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rareslashTITLE: TOW Chandler Doesn't Date Ross
AUTHOR: usedusername
FANDOM: Friends
Rated: R.
Warnings: Masturbation, reference to sex, worries of sexual inadequacy, three-way.
Takes place in season three; references from season one to season three.
Word count: 4333.
Chandler POV
Pairings: Joey/Chandler, Joey/Chandler/Ross, Chandler/Ross
Genre: Slash. Includes mention of het.
Summary: It's a few days before Ross' birthday, and there are plans to be made.
Disclaimer: I don't own, never will own, and everyone is better for it.
You have been a heterosexual for many years now. You have made use of the members-only golf course and our special V.I.P parking. Of course, you know, there are some rules. Though fooling around with Joey’s sister was perhaps morally deplorable, it was not against these rules. And though you have had some minor transgressions; Jonathan in high school, or, more recently, Brian--who it turns out, beyond a wild fling in the janitor’s closet, you cannot get-- from work, you have been a rather upstanding member of heterosexuality.
Which makes this infraction all the more tragic.
There are three options remaining: Forget about Joey, forget about Ross, and forget about fooling around with both of them for months. Definitely forget about sleeping with both of them last night. Or, option number two; voluntarily, quietly, and non-uproariously turn in your blazer and monogrammed pen. Finally; be forcefully removed from this establishment and try to avoid the scandal that will most certainly follow.
Let’s consider this…on the one hand… Ross is laying. On the other hand, Joey is sprawled across.
Ross, who knows every goddamn little detail of my personal life, including father’s attempted-kidnappings, mother’s trashy romance novels, even about that one incident in the summer before college. Joey, who knows far too many things about my hygiene and more intimate personal life even without sleeping with me. Best friends long enough that ‘forever’ is a usable description.
Though girlish screaming would certainly be appropriate, my, those are warm, fuzzy feelings stirring in my stomach at the sight of both of them. And the rather fascinating things done last night are enough to make me be glad and sorry for getting rid of my third nipple. Option one is out of the question.
I’m not one for rumors or anything like that, so option three is out of the question.
So listen to the deep voice of James Earl Jones and take the step into the dark side.
Glance at the clock, 4:30, sink back into the pillows, your own pillows that are being tremendously overcrowded, take a deep breath and--Don’t take a deep breath. After explicitly telling him we lack cologne, Joey no longer has an excuse to smell like duck wormer.--and indulge in the day off of work.
Sleep.
Wake up again, and besides me the bed is empty.
The clock has gone to the more reasonable time of 9:45. Of course, with the large, empty bed and no one being cuddly by either force or their own free will, it seems tempting just to sleep more and not have Joey wrapped around me. A bed for one person should have room enough for that one person not to feel suffocated. But then, beds are strangely also so much more uncomfortable with no one to share them with.
The catch twenty-two of the single-sized Denver mattress.
So get up, shower, and feel free to ponder the course of events that led you to be here, sore spine, stretched hamstrings, wobbly legs, lead-heavy arms, knot on the back of your head from that entirely misplaced headboard, and thoroughly satisfied with the entire thing.
If you’ve already slept with them, and if you’ve already given heterosexuality up for Lent, it’s perfectly acceptable to fantasize about your two best friends when you’re in the shower. Any other circumstance, it would be inappropriate, so thank God I have this circumstance.
Thank You, God; thank You for letting me star in Your wild and crazy porno flick that is life. Maybe not my ideal cast, but until You can get Yasmine Bleeth into the mix, I won’t complain.
My mind’s completely on Joey and Ross. There’s a flit of Yasmine, but I’ve never had any sort of basis in reality with her, so she does what they do and then disappears after a minute; easier to keep track of two people than three. With one hand I brace myself on the slick wall, and the other hand--
Better be prepared to Nair my palms and eat a shit-load of carrots.
Wet slaps, hitched breath, racing heart, and….
And, shit, shit. Shit.
Even bracing myself, it’s hard to stay standing. Slump, head against the wall, muscles erratically spasmodic. Deep breathing, calmly, like Ross taught me when Carol was going through Lamaze class--Christ, that’s not a weird thought or anything. The water goes cold a little bit late for it to do any good.
Turn off water, dry off, get dressed, and fix the breakfast of champions; Cap’n Crunch straight out of the box. Wander aimlessly while eating and happen to look at the calendar. October 15. Ross is going to be smelling like a monkey without Marcell, soon. And I have to call up his science geek friends to see if they’re still doing that pre-birthday party thing for him tomorrow night. And get a cake, and buy a present that Monica was nagging me to buy a month ago. May as well start calling now. After all, there's no better way to spend free time than wanting to kill every single person in the world.
So, sit down, call, have conversations I forget the second I’m through with them.
I’m on my fifth geek when the door opens, but I don’t hear it; I hear Joey say, “Hey!” I nod and lift eyebrows at him in acknowledgement, trying to at least pretend to listen to the guy on the other end of the line talk about the mighty tyrannosaurus, which is six degrees from both Ross’ birthday and Kevin Bacon, somehow.
Joey’s grinning like an idiot, flapping his arms at his sides and walking around in tight circles. I cover the mouthpiece, “What’re you so happy about?”
“I might have a gig!” Must’ve been just waiting for me to ask, because he grabs me by both sides of my face, nearly knocking the phone out of my hands, and kisses me.
“That’s great!” And such enthusiasm really does call for more kissing. Really. “What is it?”
“Uh, well, I dunno, I just gotta go in and do accents.”
“Accents?”
“Right. Y’know, Spanish, Italian, American, whatever--”
“No. I’m just wondering what the hell you got to do accents for.”
He shrugs. “I think they want me to play some guy from a different country or something.”
Yes. That certainly makes sense, and I never would have come to a similar conclusion by myself. Do not push; Joey-logic has killed far too many of your brain cells. “That’s great. Listen, I’ll practice with you later, if you want.” I grab him by the waist and pull him in close, “We could have some real fun with it.”
He catches the saucy undertone and grins. “Yeah,” then the actor kicks in and he points wildly at the television, where there’s a PBS special about Ireland or something on. “Oh, yeah, and, hey, I could be a guy from the IRA. Give me a chance to work on my Irish accent, laddy,” he says, and he did indeed say it with a brogue--either an extremely crappy Irish one, or a slightly less crappy Scottish one.
“All right, but you do know I’m a guy, right, Fergus?” Joey looks at me blankly; so, apparently not. I do however, get a nerd’s wild ‘What!?’ from the phone. Takes me a second to realize I uncovered the mouthpiece. I tell the paleontologist, “Ah, nothing, nothing, not you. That sounds great though. Dinosaurs, Ross, whatever, have fun.” and hang up to move on to the sixth dinosaur-guy.
“So, what’re you doing?”
“Calling people for Ross’ birthday.” The phone rings. “Listen, speaking of which, since you’re going out with Ross and everything--”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I am not going out with Ross.” True, you’re not going out with him; you’re staying in with him. “He’s my friend.”
“If you slept with Monica--” the phone’s still ringing.
“I never slept with Monica.”
I get a beep and leave a message to call me back after it. Turn to Joey, “You wanted to.”
“When?”
Oh, only under two circumstances; whenever you see her after you’ve watched porn and whenever you see her when you can’t watch porn. “How about when you stripped in her living room?”
“Hey, she asked me if I wanted juice, okay?”
“And that is why the little boy with the lemonade stand is traumatized for life.” Joey starts to make another argument, but I stop him, “The point is, if you slept with Monica and then kept sleeping with her, seeing her, whatever, you’re dating her, right?”
“Boy, does that show how boring your sex life is.”
At the moment you are my sex life, Joe. “Forget it. I just mean, we gotta do something for Ross’ birthday, and we can’t seem like we’re sleeping with him.”
“Oh, right.” He pauses and then looks down at his wrist. I see where this is going before he says anything. “Oh! How ‘bout we both chip in for a bracelet?”
“Joey.”
“No?”
“Of the knockoff, generic-brand ‘Hell’ variety.”
Joey paces, and I watch him. He snaps his fingers, “Let’s sleep with him!”
“Okay, Joey? We can’t seem like we’re sleeping with him. We have a dictionary. Let’s look up ’can’t’, shall we?”
“What? No. Because, in public, we wouldn’t give him anything, right, so it wouldn’t cost any money. We’ll just, you know say like, ’Hey, Ross,’” He’s cast me as Ross in this weird play, I guess. “ ‘We got a present for you, but you can’t open it in front of everybody, ‘cuz it’s real…personal.’ ” and then he winks and nudges me, as he’s apparently planning to do to Ross. He snaps out of character and grins, “Eh? Whaddya think?”
What do I think?
I think that that is easily the most inconspicuous, ingenious, astounding idea ever created. I think that my plan of just buying Ross ‘Die Hard’ on VHS and taking him to Radio City Music Hall or the Metropolitan Museum is absolute idiocy compared to this.
I think that if I actually thought any of that, I’d be taken to the psych ward. “Well, well, that’s good, Joe. But maybe we should take into consideration that none of the other guests will be three years old, so they’ll actually get the innuendo when we hang a coat hanger off of Ross’ doorknob,” I say, “So, let’s just put that as plan B, okay?”
Joey’s face makes an interesting flash between anger and defeat, before finally settling on defeat. “Yeah, okay.” He waves me off when I say ‘Sorry, man,’ but there’s still an awkward silence for several seconds.
I’m about to go onto the seventh and final person who’s involved in arranging this surprise party for Ross when, speak of the Geller, he comes in excitedly without knocking.
“Yo, Ross,” Joey says before Ross can even say hello, “How’d you like to get laid on your birthday? Chandler here wants to get you like… socks or something.”
“Uh…huh… excuse me?” Ross is suitably dumbfounded. As he turns to close the door, he says, “Well, you know, Joey, birthdays are really all about the, the people, and the presents should really be--” the door closes and he whips around, “That’d be awesome.”
Joey waves his arms wide in a ‘there-you-have-it’ gesture. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t say it wouldn’t be a good present, okay?” Elaboration time, “I just meant that secret relationships are only secret when no one knows about them. We can’t just go dragging Ross up the Empire State Building without people knowing.” They look at each other bemusedly, apparently reveling in the fact that even if we share a sex life, mine is incredibly lamer than theirs ever will be, just like Joey thought earlier. So, terrific subject-changing skills, work your magic. “You’re busting at the seams, Dr. Geller. What’s up?”
Ross pulls out a two-inch skeletal dinosaur from his pocket and waves it in my face, “We’ve found an allosaurus. This is Frankie. Frankie, Chandler,” he ups his voice an octave and makes the dino talk, “Hello!”
A two inch tall dinosaur named Frankie? Ross probably discovered it wore coke-bottle glasses, too. I take it from him, “Ross, as someone who was too interested in my Barbies, I’ve got to tell you, you’re taking this toy way too seriously.”
“Yeah, man, really, what’s the big deal?” Joey comes over to investigate.
Ross rolls his eyes and is instantly put off for us mocking his happiness, “This is just a model. The real Frankie is missing these three vertebrae,” he touches the dinosaur’s tail, and it falls off. Ross stares at the Frankie model with blank horror for a good fifteen seconds before acting like it always had a docked tail, “Anyway, he’s remarkably intact!”
“Okay, that’s cool, Ross,” Joey says, absolutely unconvinced. “But really, big deal why?”
Ross is smart and doesn't bother trying to explain again.
“We’re having a party! Tomorrow night,” Ross beams, “Thrown by Carl who is, like, the party dude!” He gives us two thumbs way up in a way that makes it look like he wanted to be a member of the KISS army but was 4-F. “You guys wanna come?”
Joey snorts. “No thanks.”
“Yeah, Ross. We’re not really….into dinosaurs. Like, I work with numbers. But I wouldn’t invite you to a party if we found the last digit of pi or something.”
Ross shuffles his feet and looks down at them, abashed, “Actually, that’d be….pretty cool….”
And I’m not going to say that yeah, the last number of pi would be an awesome discovery. Or that I totally would invite Ross because he’d get a kick out of it. Mostly because Joey, who’s not a nerd, is present.
Joey must feel a little bad for turning Ross down and tries to, ineffectively, make Ross feel better by changing the subject. “Aren’t you working today? Why are you here?”
“Oh, uh, this is my lunch break.” Joey and I decide simultaneously not to make fun of the fact that the thing Ross is doing on his lunch break is telling us about dinosaur parties; Ross looks pretty painfully downtrodden from what we said before. “See you, guys.”
Ross can make anything sound depressing. He can sigh while talking, which is a remarkable talent more lethal than puppy-dog eyes. That’s why I bust out, “Come back tonight, Joey and I are giving you your birthday present early.” And Ross knows for a fact that I mean that kind of present, the kind I am very, very against, and not a helium balloon or something that we bought at a gas station.
And, proving he has a one-track mind, Joey does actually understand this sentiment. He pumps a fist in the air. “All right!”
I think Ross said a happy little ‘okay!’ during Joey’s exclamation, but he’s left to go back to work, so maybe not.
Joey waits until he’s sure Ross is gone before asking, “Wasn’t our party for Ross tomorrow? Won’t this dinosaur-thing get in the way?”
“Our party is the dinosaur-thing. Just had to find a way to get Ross there without actually telling him about it. Guess this is how.” At least I hope so. Otherwise a lot of people will be finding out it was a Lost World themed party a little late.
“You guys planted a dinosaur just to trick Ross? Man, that is so cool!”
Joey apparently doesn’t believe in lucky coincidences. “Yeah. I wanted to get Barney, but he was out of town.”
Joey nods understandingly.
I call the seventh nerd and he confirms that it is just a clever paleontologist’s trick to get people to come to parties. I don’t especially want to know how many exhumed dinosaur corpses have been used for such merriment, so I say thank you and hang up.
Mind still stuck on tonight, Joey knocks me on the shoulder and says, “Hey, Chandler. I’m gonna go and change into something more comfortable.”
And under many circumstances this would be a line used to get a man to throw the other onto the nearest level area. However, given the fact that I know that Joey’s ‘comfy’ clothes are sweatpants and a stained baggy t-shirt, an outfit purely for cutting down strip-time and not for aesthetic appeal, he’d have to work hard to be any less sexy. “Sure, man.”
But then, I don’t think Joey’s that sexy, anyway. Which is a weird thought to have while watching certain regions of his anatomy while he walks off to his room. A weirder thought since we already slept with each other. The weirdest thought because it’s accompanied by the fact I don’t think Ross is sexy either. Good-looking? Sure. Attractive? Definitely. I can even appreciate them both in a new light after having seen them in action. But their looks don’t make me want to sleep with them at all. If anything, their looks make me not want to sleep with them.
But they make me want to sleep with them.
What the hell is that about?
It doesn’t really matter.
They are good-looking, and they do make me horny. Even if their being good-looking isn’t what makes me--
Paging Dr. Freud.
Don’t think about any of that.
There are better things to worry about. Like the fact that we are going to sleep together. Again. But actually planned this time. Planned in a haphazard if-this-were-a-movie-everything-would-go-terribly-wrong sort of a way, but planned. So it seems like we’ll take more time instead of trying the ’Put tab A into slot B’ method again.
It seems like we’ll actually pay attention.
To every…single…detail.
It’s not like there’s a big size difference or anything. We’re all average. It just so happens that Ross is longer and Joey’s thicker, and I’m more average than they are. But, anyway, size doesn’t matter. So there’s no reason to feel inadequate. Which is why I haven’t worried about this at all. I haven’t given any of this a single thought. And I won’t give it a single thought.
Though there is the distinct possibility that they’ve already noticed.
Would that be worse? It’s not like they’ll tell anyone.
Or would it be worse if they noticed--
“Chandler? You all right there? Zoned out, man.” And, yep, Joey is in that stained shirt and those sweatpants. Adorably predictable. Adorably? Not adorably, not anything-ly. Just predictable.
“Yeah. Yeah.” Don’t be self-conscious. Don’t think about inadequate-size-inadequate-lasting-ability-general-inadequacy. “Joey, how am I?” Oh, right, and don’t ask Joey to comment on your sexual prowess. Didn’t have time to get to that one.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” Sigh deeply. And Joey actually does forget it. “Let’s go pick up the cake for tomorrow night.” We are the lollygaggers that old folks complain about, so it’s quite possible that picking up the cake will make us miss our date with Ross and I won’t have to worry about anything else.
“Aw, man, but I just got comfy.” Joey gestures to his outfit.
Cake-shopping isn’t exactly a formal occasion. “So stay comfy. I don’t love you for your looks, darling.”
Joey grins as he retrieves his shoes; I’m already wearing mine, so I just watch him. “Man, sounds like we’re married or somethin’.”
“Not a chance. Rich girls don’t marry poor boys, remember, Gatsby?” Joey, who doesn’t read or watch the movies of even the crappiest of classic literature, seems like he’s going to take offense at being called poor. I make sure to smile broadly when he looks up from tying his shoelaces. He rolls his eyes and lets it go.
“All right, then, let’s go.”
“Okay.” We both walk out. There’s an instinct not to lock the door; the only time it was was when Joey somehow locked himself out. Which was only weird because the door most definitely does not lock automatically. Still, I think about it for a second before trailing after Joey downstairs. “But, Joe. Remember this time; the little squares that are on the serving plates? Those are for you to try. The big squares that have ‘Happy Birthday’ written on them? They’re not.”
We step to the base of the stairs at exactly that moment, so he can push me without me breaking my neck. I push him back, and he pushes me a little harder. We’re both smirking like the idiots we are as we walk down the street.
We go into one of the general, sell-all stores that has a bakery in the darkest, most soulless corner, and wander back to check out the cakes.
“How come Monica isn’t baking him one?” Joey asks, and he moves away from the cakes to look at the doughnuts. He moves back when I look at him.
“She is, but for the actual birthday. Not the pre-birthday.”
“But we aren’t even having a party on his actual birthday ‘cuz he‘s working late, right?”
“I don’t know. Ask Monica. This whole cake thing…” I wave the rest of the sentence away as I peer through the plastic.
“Oh! This one!” He points to one of the ‘sold cheap because it wasn’t picked up’ cakes.
“‘Happy Birthday, Rose’?” I ask incredulously.
“What? It’s cursive; we can make it look like an ‘s’.”
I look at Joey with raised eyebrows, then look at the cake. “What the hell, it’s half off.”
Joey gallantly offers to pay for it, conveniently forgetting that he left his wallet at home--darn-- and bumming the cash off of me. As we walk back through the store, Joey carrying the cake, he asks, “We got everything for tonight?”
“Hm?”
“Y’know, the safe stuff.”
Oh. Audible click as it settles into place. I count on my fingers, “We got condoms, and lubricant, and…we haven’t got a safe word yet, but I’ve always liked ‘banana’.” There’s a little old lady who possibly heard this, and I hope my blushing is good enough to placate her.
“Yeah? Yeah, good.”
I go ahead and grab Die Hard as we pass by the video section. Joey waits while I pay for it, and then we make the lazy walk back home.
When we get there, I toss Die Hard onto my chair. Joey puts the cake on the counter and starts digging through drawers. I lean across the counter, “What’re you looking for?”
“Frosting. For the ‘e’.”
“Joey, neither of us have ever baked a cake in our lives. Why would we have frosting?” The rather devious grin is a little off-putting. This is the stuff nightmares are made of. “Don’t answer that, forget I asked.” Joey shrugs and continues his search. I’m going to forget I asked, too. Because, my God, that’s disturbing. Really, really, really.... “…Lisa Goodwell?”
“Nope.”
No, no. She was a little chunky, but she wasn’t like that. “Kaitlin Bower?”
“Which one was she?”
“Big mouth. In the roller derby; had lots of kneepads. You liked her.”
“Oh. Heh, yeah, right.” He gets lost for a second. “No.” and moves on to the fridge.
“Heather Jensen? The one who worked in the restaurant, got fired for eating the food.”
“Yep.” He grins triumphantly as he pulls out the frosting, “Wrong color. That okay?”
“Sure. So long as it’s not red; that throws paleontologists into a rage, you know.” Joey looks at the can and decides it’s safe. He takes the case off of the cake and starts working on the ‘e’. I watch, bored, as he completely murders the vowel. A, I, O, and U will be going after him in his sleep; Y is a little too wishy-washy to join in the lynching. There are two knocks at the door. “Who’s there?”
“Ross!”
Joey flings the cake into the fridge, almost certainly ruining all the other letters. I open the door, “You gotta work on your punch lines, man.”
Ross rolls his eyes but smirks as he comes in.
Joey, apparently realizing imminent peril if he can’t explain the entire situation, holds the can out to Ross. “Hey, Ross, want some frosting?”
“No, uh, no, I’m good.” He starts to go to the living room.
Danger, danger, Will Robinson; retrieve Die Hard tape! “Ross!”
“Huh?”
“Uhh..” slip past Ross with your catlike stealth. Grab the tape and hide it behind you. Okay. Home free. “You ever wonder why Gumby liked riding Pokey so much?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“My, that is amazing; you have simply read my mind.”
Joey does catch on to some things, “Yeah, uh, yeah, I’m gonna get some stuff for you know, tonight--” and whichever head he’s thinking with is the right one; he grabs the tape as he passes me and goes to his room. Ross watches this, confused, and responds with a stretched out ‘okay’.
He turns back around, “I’m gonna get a soda.”
“No, no, no, Ross!” if there isn’t an Olympic event for chair-vaulting, there should be. “I’ll get it for you. You just---you sit down, there, mister.”
There’s another “Oh…kay.” as Ross goes ahead and sits in my chair. I grab a soda for him and quickly survey the damage to the cake. It’s not as bad as I thought; grenade as opposed to atomic bomb. I give Ross the drink and rub my hands together. What is taking Joey so long? And, more than that, why is the clock saying it hasn’t taken Joey long at all?
There’s supposed to be a preamble before we go to the Declaration of Independence, but paranoia leads me to skip that and kiss Ross, hard.
“Happy Birthday,” I say, and I can hear as Joey comes back from his room. I wonder if Joey hid the tape. I wonder if we can hide the cake. I wonder if we can manage to keep Ross in the living room until we can figure out the other two things.
Ross starts to say how it’s not really his birthday, you know.
Fortunately kissing him again makes him stop arguing.
Sex certainly is the most effective conversation ender.
AUTHOR: usedusername
FANDOM: Friends
Rated: R.
Warnings: Masturbation, reference to sex, worries of sexual inadequacy, three-way.
Takes place in season three; references from season one to season three.
Word count: 4333.
Chandler POV
Pairings: Joey/Chandler, Joey/Chandler/Ross, Chandler/Ross
Genre: Slash. Includes mention of het.
Summary: It's a few days before Ross' birthday, and there are plans to be made.
Disclaimer: I don't own, never will own, and everyone is better for it.
You have been a heterosexual for many years now. You have made use of the members-only golf course and our special V.I.P parking. Of course, you know, there are some rules. Though fooling around with Joey’s sister was perhaps morally deplorable, it was not against these rules. And though you have had some minor transgressions; Jonathan in high school, or, more recently, Brian--who it turns out, beyond a wild fling in the janitor’s closet, you cannot get-- from work, you have been a rather upstanding member of heterosexuality.
Which makes this infraction all the more tragic.
There are three options remaining: Forget about Joey, forget about Ross, and forget about fooling around with both of them for months. Definitely forget about sleeping with both of them last night. Or, option number two; voluntarily, quietly, and non-uproariously turn in your blazer and monogrammed pen. Finally; be forcefully removed from this establishment and try to avoid the scandal that will most certainly follow.
Let’s consider this…on the one hand… Ross is laying. On the other hand, Joey is sprawled across.
Ross, who knows every goddamn little detail of my personal life, including father’s attempted-kidnappings, mother’s trashy romance novels, even about that one incident in the summer before college. Joey, who knows far too many things about my hygiene and more intimate personal life even without sleeping with me. Best friends long enough that ‘forever’ is a usable description.
Though girlish screaming would certainly be appropriate, my, those are warm, fuzzy feelings stirring in my stomach at the sight of both of them. And the rather fascinating things done last night are enough to make me be glad and sorry for getting rid of my third nipple. Option one is out of the question.
I’m not one for rumors or anything like that, so option three is out of the question.
So listen to the deep voice of James Earl Jones and take the step into the dark side.
Glance at the clock, 4:30, sink back into the pillows, your own pillows that are being tremendously overcrowded, take a deep breath and--Don’t take a deep breath. After explicitly telling him we lack cologne, Joey no longer has an excuse to smell like duck wormer.--and indulge in the day off of work.
Sleep.
Wake up again, and besides me the bed is empty.
The clock has gone to the more reasonable time of 9:45. Of course, with the large, empty bed and no one being cuddly by either force or their own free will, it seems tempting just to sleep more and not have Joey wrapped around me. A bed for one person should have room enough for that one person not to feel suffocated. But then, beds are strangely also so much more uncomfortable with no one to share them with.
The catch twenty-two of the single-sized Denver mattress.
So get up, shower, and feel free to ponder the course of events that led you to be here, sore spine, stretched hamstrings, wobbly legs, lead-heavy arms, knot on the back of your head from that entirely misplaced headboard, and thoroughly satisfied with the entire thing.
If you’ve already slept with them, and if you’ve already given heterosexuality up for Lent, it’s perfectly acceptable to fantasize about your two best friends when you’re in the shower. Any other circumstance, it would be inappropriate, so thank God I have this circumstance.
Thank You, God; thank You for letting me star in Your wild and crazy porno flick that is life. Maybe not my ideal cast, but until You can get Yasmine Bleeth into the mix, I won’t complain.
My mind’s completely on Joey and Ross. There’s a flit of Yasmine, but I’ve never had any sort of basis in reality with her, so she does what they do and then disappears after a minute; easier to keep track of two people than three. With one hand I brace myself on the slick wall, and the other hand--
Better be prepared to Nair my palms and eat a shit-load of carrots.
Wet slaps, hitched breath, racing heart, and….
And, shit, shit. Shit.
Even bracing myself, it’s hard to stay standing. Slump, head against the wall, muscles erratically spasmodic. Deep breathing, calmly, like Ross taught me when Carol was going through Lamaze class--Christ, that’s not a weird thought or anything. The water goes cold a little bit late for it to do any good.
Turn off water, dry off, get dressed, and fix the breakfast of champions; Cap’n Crunch straight out of the box. Wander aimlessly while eating and happen to look at the calendar. October 15. Ross is going to be smelling like a monkey without Marcell, soon. And I have to call up his science geek friends to see if they’re still doing that pre-birthday party thing for him tomorrow night. And get a cake, and buy a present that Monica was nagging me to buy a month ago. May as well start calling now. After all, there's no better way to spend free time than wanting to kill every single person in the world.
So, sit down, call, have conversations I forget the second I’m through with them.
I’m on my fifth geek when the door opens, but I don’t hear it; I hear Joey say, “Hey!” I nod and lift eyebrows at him in acknowledgement, trying to at least pretend to listen to the guy on the other end of the line talk about the mighty tyrannosaurus, which is six degrees from both Ross’ birthday and Kevin Bacon, somehow.
Joey’s grinning like an idiot, flapping his arms at his sides and walking around in tight circles. I cover the mouthpiece, “What’re you so happy about?”
“I might have a gig!” Must’ve been just waiting for me to ask, because he grabs me by both sides of my face, nearly knocking the phone out of my hands, and kisses me.
“That’s great!” And such enthusiasm really does call for more kissing. Really. “What is it?”
“Uh, well, I dunno, I just gotta go in and do accents.”
“Accents?”
“Right. Y’know, Spanish, Italian, American, whatever--”
“No. I’m just wondering what the hell you got to do accents for.”
He shrugs. “I think they want me to play some guy from a different country or something.”
Yes. That certainly makes sense, and I never would have come to a similar conclusion by myself. Do not push; Joey-logic has killed far too many of your brain cells. “That’s great. Listen, I’ll practice with you later, if you want.” I grab him by the waist and pull him in close, “We could have some real fun with it.”
He catches the saucy undertone and grins. “Yeah,” then the actor kicks in and he points wildly at the television, where there’s a PBS special about Ireland or something on. “Oh, yeah, and, hey, I could be a guy from the IRA. Give me a chance to work on my Irish accent, laddy,” he says, and he did indeed say it with a brogue--either an extremely crappy Irish one, or a slightly less crappy Scottish one.
“All right, but you do know I’m a guy, right, Fergus?” Joey looks at me blankly; so, apparently not. I do however, get a nerd’s wild ‘What!?’ from the phone. Takes me a second to realize I uncovered the mouthpiece. I tell the paleontologist, “Ah, nothing, nothing, not you. That sounds great though. Dinosaurs, Ross, whatever, have fun.” and hang up to move on to the sixth dinosaur-guy.
“So, what’re you doing?”
“Calling people for Ross’ birthday.” The phone rings. “Listen, speaking of which, since you’re going out with Ross and everything--”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I am not going out with Ross.” True, you’re not going out with him; you’re staying in with him. “He’s my friend.”
“If you slept with Monica--” the phone’s still ringing.
“I never slept with Monica.”
I get a beep and leave a message to call me back after it. Turn to Joey, “You wanted to.”
“When?”
Oh, only under two circumstances; whenever you see her after you’ve watched porn and whenever you see her when you can’t watch porn. “How about when you stripped in her living room?”
“Hey, she asked me if I wanted juice, okay?”
“And that is why the little boy with the lemonade stand is traumatized for life.” Joey starts to make another argument, but I stop him, “The point is, if you slept with Monica and then kept sleeping with her, seeing her, whatever, you’re dating her, right?”
“Boy, does that show how boring your sex life is.”
At the moment you are my sex life, Joe. “Forget it. I just mean, we gotta do something for Ross’ birthday, and we can’t seem like we’re sleeping with him.”
“Oh, right.” He pauses and then looks down at his wrist. I see where this is going before he says anything. “Oh! How ‘bout we both chip in for a bracelet?”
“Joey.”
“No?”
“Of the knockoff, generic-brand ‘Hell’ variety.”
Joey paces, and I watch him. He snaps his fingers, “Let’s sleep with him!”
“Okay, Joey? We can’t seem like we’re sleeping with him. We have a dictionary. Let’s look up ’can’t’, shall we?”
“What? No. Because, in public, we wouldn’t give him anything, right, so it wouldn’t cost any money. We’ll just, you know say like, ’Hey, Ross,’” He’s cast me as Ross in this weird play, I guess. “ ‘We got a present for you, but you can’t open it in front of everybody, ‘cuz it’s real…personal.’ ” and then he winks and nudges me, as he’s apparently planning to do to Ross. He snaps out of character and grins, “Eh? Whaddya think?”
What do I think?
I think that that is easily the most inconspicuous, ingenious, astounding idea ever created. I think that my plan of just buying Ross ‘Die Hard’ on VHS and taking him to Radio City Music Hall or the Metropolitan Museum is absolute idiocy compared to this.
I think that if I actually thought any of that, I’d be taken to the psych ward. “Well, well, that’s good, Joe. But maybe we should take into consideration that none of the other guests will be three years old, so they’ll actually get the innuendo when we hang a coat hanger off of Ross’ doorknob,” I say, “So, let’s just put that as plan B, okay?”
Joey’s face makes an interesting flash between anger and defeat, before finally settling on defeat. “Yeah, okay.” He waves me off when I say ‘Sorry, man,’ but there’s still an awkward silence for several seconds.
I’m about to go onto the seventh and final person who’s involved in arranging this surprise party for Ross when, speak of the Geller, he comes in excitedly without knocking.
“Yo, Ross,” Joey says before Ross can even say hello, “How’d you like to get laid on your birthday? Chandler here wants to get you like… socks or something.”
“Uh…huh… excuse me?” Ross is suitably dumbfounded. As he turns to close the door, he says, “Well, you know, Joey, birthdays are really all about the, the people, and the presents should really be--” the door closes and he whips around, “That’d be awesome.”
Joey waves his arms wide in a ‘there-you-have-it’ gesture. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t say it wouldn’t be a good present, okay?” Elaboration time, “I just meant that secret relationships are only secret when no one knows about them. We can’t just go dragging Ross up the Empire State Building without people knowing.” They look at each other bemusedly, apparently reveling in the fact that even if we share a sex life, mine is incredibly lamer than theirs ever will be, just like Joey thought earlier. So, terrific subject-changing skills, work your magic. “You’re busting at the seams, Dr. Geller. What’s up?”
Ross pulls out a two-inch skeletal dinosaur from his pocket and waves it in my face, “We’ve found an allosaurus. This is Frankie. Frankie, Chandler,” he ups his voice an octave and makes the dino talk, “Hello!”
A two inch tall dinosaur named Frankie? Ross probably discovered it wore coke-bottle glasses, too. I take it from him, “Ross, as someone who was too interested in my Barbies, I’ve got to tell you, you’re taking this toy way too seriously.”
“Yeah, man, really, what’s the big deal?” Joey comes over to investigate.
Ross rolls his eyes and is instantly put off for us mocking his happiness, “This is just a model. The real Frankie is missing these three vertebrae,” he touches the dinosaur’s tail, and it falls off. Ross stares at the Frankie model with blank horror for a good fifteen seconds before acting like it always had a docked tail, “Anyway, he’s remarkably intact!”
“Okay, that’s cool, Ross,” Joey says, absolutely unconvinced. “But really, big deal why?”
Ross is smart and doesn't bother trying to explain again.
“We’re having a party! Tomorrow night,” Ross beams, “Thrown by Carl who is, like, the party dude!” He gives us two thumbs way up in a way that makes it look like he wanted to be a member of the KISS army but was 4-F. “You guys wanna come?”
Joey snorts. “No thanks.”
“Yeah, Ross. We’re not really….into dinosaurs. Like, I work with numbers. But I wouldn’t invite you to a party if we found the last digit of pi or something.”
Ross shuffles his feet and looks down at them, abashed, “Actually, that’d be….pretty cool….”
And I’m not going to say that yeah, the last number of pi would be an awesome discovery. Or that I totally would invite Ross because he’d get a kick out of it. Mostly because Joey, who’s not a nerd, is present.
Joey must feel a little bad for turning Ross down and tries to, ineffectively, make Ross feel better by changing the subject. “Aren’t you working today? Why are you here?”
“Oh, uh, this is my lunch break.” Joey and I decide simultaneously not to make fun of the fact that the thing Ross is doing on his lunch break is telling us about dinosaur parties; Ross looks pretty painfully downtrodden from what we said before. “See you, guys.”
Ross can make anything sound depressing. He can sigh while talking, which is a remarkable talent more lethal than puppy-dog eyes. That’s why I bust out, “Come back tonight, Joey and I are giving you your birthday present early.” And Ross knows for a fact that I mean that kind of present, the kind I am very, very against, and not a helium balloon or something that we bought at a gas station.
And, proving he has a one-track mind, Joey does actually understand this sentiment. He pumps a fist in the air. “All right!”
I think Ross said a happy little ‘okay!’ during Joey’s exclamation, but he’s left to go back to work, so maybe not.
Joey waits until he’s sure Ross is gone before asking, “Wasn’t our party for Ross tomorrow? Won’t this dinosaur-thing get in the way?”
“Our party is the dinosaur-thing. Just had to find a way to get Ross there without actually telling him about it. Guess this is how.” At least I hope so. Otherwise a lot of people will be finding out it was a Lost World themed party a little late.
“You guys planted a dinosaur just to trick Ross? Man, that is so cool!”
Joey apparently doesn’t believe in lucky coincidences. “Yeah. I wanted to get Barney, but he was out of town.”
Joey nods understandingly.
I call the seventh nerd and he confirms that it is just a clever paleontologist’s trick to get people to come to parties. I don’t especially want to know how many exhumed dinosaur corpses have been used for such merriment, so I say thank you and hang up.
Mind still stuck on tonight, Joey knocks me on the shoulder and says, “Hey, Chandler. I’m gonna go and change into something more comfortable.”
And under many circumstances this would be a line used to get a man to throw the other onto the nearest level area. However, given the fact that I know that Joey’s ‘comfy’ clothes are sweatpants and a stained baggy t-shirt, an outfit purely for cutting down strip-time and not for aesthetic appeal, he’d have to work hard to be any less sexy. “Sure, man.”
But then, I don’t think Joey’s that sexy, anyway. Which is a weird thought to have while watching certain regions of his anatomy while he walks off to his room. A weirder thought since we already slept with each other. The weirdest thought because it’s accompanied by the fact I don’t think Ross is sexy either. Good-looking? Sure. Attractive? Definitely. I can even appreciate them both in a new light after having seen them in action. But their looks don’t make me want to sleep with them at all. If anything, their looks make me not want to sleep with them.
But they make me want to sleep with them.
What the hell is that about?
It doesn’t really matter.
They are good-looking, and they do make me horny. Even if their being good-looking isn’t what makes me--
Paging Dr. Freud.
Don’t think about any of that.
There are better things to worry about. Like the fact that we are going to sleep together. Again. But actually planned this time. Planned in a haphazard if-this-were-a-movie-everything-would-go-terribly-wrong sort of a way, but planned. So it seems like we’ll take more time instead of trying the ’Put tab A into slot B’ method again.
It seems like we’ll actually pay attention.
To every…single…detail.
It’s not like there’s a big size difference or anything. We’re all average. It just so happens that Ross is longer and Joey’s thicker, and I’m more average than they are. But, anyway, size doesn’t matter. So there’s no reason to feel inadequate. Which is why I haven’t worried about this at all. I haven’t given any of this a single thought. And I won’t give it a single thought.
Though there is the distinct possibility that they’ve already noticed.
Would that be worse? It’s not like they’ll tell anyone.
Or would it be worse if they noticed--
“Chandler? You all right there? Zoned out, man.” And, yep, Joey is in that stained shirt and those sweatpants. Adorably predictable. Adorably? Not adorably, not anything-ly. Just predictable.
“Yeah. Yeah.” Don’t be self-conscious. Don’t think about inadequate-size-inadequate-lasting-ability-general-inadequacy. “Joey, how am I?” Oh, right, and don’t ask Joey to comment on your sexual prowess. Didn’t have time to get to that one.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” Sigh deeply. And Joey actually does forget it. “Let’s go pick up the cake for tomorrow night.” We are the lollygaggers that old folks complain about, so it’s quite possible that picking up the cake will make us miss our date with Ross and I won’t have to worry about anything else.
“Aw, man, but I just got comfy.” Joey gestures to his outfit.
Cake-shopping isn’t exactly a formal occasion. “So stay comfy. I don’t love you for your looks, darling.”
Joey grins as he retrieves his shoes; I’m already wearing mine, so I just watch him. “Man, sounds like we’re married or somethin’.”
“Not a chance. Rich girls don’t marry poor boys, remember, Gatsby?” Joey, who doesn’t read or watch the movies of even the crappiest of classic literature, seems like he’s going to take offense at being called poor. I make sure to smile broadly when he looks up from tying his shoelaces. He rolls his eyes and lets it go.
“All right, then, let’s go.”
“Okay.” We both walk out. There’s an instinct not to lock the door; the only time it was was when Joey somehow locked himself out. Which was only weird because the door most definitely does not lock automatically. Still, I think about it for a second before trailing after Joey downstairs. “But, Joe. Remember this time; the little squares that are on the serving plates? Those are for you to try. The big squares that have ‘Happy Birthday’ written on them? They’re not.”
We step to the base of the stairs at exactly that moment, so he can push me without me breaking my neck. I push him back, and he pushes me a little harder. We’re both smirking like the idiots we are as we walk down the street.
We go into one of the general, sell-all stores that has a bakery in the darkest, most soulless corner, and wander back to check out the cakes.
“How come Monica isn’t baking him one?” Joey asks, and he moves away from the cakes to look at the doughnuts. He moves back when I look at him.
“She is, but for the actual birthday. Not the pre-birthday.”
“But we aren’t even having a party on his actual birthday ‘cuz he‘s working late, right?”
“I don’t know. Ask Monica. This whole cake thing…” I wave the rest of the sentence away as I peer through the plastic.
“Oh! This one!” He points to one of the ‘sold cheap because it wasn’t picked up’ cakes.
“‘Happy Birthday, Rose’?” I ask incredulously.
“What? It’s cursive; we can make it look like an ‘s’.”
I look at Joey with raised eyebrows, then look at the cake. “What the hell, it’s half off.”
Joey gallantly offers to pay for it, conveniently forgetting that he left his wallet at home--darn-- and bumming the cash off of me. As we walk back through the store, Joey carrying the cake, he asks, “We got everything for tonight?”
“Hm?”
“Y’know, the safe stuff.”
Oh. Audible click as it settles into place. I count on my fingers, “We got condoms, and lubricant, and…we haven’t got a safe word yet, but I’ve always liked ‘banana’.” There’s a little old lady who possibly heard this, and I hope my blushing is good enough to placate her.
“Yeah? Yeah, good.”
I go ahead and grab Die Hard as we pass by the video section. Joey waits while I pay for it, and then we make the lazy walk back home.
When we get there, I toss Die Hard onto my chair. Joey puts the cake on the counter and starts digging through drawers. I lean across the counter, “What’re you looking for?”
“Frosting. For the ‘e’.”
“Joey, neither of us have ever baked a cake in our lives. Why would we have frosting?” The rather devious grin is a little off-putting. This is the stuff nightmares are made of. “Don’t answer that, forget I asked.” Joey shrugs and continues his search. I’m going to forget I asked, too. Because, my God, that’s disturbing. Really, really, really.... “…Lisa Goodwell?”
“Nope.”
No, no. She was a little chunky, but she wasn’t like that. “Kaitlin Bower?”
“Which one was she?”
“Big mouth. In the roller derby; had lots of kneepads. You liked her.”
“Oh. Heh, yeah, right.” He gets lost for a second. “No.” and moves on to the fridge.
“Heather Jensen? The one who worked in the restaurant, got fired for eating the food.”
“Yep.” He grins triumphantly as he pulls out the frosting, “Wrong color. That okay?”
“Sure. So long as it’s not red; that throws paleontologists into a rage, you know.” Joey looks at the can and decides it’s safe. He takes the case off of the cake and starts working on the ‘e’. I watch, bored, as he completely murders the vowel. A, I, O, and U will be going after him in his sleep; Y is a little too wishy-washy to join in the lynching. There are two knocks at the door. “Who’s there?”
“Ross!”
Joey flings the cake into the fridge, almost certainly ruining all the other letters. I open the door, “You gotta work on your punch lines, man.”
Ross rolls his eyes but smirks as he comes in.
Joey, apparently realizing imminent peril if he can’t explain the entire situation, holds the can out to Ross. “Hey, Ross, want some frosting?”
“No, uh, no, I’m good.” He starts to go to the living room.
Danger, danger, Will Robinson; retrieve Die Hard tape! “Ross!”
“Huh?”
“Uhh..” slip past Ross with your catlike stealth. Grab the tape and hide it behind you. Okay. Home free. “You ever wonder why Gumby liked riding Pokey so much?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“My, that is amazing; you have simply read my mind.”
Joey does catch on to some things, “Yeah, uh, yeah, I’m gonna get some stuff for you know, tonight--” and whichever head he’s thinking with is the right one; he grabs the tape as he passes me and goes to his room. Ross watches this, confused, and responds with a stretched out ‘okay’.
He turns back around, “I’m gonna get a soda.”
“No, no, no, Ross!” if there isn’t an Olympic event for chair-vaulting, there should be. “I’ll get it for you. You just---you sit down, there, mister.”
There’s another “Oh…kay.” as Ross goes ahead and sits in my chair. I grab a soda for him and quickly survey the damage to the cake. It’s not as bad as I thought; grenade as opposed to atomic bomb. I give Ross the drink and rub my hands together. What is taking Joey so long? And, more than that, why is the clock saying it hasn’t taken Joey long at all?
There’s supposed to be a preamble before we go to the Declaration of Independence, but paranoia leads me to skip that and kiss Ross, hard.
“Happy Birthday,” I say, and I can hear as Joey comes back from his room. I wonder if Joey hid the tape. I wonder if we can hide the cake. I wonder if we can manage to keep Ross in the living room until we can figure out the other two things.
Ross starts to say how it’s not really his birthday, you know.
Fortunately kissing him again makes him stop arguing.
Sex certainly is the most effective conversation ender.
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Date: 2008-04-16 08:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-16 10:48 pm (UTC)