Baze just wanted to get some coffee.
It's been a long day. Work was more boring than usual, in the kind of monotonous way that always leaves him feeling as physically drained as he is mentally. He had intended to make it to the grocery store to restock his ever-diminishing supply of meal options, had even briefly entertained thoughts of cooking something for dinner tonight; but by the time his shift is over all he wants is some caffeine as rapidly as possible, ideally well before he has to make complicated decisions about what he'll be buying for his meal this evening. At least the walk to the coffee shop is a quick one, a short distance that Baze can cover in less than ten minutes when he's walking with the purpose that he's willing to show today. He keeps his head down, avoids eye contact with the other passersby on the sidewalk and small talk with anyone when he pauses at street corners, and he's accelerating as he comes up to the door to the shop, pulling at the weight of the handle and stepping through in a single motion far too rushed to allow him time to react to the other customer exiting the store with similar speed.
"Shit," Baze says, that one word the only reaction he has time to offer, and then his shoulder is colliding with the person in front of him and they're both stumbling, Baze's forward momentum more than enough to propel them through the doorway and into the aesthetically dim lighting of the shop. Baze lets his hold on the door handle go, reaching out to grab at the other person's elbow to catch them from complete collapse, and against his shoulder there's a breathless "Oh" and fingers closing at his sleeve. Baze catches his footing again, steadying his balance with the first surge of adrenaline through him, but the other is still shaky; it takes them a moment to regain their balance, and it leaves the pair of them both just inside the door of the coffee shop with their coats and hands a tangle of desperate holds.
"Sorry," Baze says as he blinks his vision into focus on the person in front of him, on hair as dark as his own but cut far shorter than the locks he keeps pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. "I should have been watching where I was going."
"One of us had to be," the other says, the grin flashing across his face so clear that Baze can hear it in his tone. "You're definitely more qualified than I am in that aspect" and it's as he lifts his head to turn that smile towards the other that Baze sees the cloudy blue haze of obviously sightless eyes.
"Oh," Baze says, his thoughts going blank for a moment of astounding incoherence. "You're blind."
The stranger's smile goes wide, flashing into the edges of a laugh for a brief, brilliant moment. It's like hearing sunshine, like feeling electricity purring straight through all Baze's veins at once, like his whole world is flickering into some kind of life he hadn't even known was absent to miss it.
"It's true," the other says. "It's fine, I do well enough for myself." His head cocks to the side, his unfocused gaze drifting off Baze's face like he's staring over the other's shoulder, like he's seeing something just behind Baze, or maybe around him, like some kind of glowing halo clinging to the outline of the other's body. Baze almost wants to crane his neck to look for himself, although he knows there's nothing there to see but the simple line of his coat and the mundane surroundings of his favorite coffee shop. The other's forehead creases, his mouth shifts; his smile eases, his lips pressing close into almost-a-frown, like he's focusing intently on something Baze can't quite hear. It's enough to make Baze frown himself, to tug his lips down into the weight of concern as he gazes at the lines of the stranger's face, at the give of his mouth and the shape of those eyes that seem to flicker something strange in his awareness, deep behind even long-forgotten childhood memories.
"Are you okay?" Baze asks. The stranger hasn't eased his hold on Baze's sleeve; Baze tightens his grip against the other's elbow, wondering if maybe their impact was more forceful than he had entirely realized. "Sure I didn't hurt you?"
The stranger shakes his head. "You didn't hurt me," he says, the words distracted and barely coherent for how little attention he's giving them; and then the crease at his forehead eases, his eyes go wide, his lips part on a breathless huff of surprise.
"Oh," he says, "It's you" and he's turning his head to stare straight at Baze, pale blue eyes locking with the other's as if he's seeing him in truth, as if whatever epiphany he's just had has swept aside the haze from his vision for a moment of clarity. Baze can feel his skin shiver with a prickle of self-consciousness, as if all his body is coming alive under the weight of that unseeing stare, as if the stranger is looking through him to see something more than the weight of his shoulders and the set of his mouth, as if the recognition in the other's tone is for some core constituent of Baze that he never even knew was there. He frowns attention at the other, focusing close on the angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, even the soft dark of his hair; but nothing rises to the surface of his memory, no recollection resolves into clarity from the vague uncertainty in his thoughts.
"Sorry," he says finally, still frowning at the stranger's face as he tries to make a memory of it. "Do I know you?"
He's expecting a frown, ready for the collapse of that bright attention into disappointment at the implicit rejection in his words. What he gets instead is the brilliance of a smile, the other's mouth curving so wide at the corners that it crinkles tension into the corners of his blue-glazed eyes and presses the weight of his lashes to tangle in against each other.
"No," he says, his answer as cheerful as it is inexplicable. "Not yet. But I know you." A hand comes up, the other lifting his touch from Baze's sleeve towards his face. "I've been wondering when I'd meet you again." Fingers bump Baze's jaw, the warmth of knuckles presses against his cheek, and something flickers, some impossibly distant awareness coming to Baze's mind: the feel of sand, the taste of smoke, the ache of some impossible loss in his chest, something too much and too overwhelming for him to bear. He gasps an inhale, his lungs straining like he can breathe the half-formed memory in from the air around him; and the hand at his cheek shifts, turning to press slender fingers and a warm palm to his skin, and the memory disintegrates, the brief rush of unbearable loss swept aside by the surge of relief that swamps Baze's awareness. His hand comes up, the movement reflexive and involuntary, and as his palm catches to press the stranger's touch closer against his face the other's smile spills into a laugh as his whole body tips forward as if in pursuit of Baze's touch.
Baze's heart is pounding, his blood is going hot in his veins; he feels like he ought to be glowing, as if the electricity he can feel shuddering through him should be enough to throw off light from under his skin to fill the space around him with warmth. But the hand against his face is hot too, his palm is warm atop the other's touch, and if he's glowing so is the other, his whole face is alight with the brilliance of the smile he's offering to Baze.
"I'm Baze," Baze says, feeling the inanity of the words on his tongue but not sure what else to offer. He almost expects the stranger to tell him his own name before he can get the words out. "Who are you?"
"Chirrut," the other says, and Baze can taste the sound of that name like a favorite flavor, like nostalgia bittersweet for some memory too far gone to be called back except as the emotions it carries. "Chirrut Îmwe." His head tips, his smile glows. "I've been waiting for you." Baze huffs a laugh, the sound somewhere between disbelieving and appreciative, and Chirrut lets his touch slide away from the other's cheek, his fingers trailing affectionate friction in their wake. Baze's hand follows the other's, his touch seeking out the warmth of Chirrut's skin, and as their hands fall alongside each other his fingers catch and curl between the open angle of Chirrut's own.
It's not even startling, how well their hands fit against each other.