"Okay, hear me out first, but how would you feel about a… group project of sorts?"

Jon quirked a brow and took a tentative sip of his latte, Colby's question rolling through his sleep-fogged brain like the azure waves passing around them. "I promise nothing."

Sunday morning found the pair in calm companionship, nestled in at their usual table outside of Lava Java on the boardwalk. The sky was painted in splashes of pinks and yellows as the sun made its steady ascension over the sparkling ocean, the cerulean depths gently lapping at the golden shore in a soothing spray of sea foam. A few "early birds" dotted the sandy expanse, staking their coastal claim for the day, and a small smile crinkled at the corners of Jon's eyes as a petite blonde's sunhat was swept from atop her curls by the swift, balmy breeze. Colby lightly smacked the back of the scruffy man's head as he unabashedly ogled the busty babe.

"Okay, okay, sorry," Jon apologized, holding a hand up in defense. "So, what kinda project are we talking about here?"

Colby took a moment to collect his scattered thoughts before beginning. "Say for instance, I knew someone who needed help, but the only way to lend a hand would be… highly unethical."

"Unethical? That's right down my alley, pretty boy," the auburn smirked over the rim of his coffee cup. "What are we talking here? Killing a guy? 'Cause I have a couple associates who wouldn't mind the cash."

"Nah, nah. Nothing like that, man," the two-toned chuckled with a shake of his head before taking a sip of his own steaming cappuccino. "Actually, come to think of it… it's probably worse. Fuck, I don't even know why the thought even occurred to me. So, uh, we should probably just forget about it…"

Jon furrowed his bushy brows and leaned across the table, successfully inserting himself into his friend's personal bubble. "Worse than murder? Now this I've gotta hear."

"Nah, man. It's nothing important, honestly."

The auburn stuck his bottom lip out in an oh-so-adorable pout, and Colby swore internally, damning the man to hell and back for knowing just how to penetrate his once-indestructible armor.

"Okay, fuck. So, you know my patient, right?" Colby started slowly, gaze drifting from his pal's icy blues to the swirling mocha in his own cup.

"Which one?" Jon questioned, deep lines of concentration crossing his forehead. "That old woman with the broken hip and the mustache or the one with the sprained ankle and twenty cats?"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously!"

"Ugh, neither of 'em, asswipe."

The scruffy man leaned back and downed the rest of his latte with a gulp, racking his brain for any idea of who Colby could be so infatuated with. Couldn't be Mr. Adams with the herniated disks or Mrs. Stephens with the fractured tibia. What about Antonio with the bruised coccyx or Melba with the arthritic pinky? Nah, too straight and too old. Erica with the torn ACL or Habib with the crutches?

Colby groaned and scrubbed a hand over his tired face as he watched his friend's expression contort in determined pondering. "Alright, shit. It's Joe."

"Oh! Oh…" Jon sighed, mentally smacking himself for letting that one slip from his mind. "The, uh, the one in the coma, right?"

The two-toned nodded solemnly, a peculiar flash of raw emotion in his chocolate orbs.

Jon pursed his lips together, eyebrows furrowing in empathy as he tried to gauge his friend's sudden shift in mood. "So, uh, how is Sleeping Beauty?" he questioned slowly, fingers itching for some kind of distraction against his frantically racing thoughts. One of his hands found its way to his chest, and he started tapping the digits against his collarbone in an anxious, yet oddly comforting rhythm.

"He's uh, he's as good as a person could be in that position," Colby coughed, his eyes nervously darting between his half-empty coffee cup and the other man's twitching fingers. His throat felt as dry as the desert, and each syllable that passed from his lips grated like sandpaper. "Dr. Adler said there was a strange spike in his cerebral activity the other day."

The scruffy man paused in his tapping, seeming to soak in the last statement as a wave of uncertainty washed over him. "Huh."

"Yeah… so, I was thinking,"

"That's usually pretty dangerous."

"Fuck off. So, as I said, I was thinking,"

"Why would he have a sudden spike in brain activity if he's been practically dead to the world for the past six months?"

Colby nodded sharply, one finger tracing the edge of his own cup in a smooth, circular pattern. "Exactly. Unless there's something there that no one knows about."

Jon rested his elbows atop the table and leaned forward, speaking in hushed tones. "So, what are we supposed to do about it?"

The younger man sucked in a deep breath, steeling himself for the word-vomit to follow. "I read an in-depth article the other night that detailed this German psychologist's theory. Augustus Grünewald, I think his name was." He paused briefly to let his cohort's annoying grunts of laughter die down. "Anyway," Colby continued, shooting a dark glare toward the other man, "this article's from like 2007, so it's a fairly recent study, but, I mean, not just made up out of the blue. He believes this actually dates all the way back to ancient China."

"Uh, okay, and?"

"Ugh, let me finish, asshole. This shit's interesting. So, anyway, he theorizes that when a person enters a comatose state, they're transported to a higher plane. One in which everything is their own creation. He calls it the 'mindscape.'"

"So, they're trapped inside their own heads?"

"Pretty much, if you wanna put it that way. Okay, so you know how some people come out of a coma and are like an entirely different person than they were before entering? Like, a huge asswipe such as yourself could come out of a coma with a newfound perspective on life."

Jon rolled his icy orbs at the man's jab but let him continue.

"So, what Grünewald is saying is that this change occurs because the patient must fulfill certain needs that they lack outside of their mindscape. Thus, once the need is fulfilled, they wake up in a more peaceful, self-assured state."

"Okay, that sounds plausible, but what if they're already walking on cloud nine before they're hit by a bus and thrown into coma-dreamland?"

Colby pinched the bridge of his nose with a huff, entirely regretting starting the conversation in the first place. "Grünewald stated that this doesn't necessarily apply to people whose needs have already been fulfilled outside of the mindscape. Most of his research subjects were patients who had suffered from extreme clinical depression, typically brought on by a series of instances of mentally taxing dilemmas. Like a life-altering injury, the loss of a home, the ending of a career,"

"Or the loss of a mother," Jon finished on whisper, letting the realization settle over them.

"Exactly."

The auburn leaned back in his seat and ran an unsteady hand through his unruly curls. "So, you think Joe is trapped in his mindscape."

"I do," the younger man affirmed with a sharp nod.

"Okay, so like I asked before, what are we supposed to do about it?"

"Grünewald believes that any person who is skilled enough in astral projection can enter the mindscape. Sorta like to help the patient in their journey, but, uh-"

"We've only ever projected into the first astral plane, and that's difficult as it is," Jon interrupted with a snort. "Do you even know where to start? Like, how would it even be possible?"

Colby worried his bottom lip between his teeth, still regretting even bringing the subject up. "The article actually went into that a bit. Grünewald is considered one of the world's premiere experts on the subject… even if most of his studies are considered absurd. But he does state that if one is to learn to project themselves into the mindscape, then they must first be able to enter the so-called 'dreamscape.' He finds that the mindscape bares hardly any difference from our dreams. In the mindscape, one can be whoever they wish. I could be a millionaire living in the Hollywood hills instead of being a lousy physical therapist, and hey, even you could be an astronaut instead of a two-bit street magician."

"Hey, you just so happen to be my partner in that!"

"But I also have a real job."

"I feel like I should take offense to that."

"Yeah, you probably should," Colby snarked. "But, like I was trying to say before you so rudely interrupted, there's a hitch. Grünewald states that to enter the dreamscape- as well as the mindscape- one must have a deep connection with their target."

The auburn cocked his head to the side, staring inquisitively at his confidant. "Okay, and that is where your logic is flawed. I mean, shit, you have that relationship with him just by being his PT, but me? Hell, the only way I know the guy is from what you've told me. Which is, obviously, a blatant breach of caregiver-patient confidentiality, genius."

Colby frowned and ran a hand through his wavy locks, an uneasy feeling settling itself in the pit of his stomach. Well, shit. The pair sat in contemplative silence, the waves crashing on the shore a dull buzz behind them, and the two-toned groaned aloud, scrubbing at his weary eyes with the palms of his hands. "You're right. I really didn't think this through. Just kinda let the excitement get the best of m-" He was interrupted by the scrape of chair legs against wood, and he lowered his hands, blinking the fuzzy silhouette of his pal into view.

Jon rose to his feet and surveyed the area, stopping with a grin as he eyed the buxom beauty from before. He snatched the bug-eyed sunglasses from their perch atop Colby's head and slid them over his own orbs, successfully shielding his lecherous gaze from view. "Well, you let me know when you wanna get started," he began, sauntering off toward the wooden steps leading down to the beach.

"Wait, y-you're still gonna help me?" the younger man questioned, quickly grabbing his wallet and throwing a crumpled ten down on the table as he scrambled to catch up.

The auburn about-faced, not stopping in his stride, and shrugged. "Babe, it sounds like this guy means way more to you than you let on. And hey, bros before hos, right?"

Colby quirked a brow, his brain automatically spinning a loop as it reached for any inclination as to why the man wouldn't mind lending a hand. It took a moment, but his thoughts finally caught up to him. One name on the tip of his tongue. One short-stacked Super Saiyan with a rose in one hand and a dagger concealed in the other. A thorn in his side and the crusher of fantastical dreams. Sami.

"Sorry about that," Seth forcibly chuckled as he poked his head around the door of the bar's makeshift office. "Had a pot of tea on the stove. Didn't want to set the apartment on fire… or something." Wow, smooth as always, Rollins.

Roddy waved a hand at the man in dismissal, not once looking up as his eyes rapidly scanned over the most recent profit logs. The rings of fatigue hanging below his once-sparkling orbs seemed darker in the dim lamplight, casting a sullen glare on the man's stress-weathered features. After a few moments' silence, the Scott placed the binder back on his desk and glanced up at his employee with a small, sad smile. "Seems like you've been keeping a tight ship here, Seth, my boy."

The bartender cracked a grin of his own and perched himself on the corner of Roddy's desk, kicking at the scuffed floor with the toes of his sneakers. "Hey, I've gotta make sure this place lives up to its name," he started, gesturing to the brick walls around them, "'sides, with you back in town, we're gonna be better than ever, right? I was thinking about live entertainment or something on the weekends. There's a couple local bands in the area that are pretty good and could use the exposure, plus the place could definitely do with something other than that shitty country our customers insist on. Jesus, man, I had a guy get up in my face one night when I changed the station! Fucking jerk-off trying to act like a tough guy. Was pretty funny when I started replacing the vodka in his Salty Dogs with good o' H2O, though."

When the other man made no attempt to respond, not even with a snort of laughter, Seth glanced over, guilt eating away at his conscience like napalm.

Roddy looked absolutely, utterly defeated.

"How'd you wanna do this? Would it be better on my back? I mean, this is my first time, so I'm pretty nervous."

"Fuck, I don't know, man. I guess just any way that's comfortable. This is my first time too, remember?"

"Fine. Do I at least get a little foreplay? Leave me wanting more," Jon grinned over his shoulder as he stopped to press his backside flush against the two-toned's groin.

With a roll of his eyes, Colby pushed the man toward his bedroom, just wanting to get their little "project" started already. He didn't have much time to spare, especially when it came to heroically unethical rescuings. "C'mon, horn dog. I'll get you some warm milk."

"Oh, baby. Gimme all that cre- shit!" the auburn trailed off as he face-planted into a mound of pillows. He spluttered against the cottony cushions before twisting his body around to lie on his side, hip cocked and eyebrow raised in a (failing) "come hither." "Oooh, Mr. Lopez likes it rough, does he?"

Colby groaned and backed out of the room, middle finger raised in his retreat from the man's antics. The linoleum was cool beneath his bare feet as he padded into the kitchen, and he silently hoped that Jon would be out like a light before he'd made his return. He grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge and a mug from the sink and set to fixing up his ultimate cure-all for those pesky sleepless nights. A splash of cow juice, a dash of cinnamon, and a minute's nuke in the microwave later, the small cookery smelled absolutely heavenly. A small whine from below alerted him to another presence, and he glanced down with a smile as his tiny terrier, Kevin, stared up with preciously pleading eyes. He bent down to scoop up the tiny pup and held him to his chest, pressing a chaste kiss to the wiry fur atop his head.

"Is this idea as stupid as I think it is?" he questioned aloud as he turned to grab the steaming mug from the microwave with his unoccupied hand. He took a small sip of the beverage and hummed, closing his eyes in ecstasy as warmth began to fill his body. Pictures of Joe clouded his mind in a rush of mixed-emotion, from their first therapy session after the surgery to their unexpected final meeting where the large, Samoan man had practically radiated despair. He slowly cracked open his orbs and glanced through the large window opposite the counter, breath stolen as the night sky twinkled with thousands of dancing constellations, as if the universe was on display for only himself. A wide, open unknown that he wished to explore. To experience the stillness of space, to pass through time as a whisper, to taste the stars on his tongue.

"I guess it's worth a shot."