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There is a war coming, this much he knows. There is a war coming, and Baze can tell by the way Chirrut's hands fidget and smooth down his robes, by the way he sighs like an old man too weak to bear his own burdens, his twenty-six years of life feeling more like eighty. He motions for Baze from his perch on one of the old storage crates.
"Come here."
He does. Sits down on the ground beside him, waiting.
"Things are changing."
Baze grunts in agreement. Somehow he feels as though speaking any actual words of confirmation would be too much–would make it too real. Perhaps if he just idly agrees he can ignore it.
"You're awfully quiet today," he says next. Which is a dumb thing to say, really, because Baze has always been relatively taciturn.
"There's a war on our heels. What's left to say that we don't already know?"
Chirrut laughs, tugs a handful of his lover's hair.
"So negative. You're always so negative."
If he were perhaps ten years younger, still clean-shaven and clear-headed, Baze might have snapped, might have stood abruptly (he may not be able to see the gesture, but Chirrut could no doubt feel the frustration within it) and demanded to know what there was to be positive about when your life and the life of the only person you've ever loved could be on the line at any moment and you're helpless to stop it.
But he knows better, now.
"There are places we can go. The war won't last forever."
"Say we go somewhere else, and the war follows. What then?"
"We find the next place. We go where we have to." He pauses. "As long as I have you, it doesn't matter to me."
He's now lightly massaging Baze's scalp, and he leans further into the touch. He doesn't want to leave Jedha–neither of them do–but he'd take Chirrut over a stuffy old temple any day.
They'll figure it out in the end, he's sure. It's the in-between he's worried about.
Baze's thumb teases the line of the Kyber crystal beneath his tunic, warm and solid against his skin. It had been a gift from Chirrut when they married and he hasn't taken it off since. They'll likely have to sell it or trade it, he knows–wartime means there's less to go around and everything becomes a bartering tool, even the few most precious objects he owns.
Fuck this. Fuck it all.
They're too young for any of it. It's not fair.
"I'm tired." He says suddenly, shortly, and stands, taking Chirrut's hand into his own.
He follows wordlessly, letting Baze lead them to their shared room beneath the Temple.
"I can feel your anger, you know."
Silence.
"It's quite distracting."
Baze feels soft, gentle hands on his shoulders and huffs.
"Old fool." He mutters.
"What will your anger get you? We're all tired. We're all scared. Are we not lucky to have each other, at least?" Chirrut says softly, almost under his breath.
"Forgive me for wanting the guarantee of food and a roof over my head as well."
"Material things. You know, a Jedi can sustain himself on the energy of the Force alone."
"Won't be any Jedi pretty soon," he grumbles. "The Empire wants them dead where they stand."
He feels Chirrut smiling against his shoulder.
"And yet, they live on. They adapt. They keep going. Surely we can do the same."
Baze has never been good with words, and he fumbles for them tearfully. He thinks about the life they've tried to build together here, the things they've yet to do, things he knows they'll never be able to do now. Thinks about the large home on a nice, green planet, the home overflowing with plants and music and good food, the one they'd been dreaming of living in one day, when things finally slowed down. Thinks about the rehabilitation center Chirrut had talked of building sometimes. Thinks of all the memories never to be lived.
All at once it's too much.
Baze doesn't cry, but he hangs his head and leans back against Chirrut. His warm arms wrap tightly around Baze's torso and he kisses the back of his ear.
"This sucks." Baze says childishly, and Chirrut laughs again. This time, instead of mild annoyance, it brings a smile to Baze's face.
"But I've got you." Chirrut murmurs.
"And you." Baze replies.
Chirrut turns him around in his arms.
"Come to bed."
And he does–gathers himself up and curls against his husband on the small, dusty bed in their small, dusty room.
They have each other. Always, they have each other.
They can do this.