(Quick, before work drabble. Should be pretty sfw.)
“Stay,” Chirrut’s hands curled into Baze’s robes, pulling him in closer for another kiss, searing, lingering, the type of thing that Baze hadn’t even dreamed possible.
The bells are ringing, echoing, a call for guardians and masters, acolytes and pilgrims, for all the faithful or just the interested, the searching, to come and listen to the chants, to join in with the sutras, to find themselves inside and outside of themselves. Baze has always loved the prayers, reciting the words lowly, under his breath so no one would hear him, the way his voice shuddered and shook at the emotions their mantras woke in him. Chirrut’s fingers twisted into the fabric of his clothes are stirring other emotions, new ones that seemed to unfurl like flowers in his veins, burst like overripe fruits. Intoxicating and frightening like standing on the edge of the temple walls that overlooked the drop from the mesa to the sand far below, fingers laced into Chirrut’s who was always walking just a little closer, daring just a little more.
One day he will totter over an edge. One day he will fall.
Baze will follow. He knows. Oh, he knows. If Chirrut went, he would follow with no hesitation at all.
“The prayers,” he says again, soft, slow, and Chirrut’s lips are pressed to the rise of his collarbone like some treasure lingers there, and Baze’s hands are splayed across his back.
“Stay.” Chirrut never sounds like this, Baze thinks, slightly concerned, tender, just on the edge of worry, as though what is in his hands will flicker out, sputter to nothing like a candle in the breeze.
“There will be prayers another night, Baze.”
Baze swears he dies and is reborn in the instant that Chirrut says his name, a way he has never said his name before, itself like one of their prayers. The fingers in his robes have loosened, moved, snaking down to brush across his skin. Baze is reborn in flames, his own hands curling into the fabric of Chirrut’s robes, a low moan issuing forth from his mouth.
“No one will miss us for one night.”
Baze rolls his hips as Chirrut moves, kissing up his neck, and then he is tracing his fingers across Chirrut’s face, mapping his chin and cheekbones as though this is the last time he will ever touch him, ever see him
He had not been expecting this series of events. When Chirrut ducked into the archives all big eyes and big grin and big personality spilling everywhere, when Chirrut had held his hand out, eyebrows arched in a challenge, Baze had not expected this to be the outcome. Adventure, he had surmised. Danger. Climbing the trees in the garden. Running full tilt through the alleys in the marketplace. Not sitting in the archive storage closet, knee to knee, laughing while Chirrut read passages from filthy books to him, giggling and blushing and trying not to think how some of those things sounded enticing, especially if they were with Chirrut. And then Chirrut licking his lips and pushing the books aside and scrambling onto his lap.
“Baze, look at me.” Chirrut’s voice a frantic, tangled, strange thing. Something he could not ignore
He had looked. And then, slowly, like an eclipse, Chirrut leaning forward, Chirrut kissing him, and Baze’s hands snaked around his waist to hold him closer. To hold him forever.
“The prayers will wait another night,” Chirrut’s voice shakes.
Baze has never heard him falter before, moves a hand over his short hair and back to cup the back of his neck. This will too, he thinks, and then startles because. Because what if this is not an everything has changed moment but just a fleeting, flickering dream. Chirrut moves like the wind, cannot be contained. Perhaps this is a momentary diversion, some experiment, a trifle.
“Won’t this?” he asks, too soft to be heard. Baze clears his throat and lifts Chirrut’s head so he can meet his eyes and tries again. “Chirrut, is this a one time thing?” If he says yes, Baze thinks he’ll die.
The answer is a rush of air against Baze’s cheek, but he can hear the word, stretched out, pulled, “No.” Chirrut’s eyes focus on him, and Baze can see that they are dilated, interested, captivated, held. “No,” again and then, like a broken thing, “unless you want it to be.”
Now it is Baze’s turn to sigh, it is Baze’s turn to move, pressing their foreheads together, lacing their fingers, and he breathes in what Chirrut breathes out. Stay in my lungs, he thinks, stay in my blood. I want my heart to pump you through my body. I want you suffused in my soul. When they cut me, I want them to see you.
“No,” Baze says, turns his head slightly so he can barely brush their lips together. “No. Stay. Prayers can wait.”
His ears are full of the bells, his ears are full of the sound of his blood rushing through his body as Chirrut pulls him closer and kisses him again.
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