Free Vision Quest by A.F. Henley; Kelly Wyre

shoulders. It wasn't. The hoodie didn't help either, nor did the pyjama pants, or the socks. Arik would have sold damn near everything he owned to have been graced with a suite that had a fireplace at that moment. Even the fake logs and the gas-enhanced flames of the usual variety found in that kind of hotel would have sufficed.
    Instead, Arik crossed his arms over his chest, closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, listening to Blaze's quiet voice sing an unknown song in a thick, foreign accent. Even though the tone was gentle and the volume low, there was an underlying darkness that spoke of sadness and loss, pain and grief. It made Arik want to climb under the covers, bury his face in the sex-spattered sheets, and weep.
    There had been very little exchange between Arik and the suited porter when the man had arrived, uncorked the bottle, flourished the napkins, and then stood smiling patiently while Arik had signed for the delivery. Blaze had ordered more food than any two men could possibly eat: salad and soup, appetizers and bread. A peek under the steam-capturing lids over the entrees had revealed both steak and chicken, pasta and potatoes. Between it all, a bottle of Bordeaux sat breathing. An odd choice, considering the meal, but somehow fitting for the mood.
    A curtain of steam followed Blaze out of the bathroom. A towel was wrapped around his waist and tucked with the requisite fold to keep it in place. It was the flush of pink that covered Blaze's skin and the smiled he offered Arik before he shook his hair that drew Arik's attention, though. As if the man had semi-boiled himself in the water. And enjoyed every moment of it.
    "Ah," Blaze sighed. "Awesome. The food's here. Just give me a minute to put on some—"
    "The goat came to life," Arik blurted. And once the words started, Arik couldn't stop the spew. "I mean, not really, of course. It's not like it found its feet and ran off to join the circus. But I saw it animate. I saw ... abuse. I saw skin being torn and things being broken and ... God, Blaze ... the sounds." He caught Blaze's eyes, expected disbelief and fear, and saw none of it. Arik's teeth caught the inside of his cheek, and he chewed.
    "But that's not the weird thing. That kind of moment is easily written that off to bad coffee or too much sun, you know what I mean?" Arik paused, doubting his ability to make the words sound like his head wanted them to. "I think that what I saw at the course was part of what we saw on the television at the bar. The breaking and the distorting, and the wet—" Arik cut himself off, scrubbed at the side of his face with one hand, and yanked the bottle of wine out of the holder with the other. Then he started pacing beside the table—back and forth, back and forth—with the bottle of wine gripped in his fist. "I mean, I know it probably sounds stupid."
    Arik stopped, stared again; unblinking and begging with his eyes. "They're related. I don't know why or how, but I know they are. I know it." He nodded. Repeated the words. "I know it."
    Blaze stepped forward. "I believe you."
    "Why?" Arik huffed the word as though Blaze's belief was more ludicrous than the vision.
    "Because I do," Blaze smiled. "Because I've seen all kinds of things over the years, and I know that—"
    Arik cut him off with a snort. "Oh, the drama you must have seen in the, what, twenty-five or so years you've been alive?" He tilted his head and made a duck face of annoyance. "Seriously. Not to get off topic or anything but ..."
    Blaze spread his fingers towards the cart that held their dinner and scooped both wine glasses off it. He held them up, cradling both bowls in his palm, stems dangling, and nodded at the bottle of wine before answering, "I'm older than I look."
    "Oh? Do tell," Arik prompted. He poured a couple of inches in each glass with all the care due of a Bordeaux over a carpet somebody else owned.
    "Yep, when you're done talking." Blaze grinned at the look Arik shot him over the