Alternate title: A Trip to the Hot Springs! Baze and Chirrut Like Each Other???
A/N - This was going to be smutty, but feelings happened instead. Oops?
Chirrut is in the middle of folding his tunic when he realizes that Baze has barely moved. During the time that Chirrut’s taken to settle everything from his robes down to his briefs, Baze has completed the singular challenge of taking off his belt, which he’s still clutching. Chirrut tilts his head, confused by Baze’s slowness, especially considering how he was just complaining a few minutes ago that this was eating up precious time and they needed to be on their way back to the Holy City as soon as possible.
“Are you having trouble with the knots?” Chirrut asks.
“No,” Baze says flatly.
“Are we going to argue again? Because if so, I’d rather spend these precious ‘wasted’ minutes actually having a well-deserved soak. My shoulder still hurts.”
“It wouldn’t if you worked more on your posture.”
“But I didn’t, so it does, so I’m doing this.” Chirrut unwinds the knot of his briefs, and lifts one foot at an angle to catch the cloth when it drops. That’s the last of it, leaving Chirrut skyclad and ready to take full advantage of their little side expedition. He’s determined to enjoy this, no matter that Baze has turned away, grumbling under his breath.
Visiting this hot spring wasn’t either of their ideas. They’re only in this town for an assignment – picking up necessary supplies for the Temple – and as sometimes happens on these excursions they’d found themselves dragged into a local disagreement. Their intercession resulted in some yelling and a few bruises, but other than that both sides walked away mostly satisfied, and the local first family offered Chirrut and Baze a free-of-charge visit to the town’s pride and joy.
“We are traveling in the footsteps of monks long gone,” Chirrut says to Baze’s back. “They lived off the hospitality of those they helped in their travels, too.”
“I know,” Baze says.
“And these people are proud of their spring. They put a lot of work into developing it. To be here is to honor them, too.”
“I know. It’s…” Baze hesitates, which is uncharacteristic of him. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful.”
“I know you don’t,” Chirrut says. “What’s the problem? Let me help.”
“Help?” Baze starts to turn sharply towards him, only to jerk away. “I—I don’t want to… I just don’t see the point.”
Chirrut’s first inclination is to tease, but Baze is exuding enough discomfort as it is. Truth be told, Chirrut doesn’t understand the reason for Baze’s apparent modesty, seeing as the Temple’s bathing rooms are communal as well, plus the hosts of this spring have happily provided them a private session, free from foreign eyes. That said, it’s also true that Chirrut has never shared refresher space with Baze due to their living on different floors, and it may be that he is simply like this all the time. Who can guess the mysteries that plague Baze Malbus, faithful and fearsome Guardian of the Whills?
“Would it help if I promised not to look?” Chirrut says.
Baze laughs, and the sound is startlingly loud in the enclosed changing area. Although the joke seems to have hit its mark, there’s still mild panic underneath Baze’s amusement.
“All right,” Chirrut says gently. “I’m sure the hosts would be happy to have you for tea instead.”
“Don’t—” Baze makes an annoyed sound, though it’s directed at himself. “I’ll join you, just… You go first.”
“Yes, I can do that.”
“Don’t forget your towel,” Baze says, grabbing the item from the railing and handing it over. “And don’t drown until I get there.”
“I will try my best.” Chirrut slings the towel over a shoulder and starts walking, following the stream of warm air coming from the doorway that must lead out to the spring itself.
Hot springs are a relative luxury, and one that Chirrut hasn’t indulged in since he dedicated himself to the Temple. When he was a child, he used to follow Grandfather to various springs in and around their town, mostly because Grandfather liked to have someone to help scrub his back.
Although it’s been years since then, not much has changed in the general set-up. Under Chirrut’s feet the tiles of the changing area give way to the external stone floor, with a little path leading up to the rinsing pad. Chirrut steps on the pad and hoses himself down, and then it’s time for the main event.
The first step into a spring is always shocking. Chirrut inhales sharply as hot water wraps around his calves, and then higher still when he tests the steps. He moves carefully – it wouldn’t do to actually need Baze’s help at this point – and finds the seating indents around the edge of the spring. Once there he settles down, towel folded over his head, and sighs. It is bliss, the heat working the ache in his muscles immediately while the mineral-rich fumes open up his sinuses, and he happily sinks down until the water level reaches his collarbones.
Chirrut intends to enjoy every second of this, but then Baze steps out of the changing area, and his focus is derailed completely.
The thing is, Chirrut still doesn’t know Baze as well as he’d like. When Chirrut first arrived at the Temple, they were in different ranks, though it was impossible for Chirrut not to know of Baze. He was the novitiate who crafted like an angel and debated like a demon, and who took to spiritism, holography and kyber arts with such drive that half his ranks admired him openly, while the other half bemoaned the standard by which the grandmasters would now measure them.
That was before Chirrut to know him, Baze, as a person. When ranks no longer mattered, Chirrut was able to share training sessions with him, and later still group assignments in serving the Whills. From there Chirrut learned of Baze’s humor, wit, humility, and many other aspects that, instead of raising Baze into the stratosphere of Chirrut’s estimation, brought him immeasurably closer. They are friends – at least, Chirrut believes so, from the way Baze takes Chirrut’s goading in stride and returns volley with a bluntness that is unbelievably charming – and that is already more than Chirrut could have hoped for.
This assignment they’re currently on is but the second that Chirrut’s had with Baze alone, and he’s cherished every single second of it. He’s learned so much about Baze – the noises he makes when he shaves, his choice of verse to meditate on before sleep, the smell of his clothes after making it through a sandstorm.
And right now, in this hot spring, Chirrut learns what it sounds like when Baze walks in the nude.
His steps are deceptive for a man of his size, for although there is weight behind the press of his soles on the ground, the roll from his toes to heels is cautious, respectful. Baze knows how important this hot spring is to the locals, and is treating it as he would the floor of the Temple.
“Where’s the rinser—oh, I see it,” Baze says. “Right.”
Chirrut sinks a little deeper into the water until it laps against the underside of his chin. It is by all accounts an excellent spring, but at this moment it is secondary to the sounds of Baze’s approach. Or, to be more accurate, the sounds that are absent in Baze’s approach. Normally there’s cloth and equipment at the forefront of that aural information, but now all of that is gone. All that’s left is the body – Baze’s body.
There is the rustle of Baze’s hair, up in a ponytail it seems, and it bounces as he walks. There’s the subtle crick of Baze’s shoulders when he rolls them, and there’s the whisper of skin rubbing against skin – the insides of Baze’s thighs brushing with each step. When Baze reaches the edge of the spring, there’s the shifting of air when he lifts his hands in a cautious gesture – presumably trying to figure out where the steps are.
Chirrut holds a breath while Baze enters the spring. His movements are smooth, with no clumsy splashes to mark his entry. Chirrut can only tell by following the displacement of water, its level rising and fallingin increments to make space for its new customer.
“All right,” Baze says, after a time. “This is nice.”
Chirrut knows that he should make a self-satisfied comment, but he’s too busy coming to terms with the fact that there are different types of nudity in the world and Baze belongs in a category heretofore unknown. Nakedness is just the lack of clothing, and it shouldn’t make Chirrut’s skin prickle to know that Baze’s exposed body is just a few feet away.
The worst part, Chirrut tries to tell himself, is that he isn’t even enjoying this wonderful hot spring anymore. He’s too busy cataloguing things like the way Baze is moving his hands back and forth in the water like paddles – he’s just enjoying the sensation, probably – which sends currents of pressure Chirrut’s way. Technically, technically, Baze is caressing Chirrut through the water. Kind of. Except not, because Baze is just enjoying the damned luxury of sitting in a body of water, and it’s not his fault that Chirrut’s mind is racing through feverish, nonsensical thoughts.
FILL: The Hot Springs Episode (1/2) - Chirrut/Baze - Onsen/Hot Spring Pools/Nude bathing
A/N - This was going to be smutty, but feelings happened instead. Oops?
Chirrut is in the middle of folding his tunic when he realizes that Baze has barely moved. During the time that Chirrut’s taken to settle everything from his robes down to his briefs, Baze has completed the singular challenge of taking off his belt, which he’s still clutching. Chirrut tilts his head, confused by Baze’s slowness, especially considering how he was just complaining a few minutes ago that this was eating up precious time and they needed to be on their way back to the Holy City as soon as possible.
“Are you having trouble with the knots?” Chirrut asks.
“No,” Baze says flatly.
“Are we going to argue again? Because if so, I’d rather spend these precious ‘wasted’ minutes actually having a well-deserved soak. My shoulder still hurts.”
“It wouldn’t if you worked more on your posture.”
“But I didn’t, so it does, so I’m doing this.” Chirrut unwinds the knot of his briefs, and lifts one foot at an angle to catch the cloth when it drops. That’s the last of it, leaving Chirrut skyclad and ready to take full advantage of their little side expedition. He’s determined to enjoy this, no matter that Baze has turned away, grumbling under his breath.
Visiting this hot spring wasn’t either of their ideas. They’re only in this town for an assignment – picking up necessary supplies for the Temple – and as sometimes happens on these excursions they’d found themselves dragged into a local disagreement. Their intercession resulted in some yelling and a few bruises, but other than that both sides walked away mostly satisfied, and the local first family offered Chirrut and Baze a free-of-charge visit to the town’s pride and joy.
“We are traveling in the footsteps of monks long gone,” Chirrut says to Baze’s back. “They lived off the hospitality of those they helped in their travels, too.”
“I know,” Baze says.
“And these people are proud of their spring. They put a lot of work into developing it. To be here is to honor them, too.”
“I know. It’s…” Baze hesitates, which is uncharacteristic of him. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful.”
“I know you don’t,” Chirrut says. “What’s the problem? Let me help.”
“Help?” Baze starts to turn sharply towards him, only to jerk away. “I—I don’t want to… I just don’t see the point.”
Chirrut’s first inclination is to tease, but Baze is exuding enough discomfort as it is. Truth be told, Chirrut doesn’t understand the reason for Baze’s apparent modesty, seeing as the Temple’s bathing rooms are communal as well, plus the hosts of this spring have happily provided them a private session, free from foreign eyes. That said, it’s also true that Chirrut has never shared refresher space with Baze due to their living on different floors, and it may be that he is simply like this all the time. Who can guess the mysteries that plague Baze Malbus, faithful and fearsome Guardian of the Whills?
“Would it help if I promised not to look?” Chirrut says.
Baze laughs, and the sound is startlingly loud in the enclosed changing area. Although the joke seems to have hit its mark, there’s still mild panic underneath Baze’s amusement.
“All right,” Chirrut says gently. “I’m sure the hosts would be happy to have you for tea instead.”
“Don’t—” Baze makes an annoyed sound, though it’s directed at himself. “I’ll join you, just… You go first.”
“Yes, I can do that.”
“Don’t forget your towel,” Baze says, grabbing the item from the railing and handing it over. “And don’t drown until I get there.”
“I will try my best.” Chirrut slings the towel over a shoulder and starts walking, following the stream of warm air coming from the doorway that must lead out to the spring itself.
Hot springs are a relative luxury, and one that Chirrut hasn’t indulged in since he dedicated himself to the Temple. When he was a child, he used to follow Grandfather to various springs in and around their town, mostly because Grandfather liked to have someone to help scrub his back.
Although it’s been years since then, not much has changed in the general set-up. Under Chirrut’s feet the tiles of the changing area give way to the external stone floor, with a little path leading up to the rinsing pad. Chirrut steps on the pad and hoses himself down, and then it’s time for the main event.
The first step into a spring is always shocking. Chirrut inhales sharply as hot water wraps around his calves, and then higher still when he tests the steps. He moves carefully – it wouldn’t do to actually need Baze’s help at this point – and finds the seating indents around the edge of the spring. Once there he settles down, towel folded over his head, and sighs. It is bliss, the heat working the ache in his muscles immediately while the mineral-rich fumes open up his sinuses, and he happily sinks down until the water level reaches his collarbones.
Chirrut intends to enjoy every second of this, but then Baze steps out of the changing area, and his focus is derailed completely.
The thing is, Chirrut still doesn’t know Baze as well as he’d like. When Chirrut first arrived at the Temple, they were in different ranks, though it was impossible for Chirrut not to know of Baze. He was the novitiate who crafted like an angel and debated like a demon, and who took to spiritism, holography and kyber arts with such drive that half his ranks admired him openly, while the other half bemoaned the standard by which the grandmasters would now measure them.
That was before Chirrut to know him, Baze, as a person. When ranks no longer mattered, Chirrut was able to share training sessions with him, and later still group assignments in serving the Whills. From there Chirrut learned of Baze’s humor, wit, humility, and many other aspects that, instead of raising Baze into the stratosphere of Chirrut’s estimation, brought him immeasurably closer. They are friends – at least, Chirrut believes so, from the way Baze takes Chirrut’s goading in stride and returns volley with a bluntness that is unbelievably charming – and that is already more than Chirrut could have hoped for.
This assignment they’re currently on is but the second that Chirrut’s had with Baze alone, and he’s cherished every single second of it. He’s learned so much about Baze – the noises he makes when he shaves, his choice of verse to meditate on before sleep, the smell of his clothes after making it through a sandstorm.
And right now, in this hot spring, Chirrut learns what it sounds like when Baze walks in the nude.
His steps are deceptive for a man of his size, for although there is weight behind the press of his soles on the ground, the roll from his toes to heels is cautious, respectful. Baze knows how important this hot spring is to the locals, and is treating it as he would the floor of the Temple.
“Where’s the rinser—oh, I see it,” Baze says. “Right.”
Chirrut sinks a little deeper into the water until it laps against the underside of his chin. It is by all accounts an excellent spring, but at this moment it is secondary to the sounds of Baze’s approach. Or, to be more accurate, the sounds that are absent in Baze’s approach. Normally there’s cloth and equipment at the forefront of that aural information, but now all of that is gone. All that’s left is the body – Baze’s body.
There is the rustle of Baze’s hair, up in a ponytail it seems, and it bounces as he walks. There’s the subtle crick of Baze’s shoulders when he rolls them, and there’s the whisper of skin rubbing against skin – the insides of Baze’s thighs brushing with each step. When Baze reaches the edge of the spring, there’s the shifting of air when he lifts his hands in a cautious gesture – presumably trying to figure out where the steps are.
Chirrut holds a breath while Baze enters the spring. His movements are smooth, with no clumsy splashes to mark his entry. Chirrut can only tell by following the displacement of water, its level rising and fallingin increments to make space for its new customer.
“All right,” Baze says, after a time. “This is nice.”
Chirrut knows that he should make a self-satisfied comment, but he’s too busy coming to terms with the fact that there are different types of nudity in the world and Baze belongs in a category heretofore unknown. Nakedness is just the lack of clothing, and it shouldn’t make Chirrut’s skin prickle to know that Baze’s exposed body is just a few feet away.
The worst part, Chirrut tries to tell himself, is that he isn’t even enjoying this wonderful hot spring anymore. He’s too busy cataloguing things like the way Baze is moving his hands back and forth in the water like paddles – he’s just enjoying the sensation, probably – which sends currents of pressure Chirrut’s way. Technically, technically, Baze is caressing Chirrut through the water. Kind of. Except not, because Baze is just enjoying the damned luxury of sitting in a body of water, and it’s not his fault that Chirrut’s mind is racing through feverish, nonsensical thoughts.