Warnings: Future Slash (Colt/Punk) AU setting, Profanity

High School is a place where being average is an advantage, and Phil Brooks is a seemingly average teenager. He's from a lower working class family, his mother a theoretically a homemaker, his father an occasional electrician and perpetually a drinker, his brother occasional in general. Average flies under the radar so easily, yet Phil is anything but average, he has a tendency to stand out. Yet for someone targeted by bullies so often, he remains curiously bruise free. There's a good reason for this, but it's not the one people expect. It's not his eloquence that helps him escape injury, nor his quick feet, rather the curious fact that most students attempting to assault him, find themselves remembering old insults and wounded prides caused by their closest friends, and assault them instead. If you asked Phil Brooks what he thought average was, he'd say you, because comparatively, you are average. If you asked Phil Brooks if he wanted to be average, he would smile and say no, because he's exceptional. He likes being exceptional, even if it is something he has to keep to himself, because Philip Jack Brooks is a telepath, and it's as great and terrible as you would expect.

People think, they think a lot. It's the one thing Phil can confirm is true for every person he's ever encountered. Other people's minds are complex and confusing. He's still learning how to truly master his power, learning more every day, but the one thing he doesn't think he's learning fast enough, is how to keep the rest of the World from invading his own mind. There's a constant press of humanity flinging their thoughts, their fears, their hopes at him. Help me, someone please understand me, someone please listen to me. A thousand voices all screaming the same things, and whilst Phil can hear, whilst Phil can listen, he's quite sure that these people neither want nor need his help, he just an average high school student after all. Yet, he can never quite stop himself from spending time in Churches. There's no shortage of people there looking for very easy answers, looking for God. It's easy enough to play at divinity for them, easy to let them believe that voice they hear in the heads is their maker and not the scruffy, exhausted teenager slumped in the back.

Exhaustion is an old and familiar friend to Phil, sleeping causes problems for him. Whilst asleep his mind is free of roam. Whilst asleep he isn't actively keeping the rest of the World out of his head, and it's easy to get lost in the minds of everyone else. He has a terribly vivid memory of trying to wake up one morning as a child and not being able to find his way back to his own body, his mind too far from its physical form. That incident had been the first time he'd met another person with a power like his own, a nice lady, her voice guiding him back, her voice gentle and kind telling him a how to stop this happening again, soothing his fears. She would come visit him often in his sleep when he was young. The day she died, Phil felt it like someone had torn part of his brain out, a brutal throbbing pain and then horrible silence where once there had been something warm and kind. It was that day he resolved to not get too close to people. He'd learnt that they cause nothing but pain, from his parents denying him food as a child because he blurted out other peoples' most intimate secrets, to the dark, vicious thoughts of his teachers, to the wrench of the death of that old lady, people cause nothing but pain.

There is beauty, and intrigue in sleeping minds, though. Phil is honestly fond of watching other people's dreams, is fond of watching them unfold. The fantastical things that people are capable of thinking whilst they dream, entertain Phil more than any TV show, movie or book ever could. Phil isn't sure he's ever had a dream of his own. He's witnessed plenty of other people's dreams, but he's not sure he's ever had one himself. He isn't fully sure that his mind is capable of being off long enough to have dreams. Dreams require people to let themselves go, to be free and not bound by the constraints of their minds. Phil has never been free in his mind, has never let himself go, not really. He's afraid to know what would happen if he ever did. Restraint, discipline, and a clear head, these are the watch words for Phil's life, becoming straight edge wasn't so much a conscious decision as a simple necessity, the amount of problems caused by sleeping led Phil to conclude that artificially altering his perception of reality would be bad, very bad.

However, over the years, he has found that his state of mind can be altered without chemicals. Different emotions feel different. Walking through the city can affect him in very different ways depending on the time of day. On a Monday morning, the misery and dread of people heading to work is like an oppressive blanket, but come Friday, he's almost giddy from the excitement and anticipation flooding over him. It's dangerously close to breaking his principles, but it's not really a drug, rather a surge of natural endorphins, granted the might not be his endorphins but it's definitely not breaking the rules of straight edge, so he goes with it.

It's never school spirit that brings him to watch his school teams play. The gathered crowd will be baying for victory, and the desire to beat an opponent feels incredible. It's the thrill of that feeling, that brings him to this particular game of football, watching as the school team play worse than usual. They fumble more passes, concede more of the plays. They're a bad team but this is unnaturally bad. The sneaking suspicion that something else might be at work, has him fishing through the minds of the opposing team's supporters. In this crowd there is another with a talent, a different talent to Phil's own, but a talent all the same, a talent that is tainting his inept school team and he resolves to find them and let his school team be incompetent all on their own.

'Hello.'

'WHAT THE FUCK!' People are very often surprised by hearing voices in their heads, especially voices that aren't their own. Phil has learnt that the best thing to do is to keep going, some people collapse in shock, some believe it is themselves talking, others believe that it's the voice of God, others still don't really think of anything, like the mind he's currently linked to, they're mildly surprised but deal with it well enough.

'You appear to be influencing my team's playing ability, please stop.' Talking in a calm, rational manner often helps differentiate Phil from a person's own thoughts. People often hear their own voice talking to them, their brain replacing Phil's voice with their own because it's easier to process. It's something that amuses him no end. Little old women believe that they're telling themselves to have a sit down on a park bench, to let the scruffy young man who'd been stuck behind them for the last ten minutes pass, people in queues at the store suddenly reminding themselves that they need to get something else from the shelves, letting the same scruffy young man be served by the cashier.

'Your team are shit anyways, buddy. I'm just helping them along the path to defeat.' The accent of voice that replies is from a nicer part of town, one that Phil has only visited on one of his walks around the city to go play God in churches, forgiving sins in only one church would raise suspicion and there's something to be said for granting clemency to those who deserve it city wide.

'Not the point.' He's never really liked being called buddy. It's a nod at familiarity used when people can't remember or don't know your name. The fact it annoys him has always been a source of minor irritation for Phil, he has no real reason for his annoyance, other than the fact that most people aren't bad with names; they're just too lazy to recall them. It's easier to use a catchall placeholder name, than it is to remember. Remembering uses their brains, and really most people seem content to use those as little as possible. 'This is supposed to be a competition between two teams of athletes.' At this, there is a snort of laughter from the other mind Phil is linked with, amusement flooding the link. 'Interference is forbidden.' More amusement and something that feels a lot like doubt comes to Phil. It's rare that he comes across someone who understands the link that his talent can create, rare that someone is able to use it to transfer their emotions directly, or at least on purpose, usually, Phil is trying to dodge whatever people throw at him.

'You're telling me, Professor X, that you didn't make my boys fuck up once or twice.' Phil laughs over the link, he can't really deny that he may have played up the nerves of some of the players on the opposing team, may have turned the volume up on their performance anxiety a little but not much, nothing compared to whatever it is that this other person has been doing.

'You got me there, I suppose. How about we both just let them play on their own? I don't know what your talent is... I can't give you an X-Man name, sorry." Prying into the minds of other talents is something that Phil long ago decided was rude. Honestly, it wasn't so much a decision as once when he was a child, the lady who had guided him back to his mind, had very firmly told him off for prying into gifted people's minds. Normal people can't help but flinging everything out there, but talents are a little harder to read, so Phil doesn't pry unless welcomed further in.

'Biopath... I think that's the best way to describe it. Matter over mind, I suppose.' More amusement and Phil is convinced that this biopath is entirely too cheerful, his natural joviality being force-fed into Phil's mind through their current connection.

'Where are you then, Mr Biopath?' He's never encountered someone else at one of these games, who used their talent to alter the outcome, and there's a good part of him that wants to see this other talented person.

'Where are you, Professor X?' The thought that comes back to him is amused, it drips laughter and Phil finds himself scowling at the crowd opposite. Somewhere over there, there's another talent, and he seems utterly incapable of not laughing at Phil. 'Nevermind, I'll find you.' The next thought is confusing and before Phil can stop himself, he's on his feet, arms waving. It's a very odd sensation, someone else controlling his body, in retaliation; he sends what is the mental equivalent of a smack to the ear to the other talent. On the other side of the field, there's a slight scuffle. 'Oww.' The other talent sounds contrite. 'That hurt. What'd you do?'

'Nothing you didn't deserve, jerk.' Phil scowls, trying to spot which one of the crowd had caused the chaos, finally spotting what looks like a jock, solidly built, apologising to the people around him and shuffling off the bleachers.

'C'mere, I wanna talk to you.' Now that he's been identified, it's easier to know what to look for in other people's minds. He might not pry into other talent's minds, but the average people around them are a different matter. There are two sets of rules, one for talents and one for the average. Phil's mind skims over the crowd, picking out the teachers who know this boy. Scott Colton, decent grades, tends to get distracted, one brother, average home life, nice parents, good at football, out on some injury or another. Someone who fits in with everything most people want to be in high school, the complete and total opposite of Phil.

'Why aren't you playing, Scotty? I highly doubt you're injured.' Phil stands and starts walking to where the other boy went, through their connection comes a rush of shock. 'What? Telepath.' Phil knows he sounds smug, but really he is, his talent has always made him a little arrogant, though he thinks it's justifiable, the minds of all of humanity are sitting waiting for him to turn his attention to them, waiting for him to pick what he wants from them. If that doesn't make you a little arrogant, then nothing will.

'My grades were shitty, if I wanna get into college, I need to study, Professor.' It's a surprise that Scott is so honest but Phil supposes that he must assume that the information was plucked out of his mind, not other peoples and for some reason Phil feels the need to let him not that he didn't pry.

'Hmm, your Coach doesn't know that, he's worried.' The other boy is leaning against a wall, looking around. Now that he been fully identified, Phil considers leaving him standing there alone, but it would be rude, and he does try to be polite to other talents.

"Hello." Scott jumps slightly and turns to face Phil, staring at him.

"I pictured you balder." He smiles, and Phil gets the feeling that his face is very accustomed to wearing a smile, easy-going geniality seems to ooze from him, the same way fuck off emanates from Phil. "And in a flying wheelchair. I've gotta admit, I am disappoint." His smile seems to get bigger and Phil can feel his own frown growing.

"Phil." He extends his hand, once he's walked close enough, the grip that takes it is firm, but not overly so, the handshake of someone who's had to give a lot of them in their comparatively short lifespan.

"Scott." Still smiling inanely and the urge to read at least the surface thoughts of the other boy comes over Phil.

"Well, Scott, nice to meet you." Phil takes his hand back and watches, waits for some kind of reaction but gets nothing. The other boy is still smiling absently, as though his face is fixed permanently in a smile.

"So, I figured you'd be more into the whole talking with your mind thing." He taps his temple as he talks and Phil shrugs, still watching, still waiting for something other than the slightly goofy smile.

"If you have a long knife and a short one, do you always use the long one?" Phil shrugs. It's easier to direct people's thoughts with your words, far easier to pry the right information, or find the right opening to slip a suggestion in, if people are being guided by what you say to them. "What's your power, anyways?" Phil leans against the wall, and watches Scott as he shrugs and looks grim, that smile finally falling from his lips.

"I uh..." Colt trails off and rubs the back of his neck. "It's kind of hard to explain, but I can make people do things." He shrugs, looking slightly uncomfortable, as though he's never had to explain his talent before.

"Do things?" Phil raises an eyebrow, and Colt sighs, and points to the referee.

"Watch." The man blows his whistle for no real reason, and looks incredibly embarrassed, shouting at one of the players. Habit has Punk skimming through his mind.

'The fuck did I blow that whistle for? I'm getting too fucking old, going fucking senile.'

'Foul. There was a minor foul.'

Phil soothes the referee's mind with an easy little lie, something that the man believes without protest.

"So you're like telekinetic?" Phil turns back to Colt.

"Not exactly, I can't affect anything that isn't alive... It's weird." He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck again, and sighing.

"Well, let's face it... We're both weird." Phil laughs, a small smile settling on his face. Scott nods in agreement, his smile back.

"I guess, but weird is good, it's interesting at least..." He trails off, the urge to pry just a little comes to Phil, but he stamps it down. This is the first time he's been able to talk about his talent, it's kind of nice. "You know anyone else who can... You know?" Scott, it seems is incredibly good at bumbling through sentences, and has a habit of rubbing his neck when he's uncomfortable.

"Read minds?" Phil shakes his head, other than the dead lady; he's never come across another telepath. "Nope."

"Oh... I... I've never really met anyone else who has any..." Scott trails off again, his hand once more rubbing his neck, his eyes flickering over the field. His school's team just scored. A spike of happiness, juxtaposed with disappointment stabs Phil. It's always a little overwhelming when two such conflicting emotions meet, his eyes drift closed, his head resting back against the wall. "Hey? You okay?" Scott is standing in front of him, looking mildly concerned, a frown on his face.

"I'm good." Phil knows he's grinning, too many conflicting emotions, and he got a little too swept away in them. Scott looks at him with narrowed eyed suspicion, but returns to leaning on the wall by Phil. "I've met a few people." He says, slightly embarrassed by how far he was swept along with the crowd's feelings. It's happening more and more lately, as he gets older the stronger his talent feels and the more he has to fight it to keep it under control.

"They do anything cool?" Scott asks, a laugh in his voice, amusement bleeding over the link between them that Phil had forgotten was still there. It feels strangely like the connection he'd had with that lady, something warm and unobtrusive, something just there.

"Uh... Well, it depends how we're defining cool." Phil mutters, the after effects of his brief loss of control still shaking him up, he's usually so much more careful, so much more restrained. He might give up going to games in the future. Scott nods, and doesn't say anything else, focusing on the game instead.

"Your head is messed up." He says after a long time. Phil glances over at him. "I can feel all the sinuses being linked all wrong." He's grinning and Phil stares at him.

"Synapses?" Phil asks, he's pretty sure Scott didn't mean sinuses.

"Yeah, yeah, sure... That's what I said." His hand is rubbing at his neck again, and Phi finds he's resisting the urge to smack his arm down.

"So, my brain's messed up?" Phil decides getting the conversation back on point will serve him better than being mildly annoyed by Scott's quirks.

"Oh! Yeah, it's not like anyone else's here." He waves at the crowd. "All nice and normal, but you... Your brain is like totally weird." He sounds slightly in awe, his eyes narrowed, staring at Phil like a science project.

"I am exceptional." Phil smirks at him, his tone drippingly smug. Scott barks a laugh, and nods, seemingly agreeing with Phil.

"What's my head like?" He asks, he's trying very hard to look like he's not looking at Phil, but he's not subtle.

"I've not looked, would be rude." Phil shrugs, and folds his arms over his chest, feeling oddly defensive.

"Look!" Scott sounds desperately excited, and Phil sighs. The first glimpse in Scott's mind is odd, the environment unfamiliar, it's very orderly, his thoughts seemingly neatly compartmented, everything clamped down, there's something dark and grim in the recesses of this mind, Phil knows it, something awful that makes Scott as horribly aware that his talent is as much a gift as it is a curse.

"It's quiet." Phil says with a vague shrug, because it had been, linked deeper with Scott, the press of the crowd had receded, the volume a soft burble in the back of Phil's mind. Scott looks confused, as though he can't decide if quiet is good or bad. "It's nice." Phil scrubs at his eyes, and shakes his head. "But nowhere near normal." Phil grins at him, and Scott snorts a laugh.

"Damn right, buddy!" Phil scowls over at Scott. "What?"

"I'm not your buddy, pal." He snaps, and Scott barks a laugh.

"I'm not your pal, buddy."

They watch the game in companionable silence, on the outside at least , mentally they're having a rambling conversation, a normal conversation about likes and dislikes, that Phil's certain he's never had with anyone else. Any time he's asked these mundane questions before, it's been with a different motivation, and being already aware of the answer, but now, he's kind of interested. It's going to be strange having a friend who understands his gift, strange having a friend in general, but as Phil shakes Scott's hand once more, and watches him leave the game, piling back on the bus with his teammates, he comes to the conclusion that a friend is what he's just made.

Many thanks to the lovely Ladies and Gentlemen who reviewed:

JennaLee Brooks-Colton, littleone1389, alizabethianrose, Brokenspell77, shiki94, EmbraceLove and MiniBatman

The powers in the fic are inspired as much by Western comics as they are Japanese ones, there's a healthy dose of X-Men and Weiss Kruez in the inspirations in this. I can only hope the switch form 1st person to 3rd doesn't seem to jarring, and that I can retain your interests with this chapter! ^_^

This took a long time to find the time to write, it felt a thousand times longer because exam season is upon me once more... I'm not a fan of exams to be honest. As ever trepidation haunts me with this fic... as such: Please leave a review, even if it's just "Hey, that didn't suck", I'd be so far and beyond grateful. Heck even if you thought it did suck, tell me too, something is better than nothing after all. :D