The ciggarettes on the table were laced with nitroglycerin. The dancers were on cocaine. Ryan was still at the table, counting cards. He was always standoffish, decievingly sweet with his baby face but quick to bite with a snarky comeback. He didn't look at you as you sat down beside him.

He had grown comfortable with you after a long while of you being in the band as the pianist and occasional ghostwriter. Despite his quietness and aversion to conversation with anyone besides you and Brendon, he began realizing that he favored you over the others. Sarah Smiles had been ghostwritten by him about you, to which only Brendon knew. It was kind of a secret that he liked you for no fucking reason. He liked your scrutinizing gaze and perpetually irritated expression. Your constant migraines and never ending stash of weed for everyone to leech off of. You were the glue of the band, and he respected that. He just didn't respect his own feelings for you, because they were strong and festering.

But he still decided to act like a dick to save face.

"The ciggarettes are laced." He muttered, not looking up from his cards.