Disclaimer: I own nothing, all characters belong to Square Enix... unfortunately...

Whispers. That was how it began.

I will never be a memory.

Always the same place. Always the same voice. Always the same outcome. Cloud, bolt upright in bed, pupils huge, panting, shivering. Hair slick with sweat, trickling from his brow, palms cold, throat tender and dry. Always, always, always the same eyes.

This wasn't how it was meant to be. It was meant to be over, finished, golden boy returned to former glory. But Cloud was haunted, mocked by someone who didn't – who couldn't – exist any more, tortured by a memory he'd already destroyed. And now he was sick with fear, sick with fear and pain and such raw guilt. The sleepless nights he could have coped with. Tifa's constant worry, he could have coped with that too. But the guilt, the guilt threatened to overpower him, to wrench everything he'd ever loved away from him, with one cruel thrust, straight into his heart.

'Cloud?'

A cool palm on his forehead, a reassuring touch as his eyes snapped open and flickered, momentarily disorientated. Palms clenched into the bedsheets.

'You were crying out again.' A silence, as Cloud regained his breath, as his heartbeat slowed. Tifa's voice softened, and she looked into his eyes with the searching gaze that only she could produce. 'Do you want to talk about it?'

Cloud shook his head, abruptly, decisively. That was the last thing he wanted to do. In one sharp, fluid movement he turned away from her, body facing the wall, away from her concerned eyes, away from the emotion he had come to despise: her pity. Then his eyes were closed once more, and Cloud felt a pressure lift from his bed as Tifa got up, a soft click as the door shut behind her. Tifa no longer slept in the same room as him. It had not been her decision, Cloud had insisted. Insisted that she should not get involved in whatever madness was happening to him.

And now Cloud was standing on an empty rooftop, in an abandoned city, as a stale wind whipped around him. An almost unnaturally blue sky; shocking the buildings below into submission. A whisper.

And now he was caught between two buildings, an alleyway of sorts. Every time, the same fear, the same gnawing anxiety, a pulsing in his body so severe that it left him breathless. Cloud waited for the inevitable.

He came, like he always did, but never quite close enough. Never close enough to touch, oh no, he wasn't the type of man – the type of memory – to revel in the threats of physical contact. Never close enough to reassure Cloud that he was an actual danger, not just proof of Cloud's insanity. More than once, Cloud had fought off the urge to cry out to him, to beg him for release, to ask what he wanted from Cloud, what he could possibly gain from this agony.

On your knees. I want you to beg for forgiveness. Tell me what you cherish most. Give me the pleasure of taking it away.

Suddenly Cloud could take it no longer. 'What do you want from me?' he whispered, voice hoarse, hopeless. And again. 'What do you want from me?' Louder this time, more forceful in his desperation. 'Answer me!'

Still there was nothing. Cloud gazed across his bleak landscape, one hand shading his eyes from the sun's glare. The wind had subsided, there was a tepid calm in the air. Cloud exhaled, visibly relaxing. Is it over?

'I want everything.' A whisper, so sudden and intense, and then Cloud was shoved by some unseen force, hard, back against the wall of the alley, sharp bricks digging into his back. He contorted with pain, an expulsion of air. Cloud winced, clenched his fists, and then there were those eyes, again, always those eyes. Cold, so cold they were almost inhuman; no, not almost inhuman, definitely inhuman. A flicker of amusement on the pale face, ghosts of icy fingertips flickering across Cloud's cheek. And then a breath into Cloud's ear, soft, and warm, and acutely threatening. 'Everything.'

A sharp intake of breath, a jolt upwards, and Cloud was awake, pulse racing, gulping for air. Shit.He'd felt him, this time, felt his fingertips, his breath, hot on his neck. Cloud instinctively brought a hand up to his cheek, lowering it again abruptly. The night was peaceful, the city calm outside the bedroom window. Cloud slumped back against the pillows, closed his eyes for a brief second, then thought better of it, flicking on the lamp on the bedside table and sitting up in bed again. The glow of the lamp cast shadows across the room, amber and fluid, and Cloud shivered despite himself, and drew the sheets closer around him.

Everything.

Was this what he had meant, everything? Cloud consumed, mind, body and spirit? Were the dark shadows and the pangs of agony and the constant, constant waiting what he had meant by everything? Cloud rested his head in both hands, trying to silence himself, trying to quell this never-ending barrage of possibilities. Focused instead on action, on tactics, strategies, so defined and so safe and so real. That was how he had won before, right? That was how he had defeated the man he had once... idolised, right? And if he could do it once, he could do it again, surely?

Cloud sighed. He would have to talk to Tifa, some time or another, tell her what was going on. Chances are she'd put it down to guilt, some twisted sort of remorse he felt for destroying Sephiroth, blame it on a conscience Cloud wasn't sure even existed any more. He bit his lip and settled back down into the bed, eyes still focused and intent and very, very awake. A couple more hours and then the sun would rise and it would be morning again, and he'd be safe, removed from this night and every other night. The light would purify everything, strip all of the shadows from the bedroom, infiltrate the inky black and the intense green, somehow. And Cloud curled up, back to the wall, and prayed for some sort of strength.