The way I see it, everyone has one massive decision to make in their lives: to believe in god or not.
If you choose to believe in god you probably wouldn’t; have sex before marriage, get high or drunk on a weekly basis or most of the fun things that I do.
There is only one rule that I live by; never judge another human being, unfortunately some people who believe in god, don’t believe in this. They tell me I’ll be going to hell, that I don’t deserve to live, that I don’t deserve love, they yell random insults across the street because I’m holding my boyfriend’s hand.
But I’m not going to let a bunch of narrow minded fuckheads tell me what I can and can’t do. Ryan Ross doesn’t listen to anyone but Ryan Ross, and sometimes Brendon.
“Ryannnnnnnn,” Speak of the devil and he shall appear.
“What do you want?” The words leave my mouth less bitter than I intended.
“You fail at sounding mean,” He laughs. “I just wanted to cuddle,”
“I’m trying to write lyrics, Brenny, Do you want to release a second album?” I ask.
“I’d rather cuddle,” He states like I should have assumed.
I give in; I always give in to Brendon. He pulls himself up onto my lap, half expecting to be pushed off.
“You’re a big softie on the inside,” He’s teasing me, trying to cause trouble.
“Only for you,” I start to tickle him, making him double over in laughter.
“Quit it!” He screams as I dig my fingers into his sides. I let him compose himself, pulling his shirt down and sitting up straight on my lap. “How many songs are complete?” He asks.
“Not many.” I say. “I’ve completed two and I’m stuck on the 3rd,”
“Let me see,” not even giving me a chance to reply he snatches the paper off the table.
“Hmm,” He mumbles “I like the first two. The 3rd one, I like what you’ve got so far. Can I help?” I decide to surprise him; he’s waiting for me to say no, I never let anyone help me write. The only difference between Brendon and everyone is I trust Brendon with my life, so I nod.
“I’d appreciate it,”
“Okay, so what have you got so far?” Hiding his surprise with a smile, I pass him the sheet of paper I’d started writing on an hour ago.
“I think I need to hear you sing it,”
“Jealous orchard. The sky is falling off the ceiling while I’m tucking fibs into a cookie jar,” He sings, as I hum the tune I had in mind.
“I like it Ryry, a lot,” He praised.
“What are these?” He asks, pointing to scribbled lines in the margin.
“Ideas for more lyrics,” I tell Brendon, “I really like this one.” I point to the line ‘I wasn’t born to be a skeleton,’
“I like it. Make sure you put it in to the song,”
“I will just for you,” I promise.
He settles himself into the crook of my neck, blowing his hot breathe on to it.
“Bren, “ I complain “I wanna write,”
“You can write later,” Brendon says, bitting on my bottom lip as he pulls me into a kiss.
“I wanna write now. Spencer and Jon will be here soon anyway,”
“So we only have a short time? Please? You know Jon and Spence will be late anyways,” He reasons.
I give in to Brendon’s puppy dog expression again, I always do. I let him grab my hand and pull me to our bedroom.
The way I see it, there’s nothing wrong with me showing my love for Brendon in a physical way.
There’s nothing wrong with the way Brendon moans my name, and I his.
There is, however, something wrong with the people who think this isn’t beautiful, it’s love, it can’t not be beautiful.
“I love you, Brendon,”
“I love you too, Ryan,”