A/N: Written 2 November, 2009
She looks so much like Serah; that was why. That was why he crept through the hall, praying Hope wouldn't follow him as he slunk to the shower.
If he did, Snow hoped more than the former that the boy would have enough sense not to inquire as to why he was taking another shower; in fact, his third in the last day and a half.
Hope would question, with the simplest answer ringing truest: he was abominable, sick and flithy, needing desperately to be clean. His heart belonged to Serah; there wasn't a reason for this. No, definitely not.
But Serah was gone, a fact mind, body and soul lacked comprehension of.
So Snow fluttered through corridors, powerless to the avarice of his own intolerable being. Were Lightning to hear of this, she would undoubtedly slaughter him in repulsion.
Cranking open rusted faucets, pouring burning water over his trembling figure, Snow mused on the benefits of such exoneration.