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Chirrut is going to get them thrown off the beach.
He hasn’t done anything too rowdy yet: played a game of frisbee with Jyn and Bodhi, smashed open a few watermelons with Kay in a bizarre contest of speed and strength, floated in the ocean hand-in-hand with Baze.
But the itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot booty shorts he’s wearing are borderline illegal.
Baze had nearly bit his tongue in half the first time he saw them in the hotel room (he’d nearly split his husband in half before the team knocked on their door), but now the satiation from earlier is wearing off as he stares from beneath the brim of his giant floppy straw hat at Chirrut sprawled out next to him, basking golden and salt-dappled in the late afternoon sun, shorts riding low on his hips. It’s somehow worse than if he were skyclad.
Chirrut smirks around the straw of his tiny umbrella-bedecked drink—non-alcoholic because Baze’s heart would explode if he had to deal with drunk handsy Chirrut and those accursed booty shorts at the same time—and unspools like a bolt of the finest silk upon his towel, making an obscene noise as he stretches. He knows exactly what he does to Baze, the little shit. Baze finishes off the last of his own drink, something Cassian had called a “pina colada,” and tosses the spent fruit cup behind him unerringly into a trash bin Jyn had dragged over to their spot. No one will miss it since Rogue One is the only one there, save for a family so far down the shore Baze has to squint to see them.
He turns onto his side and brushes a knuckle down the sharp line of Chirrut’s jaw because fuck it, why resist appreciating what’s his? Chirrut’s smirk curls even more impishly, not unlike a fox stealing into the henhouse and finding it stuffed with golden geese.
“Are you thirsty, my heart? Do you want a sip of my drink?” Chirrut says, feigning innocence and proffering his hard-shelled cup to Baze.
Baze snorts and drags his fingers aimlessly across Chirrut’s dark brows, over the gentle peak of his cheekbone, tracing the shell of one round-pointed ear, to settle his callused fingertips lightly upon the other side of his jaw, a circuitous and indulgent route. “I saw Cassian squeeze enough limandirans into that to make a Wookiee cry, no thank you.”
Chirrut hums a sun-tipsy note, sounding contemplative as if pondering the mysteries of the universe, but he leans into the touch with undisguised eagerness, a spark jumping from a banked flame, and sidles closer to Baze. "It certainly makes the mouth pucker." He tilts his head and loudly purses his lips together in such a ridiculous pout, complete with a wet kissy noise, that Baze has to throw his head back and roar with laughter, scaring off a nearby seagull that had been gunning for Bodhi’s abandoned bag of chips behind them. Not that Baze notices, eyes scrunched up in gaiety and floppy hat slipping from his crown. He catches it absent-mindedly and holds it up to shade Chirrut’s face.
“Has the heat gone to your brain?” he teases, “You look like a beek-monkey that ate a hornet.”
“Baze Malbus, how dare you insult me so. To mistreat your beloved spouse. You are a cruel husband and you wound my heart.” Chirrut declares melodramatically, thumping his chest in theatrical shock.
“Yes, I’m the absolute worst.” Baze agrees with amusement, watching the miniscule drops of light that filter through the hat’s loose basket weave to paint freckles across Chirrut’s cheeks.
“A man with few redeeming qualities.” Chirrut tacks on.
Baze snorts again. “Well, we can’t all be handsome and charming.”
Chirrut grins broader than the splintered-moon rock ring surrounding NaJedha now and Baze aches to the marrow for him. “Thankfully, you and I are both.”
“Goddamn sweet-talker,” Baze mumbles under his breath, feeling his ears go nova-hot. Chirrut beams even brighter. Baze’s defenses are down, so he opts for the offensive; swooping in to steal Chirrut’s next witty retort from his lips. Chirrut makes a sound of mingled surprise and contentment, not expecting Baze to claim his mouth so quickly, but not complaining in the least. Baze hides their faces with his hat, the world beyond their shared breath evaporating in the high tide sun.
Chirrut winds one hand around Baze’s neck to play with his brine-stiffened hair, predictable as he only is with Baze, petting it with languid motions despite the sand caught in his mane, a king with his precious lion. The other hand sets aside his drink to clasp the hand caught between their bodies. Baze intertwines their fingers as they trade lazy kisses that roll on and on into each other like the crashing waves, nuzzling their noses together during pauses for breath and quiet sighs that turn Baze’s mind to felt, soft and fuzzy as an heirloom quilt. Chirrut sucks on his bottom lip with a throaty purr, nurses on it like the rim of a bottle til a rumbling groan pours from Baze’s mouth, darker than a forest’s undergrowth. The breeze coming off the sea carries a slight chill and Chirrut presses full-bodily into his warmth; Baze couldn’t be more at peace.
“We’re on a public beach, you two,” a mildly exasperated voice chides from above, popping their little bubble of intimacy.
Chirrut flashes his palms towards Cassian, wiggling his fingers as he cheerfully asserts, “Hands above the waist, Captain!”
Baze chuckles under the hat, their faces so close the vibrations of his mirth dance upon his husband’s lips. Chirrut smiles so hard the corners of his eyes crinkle like a crepe paper fan, winsome and dearer than the stars. What can Baze do but kiss him again? Chirrut giggles when he pecks his nose, his chin, the lovely notch of his cupid’s bow. He nibbles his petal-soft lower lip for a moment, which earns him a dreamy sigh, before sweeping his tongue into Chirrut’s mouth; the citrus taste of Chirrut's forgotten drink zings straight to his brain. Chirrut melts back into him, slow and sweet as shaved ice, only breaking the kiss so he can scrape his teeth along Baze’s jaw, muttering twitterpated nonsense endearments into his beard.
Cassian sighs and no doubt shakes his head at their teenager antics, departing with, “Make sure you don’t get sunburnt.”
Chirrut perks up and pulls away just far enough for Baze to see his whole face. “He’s right, don’t want to get fried extra crispy now do we?”
“Or get skin cancer,” Baze agrees, running his thumb over Chirrut’s knuckles like prayer beads.
Chirrut sits up fluidly, the muscles of his back straining deliciously and the tattoo curved above his ass standing out bold and proud. Baze whistles despite himself; his husband tosses a coquettish grin over one shoulder.
“Would you lotion me up, my love?”
Oh, how Baze suffers.