A/N: After Spain's horrid debut in the World Cup (man, that was embarrassing), I decided to fully dedicate myself to the first chapter of this fic. So, just a couple of quick, introductory things.

This is based on the book 'Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist', collaboratively written by David Levithan and Rachel Cohn. (Not the movie, which was so meh, it pained me.) I'm going to follow the book's plot structure—events that take place during a single night—and I'm also going to alternate narration between Chandler and Monica like the book does with Nick and Norah. Title comes from Noah & The Whale's 'Lifetime', but don't read too much into it. Every chapter is titled after songs by The Kooks (some because it fits, some because the title fits, and some just because I want to), but I got most inspiration from listening nonstop to two particular songs: 'Eskimo Kiss' and 'Junk of the Heart'.

It's gonna be mostly very light stuff, nothing too dramatic. Chandler and Monica don't know each other, and they're not neighbors. Joey and Rachel will be in this too, but not heavily. Their age, what they do, and that kind of stuff will be stated later on, but this is definitely before the first season of the show. Also, I guess it's implied, but this is totally AU. I have the story planned out in my head, but I don't have anything written yet, so if I'm not inspired updates will definitely take a little longer.

And that's all. Now sit back, and hopefully enjoy. And please, let me know what you think!

Chandler.

"I wanna make you happy,
I wanna make you feel alive.
Let me make you happy,
I wanna make you feel alive at night."

These words are blasting in my ears, and they're making my head, my brain, my heart, and my entire body vibrate. God, and to think that it could be as simple as that, just a nice and noisy anecdote, but I don't think I can handle the loud music anymore.

My mouth is dry, my eyes are watery, and my senses are dulled. I'm hot, and that's not a praise of my physical appearance, unfortunately. My brain is suffering from something that may very well be diagnosed as boredom, but the problem is I've never experienced a boredom this intense before—there's a throbbing pain in the front part of my brain, right under the left eyebrow, which, no matter what I do, just won't go away. I'm actually sitting down, because I don't think I can handle getting up.

Just for the record, I'm neither drunk nor high, even if it sounds like it. I want to convince myself I'm just a tad sleep-deprived, given I slept a little over 4 hours last night, and that's considered a mighty sin in my world. The only thing I know for sure is I've been a member of this party for about an hour and a half, and I can already consider it a disaster.

At least that's how things are looking right now—disastrous. I get the feeling that tonight's going to suck big time, and my head is certainly paying the price.

My body produces a groan. I lean forward in my seat, rest my elbows on my knees, and then I rub my eyes with endeavor, trying to rub the pain away. It's not a very sophisticated technique, but it tends to momentarily accomplish what it plans to accomplish. Once the eye-rubbing is over, I tentatively look around and confirm it has slightly worked, so I cran my neck a bit to look for Joey, only Joey's nowhere to be seen.

Here's the thing: Joey's my roommate, and Joey's my best friend, and Joey's an actor, but he's not a very succesful one. I'm saying this because, as a consequence of his unsuccessfulness, Joey has equally unsuccessful friends (mind you, excluding me), who are bent on throwing crappy parties that dangerously resemble this one.

Truth be told, I sometimes think I want Joey to get successful just so he can take me to better parties than the huge fiasco I'm in right now. Christ, can you imagine? Fantastic parties where there aren't passed out people on the floor, and where sophisticated food, sophisticated music, and sophisticated women are the everyday norm.

Sorry. That was mean—and only partly true. Boy, am I a bad person.

However, much to my chagrin, I'm getting the impression that I've become a regular to these kind of events, given I'm awfully familiar with plenty of people here.

Frank Somethingorother is standing in the corner of the room, looking like he wants to vomit. I know this guy because Joey brought him home to watch a Knicks game one evening, and I seem to only remember how this actor-wannabe shamelessly drank all our beer. Oh, the audacity.

One of Joey's seven sisters is also hanging around, but I have no idea which one she is—I suppose we could categorize her as the one that's not pregnant yet, because Tribbianis seem to be very fertile people.

A new song comes in and interrupts my musings. It's something catchy, something fun, something I haven't heard before, but everyone's already on their way of getting completely smashed. I'm afraid they have crossed that drunken line where music simply stops feeling like fun, and it begins feeling like torture.

Nonetheless, torture is being here alone, flagrantly abandoned by my supposed best friend in favor of some random woman he's hoping to bed.

Stupid Joey.

I sit back in my place, crossing my arms and frantically bouncing my leg up and down. There's a guy sitting next to me with a notepad on his lap, a pensive expression on his face, and a pen on his hand, which he's dead set on tapping against every surface possible. My head begins to pound again. I know this is sudden, but I think I want to kill him.

"Gee-whiz," he mutters under his breath, and I wonder if maybe we've been teleported to 1925. He probably didn't intend for me to hear that, but our shoulders are almost touching, and I can practically hear every word that comes out of his mouth. I bet if he knew this, he would've left those outdated expressions at home.

Now that we're on this subject, let's talk about something weird. There are three loners in this party, and we're all sitting on the same couch. The loner leaving his ass-print on the left cushion is me; there's another loner on the far right; and then there's the middle-gee-whiz-mutterer loner, who is sandwiched between Loner #1 and Loner #3. Loners are a very solitary kind, known to never talk to each other, which is why I don't have more profound information on them.

Although Gee-whiz Loner still has the notepad out, and is now furiously scribbling down some things on it, inspiration striking him somehow. Between the notepad, the suede jacket, the creepy facial hair, and the vintage glasses, I've come to the conclusion that he's a pretentious loner. His eyes keep transitioning from his lap to the front door, too, as if he's waiting for someone to burst through it and finally rid him of his loneliness, so he's also a temporal loner, then.

Suddenly, 'What's Up' by 4 Non Blondes becomes the next song in the party's playlist. My stomach freaking churns, but I think someone actually cheers. Oh, what a time to be alive—man, I hate this fucking song. This must be the universe alienating itself against me and ordering me to stretch my legs and clear my head a bit, so that's exactly what I do, leaving my loners behind.

I go straight to the bar-slash-kitchen area of this one-room apartment, where there are some comfortable-looking swivel stools. I crash down on one of them, realizing that every alcoholic drink imaginable is found on this countertop. I am struck with amazement to find out that most of these drinks look crazily expensive, too—who knows, maybe Joey is climbing his way up the success ladder after all, and he just forgot to tell me.

Now, I have a serious problem: I'd like to taste some of these, because I like to pretend I am exquisite when I'm actually really ordinary, but the car keys inside my front pocket keep reminding me that I have the duty to drive myself home, too, and hopefully not die in the process.

Whatever the case, my mouth is bone-dry anyway, so I scan the kitchen counter for something, anything that'll wet my windpipe, and hopefully won't make me drunk; a soda, a water bottle, a carton of juice, a carton of milk, a liquid of the Coca-Cola kind. I'll take anything.

I methodically go through every expensive bottle, but there's absolutely nothing alcohol-free here. Seriously, no wonder everybody got drunk so fast, given how they've been fiercely mixing a 12-year-old Chivas Regal with, well, pretty much the blood running through their veins.

I think I need Joey to guide me through this dilemma. He's friends with the resident of this apartment, after all, who can probably help me with my problem.

I get up from my stool and stand on my tiptoes, trying to find him between all these sudden 4 Non Blondes lovers. It doesn't take me much to find him, because, as it turns out, he's relatively close to where I'm standing now, grinding his privates against some blonde's privates—not a very nice image to witness, let me tell you.

I flop down on my seat again, a disheartening sigh escaping my lips. Boredom is striking again, threatening me with the return of The Headache, so I get the brilliant idea of going for a little spin on my swivel stool. It's kind of fun, but it only takes me one spin and a half to realize how stupid I must look to the outside observer.

This reminds me of an embarrassing high school memory that took place during an otherwise forgettable freshman year. Long story short: I was in Biology class, which sort of explains why I, out of boredom or stupidity or I don't know what, started to wonder how the insides of my head looked like and whether I could actually see it with my own eyes or not. And then I, through no fault of my own (really), seriously tried to roll my eyes really far back in my head to check. Anyway, when I finally realized how idiotic I was being, I'm afraid it was too late: a baffled kid on the other side of the classroom was staring at me with this horrified expression on his face, and yeah, it's not the same, but it's not that different either.

Just my luck, Loner #3 is shooting me very amused looks. My instincts are telling me to run for cover and vanish from existence, but I end up staring back, which causes her to look away, and I suddenly regret very deep in my soul having swiveled for a bit.

Come on now. I try to make myself believe that she's just been staring at me because I'm fabulous, and even the best of us can make ridiculous mistakes.

Okay, that's highly improbable. I think I'd just rather go back to my old spot on the couch, where Pretentious Loner will kindly shield me from her without a single complaint. When I do come back, I shrink back in my seat so much, I almost vanish from existence, indeed.

I stay in hiding for about thirty seconds, after which a stunning woman waltzes through the front door, sporting a cocktail dress that seriously makes my jaw drop and my entire body shiver. Ever since my ex cruelly dumped me a couple of months ago, I seem to fall in love with every pretty woman I see—at the grocery store, on the subway, at my great-uncle's funeral, it doesn't really matter.

I'm halfway through a longing, pathetic sigh when my ally on the couch gets up from his seat, goes to her, and then they leave the apartment together, mercilessly uncovering my cover. I feel so ashamed all of a sudden, I don't even wonder how Pretentiousness got to be with Miss Universe. All I can think about is how there's only an empty cushion between myself and the witness of my shame, who's started to curiously stare at me again.

To my mortification, it doesn't take Anonymous Staring Stranger (A.S.S.?!) much time to scoff and shake her head, and I honestly start to fret. "Ugh, look at that," she says over the music, and I think I can literary see her words floating in the uncomfortable air between us. My head whips around, but I shut up and blink quite a lot, because that is my number one rule when it comes to talking women whose words are directed at no one in particular.

It's just, I'm not sure of anything anymore. I'm pretty certain she's looking right into my eyes from the distance, and that must mean something, and so I mutter, as politely as I can, "Beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. Just, look at that," she says, nodding her head towards something and confusing me more. My eyes skip around the room, but they see nothing of particular interest.

"What?"

"It's just, look right there!" she insists for the last time, wiggling her index finger in the air and pointing it ahead of her. "There's a smarmy bastard right there, trying to sleep with my drunken friend by using his smarmy moves. It's circus-like disgusting!"

Oh, boy. I don't know why, but I suspect I'm going to look at the smarmy bastard, and Joey is going to pop up into my field of vision, showering me, her, and her drunken friend with his best smarmy moves.

And, of course, bingo—no surprise there.

For a moment, I think I'm even more embarrassed because of this than because of my swivelling adventure. That is, until I look at him, happily sucking on Blondie's neck (who's not opposed to his smarmy moves at all, by the way), and he looks in such good spirits while doing it, that I truly think to myself that yeah, way to go, Joey, you go have sex in honor of the ones who will have to keep intact their unwanted celibacy tonight.

So, I'm about to admit my real connection to him, because I think I owe that smarmy bastard that much, but then I take a good look at her, my mouth agape, and everything freaking stops. I look at her, and oh, I just look at her. It's just... Jesus F. Christ, look at her!

My God, I don't even know her, and the freckles dotting her skin are already driving me insane. She's contentedly eating a lace of red licorice, and I can't help but wonder who the hell brings licorice into a party and manages to make it totally endearing.

I know it's sudden, but I think I just fell in love all over again—I think I'm in love with the way she's combining a basic, fitting t-shirt with basic, cigarette jeans, and I think I'm in love with how it seems like she's not even trying to look so fantastically good, but she freaking does, somehow.

I've never seen anyone like her. She's turned out to be so effortlessly gorgeous, I can't really help but stare—I like looking at people that are gorgeous, that's me.

"Heh, sure." I smile tightly at last, opting for the easier way out, which is pretending I don't know him. Joey will have to live with that.

She seems content with my response, returning my smile and gracing me with some affirmative humming. Then, still from the far away distance of the other end of the couch, she suddenly asks, "By the way, do you know what time it is?"

"Uh, yeah." I clear my throat, sitting upright and revealing my watch from under the left sleeve of my favorite shirt—at least I'm not wearing a sack of potatoes, for which I feel really grateful. "It's... okay, yeah. It's almost ten thirty."

"Only ten thirty? Jesus!" she exclaims, tucking her hair behind one ear. "Anyway, thank you." She smiles and waves her hand, turning slightly in her seat and pressing her back against the armrest of the sofa, facing me. "You know, so, okay, you look sorta familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?"

I ponder over this a little, but then I think that, if this were the case, I'd remember her. "I don't think so, no."

"Well, if you think so, then it must be true," she mocks in a weird tone of voice, still smiling. I'm not an expert on women, but I think I can tell this is a pretty woman acting a bit strange. "So, okay, what're you- are you having fun tonight?"

On the other hand, strange or not, this is when I fully realize that, for whatever reason, an incredibly beautiful woman is trying to spark some kind of conversation, and she's trying to spark some kind of conversation with me, no less, of all people. "Yeah!" I nod, giving her a thumbs up and lying a bit. She narrows her eyes, possibly because she doesn't buy my utterly false affirmation, and so I end up deadpanning, "Actually, no."

And it must all be in the delivery, folks, because she lets out this magnificent laugh, which comes out of her as if she just invented the sound, and as if she were the first human producing it, and as if I were the first human experiencing it. This is silly, but it makes me feel special. It doesn't even last long, but Christ, that was a wonderful sound.

"Okay, me neither," she admits around that laugh, chewing on her last piece of licorice. "Things are a bit slow tonight, don't you think?"

"Really slow," I say, nervously chuckling.

"Yeah," she says, biting her lip to keep from nervously chuckling, too. "Okay."

I've noticed she tends to say "okay" quite a lot. Nervous habit? Perhaps. As a side note, Joey and Blondie are interchanging fluids on the other side of the room now, and it's not like she's pushing him away.

Coming up with interesting conversational topics doesn't seem to be our strong suit, because my companion on the couch has quickly fallen silent. Since uncomfortable silences are a nemesis of mine I keep trying to fight with more than disastrous results, I end up falling silent too.

But, I try looking at her from the corner of my eye, wanting to avoid seeming too hopeless. She's bouncing her leg on the floor repeatedly now, and she has her arms wrapped across her chest in a way that makes it look as if she's just hugging herself. The bouncing leg is usually a nervous habit of mine, but I can see why it's considered quite an annoying one.

I don't know why, but a big chunk of me is expecting Joey to drunkenly stumble up to me any second, acting as if he just wants to ruin my life by blowing my story, given how my life tends to be that calamitous. No time for that, though, must think the universe while neatly wrapping up a very unrealistic and spooky present for me: this nameless woman's leg abruptly stops, and this nameless woman rapidly shifts her gaze to me, and then this nameless woman closes the distance between us with determination but without uttering a single word, and in the quarter of the second that it takes her to get to me, my expression changes from amazed, to mildly perplexed, to just plain shocked.

"Hey," she says with an adorable voice I don't end up catching because I'm too wrapped up in how weird and confusing this is. Sudden proximity? Not my thing, either.

But I say "hey" back anyway, and I notice her eyes are blue. I wonder if the ocean opens up when she laughs. I know I should be concentrating on more important stuff, but I think her eyes are a work of art. She bites her lower lip, and now my eyes are the ones following the action. And then she giggles, out of a lack of things to say, maybe; or out of a lack of nerve to say them.

"Hi," she's like, drawing out the vowel.

"Hi back," I'm like, shortening the vowel.

"Listen, can I ask you something arbitrary?" she blurts, and I feel grandly suspicious that her use of the word arbitrary is not at all arbitrary.

"Oh, yeah, s-sure," I squeak, and other than mouthing a silent 'okay,' she doesn't immediately, arbitrarily answer, because what she does is arbitrarily rest her left hand against the side of my neck, her thumb gently grazing my Adam's apple, and she arbitrarily closes her right hand around what I'd consider my favorite shirt, but I'm starting to think that the word 'favorite' loses all its power when you compare it to this very moment, and before I can sing praises to heaven, she starts to arbitrarily lean over, and no, wait, I wasn't expecting this, abort, abort, abort, the unexpectedness of this is making me very scared. "Uh, wai- are you- what are you doin'?"

I say that, but of course I'm not moving. Instead, every single, minute, useless hair in my body is sticking out, and all my muscles are reflexively flexing themselves, and my heart is beating along with the tempo of the unbelievable music enveloping us.

She pushes back a little, looking deep into my eyes. "Don't freak out, I just want to ask you something, remember?" she calmly says, and oh dear God, her lips and her breath are so close to my neck right now, delicately whispering something into my ear. Somehow, her words are physically sticking to my skin, and I must be living through one hell of a supernatural experience, because I can clearly feel her words there, which is why I don't even need to listen to know what they're nicely asking of me.

"If I ask you nicely," she's nicely asking me, "would you be willing to drive me home tonight?"

And I'm sorry, but what the hell?

Okay, first of all, she was certainly right—that was arbitrary, and without any explanation and so out-of-context, it's definitely bizarre. Second of all, I know I just described this as though it happened in slow-motion, but it actually happened so fast, everyone else in the room must have no recollection of the incident. Then again, it probably wasn't as sensual, either, but my mind definitely believes it was.

Fuck, I think I just forgot how to breathe. And I think my heart just forgot how to pump blood. And I think I just forgot how normal life feels like.

But mainly, I think I just forgot that, up until this point, my life's been short, and my life's been uneventful, and maybe that's why I believe this is the most confusing experience of my entire life, which has been painfully short and uneventful.

On a scale from 1 to Chandler, how bad is it if I run away?