Ryan pretended he wasn't in love with you. Like a junkie in rehab pretending not to feel the hand jitters, he wore the veil of indifference tightly over his face. He pretended his eyes didn't linger on your snake bites, the silver metal pointed into fangs. It was all white lies really; the bickering, the insults, the quick hugs after shows. He pretended that you weren't his saving grace, the reason he felt less angry after the release of A Fever You Can't Sweat Out. And he was angry. He had every right to be. His girlfriend of three years cheated on him, which led to the album holding those heavy tones and underlying meanings it did.

But then you joined the band as the pianist. Dark, elusive, sweet and mysterious. You weren't a pretty blonde or a promiscuous pair of red lips. You were what Brendon often called the Vampire of the group. The mother, the freak, the catholic, the poet.

He really did try, though he felt his strength dwindling the more he was around you. The more you psychoanalized his poetry, the more you spoke of your thoughts on the does and don'ts of relationships. It was clear to him that you had always been the therapist, and that you had never dated anyone. He liked that. Not that you were pure, that you had a level head. A date to marry kind of person, a friends to lovers girl.

Ryan found himself at your hip by the day as the tour progressed. Brendon was jealous of this fact, and that you had taken over the piano, but Ryan payed it no mind. He was straight anyway - for all he cared, Brendon's love life and sorry crush on him could hitch a ride to Chicago.

Often times, he would ask that you teach him how to make cocktails, content to sit in the bus kitchen while you taught him how to toss bottles and mix liquor. He noticed how your snake bites really did look like fangs, and a part of him wanted to feel them digging into his skin beside your teeth. He wondered what it would feel like to catch the metal between canines, if you would thread your fingers through his hair or drag your hands down his chest. Ryan was more of a soft guy when it came to things like that, more willing to savor the experience rather than rush through and go hard. He liked being gentle, and you obviously needed it from the way you rarely let people touch you.

It was late, around 2:00 AM. All the other band members decided to go out drinking at the local bar, which meant they weren't coming home any time soon. Ryan decided to play coy and watch you as you practiced eyeliner, sitting on the counter beside you. He loved the way the black contrasted against your pale skin, the way you basically looked like the female version of Gerard Way with your high cheekbones and short black hair. "You should let me try." He hummed, holding out his hand for the eyeliner pen.