Auron's sword-calloused hand is just rough enough to add a little grit to the drag of his palm against Tidus's back. He sucks in a gasp against Auron's throat, liking that contrast against his smooth skin. He's worn smooth by the water, a stone lapped over thousands of times, washed free of edges. Auron is more wind-beaten, cracked and weathered down, but still sharp where it counts. That sharpness grinds gently like curled fingernails against his spine and makes him squeeze Auron in his arms.

The familiar and distinct song of a zipper running down brings his smile back to his mouth finally. He pulls back from his throat and reaches up, ghosting his lips over Auron's, the first time he's requested instead of demanded this evening. He wants him, fully bare and less reserved, showing that he wants him in return. Showing that Tidus is worth something to the last person he has left. His chest is fluttering with heartbeats and a desire to be needed intimately and beyond the moment.