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Their living space was meager and sparse, a stone room with one window, kept temperate from the Jedha elements. Their tiny kitchen was on one side, their sleeping mats rolled up on the other, and a 'fresher unit in the corner. Their belongings were kept either hanging on the wall, or against it in trunks, each to its own assigned space, leaving the center of the room open.
It was a decent space to spar in, when the mood struck. 'The mood' was usually a restlessness that felt like it was festering in Chirrut's bones. He hesitated to call it boredom. The wise do not get bored; inaction is an opportunity to gather one's thoughts and plans.
Chirrut preferred action.
Baze called it for what it was, but he never turned down the request, even though he didn't like fighting in close quarters. He much preferred ranged weapons. Bare heel against heel, a swift elbow to his chest, and he went down with a loud whump.
"I think you enjoy this too much," Baze grumbled at him from the floor, but his deep chuckle betrayed him to Chirrut's ears.
There were no Jedi anymore, no one to pass on the particulars of the order, but their echoes remained on Jedha. He'd grown up in a cradle of Jedi history, but though elders and warriors could teach him many things that formed the dying order, his discipline was his own. He kept himself honed, and let the Force shape him as it willed.
And it did. He felt it, even if he couldn't use it.
But he could use his body (most of it, at least), and so he learned and trained and made daily ritual of his practice. Usually while Baze commented mildly from behind. Sometimes, as Baze humored him one on one.
Chirrut reached down and pulled him back to his feet, and they began again, maintaining contact at the wrist, waiting for the slightest tension to react. His strike was redirected with one hand, pulling his arm past Baze and momentarily throwing him off balance. Another strike he parried, palm upwards, Baze's arm sliding ineffectually through the crook of his wrist.
And then, another chance. Baze's strike went wide, leaving him open on one side- so Chirrut planted a foot inside his and wove an arm around his shoulder until Baze was dragged back down to the floor, arm pinned to his back.
Chirrut waited a moment before releasing the hold.
"I should just stay down here. I shouldn't give you the satisfaction of another round." He heard the slide of cloth on stone as Baze shifted his arm into a more comfortable position.
"All right." So Chirrut sat down on his back.
Baze huffed a grunt of discomfort.
"I'm not that heavy."
"Yes, you are."
"You don't like it, get up."
A silence fell between them, interrupted by a soft sigh of defeat. Baze stilled, his breath slowed. That was that. Chirrut smiled in satisfaction.
But before Chirrut could stand, Baze tensed suddenly, inhaling sharply (so fast, Chirrut didn't catch it in time) and swiftly threw his weight to the side, throwing Chirrut off backwards. Baze rolled, quickly pinning him down with a hand on his chest.
Chirrut startled- the air was knocked from his lungs momentarily, but then he laughed in delighted surprise. He felt a wave of intense fondness wash over him in that moment, enough for two people.
The Force affected him in particular ways, most of which he'd come to recognize. He could sense emotion, to an extent that was initially confusing in his youth. But where others could be a tumult of conflict, pushing and grabbing at his own feelings, Baze was a warm breeze, a calm after a sandstorm.
Chirrut reached up and placed a hand over the one on his chest before Baze could pull away. Slowly, his fingers danced across Baze's glove, seeking its fastenings and tugging the glove off of his hand before dropping it next to him. He laced their fingers together, palm to palm, a gentle weight against his sternum. A still serenity fell over him, despite the bustle of the streets outside. An animal croaked softly in the distance, two people shared a laugh, a tank rolled by several blocks away. In their tiny home, in that brief moment, a tranquility had settled.
They remained like that for several moments- hands linked over his chest as their breath slowly synchronised, until Baze broke the silence. "Stop trying to read me."
Chirrut grinned. "I don't need to read you. I've already read you a thousand times."
"And what am I telling you?"
"That you like me." That was a lie. The word 'like' was inaccurate. Inadequate. "That you don't like that I won."
He heard Baze scoff under his breath. "You won? I'm not the one on my back on the ground."
"You're at one to two. You want to try to make it three to two?"
"You're lucky, I have nothing else to do today."
Chirrut laughed again, ready to offer a few suggestions, before the reverie was interrupted. His smile faded. He heard rather than felt the change in the atmosphere, the low rumble of something approaching the city.
A Star Destroyer.
He slowly withdrew his hand. "They're back."
The mining was like a physical pain, a gaping wound in the heart of the city. He felt it not just in the Force, but as a deep despair that they were losing everything. The city, and half the moon, had been practically gutted at this point. How much more could they take?
"Already?" Baze asked, accepting the discarded glove as Chirrut got to his feet.
They readied themselves without speaking, the only noises between them the shifting of fabric and the heavy clanking of weaponry. Chirrut pulled on his boots, always left immediately next to the door, and reached out, fingers grazing the wall until they found his staff.
"Do you ever wonder if it does any good?" he asked quietly. It wouldn't really stop him if the answer was 'no', it wouldn't deter him, but sometimes he wondered if he was really protecting anything at all. If perhaps it was only an exercise in futility, at this point.
"It's better than if you did nothing," Baze replied.
"You don't think it's a lost cause?" He tried to keep the heaviness from his voice. He already knew how Baze felt about the matter- this city was just as much his own, but the spiritual connection was gone, long since trampled and faded.
"I think," Baze began, interrupted by the brief 'click-snickt' of his rifle being connected to an ammunition belt, "that if there's a chance to make a difference, if there's some opportune moment to make even the smallest victory, you won't find it if you don't go out there."
A smile turned up the corners of his lips. "You don't have to come with me, you know."
"Yes, I do," Baze argued mildly. "I'm not letting you get yourself killed saving everything without me."
And with that, they returned to the streets, to their temple sentry, to their not entirely hopeless cause.