That's an invitation, the wet tongue on his lip, and he takes it, continuing to take, pressing his own tongue inside Tidus's mouth while he takes advantage of his lax arms to pull his suspenders free and finally drop them to the floor; then slips his fingers beneath his high-cut shirt, over his bare chest, and pushes that off over his shoulders as well, tugging the garment down his arms and free from his wrists. He discards it along with the suspenders before trying to decide where his hands should go next, with Tidus's whole body bent toward him, shaped into a subtle curve.

Auron's hands come to rest on his hips, thumbs placed against the waistband of his shorts.

If this is wrong to anyone, Auron hasn't considered it. Ten years in Zanarkand isn't enough to take away what Spira has taught him about the preciousness of being able to give freely. What they are to one another, he's never troubled himself over trying to define, to himself or to anyone else.

As though there's anyone else to tell.

It isn't what he's thinking of, squeezing Tidus's soft sides under his hands, palming the smooth jut of his hipbones, bone across bone, being kissed again and realizing he's lost count of the number of times it's happened. Instead, his hands drag down to squeeze thighs, wrap fingers around knobby knees, thumbs pressed to the hollowed spaces below his kneecaps.