Laying in a nest of clean, soft sheets, with no noise but the sounds filtering through his window screen from the creatures outdoors - crickets, beetles and, somewhere in the distance, a frog - Max dreamed.

The dream had the same landscape as all dreams that tried to tell him something. It was the vast expanse of desert with nothing but the occasional hill or rock to break the momentum, the sun glaring down on him but its rays seeming to pass him over. There was no trickle of sweat from his brow, no beginnings of a sunburn. It was as if the location were merely a coincidence, added as an afterthought. The core of the dream was the person standing next to him.

He was wearing black. It was always black. He wondered if it was symbolic, or if it was a sort of uniform that he and the other three aliens wore when his subconscious was trying to tell him something. In other dreams, all four of them stood there, by a rock, waiting for a Jeep to pull up and an FBI agent to grab him and take him to hell. In his dream he thought of it as hell, but when he analyzed it during waking hours he recognized that it was a metaphor for the stale white chamber where he had been kept, needles poking him, an agent playing mind games with him. Every night since he escaped he had been dreaming of that desert, and the other three standing around him. Except in this particular dream it wasn't all four of them. It was just Michael.

In his dream, Max tried to look at Michael but he kept blurring in and out of focus. There was too much sunlight. Too much confusion. He passed his hand in front of his face to shade his eyes but it didn't help. Michael continued to blur, the scenery wavering with him.

Max opened his mouth to speak but Michael put his hand on his arm, turning it up so Max could see the tiny dusting of track marks there from where he had been tortured. Max looked at them regretfully, tears filling his eyes, embarrassed that Michael was seeing them. "It's okay," Michael said. "This is your life."

Max blinked his eyes open, the dream screeching to a halt. He was laying in his dark bedroom, the wind rustling the curtains, the tiny red light across the room telling him he'd left forgotten to turn off the power to his stereo. He shifted his right arm and even the darkness could see the track marks. Michael was right. This was his life.

Suddenly Max was startled and he looked quickly at the corner, blinking to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Michael was sitting there calmly, watching him. He must have watched him sleep.

Max thought about sitting up but he didn't have the energy. "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know," Michael said. "I can't stop thinking. I can't stop thinking about what happened to you."

"Yeah," Max said, tucking his right arm under the thin sheet that covered him. Max thought about asking if Michael had given him the dream. Isabel was the only one who could do that, but none of them knew the extent of their powers. Or maybe this just proved how connected they were. Max could dream about Michael, and wake up to Michael sitting there.

"I feel a little responsible," Michael said, his voice quiet and sleepy. "I mean, we're supposed to watch out for each other."

"Don't," Max said. "Don't. You helped save me. If it weren't for you I'd probably be dead, or in a lab somewhere with agents peeling off layers of my skin." He shuddered.

"I had a weird dream," Michael said, still obscured by shadows. "I guess I just snuck in to make sure you were still okay."

"I'm still okay."

"I know." Michael got up and crossed the room, taking small steps so the floor wouldn't creak and wake up Max's family. The bed tilted when he sat down on the edge. "You're the only family I have, you know? The only real family." He grabbed Max's arm and gently pulled his arm out from under the sheet, tracing the inside with his finger, like he was trying to imagine what had happened in the lab, or perhaps absorb some of the pain for himself. His eyes were half closed, like it wasn't long ago that he'd woken up in his room from his own set of blurry dreams.

Max used his left hand to cover Michael's, their warm skin resting together. They stayed like that for a moment, neither of them speaking of moving, both lost in thought.

Michael took a deep breath and rested his hand on Max's forehead. "You're like a brother to me. I love you," he said, leaning forward and pressing his lips on Max's forehead. Max closed his eyes, resting his hand on the back of Michael's head, taking a deep breath before pulling it down so they were face to face. Their lips touched, tentatively at first, then a little deeper so their tongues slid together and Max tasted Michael's warm saliva. He breathed deeply into Michael's mouth, thankful for the contact, glad that if he was going to wake up from a weird dream there was someone to be with.

Michael put his hands on the bed and pulled himself up into a sitting position, smiling a little before he stood up. "I'll see you tomorrow." Max nodded silently, wanting to ask him to stay, wishing there was a pair of arms around him in case the dream came back. But Michael walked around his bed and back towards the window, where he would climb out and return to his own world. At least for now.