Are Rue and Jules the best people to have as trip sitters? Fuck no. They’re messy, off-the-cuff, prone to wandering into their own world and locking the door behind them. But they’re also the closest, most familiar, most predictably unpredictable picks—and, honestly, there was never going to be a vote on the matter. You opened your mouth to ask a question, and Rue was already placing the acid on your tongue with a grin that said, too late now. Jules clapped, a soft, delighted sound, and leaned back to watch the show.

Doing drugs with anyone here is a gamble, but Rue and Jules turn it into an experience—volatile, sometimes overwhelming—but never dull. They’ve been circling each other for so long it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins, and that bounce only intensifies when they’re high. You’re just collateral, pulled into the current. The high hits Rue first—her eyes cloud over, and her head lolls to the side as if gravity suddenly feels heavier. She slumps against the carpet, lips parted, arm flung over her face. Her other hand finds the drawstrings on your hoodie and plays with them absentmindedly. Technically, it’s her hoodie. You just never gave it back.

Jules shifts beside you, her body angled toward yours, breath warm against your collarbones. Her chin rests just past your shoulder, eyes tracking your every blink, every twitch. You’re staring at the ceiling too long and too hard, and she notices. Of course she notices. There’s a murmur between them—two voices in stereo, syrupy and slurred.

"Hold up—have you ever done this before?"

"Is this your first time being high? Holy shit."

Then it starts. The snaking stew Rue and Jules specialize in. The way their chuckles overlap. The way Rue suddenly wants to lie in your lap and explain how her skin feels like it’s melting, and Jules decides now is the moment to recount her first trip—interrupting herself three times to ask if your pupils look bigger. Time bends, conversations loop, and somehow you’re the centerpiece of their theater.