InsaneJournal

WHO: Peter Petrelli and Chris Halliwell.
WHAT: Barbas is fucking with his head.
WHEN: Early afternoon.
WHERE: His apartment.
RATING: Go ahead and say R for violence and suicide (sort of). And boykissing.
STATUS: Complete.

Peter was studying for one of his classes, reading about procedures and treatments, being responsible and grown up for a change. Chris was off with his mother and the apartment was quiet. Peter was glad for that. It wasn't that he didn't like having Chris around. That wasn't it at all. He liked it...maybe too much. It was hard to focus with the Whitelighter around, and he knew he couldn't keep pretending indefinitely that he didn't have feelings for the other man. And that could only end badly.

His PDA was off, so that he could have an easier time studying without interruptions, and he turned on the radio with a flick of telekinesis to add some background noise. Sometimes he worried that he was too comfortable with his powers. That one day he'd lose control again, end up in another coma or explode and kill everyone or just be driven mad by his mental abilities. He pushed aside those thoughts for the moment, returning to his studies, but it wasn't long before he felt something. He didn't know what it was, but he felt it. A buzzing in his head like a much quieter version of the feedback he got whenever Parkman tried to read his mind. It wasn't what he felt with Chris, and he was immediately on edge, pulling a small handgun from his desk.

"Who's there?" he asked, looking around. "I know you're there, so stop hiding."

But there was nobody, and the buzzing faded. Peter was about to go back to his desk, convince himself that it was just stress or that he was tired or something, when he felt it again. And this time there were words, like someone talking to him. Like some part of his mind was speaking. It's too much. You can't possibly hope to control it, Pete. You're too weak. Too pathetic.

No. That wasn't true. He was fine. He was stronger than he had been over a year ago, at Kirby Plaza. He wasn't going to lose control like that again. He knew how to control it now, and he wasn't going to let anything like that happen again. But that voice kept whispering, playing on his fears and reminding him of how weak he was. How helpless he really was to keep the people he loved safe. And he could feel his control slipping, feel everything slipping just a little more until he began to wonder who he was fooling.

He could hear more voice. Thoughts. Everyone was thinking so loudly, and it was impossible to differentiate one from the other, impossible to hear his own thoughts above the din. And the emotions were worse. It was like a filter had been knocked loose and suddenly he could hear it all. Feel it all. Happiness, sorrow, anger...some people were so angry and it was like a sense of vertigo, making him dizzy. His legs gave out and he collapsed to his knees, gun clattering uselessly to the floor as he clasped his hands over his ears as if trying to block out the sound. He tried to push with his mind, block it all out, but it was too much and he felt like he was drowning. All he managed to do was throw the stereo at the wall with his telekinesis.

He was shaking, flickering in and out of visibility, electricity playing along his skin and the occasional object hitting the walls as his abilities fought with one another. But the mental ones were the worst. He could hear what everyone was thinking, and their emotions were choking him. His eyes were shut tightly, but he could see himself exploding again, destroying everything and everyone. Only this time Nathan didn't save him. He didn't care. He just looked at him and told him how pathetic he was, how much of a disappointment he had become.

"Shut up!" He whispered. "Shut up! Shut up!"

I always knew you were weak, Pete. You're not strong enough to stop it. I can't keep cleaning up your messes. You're such a disappointment...a failure. Anyone else would be better with your ability. You couldn't stop Sylar, you couldn't save me. How the hell do you think you can stop yourself. You're going to get everyone killed, Peter. It will all be your fault.

"No," he shook his head violently. "Stop it! I won't. I'm not...just stop it! Please! Stop it!"

You have to stop it, Pete. But I don't think you can.