Confessing to Baze, his friend of so many years, the one from whom he had become inseparable from even in childhood, was a daunting task. But he did it – because love, too, cannot be stopped, can’t be torn away from him, nor would he ever lie to the other. He considered a range of possibilities from the negative (awkwardness, the erosion of their friendship, the unlikely but still frightful disgust) to the positive (acceptance, happiness, maybe even reciprocation). But Chirrut never expected this. Baze doesn’t just reciprocate his feelings; he treasures them, gives them back tenfold, years of pent-up affection spilling out at the first opportunity this poor neglected boy has ever had. Every moment alone, there are Baze’s hands at his shoulder, his waist, his cheek, not quite possessive but appreciative in a way that makes Chirrut’s face go red. It almost hurts, sometimes, to think how completely Baze has been without love his whole life to make him so thankful just to be cared for. Despite the pain that lurks between hugs and kisses taken with shy eyes and hesitant smiles at every single chance, Chirrut catches his tears only once. Baze sleeps with his head on Chirrut’s chest, his body curled close, needy, though innocently – they haven’t even broached the topic of sex yet, both still content with exploring one new feeling at a time. Chirrut has barely drifted off when he feels Baze shudder (doesn’t hear him, there’s nothing to hear) and a moment later senses the dampness on his shirt where Baze hides his eyes.
“Don’t go,” He whispers hoarsely, whether it’s brought on by the remnant of a nightmare or a memory or just one of those worries that seems to plague him constantly. “Please don’t go.”