“Is that Baze?” Chirrut calls as Baze pushes open the door to the room the other has claimed for himself, ducking to clear the frame of the too-low doorway made for non-human forms, or at least humans shorter than he is himself.
“You know it’s me,” Baze tells him, stepping clear of the door so he can let it swing shut behind him. “Don’t try to give me that lost blind man routine, you knew I was coming the whole way down the hallway.”
Chirrut tips his head up and sideways, angling his chin so Baze can catch a glimpse of the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I was just welcoming you back,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d make it home for another hour or two.”
“No point in wasting time.” Baze sets his gun aside, balancing it carefully upright alongside the door where he can grab it at a moment’s notice of the latch behind him giving way before he ducks his head to twist open the fastenings down the front of his armored vest. “You get into too much trouble for me to leave you alone long.”
“Your concern for me is touching,” Chirrut smiles, still with his head tipped back to listen to what Baze is doing behind him rather than seeing it. “I am able to protect myself, you know.”
“I know,” Baze says, tossing his vest aside with far less concern than he gave to his weapon. “That’s what worries me.”
“The Force is a powerful aid, Baze.”
“See,” Baze says, looking down as he kicks his boots off to leave alongside the door along with everything else. “It’s exactly stuff like that that keeps me up at night.” He steps forward to where Chirrut is sitting cross-legged on the floor, dropping to a knee behind the other as he reaches out to catch the soft weight of Chirrut’s robes against his fingers. “You put too much faith in your Force to keep you safe.”
“Faith is the whole point,” Chirrut says, still smiling the soft smile that he always wears when Baze talks about the Force, regardless of what the other man has to say about it. “Faith with evidence is no faith at all.”
“Sure,” Baze says, because he’s not going to win this argument and he knows it, and because Chirrut’s shifting back towards him and his attention is being pulled to the line of bare skin just above the collar of the other’s clothes. “I’d rather count on myself than on faith.”
“Mm.” Baze presses his hand closer, fitting his fingers in against the line of Chirrut’s waist, and Chirrut tips back in surrender to the other’s urging, trusting his balance to the support of Baze’s shoulder behind him. “You don’t believe in anything but yourself?”
“And you.” Baze ducks his head over Chirrut’s shoulder to press his mouth against the warmth of the other’s skin, to fit his lips just under the curve of the other’s ear. “I believe in you.”
Chirrut laughs at that, his head angling back so the sound splashes bright into the enclosed space of the room. Baze lets his hand slide around Chirrut’s waist to catch the other in the curve of his arm, turns his head to press his mouth closer against the other’s throat; he can feel the thrum of amusement humming against his lips when he kisses Chirrut’s skin. Baze shifts his weight, rocking back over one heel so he can kick his other leg out and around Chirrut’s hip, and Chirrut is reaching out as fast as he moves, weighting the press of his fingertips against Baze’s leg as his other hand drops to settle over the other’s arm wrapped around him.
“You believe in me,” he repeats, his palm settling in close against Baze’s thigh as he turns his head so the words come out against the tangle of the other’s hair. “And I believe in the Force. So doesn’t that mean--”
“No,” Baze says, punctuating with a kiss against Chirrut’s neck. Chirrut hums another laugh and Baze slides his hand around the other’s waist and up to find out the opening at the front of Chirrut’s robes so he can fit his fingers inside the edges of the fabric. “That’s not how it works.”
“Is it not?” Chirrut still has his hand settled atop Baze’s wrist, his fingers warm against the other’s skin; he doesn’t move away as Baze tugs the front of his robes loose, just lets his weight fall back to rest more against Baze’s shoulder. “How does it work?”
“I believe in you,” Baze says again, growling the words against the angle of Chirrut’s collarbone as he pulls open the front of the other’s robes so he can press the rough weight of his hands against the smooth soft of Chirrut’s skin. “That’s all.”
“That’s a pretty straightforward philosophy,” Chirrut tells him. He sounds amused more than heated, but Baze can see his breathing coming faster against the open edges of his robes, can feel the tension in the grip of the fingers against his leg.
“Yeah,” Baze says, and turns his head in closer to press his mouth to the line of Chirrut’s throat, to make the glancing friction of his lips focused and deliberate instead. Chirrut tips his head away, making a surrender of the curve of his neck, and Baze catches his teeth against the other’s skin, dragging over the pale curve of Chirrut’s throat until he pulls a groaning exhale from the other’s chest. He slides his hand up to match, fitting his palm flush against Chirrut’s skin and pulling to urge the other close against him; he can feel the thrum of Chirrut’s heart beating a steady rhythm against the weight of his palm.
“I was wondering how long you would wait,” Chirrut says, almost conversationally given how tense his fingers are at Baze’s thigh. His hand at the other’s wrist lifts, his arm angles up; when his fingers land again they’re against Baze’s head, the weight of his touch sliding down to curl into a hold against the other’s hair. “You’re always particularly affectionate after you go out on your own.”
“I miss you,” Baze protests without lifting his mouth from Chirrut’s skin. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” Chirrut says at once. His hand slides down, his palm weights to brace at the back of Baze’s neck; when he shifts it’s to uncross his legs so he can tip his knees wider, until they’re pressing at the inside line of Baze’s. “Carry on, by all means.”
“Good,” Baze says. Chirrut’s robes slide open under the push of his fingers; he can feel the tension of heat across the flat of Chirrut’s stomach taut under his touch, can feel the tremor of reaction run through the other in answer to the weight of his fingers. “I was worried you might want to take up that Jedi celibacy along with everything else.”
“I’ve thought about it,” Chirrut says, musing over the words with his head tipped back on Baze’s shoulder and his fingers sliding up over the muscle of the other’s thigh. Baze can feel heat shivering over his skin from the press of Chirrut’s palm against him, as if the other’s touch is electrified to burn friction all through the tension of his body. “But I’m not trying to be a Jedi.”
“Yeah,” Baze says. His hand braces at Chirrut’s hip to hold the other steady, his legs flex to rock his weight forward into the press of suggestion against Chirrut’s back. “I’m glad.”
Chirrut laughs again. “I thought you would be,” he says towards the ceiling, and then he’s turning his head in towards Baze’s mouth, pulling his skin away from the heat of the other’s lips and offering his own as one and the same motion. Baze looks up for a moment, enough to catch a glimpse of Chirrut’s cloudy blue eyes and the curve of the smile tugging at the other’s lips, and then Chirrut’s hand is sliding to curl around the back of his head, and Chirrut is catching his mouth with Baze’s, and Baze shuts his eyes and lets Chirrut take the lead from him. The hand at his leg pushes harder, weighting heavy against him for a moment as Chirrut twists to come up onto his knees, and then it’s back, joining the first in Baze’s hair as Chirrut leans deeper into the kiss. Baze opens his mouth to the heat of Chirrut licking against his lips, tips his head to the urging of Chirrut’s hands pulling at his hair, and when Chirrut arches in against him he lets himself topple backwards, catching himself with an elbow at the floor to ease their descent into a smooth movement instead of an abrupt fall. It doesn’t make much of a difference; he still ends up on his back on the floor, his hands coming up to catch at Chirrut’s hips to brace the other in place while Chirrut fits himself against Baze’s chest and dedicates his attention to pressing warm heat over the other’s lips.
“I’m affectionate,” Baze says as Chirrut pulls away long enough to feel his way from Baze’s hair to the collar of his shirt and down to the topmost of the fastenings holding the fabric shut. “Seems like you’re the one who can’t even be bothered to make it to the bed.”
“Time is of the essence,” Chirrut informs him. He’s rocking back over his knees between Baze’s legs, freeing his other hand to slide down the front of the other’s shirt; his fingers are quick against the fabric, his movements elegant with long years of experience in this exact action. It still makes Baze’s heart speed in his chest the same now as it ever has, the same way it did the first time, when Chirrut ran his fingertips over every fastening of the other’s clothes like he was looking to memorize their function before he set the fabric free of its restraints. “We should accept the possibilities of the moment as they present themselves to us.”
“Sure,” Baze says. He lifts one hand from Chirrut’s hip to fit his fingers into the open front of the other’s robes instead; he can hear the way Chirrut’s breath catches at the weight of his fingers against bare skin, can see the shudder of tension flicker across the flat of the other’s stomach as he hooks his thumb under layers of fabric to dip down the angle of Chirrut’s hip. “That’s a euphemistic way to put it.”
Chirrut’s laugh crinkles at the corners of his pale eyes and flashes white at the edges of his teeth. “Yes,” he agrees. Baze’s shirt falls open under the pull of his fingers; he reaches out at once to fit his palms against the other’s chest, to slide the texture of his hands up along the planes of Baze’s body like he’s trying to map the shape of the other underneath him. “I’m glad you liked it. I was working on it the whole time you were gone.”
“Getting hot and bothered waiting for me to come home?” Baze asks, feeling his mouth pull onto a grin as he looks up at Chirrut over him. “That’s a nice thought.”
“Yes,” Chirrut agrees. He slides himself back by an inch, his fingers trailing down over Baze’s chest and against the tension at his stomach; Baze’s fingers tighten against the layers of Chirrut’s clothes, his grip curling closer in involuntary reaction as Chirrut closes his fingers around the other’s belt and tugs to urge it free of its buckle. “I definitely found it so.” The belt slides free, leaving the front of Baze’s pants available for Chirrut’s hands, and he moves down at once, barely hesitating to slide his fingers up over the strain of heat under the fabric and pull a groan from the back of Baze’s throat before he’s tugging the fastenings open with the same easy grace he showed with the other’s shirt. The cloth comes open to his touch, surrendering as quickly as Chirrut’s fingers urge compliance, and Baze lets Chirrut tug his pants loose without any resistance. He has more than enough to occupy himself, anyway, with working his way through the tangle of fabric keeping his hands from Chirrut’s skin; it takes him a few minutes to find his way, and another to unwind the loops of cloth from each other, and he’s just pushing Chirrut’s robes open and away from the smooth line of his thighs when Chirrut curls his fingers into the opening at Baze’s pants to wrap his hand into a steady grip on the other’s length.
“You’re ready to go,” Chirrut observes, his head tipped back consideringly so his smile is aimed more towards the ceiling than at Baze. Baze huffs an exhale by way of response, trying to resist the urge to buck up against Chirrut’s touch; it’s difficult to manage, when the other is drawing glancing friction up over flushed-sensitive skin so the weight of his fingertips sparks electric through all Baze’s body. “That definitely makes things easy.”
“You too,” Baze tells him, and presses his palm in close against Chirrut’s hips, grinding the weight of his touch against the heat of the other’s cock arching towards his stomach. Chirrut shudders with the contact, his shoulders curving in as his head drops forward, as his mouth comes open on a groan of heat, and Baze can feel the flush of arousal that runs through him twitch hard against Chirrut’s hold on him. “What’d you do with the lube last time?”
“It’s by the bed,” Chirrut says without raising his head, lifting his free hand to gesture vaguely towards the far side of the room. Baze tips his head back to look, following the motion of Chirrut’s hand as he squints towards the tangle of blankets they more usually make use of; he can just see the bottle under the edge of the bed, toppled onto its side from where Chirrut let it drop during their most recent interlude.
“Damn,” Baze says, and pulls his hand away from Chirrut so he can push up onto his elbow instead. “Hang on, let me grab it.”
“Be my guest,” Chirrut tells him, but he’s not moving away and he’s not drawing his touch back either. His fingers are still stroking over Baze’s length, the friction of his hand pulling sensation flaring up the other’s spine and trembling through his shoulders; Baze groans with the heat of it, struggling to keep his attention on his goal as he twists and reaches for the bottle. His misses on his first try, his fingers dragging shy of contact by an inch; he has to strain on his second attempt in order to close his fingers around the weight of the bottle.
“Here,” Baze says, turning back to fall over the floor as he extends the bottle to bump against the inside of Chirrut’s wrist, where the other can lift a hand to take it from him. “You’re welcome.”
Chirrut’s smile flickers like sunlight over his face. “Thank you,” he says, and he’s letting his hold on Baze go so he can take the bottle from him instead. The lid opens to a twist of his wrist, the liquid inside splashing against the sides with the movement; Baze reaches out to bump his fingers against Chirrut’s before he holds his palm up in invitation. Chirrut touches against his wrist, gauging the location of the other’s hand as he turns the bottle up and over to spill slick liquid across Baze’s palm. Baze is drawing his hand back as quickly as Chirrut turns the bottle back to upright and moves to replace the cap on it; the motion of slicking his fingers together to coat them to slick damp is easy, so familiar from years of practice that he does it without thinking as he steadies himself up over an elbow and reaches for the smooth line of Chirrut’s thighs. Chirrut reaches out to set the bottle aside, setting it far enough away that it’s unlikely to be knocked aside by either of them, and then he’s reaching back to replace his hands where they were, weighting close against Baze’s length and bracing at his hip as he shifts his knees apart to make space for the slide of the other’s hand.
“I don’t think I mind being left behind if this is what happens when you get back,” he offers as he tightens his hold around the other’s cock and draws up in a slow, deliberate drag of friction. “What is that old saying about absence and growing fonder?”
Baze snorts. “This is what happens anytime we have a half hour to spare,” he reminds Chirrut. Chirrut’s knees slide wide, Baze’s hand slides up; when his fingers brush against the other’s entrance Chirrut huffs an exhale, his hand at Baze’s hip tensing for a moment before it eases into expectant calm again. “Me being gone has nothing to do with it.”
“Huh,” Chirrut muses, as if he’s only just thought of this. “I suppose you’re right.” Baze shifts his fingers apart, presses slick against Chirrut’s entrance; Chirrut’s back arches, his head tips back, his body eases to Baze’s touch. Baze huffs an exhale as he presses into the other, his attention caught somewhere against the thrum of breathing in Chirrut’s throat as he urges his touch carefully deeper. “So there’s nothing to lose if I come with you next time.”
“Nope.” Baze pulls back by an inch, drawing the motion gentle and slow; Chirrut lets his head drop forward, the dark of his lashes shifting over the hazy blue of his eyes as his lips part against the movement of Baze’s touch. Baze’s attention fixes against Chirrut’s mouth, the blood in his veins rising to heat in time with the rush of the other’s breathing as Baze works into him. “I’d feel better to have you where I can keep an eye on you anyway.”
Chirrut huffs a laugh bright enough to catch and crinkle at the corners of his eyes. “Worried I’ll get into trouble on my own?”
“Always,” Baze agrees. He slides a second finger against Chirrut, testing the stretch of his first working into the other to see if he can ease in another. “You’re way too good at finding danger.”
“It keeps things interesting.” Chirrut rocks his weight back, tipping his head up to gaze consideringly at the ceiling. “Try another.”
“Interesting,” Baze repeats back, his tone skeptical enough to make the word almost a laugh in the back of his throat, but he does as Chirrut suggests anyway and presses a second finger in against the first. It feels like too much, like it always does, in the way that even now makes Baze’s stomach drop on sudden panic; but Chirrut sighs an exhale, and eases to his touch, and Baze is sinking deeper into him without any more resistance than the strain of the other’s body giving way to his force.
“Like that,” Chirrut says, his head still tipped back so the words pull tense in his throat. His lips are parted, his expression blank with consideration; against Baze’s skin his fingers are still tense, the friction of his grip still pressing close against the other. He’s still moving over Baze with deliberate attention, his wrist working through a rhythm so steady Baze thinks it’s more instinct than intent, but it’s enough to keep Baze flushed hard and hot under his fingers, and at the moment Baze is more interested in the movement of his hand into the other anyway. “Up a little bit. You’re too far back.”
“I know,” Baze grumbles. “You think I don’t know how you like it?” He pushes up sharply, curling his fingers to press hard inside the tension of Chirrut’s body, and Chirrut’s back arches, his eyes going wide and his mouth coming open on the rush of heat urged through him by Baze’s touch. It makes Baze grin, bright and pleased even though Chirrut can’t see his expression, and he’s still grinning when he moves again, taking his next thrust with slow intention so he can pull a crease of heat along Chirrut’s forehead, can drop the other’s mouth open on a groan made incoherent by sensation. “I think I know what you like by now.”
Chirrut huffs a laugh, his mouth turning up sharp at the corners. “Yes,” he says, and he’s turning his head down, lifting his hand from Baze’s hip to reach out for the other’s shoulder instead. “I guess you would.” His fingers brush Baze’s shoulder, dragging across bare skin before his thumb settles to a hold just over the other’s collarbone, and Baze is drawing his touch back without needing to be told, reading the request to shift from the silent weight of Chirrut’s fingers at his skin. Better to lie back and reach for Chirrut’s hips, to push back the fall of the other’s clothes from his skin and steady his balance at once as he shifts to straddle one and then both of Baze’s legs, still with his fingers curled in close around the base of the other man’s cock.
“Okay,” he says, and he’s leaning in hard at Baze’s shoulder, his fingers tightening at the other’s skin as if to hold himself steady. “You’ll need to guide me here.”
Baze snorts. “Bullshit,” he says. “I’m pretty sure you could do this in your sleep by now.”
Chirrut’s grin is bright. “Maybe we should try that next time,” he suggests, and he’s moving as he speaks, rocking his weight back to settle over Baze’s hips as he braces the other’s length against the hold of his fingers. Baze looks down, watching Chirrut line himself up while the other’s expression goes distant with attention; and then Chirrut is sliding back, slick skin is pressing against Baze’s cock, and Chirrut slides down and onto the other in one smooth glide of motion. Baze groans, heat purring up from the depths of his chest as the other sinks down onto him, and Chirrut is sighing over him, letting his bracing hold go to catch himself against Baze’s chest instead for the first moment of shuddering reaction.
“God,” Baze gasps, his fingers tightening hard against the sharp line of hipbone close under Chirrut’s skin, his heart pounding in his chest. “Chirrut.”
“Yes,” Chirrut says, his lips parted on the heat in his voice and his whole expression knocked open with the sensation Baze can feel thrumming under his fingers. “Like that.” And he moves, supporting himself against Baze’s chest and shoulder as much as over his knees as he draws himself up by inches only to sink back down in a deliberate glide of friction. Baze groans, his eyes shutting involuntarily to the first rush of sensation that shudders through his body, and Chirrut is moving again, more smoothly this time, rocking his weight farther back so Baze drags harder inside him as he moves. Baze can feel the friction of the action run all up the whole of his spine, can feel the satisfaction of the movement ripple across his shoulders and flex into his fingers, and over him Chirrut is breathing harder, is turning his head in that way he does when he’s trying to better piece together the details of what he’s hearing. Baze always likes when he does that, likes the way Chirrut’s expression goes soft with focus like he’s forgetting to modulate his own reactions for the attention he’s paying to Baze’s; it makes him smile, now, makes his voice dip down into purring pleasure as he frees one hand from Chirrut’s hip to reach for the resistance of his cock instead.
“Chirrut,” he says, hearing the consonants of the other’s name rumble over his tongue and curl on affection against the inside of his chest. “You look good like this.”
“You would know,” Chirrut tells him, his smile flashing bright over his expression before Baze’s hand closes against his length and the stroke of the other’s hold melts the tension of amusement into an open-mouthed tremor of pleasure instead. Baze huffs a breath of appreciation, watching the shudder of heat run through the whole of Chirrut’s body arching over him as he steadies the stroke of his hand into a rhythm to match the action of Chirrut rocking himself onto the heat of Baze’s cock.
“You feel amazing,” Chirrut tells him, his voice breathless and his head still cocked to the side; he’s panting for air, his inhales spilling fast one atop the other, and when Baze tightens his hold to press his thumb in closer against the head of the other’s cock Chirrut tenses with the sensation, his whole body clenching through a moment of heat that Baze can feel flex hard around him as Chirrut slides his weight down onto the other’s length. The hand at Baze’s chest shifts, Chirrut’s fingertips digging in at his skin as if to set his hand in place, and then the brace at his shoulder lifts as Chirrut reaches up to press his fingertips to the line of the other’s face. Baze goes still, his expression shifting into unthinking heat as Chirrut’s touch maps the line of his cheekbone, the dip of his nose, the hard angle of his jaw. Baze can feel Chirrut’s touch prickle under his skin to spark all across his body, to flex hard against his spine and knot to pleasure low in his stomach, and then over him Chirrut huffs himself into a smile, tipping his head farther to the side in answer to the rush of Baze’s breathing.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his fingers trailing over Baze’s face in something between a caress and an exploration. His touch weights at the other’s mouth, his fingertips slides across Baze’s lips; the force of Baze’s exhale rushes against the angle of Chirrut’s fingers, breaking over the other’s skin like waves crashing against the soft give of a beach. “You’re breathing pretty hard.”
“Like you’re not,” Baze says. The words shift his mouth against Chirrut’s skin, drawing the line of his lips over the other’s fingertips; Chirrut’s lashes flutter, his lips part on heat, his hand slides up to press closer against Baze’s mouth. “Pretty normal, under the circumstances, don’t you think?”
Chirrut grins, the sharp angle of his smile only very slightly undone by the heat Baze can see going to soft at his lips and flushing color across the curve of his cheekbones and down along the dip of his collarbones. “I do,” he says, and then he’s pressing his fingers in against Baze’s mouth, catching the shape of the other’s lips against his hand. “Keep talking.”
“You feel good,” Baze says immediately, offering the words without hesitation to the tilt of Chirrut’s head and the press of those questing fingers. His skin is flushing hot, he can feel radiance all but glowing through every part of him, and over him Chirrut is still moving, rocking through those steady thrusts as if he never intends to stop, as if his whole purpose in this moment is to be curving himself to heat over and around Baze. “You feel really good.” Baze eases his hold at Chirrut’s hip, loosening the pressure of his fingers so he can slide his hand up the strain of heat against the other’s waist instead; under his touch Chirrut sucks in a breath of air, his ribs flexing smooth under the drag of Baze’s palm. Baze presses his hand in flush against Chirrut’s skin, making a brace of his hold as he strokes easily over the other’s length, pressing callused fingers in close against the familiar heat of Chirrut’s body in that way that always tenses across the other’s shoulders and arches the length of his spine. “I like the way you look like this.”
“You like to watch me?” Chirrut asks, his smile making the question more rhetorical than otherwise.
Baze answers anyway. “Yeah,” he says. “I like watching you.” Chirrut’s lashes flutter again, dipping down over the sightless pale of his eyes, and Baze speeds the rhythm of his strokes, pressing his touch in closer as his wrist shifts faster to urge the heat flushing over Chirrut’s skin higher and hotter at once. Chirrut’s mouth falls open, his smile melting to open-mouthed heat instead; Baze can feel the other’s body tensing over him, can feel the ripples of strain running through Chirrut’s legs where the other is holding himself up over Baze’s hips. This is familiar too, he can feel the pattern of this settle into him with all the solid heat of anticipation, and under Chirrut’s palm his mouth is curving on a smile to go with the rush of overheated breathing spilling at the other’s skin.
“You look good,” he says again, more for the way his lips drag over Chirrut’s palm than because he thinks the other is going to really make sense of his words. “Especially when you’re about to come.”
“Ah,” Chirrut gasps, his forehead creasing on tension, his head tilting back as his eyes shut, as his mouth falls open on heat. “Baze.”
“Yeah,” Baze says, “like that” and he rocks his hips up, just by a half-inch, just enough to catch Chirrut on his downward stroke and thrust deeper into the other at the angle he always likes best. The tension in Chirrut’s face falls away, his expression drops to blank heat for a moment; and Baze does it again, punctuating the drive of his hips with a sharp pull of his wrist, and Chirrut groans and shudders and comes, his cock twitching in Baze’s hold as he spurts hot across the tension of the other’s stomach. His shoulders are curving in, his mouth open and soft on the gasp of his overheated breathing as he trembles through satisfaction, and Baze keeps moving, rocking himself up in pursuit of the pleasure he can feel building to a knot of strain against the base of his spine. Chirrut is tensing around him, his fingers flexing in tiny, involuntary shudders as he shakes through the aftershocks of his orgasm, and Baze thinks he’ll never get tired of seeing this, of watching the way Chirrut’s whole expression goes slack and warm and soft with satisfaction over him.
“Chirrut,” he says, his lips forming the other’s name against the weight of Chirrut’s fingers, his chest humming with sound under the weight of Chirrut’s palm. “God” and he’s coming, the tension collected along his shoulders and in the pit of his stomach is surging high to sweep over his awareness and white out everything for a moment of all-encompassing pleasure. His fingers tighten at Chirrut’s waist, his hips snap up into an out-of-rhythm thrust, and over him Chirrut shudders an exhale as Baze spills into him, their movement falling still but for the short, involuntary motion of the other’s hips as he rides out his orgasm. Baze’s fingers are tense, his body is trembling with heat, and over him there’s the rush of Chirrut’s breathing, and the bright of Chirrut’s smile, and Baze is sure, as he’s always sure, that there’s nothing else he could possibly want but to stay just like this forever.
Chirrut shifts first. Baze is content to lie as he is, with the floor supporting him while he gazes up at the lines of Chirrut’s face with the heat-hazy attention that makes all the simple familiarity of the other’s expression glow with beauty, as if he’s gone incandescent with the electricity that always forms in the space between them. Baze is still staring when Chirrut takes a breath and rocks his weight back over Baze’s hips to free his hands from the necessity of supporting himself. His hand at the other’s lips trails up, fingertips landing at Baze’s cheek to map out the shape of the other’s face, and under Chirrut’s touch Baze can feel his mouth curving into an involuntary smile on the contentment too warm in him to restrain even if he wanted to.
“Are you staring at me again?” Chirrut asks, bracing his thumbs against Baze’s cheeks as his fingertips skim across the other’s eyebrows and ghost over Baze’s lashes. His head is tipped back again, his throat a pale curve in the light; Baze can see the thrum of the other’s unvoiced laugh against the tension at his skin. “Having trouble remembering what I look like?”
Baze huffs amusement. “No,” he says, and he lifts a hand to reach for Chirrut’s shoulder, to slide his fingers in against the back of the other’s neck. Chirrut lets a hand drop from Baze’s face to catch himself at the floor over the other’s shoulder instead to ease his forward lean; Baze keeps pulling until Chirrut’s lying almost entirely atop him, until the flushed heat of their bodies is shared out skin-to-skin. From this close Baze can see the tangle of Chirrut’s lashes at the corners of his eyes and the damp heat clinging to the curve of the other’s lower lip, can see the way sweat is sticking dark hair close against Chirrut’s forehead. “Just appreciating.” He slides his fingers up into Chirrut’s hair, catching the other’s head against the curve of his palm, and as Chirrut huffs himself into the beginning of a laugh Baze is there to press his lips against the hum of the sound.
Some things just get better with time.