AUTHOR'S NOTE: Don't get too excited…I decided to delete this chapter and rewrite it, because I wasn't proud of the writing and I desperately wanted to change how it ended. Unfortunately, I rushed myself the first time around and after long consideration I decided to tweak this chapter before publishing the next one. Mainly because I thought about future readers who'd be reading this once it's fully completed and I want them to have quality work! But also, I didn't want the rest of the story to shift because of one badly written chapter. I just want people to read something I'm actually proud of.

So, my sincerest apologies for delaying the new chapter for so long, for baiting anyone who thought this was a new chapter, and for the previous version of this chapter being so low-quality…but I still ask that you read this one, as I've polished a lot of things and changed the latter half, and also to serve as a refresher now that I'm trying to upload more consistently again!

Again, so so sorry! Hope you enjoy this revision! I like it a lot more.

The off-season went by before winter's snowflakes could hit the ground. Came the time for Chandler to break his helmets out of their display cases and amp himself up for the new season. He couldn't really believe the red circle on the calendar that said it was January, because he remembers that small, cold Japanese hotel room like it was yesterday.

Joey left for Italy for two months— or three— or four— Chandler wouldn't know, they hadn't spoken since Chandler kind of sort of maybe confessed his love.

He should have been immune by now to their post-fight distance because it's something they've done more times than Chandler can count, but it's different this time, after the guy who called him the greatest friend in the world couldn't call Chandler a friend anymore.

So, ever since Chandler poured his heart out and was denied any sort of real closure from Joey after he kind of sort of maybe said they weren't friends, he grieved the alleged death of their friendship. Except he's not really sure how to grieve something like this.

Denial

Neither of them really meant what they said. It was just the heat of the moment— or series of moments. It was the heat of the whole year, really. That's all it was. They'll see each other on the track and Joey will leap into his arms with teary eyes and beg for forgiveness, and they'll never fight again for the rest of their life.

Unless Joey was in Italy right now, thinking over Chandler's last words and piecing together every interaction they've had in the last two years— every stutter and stammer, and all those times Chandler would turn pink, and would scooch closer to him on benches. Then he comes to the truth on his own, that Chandler was a disgusting homosexual who only races in Formula 1 because he had feelings for him. That's why he went to Italy for so long, to convene with God after spending so much time with the devil.

But Joey was far from bright. He'd never get love out of Chandler's declaration. All he said was that Joey is the only reason he continues doing something he hates so much and without Joey he had no reason to live let alone to drive. That doesn't sound like love, does it?

No. It doesn't. He meant it in a friendly way. Things are fine.

Anger

But if they were fine, then Joey should have called him by now.

How selfish of him— forcing Chandler to be the one who has to crawl back for mercy. Who does he think he is? You can't make vague statements about the status of your friendship on live television and then flee the country. It's unfair and quite frankly, childish. Classic immature Joey.

All those times when Joey would dangerously swerve around him on track came to mind. It boiled his blood, thinking of someone who dared to call himself a friend yet put their lives at risk when it came to racing. The reckless act was endearing at first— now, it was just…well, reckless. Nothing cute about a man who didn't know when to control himself.

And he was hypocritical, too. Chandler was always either a bad teammate for trying to beat him, or a bad friend for letting him win. No matter what he did, Joey would be upset. Now that they were so far apart, Chandler finally saw all the things about Joey that clenched his fists. He was so naive for ever thinking this man was some perfect saint— Joey was just another cocky, selfish driver to add to Formula 1's collection.

It's a lot easier to conceive Joey as either one or the other— the best or the worst— because seeing him as his whole self, imperfect but impossibly pleasant, was overstimulating. So Chandler ignores all the times Joey's held him up or made him laugh or massaged his legs or pulled him out of a wrecked car despite hating each other. It's a lot of things to ignore.

Bargaining

A month goes by, then two, and the phone lines are still inactive. Maybe he should change that.

Chandler could throw the towel in and call Joey, or even surprise him at his apartment assuming that he's back in New York now. It didn't matter whether or not this made him desperate; as long as he could see Joey, it'll be worth it.

The Chandler of the previous stages would be upset with current Chandler for betraying their stance and being the first to surrender, but Chandler was never a strong man, and he couldn't keep pretending that he was. He was too weak to keep going on like this.

But also too weak to make a measly phone call.

This is when the looming closet with its dark aura and hidden bible reminds him there's another option: he clenches his hands together and begs God to step in. Either give him the strength to punch in Joey's phone number or give Joey the strength to come back home. Of course, God was probably too busy designing a new circle of hell for someone as self-absorbed and lazy and stubborn and spiteful and careless as Chandler. So his prayers would be put on a waitlist. Or the rejection pile.

He's been making deals he's unsure that he can even see through:

God, if you let Joey call me, I will go to church every single Sunday!

God, if you let Joey magically appear at my doorstep, I'll convert my friends to catholicism. The more the merrier, right?

God, if you fly me to Italy right now, I will never ever complain about my job ever again for the rest of eternity!

Of course, he didn't really mean it. Chandler would only go through with these proposals if he pinky promised.

Depression

If he wasn't at the gym, he was in bed. He slept through all of Ross' phone calls and never bothered listening to the voicemails, because opening his machine and seeing that a certain someone still hadn't said anything was just a migraine he couldn't learn to shake off; the only thing that sleep never cured.

All Chandler did was ruin things. Ruined his career, ruined his friendships, ruined his life by wasting it all away with things he didn't care about— or he did care about? Maybe. The worst is that he doesn't know how he feels about anything anymore. He doesn't know if he hates Joey or if that's his racing-brain talking; he doesn't know if he likes racing or if that's his Joey-brain talking.

This was it. A friendship sadly lost because Chandler lost the grip on his urges. He thought he had kept it all under control; keep things platonic for as long as he could— until the feelings subside, until Joey loved him back— but he fails to be tame around Joey Tribbiani.

So now Chandler lived under a pile of blankets with his TV shut off. Cheers and Baywatch only reminded him of Joey. But so did the warmth of his bed, and the sun through his blinds, and the scars in his palms when he digs his nails in too deep.

He hates that God made him this way.

He hates that through it all, he still can't fathom being with a woman.

He hates that it's his fault.

He knows what he wants, and he hates it.

January 29th, 1997

There's only one thing that's able to bring him out of bed: Monica Geller, of course.

Switzerland welcomed Chandler with blue skies, and the driver landed in the snow-filled Hinwil with his manager by his side, ready to keep him in check. Whatever happened in 1996 could not happen again, and anyone working under Sauber would do whatever it takes to make sure both drivers keep things clean.

Speaking of both drivers— this was a mandatory meeting. That means that whether he wanted to or not, Joey would have to at least share air with Chandler. It's funny to think that the two boys weren't friends the last time they reached Switzerland; at least some things have stayed the same.

A full Swiss hour hadn't even gone by, yet Chandler was already exhausted.

He was startled by Monica's fingers suddenly running through his razor-bladed hair; the shortest it had ever been. She patted down his cowlick that never seemed to calm down, along with the other wild strands.

"Did you even brush this out this morning?" She asked, combing his hair and admiring how manly he looked without those long bangs.

"Why do I have to come to this thing every year? It's the same old thing everytime."

They made their way down the hallway towards the grand meeting room, passing years and years of team portraits that hung on the walls. Watching as each image gradually gained more colour, more team members, more trophies— and then, they reached the Kip years, which included Chandler's debut. He tried not thinking about Joey's starstruck eyes when they first met right there.

But just two frames down, the 1996 portrait, he sees him and Joey printed on the wall. Tragedy hadn't yet struck, they had one arm around each other like they couldn't balance on their own, and it's the only photo where Chandler bothered to smile. That streak ends in a few months when they take the 1997 photo.

"We're here because we're a team and we have things to discuss." Monica reminded him, looping an arm around his but failing to provide any of that same support. "And because you have a few things to learn before this new season."

Chandler brought his nails to his teeth, pretending to chew on them. "Oh, God, like driving cars? Jeez, I've never done that before!"

"Like being a professional." She pushed her finger against his chest with too much force to be just a friendly jab. "Like treating your career as just that— a career. Not some silly video game where you can restart whenever you want."

"Cute metaphor." His response was quick and dry.

Normally, she had enough leniency to smile at his jokes or childish responses. But last year taught her that Chandler shouldn't be afforded that privilege anymore.

"I mean it." Her glare was sharp enough to draw blood. "I've worked too hard for this."

"What happened to we? We worked hard for this?"

Monica looked taken aback, almost offended.

"Do you know the lengths I had to go through just to convince Gunther to renew your contract?" Somewhere in the middle of her sentence, she stammered. Reconsidering if it was right to tell him this; weaponise it against him. "Think about that next time you want to say we."

With this, she went ahead and strutted into the conference room, opening the glass door for herself only.

He can't admit it yet, but things are strained between him and Monica as well. Less and less coffee trips and more scoldings that end in departures without goodnights. They joke the same because it's the only language they know, but the elephant still hangs in the air. How Chandler cared more for the guy he met only two years ago, more than the woman who gave everything just to get him on a podium.

Through the large windows that made for walls, he could see that the majority of the strategists, technicians, and other executives had already made it to the conference room. Even on Monica's time, they managed to come last. Fashionably late? Not exactly— he came in jeans that lost their colour and a sweater too big for him. He'll consider this his dramatic entrance, where he enters to the cheers of his co-workers who all so dearly missed him over the break.

Sharp turns gave him false hope that perhaps they all waited aimlessly without their star driver in the room. However, the way everyone remained silent with their lingering stares, Chandler had a feeling that today would be about him.

Him, and the driver at the far end of the table, early for the first time in his life.

Gunther's greeting was simple, inviting Chandler to sit in the remaining chair farthest from Joey; they were like house pets that demanded distance, or else they got aggressive. But Joey was never much of the violent type. In fact, he gave Chandler an acknowledging nod from his island. Perhaps he forgot their last argument-turned-confession.

"We learnt a lot from last year." Gunther began, behind him was a large whiteboard with various scribbles that Chandler couldn't read. A quick scan of the room told him that no one else had this same comprehension problem.

"Development on the car looks great, we could be…" the rest of Gunther's words were lost under the squeaks of his whiteboard marker and Chandler's inability to care.

He fought as hard as he could against the magnetism but he paid a quick glance towards Joey, recognising that laser-focus mode he entered whenever cars were involved. He would squint his eyes and part his lips slightly, always ready to contribute whenever he could— but when Chandler tells a joke he doesn't quite get, then his eyes widen and he forces a chuckle. What was Chandler supposed to do now with this knowledge?

He's supposed to move on to acceptance but seeing Joey in person has him regressing back to anger. How could Joey just sit there so calmly and pretend that everything was okay? Chandler was known to run away, but Joey was the opposite. If he wanted things to get better, he would have done something by now— but if he finishes that line of thought, then he approaches a truth he's not ready for. It seems that Chandler was stuck in denial as well.

Gunther snapped his fingers so close in front of Chandler's eyes that the recoil could have blinded him. "Are you listening, Bing?"

He was quick to sit up straight, fold his hands together on the table like the other attentive young men he sat with. "Yup. Car is good, year will be good."

"That was several whiteboard-wipes ago." Gunther said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Soon there'd be a permanent dent where Gunther's fingers always pressed into, and he'd name it after Chandler. "I need you two to do better than last year. And not just in terms of performance—" He pointed his marker towards Romeo and Joe-liet. " I don't want to see any of that childish little rivalry of yours. We don't need that."

Joey crossed his arms and leaned far back into his chair. His hair looked shorter in this light.

"Tell that to him," he jerked his head towards Chandler, "Not me."

"No no no, this is very much for the both of you." Gunther iterated. "I don't want you being rude to each other in public. No snarky comments, I want smiles. I want handshakes. I want whatever will get people talking about your actual performances instead of your weird little…God, I don't even care what's going on. Just stop showing it to the world." It was a little embarrassing to have their dirty laundry aired out in front of the whole team, but Joey should have thought about that before broadcasting the fact that he no longer considers Chandler his friend. "What you guys do in private? Does not bother me at all. Just keep things sweet for the cameras, will you?"

A second passes, and the drivers share a look— a relic from the old days, where they communicate in silence: do we abide by Gunther's request?

"People love your friendship, they want to see more of it. It's good, actually. It gives us a great image. Also, merchandise sales have been going through the roof."

And when Gunther said this, Monica nudged Chandler's shoulder, and whispered a small "Told you". Chandler's friendship got him into this mess, but it also granted him a sort of immunity. Sauber wouldn't dream of ripping apart the duo that attracted their younger fans.

"We'll get you to do a Red Bull commercial, get you two printed on the cans. Everyone just loves seeing your pretty faces together." He muttered. Gunther never really liked how his team wasn't taken seriously— now, the only thing that got people paying attention was their handsome, homoerotic drivers.

Joey raised his hand but didn't bother waiting to be called on. "Do people really care that much about…" he danced around the subject, unintelligible mumbles replacing what everyone was eager to hear. Instead, he only waved his hand between himself and Chandler. "Shouldn't we be focusin' more on, y'know, performing well? Instead of PR stuff? I think some of us could work on that."

The vague passive-aggressiveness doesn't work when there's only two drivers on a team.

"This might be hard for you to comprehend, Joe, but most of us can actually think about two things at once!" Chandler snarked, "But don't get too jealous."

Joey stuck out his tongue. Chandler did the same. Gunther was running a daycare.

"This. This is what I'm talking about. No more of this." He sighed deeply. "No one wants to see this."

Chandler couldn't agree more.

Sometime later, when Gunther's voice became an endless stream of white noise, Chandler excused himself to the washroom.

Oddly enough, being in Formula 1 reminded him of school. Walking down the building's hallways without purpose, counting the seconds to make sure the people in charge wouldn't realise he was out just killing time. Always following what other people told him to do, a victim to the strict regimen he was put on— promised that all his hard work will eventually be worth it, for the championship; for salvation. Except he had to go to school.

He complains about his job but no one is really forcing him. Monica would be disappointed, Nora would be furious, and the world would shun him for being weak, but he'd still be alive. Isn't that what mattered?

But to be alive, and to be a racer, have become synonymous. It's all he has to offer the world, otherwise he's just a kid wasting everyone's time and resources fulfilling a dream he never had. Maybe he already is, but it's harder to notice when he's holding a trophy.

Around the corner, he'd meet again with the team portraits. The ones that ignited a spark in Joey two years ago but do nothing for Chandler. They were just pictures, yet he vividly remembers the starstruck boy admiring his future team— enough to trace it with his fingers— and all he can wonder is where his own pride went. Joey said he was only here to win and to be famous, so why did it mean nothing to see his glorious portrait hung on the wall? Why is everything so dull?

His fingers twitched, itching for a cigarette.

The season hadn't officially started yet, but Chandler was already back to old habits— turning at the corner, he harshly collided with Joey.

Both men stammered their apologies, suddenly a lot less confrontational than when they were pointing fingers in the conference room. The last time they saw each other, neither of them gave a formal goodbye. Technically, they never stopped talking— there was just a really long pause in their conversation.

Joey took one look at the old team portraits on the wall next to Chandler, stating the obvious. "This, uh…isn't the bathroom."

"It isn't? God, good thing you stopped me before I caught a public indecency charge."

This earned a smirk from Joey, but he was quick to bury it.

In the hallway with more room to breathe, Chandler caught on to the changes in his teammate's appearance— winter's curse made his skin pale, but most notably, the strands of hair that draped like tree leaves were clipped short. Uneven, one side just a bit longer than the other, yet he managed to pull it off.

"I cut it myself a while ago. I was tired of my hair always gettin' in my eyes whenever I had my helmet on." Joey explained without being asked, a common habit. "You were gone a while."

Chandler swallowed hard, what was he to say? I was too scared to call? Too angry? Too sad? Too patient, and foolishly waited for you to call first?

And then, Joey said "Ten, twenty minutes. I had a feelin' you weren't really in the bathroom at all."

He was both relieved and annoyed that the winter break went on ignored.

"Hey, you don't know me— and you don't know what they put in the coffee here." Chandler crossed his arms, "And what does it matter to you? Gunther finally promoted you to hall monitor?"

"No…" Joey looked away a little too quickly, his hand caught in the cookie jar. "I, uhh… actually needed to go." Enunciation didn't save him from the way his voice wavers when he bends the truth.

"Right…and now we're both here." With a doubtful smile, Chandler took control over the situation. Leaning against the space between big framed photos, he wanted to push the bounds; see just how far Joey would go to protect their distance. "So either you were also about to piss in the potted plants, or you're trying to follow me."

"And what do I get out of followin' you?" Joey crossed his own arms, his form of retaliation. "You think I'm some stalker?"

Admittedly, Chandler didn't think this far. It's hard to talk to Joey when he's in that rare, critical mood. The plan was to just let his vengeful spirit do all the talking, but if they were here, Chandler might as well ask the million dollar question.

"I think it would have been nice to know when you came back from Italy." It came out more blue than he'd hoped for.

Joey opened his mouth but froze— confirming that whatever reason he had to go silent couldn't have been accidental. He was always the one to get upset when Chandler closed himself off, and now he got a taste of the other side. "I didn't get the time" was all he had to say.

A pathetic excuse, and they both knew this.

"Mhm, where would you have found the time?" Chandler scratched at his chin, his faux pondering was the siren before the storm. "You only had…what, three months?"

Joey's lips twitched where an apology would've been. "I know we left things off pretty rough—"

The beginning to every proclamation of forgiveness,

"—But we can't keep goin' on like this. It's hard to compete and be friends."

There's an implication where Joey doesn't finish his sentence; it's hard to do both, so they have to choose one.

"And you're choosing competition over our friendship." Not a question, but Chandler's hesitant confirmation.

"I'm not—" Joey stumbled over his own words, he never learnt how to pick the right ones. "I mean, this is my life, Chandler! I don't have anything else! And I can't keep risking my future over…" He didn't finish; he didn't need to. Everyone had a tendency not to voice out loud what was wrong with them.

Chandler didn't want to fight over this. Giving in meant he'd be surrendering the fortress of solitude he worked so hard to build. He put it simply, repeating Joey's sentiment from an old snowy day, "Being friends with someone doesn't risk your future."

"You would think." Joey sighed. "But last year was just…hard. I don't want another year like that."

Chandler gulped, wanting to take Joey's hand and assure him things will be better this time around, but he didn't believe in that either. God sent enough signs to prove that these two could either be friends or teammates, never both.

"So that's it?" We're breaking up?

Joey had a meek smile on his face, signalling that he was at least remorseful to an extent. "Listen, Chandler. I want to actually move forward in this…shitfest of a sport."

He winced at the memory, Chandler would slap himself if he could.

"And for that to happen, I need to do good. I need to win. Which I can't really do if I'm always worried about us." Joey said it all painlessly. Like he'd practiced it all beforehand, anticipated this very moment. Either dreading the awkward swamp they drowned in or counting the seconds until he could shut things down for good.

"So what I'm tryna say is…" Joey looked down to his shoes, red sneakers with dirty laces, "I think we need to take a break. Focus on ourselves for a bit." He put it as kindly as possible, before turning back to the conference room. Unlike Chandler, he'd hate to miss anything important.

The conversation couldn't end here, though. This wasn't the closure Chandler needed.

He followed Joey down the hallway with aggression, not bothering with keeping his voice down. "I don't get it. You said you needed me, that you could never give me up."

Joey ignored his rant and kept his head down, which peeved Chandler further. He hated being dismissed, especially by him.

"What happened to supporting each other? Huh? Needing each other?" Throwing back Joey's old muses from last winter stung. None of it meant a thing if this is what it led to; boys still chasing one another down, begging to be friends again.

"You said I was your best friend, Joe. I thought we were best friends. And now you're telling me—"

Suddenly, they were face to face again. Joey spun around and grabbed Chandler firmly by his forearm to anchor him down. He stared up at him, the only thing coming between them being the scent of machine-brewed coffee.

"I tried. I really did." Joey looked once over his shoulder, hoping no Sauber employee would come running to find them, but the hallway was just as big and quiet as before. Empty, except for them. "I wanted this to work, but we want different things."

They wanted the same thing, and that was the problem. Championships never end in a tie.

"It was working." Chandler huffed.

"Yeah, and then I got in the car." Joey retorted. "And we kept pretending we could be equal, but one of us is always gonna come out on top. You knew that."

Chandler rolled his eyes. Appearing disinterested, but still comfortable within his hold. "Right, and it has to be you that's on top."

Taken aback, Joey's smile was that of shock, nothing amusing. "That's what you think this is about?"

"You said it yourself— you want to move forward, you want to win."

"Fuck, this is what I'm talkin' about!" Through Joey's frustration, his grip grew tighter around Chandler. "I keep trying to tell you how I feel but you never listen!"

"No, you're just being a hypocrite!" The edge in Chandler's voice could cut glass. "Friendship is the most important thing to you until I start beating you, and then you let go of your schtick."

"Schtick." Joey echoed with disbelief. "Yeah, alright. Let me tell you what your problem is," His big, brown eyes darted quickly between Chandler's, "You don't take anythin' seriously. And it's whatever— I guess— when it's with racing, but you don't take our friendship seriously either. You think you can do or say whatever you want because I won't care."

He wants to say that's not true, but the words couldn't make their way out.

"Well, I do." Joey concluded. "I care a lot. And now I'm thinking that was a mistake."

His fingers were still tight around Chandler. He would have let go if he was done with him, would have gone rushing back to polish Gunther's shoes, but he was giving Chandler the grace to defend himself one last time.

Chandler gave it some thought, carefully choosing his next words; anything that wouldn't end in tears or a fist-fight, but beggars can't be choosers.

"You didn't need to go to the bathroom" was all Chandler quietly mustered up.

"Jeez." Joey swatted him away like he was infectious. "I can't believe that's all you have to say right now."

He teetered on dangerous territory, daring to joke at a time like this. "Did you miss me back there?"

Joey waved his hands in defeat. "Okay, fine. Gunther sent me to check up on you. Not that I wanted to." He sounded a little too overzealous in his backtracking, but it didn't matter, because he had already begun his escape back to the conference room.

Chandler crossed his arms once again. "If anyone was concerned about me being gone, they'd send Monica."

"Well… maybe she's sick of you too." Joey's voice grew quieter as he marched further down the hallway, his hesitance still clear as day.

Throwing an accusatory finger, "You came to find me on your own!" Chandler exclaimed

His teammate turned around one last time, standing far away just before where the hallway bends. "Yeah, fine, you caught me. I want my teammate to be there when we're talkin' about our job. So what?"

"So…"

Joey already made it clear he doesn't want anything to do with Chandler. Denial didn't change things, it can make Chandler feel better about himself but Joey still wasn't his friend.

"So, I'll see you after I go to the bathroom."

Joey almost smiled, but not quite. "Yeah. Whatever". And then he was gone.

The reality hadn't set in yet. Chandler, stuck in denial, waited for Joey to pop back out of the corner and come running to hug him like always, but that wouldn't happen. Not for a long time.

Acceptance (?)

The selfish part of him expected boarding the plane back to New York knowing he'd see Joey again when they landed and head out to do everything and nothing. However, there's a sense of finality that coats the empty hallway. Joey mentioned a break, something temporary— but what clings to Chandler is their lack of goodbye. If this is their idea of civil— biting, spiteful, uneven to send each other off in grace— then there's not much hope left that things could return to the way they were.

It all feels as it did back in Japan.