He wraps his hand around the piece of fudge he's been holding onto, meant for Inigo's mouth, but the subject changed to a different kind of mouth-related activity. A scoff from his throat that leads into the sly curve of his lips. A tip of his head, a quick raise of his brows.

"Alright."

Why not? Tidus takes that balled hand and leans it against Inigo's chest. The sweet seller and its stall of confectionary forgotten, the publicly of what he's about to do about as minded as anything else Tidus does. His eyes settle on Inigo's, flitting down to his lips, and it'll just be a quick thing. He starts to lean in-