back a swat to his head. "I warned you about this! Don't get too attached!"
He stood up out of self-defense. "You also said that you were happy I finally made a friend!" Even if he's taller than her, stronger than her, louder than her— it doesn't make him sound any less pathetic.
"I didn't think it'd get this bad." She turned away from him, stepping over to the oval mirror next to his bed. Meticulously placing the short black strands of her bangs in place, always staying perfectly presentable. Even in moments when she has to scold her driver like he's her son. "You guys are attached to the hip. It's like he's your boyfriend, or something."
The second this dig lands on the floor and makes a thud, she regrets it. It travels around his leg like a spider and reminds Chandler he was never good at hiding it; it reminds Monica there's something he might be hiding.
Before he could waste a breath yelling again, she whips her head back to him. "I just meant that I didn't think you'd become such good friends. It's gotten to the point where he's distracting you."
"He's not distracting me." Chandler groaned, rolling his eyes at the same-old-same-old trial he faced often.
Her lips opened, ready to say something that would ruin his day and put him in a mood for the rest of the week. Instead, she swallowed down whatever it was. Monica learnt how to pick her battles with him— sometimes she needed to give up if it meant they could stay friends.
She put on a restrained smile and sat at the edge of his bed, crossing one leg over the other. "I just want you to be at your fullest potential." Monica spoke softly, with a slight tilt of head. "Don't think you need to be holding back."
Chandler fiddled with his thumbs, avoiding eye contact. He didn't deserve Monica; she had the managerial skills needed for a driver far beyond his capabilities. It was all being wasted on a guy who couldn't even muster the courage to look at his own teammate sometimes.
"Aren't we supposed to be a team?" He asked sheepishly, keeping his gaze low between his knees.
"Of course, and you are." She said, "But I'm not the team's manager— I'm yours."
It tasted like betrayal— if Joey were here, would he feel hurt? Hearing someone he called a friend caring so little for him? Chandler had the impression that the three of them were good friends— but of course, Chandler was the only one tainted with the curse of attachment.
"Besides, only one of you can get into Williams."
Monica was the only true professional in the room.
She said that name so many times to the point where it didn't sound real. He fought against the urge to roll his eyes, afraid that another one of his little sardonic mannerisms would send Monica flying into rage. Instead, he nods.
"Exactly."
His garage bustled with activity; mechanics running around his car to ensure it was in perfect condition before the race commenced. Useless as ever, Chandler stood far back in the corner, his jumpsuit unzipped down to his waist despite being needed on the road in just a couple minutes. Above his head, he held his blue helmet up to the ceiling light, watching the shimmer travel across the visor with each angle he turned to. Monica polished his helmet to a sparkle before every Grand Prix— the scent of Lysol became his good luck charm.
Just before the race began, a familiar face graced his garage; one that started to appear less and less. Joey approached the idle boy with a fierce determination. That's what a real driver looks like, he thought to himself.
"You here to bother me before we race? Not a good look, Tribbiani." Chandler teased, setting his helmet off to the side and paying his friend his full attention; a privilege he used to receive daily.
"You wish." Joey said with a chuckle. "I'm here for the telemetry data. My crew can't find ours."
Disappointment grumbles in his stomach. He misses their pre-race talks about nothing. "Uhh— David might have it."
Joey's thanks came as a snap between his fingers and an understanding nod. Then, his eyes dart up and down Chandler's build, his wide smile quickly turning to a baffled pout. "Caspita! You're not even ready!"
His thick fingers made their way to Chandler's low zipper, pulling it up all the way to his chin. Electricity pulsed through his veins and straight into Chandler, nearly knocking him off his feet. Chandler tried desperately not to make the tremble of his breath obvious, but holding it in was only more suspicious.
He finally breathed out, suddenly awfully aware of just how close the two of them stood. "Now I am." was all he managed to croak out.
Joey searched for something; he looked at every little crevice of Chandler's pink face, which only made the taller boy become molten. He waited and waited and waited for the Italian to say something, but he was in need elsewhere.
"Joey!" Called out Estelle— Joey's manager— from the entrance of Chandler's garage. "You need to be in your car yesterday!"
She was like a much older Monica, only with a marlboro between her wrinkled fingers.
Every race, Joey lost more of the time he used to spare for Chandler. Their greetings used to be as monumental as stars colliding— now, their farewells were nothing more than a slap on Chandler's shoulder. After Joey left, Chandler fiddled with the zipper resting at his collar, it's still warm. He'd make a joke about how Joey must have had the magic touch to get the zipper up on the first try without it getting stuck, but there was no one around to laugh.
His time to grieve is cut short when his own manager comes strolling in, reminding him that he too needs to board his car.
It's the same old process of doing the formation lap and then falling back into starting positions— eight for Joey, tenth for Chandler— and waiting for the lights to go out and for the race to start. This time, Monica's words ricochet in his ears; he needn't hold back. All he needs to do is drive and don't let anything else distract him— which was easier said than done, because he was under the impression that he was doing that the whole time.
The race begins and the cars all launch off into the distance— Monaco was a street-circuit, which always frightened Chandler. The narrower tracks were just begging for somebody to crash, here's to hoping it won't be a Sauber.
Chandler was already able to steal a position ahead of him, putting himself two seconds behind Joey before the first lap even finished. It's here that he sees the snowflakes outside Central Perk, and he remembers the cold words exchanged against the alley's brick wall.
"You say that now, but what happens if I'm ahead and you need to overtake? Would you really do that to me? Take away my win?"
Joey said he never thought about it, but he had clearly made a decision sometime between then and now. Races passed where Joey maliciously overtook and the two would try their best not to mention it afterwards.
He knows it's not fair to act as if Joey didn't deserve to win too.
He knows it's not fair that Joey's prime was already higher than his own.
He knows he wasn't nearly as cut out for this sport as he tries to be.
"Trust me, I can handle driving against you and being your friend at the same time."
"I don't know if I can."
Chandler said he'd try, but right now, he still lagged behind Joey's rear. Somewhere, Monica was yelling in his garage waiting for the overtake to happen. But his hands were rendered motionless underneath his gloves. He just can't do it.
But then, the memory of sunny Australia and the third-place trophy against his fingertips resurface. Euphoria clouding his lungs like the cigarettes used to, reminding him that no matter the substance, he was an addict. The rush of hearing his name yelled from people he's never met before, the cool champagne drizzling down his face, that was what he was here for. He needed to feel that high again; he needed to relapse.
Chandler slammed down on the gas pedal, eating up the space between him and the car in front with every fraction of a second that passed. By the time the lap ended, he and Joey were wheel-to-wheel.
Joey left more than enough space for Chandler to enter easily— he probably never expected Chandler to come attacking like this. It's the only conclusion he can make for Joey's guard being down, letting him pass his teammate and put himself in eight place. Nearly not high enough for Chandler's comfort, but here he reminded the world which driver had been in Sauber the longest.
He quickly rubbed off his treacherous grin— this was not something he wanted to get used to. Already, there was a metallic taste when he licked his lips. Was it betrayal to go ahead of Joey? Or was it part of the game? It's hard competing against someone you love.
And as Chandler began to build up a lead against Joey, a sudden radio call came in.
"Chandler, we need you to give the position back." David lacked confidence in the order.
"What? Did I go off the track?" Chandler was no stranger to being overzealous, he wouldn't be entirely surprised if he went off the white lines in pursuit of eight place.
"No no…it's just team orders." David clarified. "You need to let Joey pass you."
It was the unfunniest kind of joke. This sort of thing never became more than an afternoon grudge back in the day— he'd let Kip pass knowing he carried a longer legacy than himself. It was difficult, but it came with that contract he signed to drive along the beloved driver. Surely Joey's signing would have come with a similar acknowledgement, yet they were already asking the senior driver to surrender.
Chandler's throat is dry, a dreaded question bubbling just behind his teeth. He knew Joey's passion for racing sailed to the heavens, but he wasn't sure if he could handle knowing exactly how far Joey would go to actually make it to those pearly gates.
"Did Joey ask for this?"
The radio is silent for a moment. He tried his best not to take this as confirmation.
"It's just what Gunther has ordered for us." is the first thing David says again.
The streets of Monaco stretched out before him as they reached the halfway point of the race, but instead he saw the snow-drenched streets of New York, minutes before January.
"Right, right. You're right. No easy-ness here." Joey's sweet words echo beneath his helmet.
It would be a betrayal to the hundreds of thousands of fans who came to watch if Chandler gave up so easily.
It would be a betrayal to the integrity of the sport that trained its drivers to be ruthless.
And most importantly, would it not be a betrayal to Joey? Who longed for nothing more than a true, fair race?
"Chandler, do you copy?" The crackle of David's voice sounded more urgent the longer Chandler stayed ahead of the other driver.
He held his tongue. If Joey wants to prove himself, then Chandler will let him do just that. It's not like the Italian had any problem beating him in any recent races, he'd overtake if it was in God's will to do so.
Chandler, much to David's vocal dismay, leans into the next corner without lifting. Keeping up the same speed that's gotten him to where he was. A glimpse of his rear mirror showed Joey riding side-to-side on the track, looking for a window of opportunity to cut through and gain his position back, but Chandler was finally ready to give him a season to remember. Joey deserved the best legacy, and the best legacies came with the best challenges. Even Kip had to fight every now and then.
The biggest contrast between Joey and Chandler was their room to forgive. Joey would eventually find it within himself to forgive Chandler— assuming he'd even be upset in the first place— but Chandler knew he wouldn't ever forgive himself if he continued this losing streak. If he lost his only accomplishment to a love he'd never receive.
David's voice crackled one more time through the radio, much more stern than he's ever heard before. "Seriously Chandler. If this is one of your silly little pranks, it's not funny. You have to slow down."
But Chandler doesn't lift. Not now, not ever.
The race came to its natural conclusion with two Benettons and a McLaren on the podium. Which McLaren? Chandler wouldn't know, because the second he passed the chequered line, he hopped out of the cockpit and stormed straight to the garage where Gunther was already waiting for him.
"Chandler—"
"What the hell was that?" He wouldn't let his team-principal speak without airing out questions of his own. "What was that order? Why'd you make me do that?"
Gunther crossed his arms, disappointment etched into his features. "We didn't make you do anything. You never followed our orders."
"Yeah, because they were bullshit."
Monica was quick to hold Chandler back, "Easy…" she cooed, casting a quick glance to the camera crews out on the track and hoping none of them caught what boiled in the Sauber garage.
"Was it Joey?" Chandler pressed, ignoring her. "Did he complain?" He threw out question after another, even if part of him knew Joey wouldn't ever ask for them to slow him down. At the same time, he never expected Joey to relentlessly beat him race-after-race. There were a lot of things he didn't know, apparently.
"I overtook him fair-and-square. There's no reason for me to have to give the position back!" The boy argued, but he was talking to a brick wall.
Gunther only nodded his head, as if waiting for Chandler's temper to run out. Once Chandler finally shut himself up, Gunther rubbed his head and sighed, considering how best to word what he'd say so that Chandler didn't throw another tantrum.
"Listen," He began, rubbing his temples. "It's no secret Joey has more points than you."
"Only four more." Monica scoffed, clearly not a fan of where this discussion would go. She folded her arms as well.
"Points are points." Gunther said. "And since Joey has more, we think he has a better shot at winning the championship this year."
The worst part was that everything Gunther said was entirely true. There was no room for Chandler to take offense— and yet, the itch grew more destructive. His knuckles grew white under his clenched gloves, digging his clipped nails deeper into his palms. It was that sting that drowned out the emotional turmoil deep in his ribs.
"Are you kidding?" Monica interjected, stepping in front of Chandler like a shield, "Joey has a lucky streak and all of a sudden he's world-champion material?"
She would always defend her driver, but Chandler knew he'd be going home with a furious Monica. This was the exact thing she warned him of.
"There's only ten races left." Gunther argued. "We don't have time to wait because one of our drivers might get better!" It was clear the team had already made a decision as to how the rest of the year would go. "That's just how it is."
"Bullshit. You're acting like Chandler hasn't scored any points at all— he's barely even behind."
"You said it yourself, he's behind."
The two argued some more but it was nothing more than white noise in Chandler's ears. They were really favouring the guy whose career was no longer than three months. Even today, when he managed to outscore his teammate, it was just far too late.
Gunther's words— that Joey would become the prioritised driver— hung in the air, conclusive and unyielding. Chandler's jaw was tight; he wanted to scream out that this wasn't the end, that he would absolutely score more points than Joey in the coming races and that they just needed to give him another chance. He wanted to break everything in sight. He wanted Kip back on the team. There were so many things he wanted, but as always, he wouldn't get them. Instead, he spun on his heel and shoved passed all the useless crew members who'd never stand up for their driver if he was being crucified.
He heard Monica calling after him and the hurried thuds of her boots, but if even one person said anything to him right now, then Monaco would become red with his own blood. However, his wishes of solitude were not going to be respected, and he figures this out when he sees a pair of meek brown eyes waiting for him outside of the garage. Joey stood just out of eye-sight waiting for the screaming match to end, skipping quickly behind Chandler when he refused to halt.
"Good race out there!" Joey's voice slightly wavered. "That was a cool overtake. I, uhh— didn't see it coming."
"Yeah, well, you're not the only one with tricks." Chandler's response was chock-full of irritance.
Joey walked just behind him, struggling to keep up with his angry stride.
"Soo…what was the deal with that? Y'know, not…uhh…"
This would be the only time Joey's obliviousness didn't come off as endearing. Pretending like he didn't hear that embarrassing revelation in Sauber's garage was just plain insensitive; or, perhaps he was making an attempt to hide his own fury. If so, he did a much better job than Chandler was. They should just give him a trophy for that, too.
Chandler shot a quick glance behind him, but only to prove he was listening. If they actually made any eye-contact, he'd be put under Joey's spell yet again. "Not letting you pass?"
Joey snapped his fingers. "That. Yeah."
The taller man shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a driver. I just do what I need to do."
"True…but…team orders are team orders, man." Joey said in a voice lighter than it should have been. A simple smile on his face, as if he expected Chandler to agree.
This was the final blow to his chest, and it was then that Chandler came to a sharp stop, causing Joey to crash into him and stumble back.
"Bullshit orders." Chandler grumbled, low and venomous. "Just to put a pretty face on the podium."
Joey's brows furrowed ever so slightly, taken aback by the sudden aggression. The calm in his expression giving way to something more defensive.
"Excuse me? What are you mad at me for?"
"What am I…" Chandler trailed off into an exhale of disbelief, one hand running through his hair as he turned away, only to whirl back to Joey. "The second I get ahead of you, you whine to the team!"
"What kinda accusation is that?" Joey shot back, much sharper than before. "You think I need to make a call just to get ahead of ya?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, you're right. All you need to do is nearly crash into me and overtake as if we aren't fucking teammates."
Chandler made an attempt to remove himself from the scene, continuing to rush down the paddock, but he was suddenly held back by Joey's violent pull. His teammate's grasp was tight on his shoulder, like a clawed animal.
"The team made that decision— not me. Don't act like this is my fault."
"You guys can make whatever decisions you want." Chandler let out in an exasperated breath, no attempt at shaking Joey off of him. "It doesn't stop me from wanting to win."
Joey shoved him back, with nearly enough force to send the brunette straight through the tarmac. A bit more violent than any of their past playful tussles. "You wanna win? Please. All you care about is what everyone thinks about you. You wanna win so you're not just some washed up failure when you quit."
There was a hint of fear in Joey's expressions after that rebuttal fell out, cutting into Chandler deeper than he likely imagined. Joey knew Chandler well enough to sharpen his knife with the thing that kept them apart— passion.
Chandler froze, unready to confirm or deny. He only asked a simple question, "Are you saying you don't care at all about your image? Legacy?"
"Of course I care, but this isn't just some checklist for me, Chandler!" Joey took a step closer. It's like they couldn't tell whether they wanted to stay apart or be at fingers length. "This is my life! I actually like racing!"
"Well, maybe I do too now!" Chandler didn't sound as confident as he wanted to, even though his declaration held some truth to it. "You can't expect me to bend to your every beck and call, I have a job to do."
"Well, you're getting in the way of my job." Joey said.
"Boohoo, Joey. It's called sports."
It would be Joey putting an end to the conversation, leaning in close enough for their noses to just barely brush against each other and uttering a final "Go fuck yourself." Powerful enough for a bit of saliva to land on Chandler's mouth, which he was quick to wipe away. Chandler's gaze flickered between Joey's fierce eyes, dark with fury that matched his own. Those specks of gold he'd get lost in were now a dull brown.
They stewed in the tense air for a moment before Joey eventually pushed him aside, storming down the pitlane like Chandler had wanted to. He wanted to chase after him and yell something even more obscene, get the final punch in so that he could leave the day with something— winning an immature argument, if not a trophy.
His hands remained clenched in fists at his side without any particular goal; nowhere to release that anger that continuously built up with every point Joey scored. Envy laid its roots in his core, growing branches around his bones and keeping him stiff. He caught a glimpse of this future back at the arcade in Monza— Joey excelling far more than he ever would because he had the heart to carry him to victory.
The trophies Chandler kept at home were nothing more than shiny statues, the gleam of accomplishment having dulled by now. They held more significance in Joey's hands, but Chandler embodied greed; he needed those awards. He needed the praise. He needed every rush of dopamine that'd bring him stumbling back to the cars. Joey wouldn't understand because he'd find joy in the drive alone, but Chandler needed first place and first place only.
Joey deserved it all more than he ever would. He had the loving family watching him, the Niki Lauda posters he once prayed to, the people of Italy hailing him as their hero in the making— and if there was anyone Chandler wanted to watch rise to glory, it was easily Joey.
But Joey had time; he'd be racing until his heart gave up. Chandler, on the other hand, wasn't ready for the long haul. He'd go out either with a world championship or with a gun to his head.
So until then, he was going to give Joey a fight worth remembering.