His fingers press into the long tract of Tidus's spine and slide downward, wrinkling the fabric that bunches up under the weight of his hand, and then up, skin hotter where it's hidden beneath his clothes, not exposed to the air, not so quick to dry after he's been in the water. Auron sighs for himself, for the demanding mouth on his throat, for the skinnier chest straining against his with each inhale, for the shivering bend of the back beneath his fingers. What he did at the door had been the impatient answer to an even more insistent question; this is what happens after. It wasn't a plan. He wasn't thinking.

The hand that isn't holding Tidus to him, he slips between their bodies, turning his palm outward to wedge his fingers under the loop of his belt and pull it free from the silver buckle. After, he finds the cross-shaped pull with his fingers and tugs at the zipper until it's parted and his taut stomach his showing. The movement brings his hand low.

He still isn't thinking.