Baze is a deep sleeper.
It's something Chirrut appreciates, as there is so much he appreciates about the other man. Sleep for him is light, scattered and delicate and as hard to hold onto as it is easy to slip into. Chirrut sleeps in shifts, an hour or two broken by periods of meditative wakefulness in the long, dark silence of the night, when there's nothing to hear in the quiet of the room but the tangle of his own lighter breathing with the heavy drag of Baze's alongside him. If Baze were a lighter sleeper Chirrut thinks he would be apologetic for his own restlessness, for the movement that gives away his consciousness through the small hours of the morning; but Baze never stirs, his breathing varies no more than his hold around Chirrut's waist, and there's something deeply comforting about that unshifting wall at Chirrut's back, about the heat of the other's body pressing close against his as better comfort than blankets would be.
It's nearly morning when Chirrut wakes today. He can hear the murmur of voices hallways away, can feel the faint vibration of footsteps in one of the adjourning rooms; the sound is still soft, the movement still slow, but it's as indicative of the start of morning as the warmth of the sunlight he can feel radiant against his bare arm. He shifts his weight over the bed, turning against the soft of the mattress under him, and behind him Baze grumbles something in his sleep and tightens his hold on Chirrut's waist. His beard catches at Chirrut's skin, tickling just between the line of the other's shoulderblades; Chirrut huffs a soft laugh and shifts to draw away from the prickling sensation. Baze tips back at Chirrut's movement, offering instinctive response to the other's motion from whatever dream he's caught in, and Chirrut turns against the bed, twisting to lie on his back instead of his side so he can reach up for Baze's shoulder. Baze exhales against him, his breath gusting warm at the side of Chirrut's neck, and Chirrut smiles out into the quiet of the room and lifts a hand to catch at Baze's shoulder.
The other is warm. Baze always runs warm, regardless of the time of day, but he's radiant at night, as if the distraction of sleep is enough to let his whole body jump up a few degrees of heat without consideration for any kind of energy conservation. Chirrut trails his fingers over Baze's shoulder, up the line of his collarbone and over the curve of his neck; his thumb brushes the familiar texture of the other's beard, his fingertips find a lock of tangled hair. Chirrut catches the strands in his fingers, urging them back and away from Baze's face as he tugs the knots of sleep gently free; against his shoulder Baze sighs something incoherent and warm with satisfaction, his hold on Chirrut's waist going heavy as he's lulled deeper into comfort under the draw of the other's fingers. Chirrut works through the knot, trailing his fingers through the soft of Baze's hair until the lock is smooth under his touch; and then he brings his hand back up, arcing through the space between them so he can land his fingertips against Baze's cheek instead.
There's something satisfying to this, Chirrut thinks, pleasant in a way that is unfair to quantify as simple indulgent appreciation. He knows Baze's face as well as his own, has pressed his fingers to the soft of the other's beard and the crags and valleys that make out the lines of his face and the angle of his jaw until he thinks he could draw a perfect representation of the other without any need for the sight he long ago learned to do without. But it's satisfying to trace it out again, to work over the familiarity of the other's features against his fingertips, to feel the way the hard line of Baze's mouth goes soft in sleep, to trail over the crease left by too much worry at the other's forehead and the echo of rumbling laughter printed at the corners of his eyes. Baze's mouth is soft, his breathing warm against Chirrut's delicate touch; Chirrut lingers against the curve of the other's mouth, drawing his fingertips into the imprint of a secondhand kiss against Baze's lips while his heart thuds hard against the pressure of bone-deep affection weighting at his chest. His touch wanders, dragging against the other's beard and back up, over the line of his jaw and towards the curve of his ear, along the rough stubble lining Baze's chin and up to the warmth of his cheek to skim along the delicate-soft skin just under the weight of his lashes.
"Appreciating the view?"
Chirrut smiles into the quiet of the room. "I was," he says, turning his head it to track the low murmur of Baze's sleep-roughened voice. "Until I got interrupted, anyway."
"I'm not stopping you," Baze tells him. His arm tightens around Chirrut's waist, his fingers trail up against the warmth of the other's skin. "View's not bad from here either."
"Do you think so?" Chirrut asks. He turns under Baze's hold, twisting onto his side so he's pressed chest-to-chest with the other man. When he lifts his free hand he can fit his palms against Baze's face together, can frame the familiar shape of the other's features against the fit of his touch. "I wouldn't know."
"I do think so," Baze says. His hand slides to fit against the dip of Chirrut's spine, his fingers spreading wide to brace at the curve of the other's back; Chirrut can feel the friction like electricity under his skin, like heat settling into his blood to make a home for itself inside the span of his ribcage. "I thought you were complimenting me, though."
"I was," Chirrut says. He lets his hands slide in over Baze's face to press against the other's cheeks, to catch his thumbs against the curve of the other's mouth; against his fingertips Baze's lashes flutter heavy with heat. "You feel very handsome, I've always said."
Baze's laugh purrs against the weight of Chirrut's palms against his mouth. "Thanks," he says. "That's always good to hear."
"I don't tell you enough," Chirrut says, and he means it to be a joke but the words dip over an edge into sincerity, they turn warm and soft and sweet over the smile tugging at his lips. "I should really be more conscientious about that."
"If you want," Baze says. His hand at Chirrut's back slides higher, tracing out appreciation over the span of the other's spine. "We both know you're the good-looking one of the two of us."
"Do we know that?" Chirrut asks. "I don't think I got that message on my end. Are you sure you got the details right?"
"Very," Baze says, and he's tipping forward against the resistance of Chirrut's body, urging the other back to fall over the sheets. Chirrut topples easily, without offering any resistance to Baze's force; over him Baze hums something low and satisfied and turns his head to press his lips to a kiss against Chirrut's palm. Chirrut can feel the pressure of the contact ripple down his spine, can feel the heat of Baze's arm around him glowing warm under his skin; his smile comes easy, curving over his lips as he slides a hand up into the weight of Baze's hair to counterbalance the one now pressing flush to the other's mouth. Baze's lips shift, forming the weight of a kiss to Chirrut's palm, and Chirrut shudders with the sensation, his head tipping back in involuntary reaction to the drag across sensitive nerve endings.
"You're not going to win this argument," Baze says, letting the words drag over Chirrut's palm before he turns his head so the other's fingers skim against his jaw instead. "Seeing as I'm the only one of us who knows what we both look like."
Chirrut laughs. "I know what you look like."
"Chirrut," Baze sighs. "You're blind."
"Thank you," Chirrut tells him. "I hadn't noticed."
"You're welcome." Baze turns his head in again, lower this time so he can press his mouth to the inside line of Chirrut's wrist, right where Chirrut can feel his pulse thrumming under the skin. "Are you going to claim this is something the Force saw fit to tell you too?"
"No." Chirrut lets Baze kiss against his skin, even turns his arm up to make an offering of his wrist; but his other hand he draws down, letting Baze's hair fall heavy past his fingers so he can draw up to ghost his touch across the lines of the other's face. "I don't need the Force to tell me what you look like." There's the familiar soft of Baze's eyebrows under his touch, the smooth line of the other's nose; Baze's lips are parted when Chirrut's fingertips skim them, his breath rushing warm over the other's skin. When Chirrut brings his touch back up towards Baze's eyes he can feel the give of lashes drag heavy over his skin, can feel the implicit surrender of Baze shutting his eyes to offer the fragile skin of his eyelids for the print of Chirrut's fingers. Chirrut presses the weight of his touch there, soft as a kiss of skin-on-skin; and then he draws his touch up, over Baze's forehead and the crease of concentration that always settles between his eyebrows, until he can slide his fingers into the weight of the other's hair falling forward to make a curtain around his face.
"I could recognize you anywhere," Chirrut tells Baze, his voice dipping down into the soft of affection he never tries to restrain, even when it makes Baze duck his head as if he ever has to hide the heat of his embarrassed flush from the weight of Chirrut's fingertips. "I know you better than I know myself." He curls his fingers into a hold at Baze's hair, feels his mouth curving up at the corner into the bright of a grin. "And I say you're very handsome."
Baze clears his throat, making a rough attempt at composure that Chirrut can hear stick against the other's chest as he takes an inhale. "Yeah," he says. "You do say a lot of crazy things." But he's smiling, Chirrut can hear it tugging against the familiar tone of the other's voice, and when Chirrut grins and pulls against Baze's hair Baze leans in without resisting, bracing an arm up against the pillow under them as he tips forward to press the heat of his mouth against Chirrut's lips. Chirrut smiles into the kiss, turning his head up as he lets his eyes close in capitulation to the contact, and when he opens his mouth Baze is quick to take the invitation to lick past his lips and into the heat of his mouth. Chirrut can taste gunpowder and oil, the slick metallic edge of weaponry and blood and iron all tangled together; and underneath it all a heat, a warmth like the glow of a fire spilling light into the darkness, of illumination too steady and sure to be dimmed by anything as simple as a lack of sight.
Above all, Chirrut thinks, it's the way Baze tastes that he knows best.