Auron looks down when Tidus does, following his line of sight, their thighs crossed over one another and the small, shadowed space left between them. Tidus's jammers stick to his skin, following the contours of his swimmer's muscles, and his hands are still where he left them, distracting from the pattern of blue-on-blue. He doesn't hesitate to retaliate for that first comment, biting his shoulder where it's soft and giving, leaving a mark that won't take long to disappear. But he still lifts his head high enough to look him in the eye.

"Your hands work just as well as mine. Use them."

Tidus's accusation is halfway true. Auron has seen him in various states of undress; in locker rooms, skinny-dipping, or sun-baked days that were too hot for anything besides shorts. If it weren't for where his hands are, and what they've been doing, this might not be much different. But the way he's pressing into his hips doesn't leave any room for interpretation. There's nothing innocent about what they've done. Conversely, he's rarely dressed down in anyone's presence. His reasons have become less and less, and now here, under scrutiny, a younger part of himself hesitates.

And then there's the matter of his armor.

He deliberately keeps his grip mild.

"I don't recall saying that I accept instructions."