One Shots

Indie and Joseah (PG-13)

A/N: Full Author's note at the end.
A few warnings: as the story may be triggering towards: self harm, eating disorders, dark themes. But it's not done in a disrespectful way by no accounts.

                         Indie And Joseah 

    I'm going to tell you a story, and you are not going to like it. But please, don't let that stop you from reading. I promise you it will be worth your time, and perhaps even worth your tears.

    I will start by telling you about a boy. He was a boy like every other, and he was in love with a boy like no other. Or maybe, it was the other way around. Love, it seemed to distort everything.

    A small fact: I wrote that with a smile on my face and a tear in my left eye.

    If you have been in love, you will understand why the boy, in too soon of a time, will be dead. Knowing this will not spoil the story. Knowing this will merely spare you the shock. I have been told before that my heart is carved of ice when I speak of such things so plainly.

    But, tell me, how else is there to speak of them?

    The boy's name was Indie. Not his original name, no. It was the name he gave himself when his life abandoned him and he was left with nothing but the clothes on his body and the dirt on his face. He would never, not once, think of his real name again.

    Indie was twelve when this occurred and he was fifteen when he fell in love. He was seventeen when he had his first kiss and he was twenty-one when he experienced his only death. Indie lived a short life, but it was a short life well lived.

    We'll skip to the age of fifteen, when Indie met his first kiss and his last kiss, his first time and his last time. His first love and his last love. His name was Joseah.

    Indie and Joseah. It gives a very differed impression of their personalities, doesn't it? Let me tell you.

    Joeseah was a boy at the near age of sixteen when they met. He had war scars on his arms and war scars in his mind. He was the knife and the victim. He was the destroyer and the destroyed. He was a boy of pain.

    Indie, however, Indie was strength. Indie was salvation. Indie was perseverance. Indie was a boy of survival. Through all of his twenty-one years of hardships, Indie had survived them with wounds he hid beneath bandage after bandage and he never let the blood seep through. He held himself above the scars. He held himself above the pain.

    He never held himself above Joseah.

    They met on a frosted afternoon in late November. The air was tight and fresh inside their lungs with each inhalation of the near-December air. Indie was reminded of his first Christmas alone as he sat on the wall of a bridge, his feet dangling in the air above a stream of water.

    He liked to think of the river as a flow of tears that were collected over time, from lovers and fighters and those that yearned and those that lost after years and years, all of them sitting just as Indie was on the wall of the bridge. Crying. Screaming. Living.

    Joseah saw very differently. Joseah saw through calm eyes that were fitted alongside a very meek brain. It was a strange thing. To see through Joseah's eyes. Though dark his mind and dark his soul, he could always see beauty in everything else but himself.

    He let the cold air brush over his face, smoothing out the creases of his tough times. Soothing his skin and whispering in his ears as it passed by, soon you will drift with us. Soon. But it was not soon. Joseah would not die at the age of near-sixteen. Nor would he die at the age of twenty-one.