Lightning asks herself why they do this.
She knows the technical 'why.' They circle each other, searching for some sign of what they've lost, seeking Serah in fleeting looks and touches. She knows what they're trying to accomplish every time this happens, but she doesn't know why, because she's certain it makes neither of them feel any better.
Their bodies don't fit together right. Snow tries to hold her like she's Serah, but Lightning is taller, leaner, made of firmer lines and muscle where Serah was pliant and soft all over. But Snow mumbles that their skin feels the same as his fingers play along the backs of her thighs in a way that makes her shiver, and she wonders if these are things he used to do to Serah, if their reactions are the same to such intimate things.
Lightning knows, when Snow is touching and kissing her, he's trying to find some trace of Serah. Some sort of familiarity. She thinks he presses his face into her hair because it feels the same, looks the same. This doesn't bother her like it ought to, not even when he's inside of her and she knows he must be thinking of her sister. She clutches at his shoulders without knowing if she wants to push him away or pull him closer. Neither of them utters a word and they bury wanting sounds into rough kisses and desperate, shaky movements. They never even take the time to completely undress because they're out in the middle of the plains or the forest or wherever they've both decided they need this comfort now, now, now—and isn't truly comforting at all.
Because afterwards, Snow rests his head against her shoulder and won't look at her face while Lightning stares up at the sky, and she thinks he must feel as wretched and guilty as she does and just as empty, because neither of them ever find what they're looking for.
