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“Stop right there!” shouts the vendor as Baze dances out of his grasp nimbly, taking off down the narrow alleyway. “Hey! Someone catch that guy!”
Baze darts through the streets, knowing every twist and every turn. He can hear the footsteps of his pursuers growing nearer and nearer as he clutches a half-eaten loaf of bread (essentially meaningless, but since he’s being hunted over it, he’s not going to discard it now). He hurtles past crowds of people whose faces all blend together and spots an alleyway that will hide him from view.
Typical – despite having lived here his whole life, Jedha City never stays the same – always a new alleyway, always a new path.
He changes course immediately: ducks under startled vendors, leaps over a wagon full of produce, and –
– trips over another boy who is trying to retrieve something from under a table. Baze tumbles across the ground with a surprised yelp, sliding to a halt some feet away from the reason for his fall.
He groans and rolls over to face the sky, squinting in the bright summer heat.
Then he hears – is that laughter? Yup, the other boy is laughing buoyantly, now with a staff in his hand, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Baze would find it offensive if the laugh wasn’t so filled with genuine joy. His eyes are a strange milky blue.
“Quite a tumble you took there,” the boy says, when he’s done laughing, although mirth still rings in his voice. “Are you alright?”
Baze grunts angrily, straining to sit up. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m sorry,” the boy says. “The way you’re still holding that loaf of bread – it must be really important to you, huh?”
Baze looks down at the bread in his hand, which is considerably grimier and truly worthless now. He tosses it aside. “How did you know what I was holding?”
“How do you mean?”
“You –” Baze points at the boy’s eyes, then realizes the irony of what he’s doing. “You’re blind.”
“True,” the boy says. “But the Force moves around everything, and I am one with the Force.”
“Or,” Baze says. “You smelled it.”
“Who’s to say?” the other boy remarks lightly, stepping forward. Baze notices his clothes for the first time: light robes, identical to the training robes Baze sees temple guardian trainees wearing.
“You one of those trainees from the temple?”
The boy looks pleased – well, more than he already did, anyway. “Very astute of you – I’m sorry, I never caught your name.”
“That’s ‘cause I never said it.”
“Would you, please?”
“Uh, Baze,” Baze says gruffly, tugging his sleeve up to rub at a particularly sore spot on his bicep. The boy nods slowly, looking very interested indeed.
“Got a last name?”
“Malbus.”
“I’m Chirrut Imwe,” the boy says, moving closer still. “I’m sorry for making you trip. You’re sure you’re alright?”
“Appreciate the concern,” Baze replies, rolling his shoulder back and wincing slightly. “But I’ve come back from worse than tripping over some fourteen-year-old’s –”
“I’m seventeen,” Chirrut interrupts. “They don’t let you train to be a temple guardian unless you’re seventeen or older. Smart guy like you – I thought you’d know that.”
“Huh,” is all Baze can say, because Chirrut looks incredibly youthful – not least because of that mischievous smile on his face. Chirrut grins wider, clearly unaffected, and stretches out his hand.
“Alright,” Baze says, and takes Chirrut’s hand. The immense strength behind said hand throws him for a loop as Chirrut pulls him up, seemingly with minimal effort.
Well, Baze rationalizes as he stands, those robes aren’t very form-fitting, after all.
“I feel awful about making you fall,” Chirrut starts, digging his staff into the ground.
“Really? I never would’ve guessed by the way you laughed at me.”
“I do, really,” Chirrut insists. “I’d like to make it up to you.”
“Can you get me my bread back?” Baze asks drily, and the delighted way Chirrut laughs in response is enough for Baze’s heart to skip an involuntary beat.
“I’ll do you one better. If it’s food you’re looking for –”
“I’m interested,” Baze says, and Chirrut beams.
“Follow me,” he says.
And, after only a brief moment of hesitation, Baze does.
There’s something magical about moonlight, Chirrut often tells Baze matter-of-factly. He says this again tonight, sitting cross-legged on a bench in one of the temple courtyards with his staff across his lap, eyes closed and face tilted up towards the star-filled sky.
Baze only grunts in response – he has no use for such romantic notions, especially not when Chirrut dreams far enough for the both of them. Baze sits down next to his companion, shifts over so that their shoulders are touching – physical reassurance that he’s still there. Chirrut doesn’t demand such things, but he knows by the way Chirrut’s shoulders relax slightly that he appreciates it.
“想啥?” [1] Baze asks shortly. Chirrut’s eyes open slowly, luminous even in the low light, as a smile spreads across his face.
“How you are still not used to the guardian robes. They aren’t so different from the trainee ones, you know.”
“You know they don’t make robes in my size,” Baze says gruffly, straining to move his shoulders as Chirrut chuckles. “Hey, don’t laugh. Of course they’re fine for you – you’re scrawnier than an Asyyyriak.”
“And just as brutal,” Chirrut muses, smile softening into a look of serenity as he turns his face towards Baze. “You know what I’ve just realized, Baze?”
“What?”
“I don’t know what you look like.”
“Not like that can be helped, now, can it,” Baze says, and Chirrut shakes his head slightly.
“I wasn’t always blind.”
“Oh?” Baze says, because it’s the first he’s ever heard of it – he just assumed, from the way Chirrut moves with such ease, that he’s always been this way.
“I know what faces look like – remember some of them, even. Just not yours,” Chirrut replies, and reaches a hand out, towards Baze’s face. “May I?”
“I – if you want to,” Baze says, a bit taken aback, as Chirrut’s fingers – soft, even after hours of training – make contact with his forehead. Chirrut isn’t very gentle about it, either, dragging his hand across Baze’s face, looking thoughtful. He smiles when he touches Baze’s nose, pulls on it slightly.
“Hey,” Baze protests, although without much conviction. Chirrut makes his way around Baze’s head, running his fingers (with some difficulty) through Baze’s hair.
“You’ve got to comb your hair out once in a – hah,” Chirrut cuts himself off as he finds Baze’s left ear and tweaks it experimentally.
“No need to go after my insecurities, now,” Baze says, and Chirrut laughs quietly, moving his hand back to his face. His fingers stroke past Baze’s cheekbones and drifts across the corner of Baze’s lips. Baze’s breath catches in his chest and he’s sure Chirrut can feel the movement in his face as he clenches his jaw ever so slightly. Chirrut hums quietly and presses his fingertips to Baze’s lips, dry and slightly cracked.
“You,” Chirrut says, leaning a little closer. “Need to drink more water.”
“Shut up,” Baze says, and then Chirrut is kissing him, about as gently as he does everything else – which is to say, not at all.