"Ronaldus Derick!" echoed across a golden feild and reached a creek on side of it. A small boy, six, emerged from the creek and ran to the house for diner. The house was the sort of house that was falling apart, but 'quaint' and rustic. As Ron entered the house, he felt something was not quite right. Something in his happy little world was wrong. He saw what as soon as he entered the dining room. A tall, plae, skinny man in a trenchcoat was sitting down at the table with a scowl on. His father was here. Ron knew why, and he didnt like it. The diner was quiet, or as quiet as it could be with five stepsiblings. Nobody liked Ron's father, ecspeically not Ron.

        He had to leave with this man, this stranger, and live with him in a run down house that shouldnt have people living in it. Ron was scared and couldnt find anywhere to ecscape to. His old friend, the outdoors, was cluttered with other people, concrete and it lacked the feeling that Ron longed for. The indoors...the indoors was where his father was.

        Ron would often wander around outdoors, to try and find somewhere he could trust. He would venture as far as he wanted. And one day, he ran into someone else- another small boy wondering the streets. He wanted to pass by and not say anything. But the other boy went over to Ron and promptly began talking. "Lo." he said.

"Er...Hello..." said Ron, unsure of what to say or do.

"So, whats your name?" asked the boy.

"Draco" said Ron. He hadnt ment to say Draco, but it spilled out anyway. So his name was Draco. That was the way it was. Draco.

"I like your name. Mine's Bricriu." Draco began to hear Bricriu's British accent.

"Stop it!" screeched Draco to his fater, drunk, who was yelling at him and beating him with a belt.

"It's not my fault!"

"Its always your fault!" his father yelled and then lased back in to muttering and screaming in some gobled mess of a language that only he knew. Well, maybe he didnt know. He was drunk.

Draco ran. And he ran into Bricriu.

He spent the night at Bricrius place, a practice he kept up even when he was older when his dad was drunk. Bricrius place was a place to ecsacpe from his dad.

        Draco knew he was different. He had already known it, but these days, he began to feel it with everystep he took. He was 13, and he began searching for a larger world to function in. Beacause of this uncertainty, he felt how different he was every day. He saw things in different light. He saw Bricriu in different light. Bricriu, a year younger, maintained the innocence he had when Draco met him, but he also had matured as well. Draco saw his actions and began to see Bricriu...well, differently. In about three months, he figured he was bisexual. And man, was he fallin for Bricriu.

        Draco and Bricriu were some of the closest friends at their school. Both fantasy geeks, but in different measures. Bricriu went for it all, sci-fi as well as Tolkein like stuff. The way Bricriu did fantasy was obsessive and he dived ionto the specifics. Draco, in the other hand, like the way things were done in Tolkein-esqe worlds, with a whole bunch of magestic creatures that act like humans in their affections and souls, even if they were things like dragons. They all had the same basic roles of either good or bad, and most of the bad ones were only bad because some ultimate evil had made them that way. Draco loved the things they did and the way they were, and most importantly, the way they were familiar. Annoying characters, no matter the speicies, could be related to annoying people, and other such comparisons could be made. He liked the way they reflected human nature.

        Draco loved Bricriu to the extent it hurt so bad that he could have died from it. He remained normal in front of people, but on his own, all he could do was to wallow in that distress of it all. He wrote. He thought. He loved. He hurt. He lived. And of course, his thought affected his actions and mood. On his own, he would be depressed, and sometimes he would lash out and start to try to cause himself more pain, from the standpoint that pain was the only thing he could trust. With people, he would resign to being himself, or as close as he could get. He would be funny, cynical, and what he normally was. This made his life an emotional roller coaster. He was being consumed by his pain and love, but kept holding it back, willing it to go away.