A sound rumbles in his throat in direct response to the pressure at the base of his skull. That's going to become a problem. Maybe he should have cut his hair when he had the chance, but he still prefers not to, despite the other changes to his appearance. He allows himself a few old familiarities, that's all, and now he's suffering for them. The familiarity he's allowing himself now is, well... He's suffering for that, too.

"What would your fans say?"

There might be some jealousy. On their part. Auron's seen the way those people grab at him like there's nothing else in the world that's so captivating. Zanarkand being Zanarkand, he can't help but understand. Maybe they have no choice. His reasoning is different than theirs, but why else is he here? If Jecht hadn't had a son, he would have never left Spira. He would have died there.

Sometimes, although it's a rare and precious occurrence, he's glad that he didn't.

Right now...

"... If you wish."

There's just the slightest ring of mocking to his tone, but he punctuates by rearranging his grip, an arm bending beneath Tidus's thighs so that he doesn't slip when he looses his legs from about his waist. His body is warm everywhere that he's pressed to him, thighs and hips and hands. With some steady maneuvering, he delivers them safely down the stairs to shoulder open the door. The hum of the ceiling fan adds to the white noise of the water sloshing upon the smooth hull.