Keeler needs more of this post-coital reverie. It's exactly the brand of calm and clarity that he lacks on a more regular basis. No need to think, no need to worry, just the pleasantly static buzz that leaves him completely and utterly in the moment and without concern. Encke pulls out and rolls away, and Keeler finds himself unconsciously following, turning himself to press against the fighter's chest and wind an arm around his waist. Just the way they normally settle down for the night, curled around each other and drowsy from the day's exertions, with the newly-birthed caveat of nudity and carnal knowledge.

But then, We need to talk. And Keeler groans internally, resists the temptation to roll his eyes. Because immediately, his mind engages the high anxiety, abandons lucidity for apprehension. Praise doesn't come in the guise of We need to talk; there are a million things that could come out of Encke's mouth right now, and a vast majority of them will leave him hurting. He can hear them on Encke's lips already. We can't fall in love; which Keeler knows, even if it's already too late. Or, Ground rules: no talking to other boys, which is as ridiculous a command as the notion it accompanies. Or, We can't let this interfere with our work; when it's going to -- in a thousand tiny, incomprehensible ways -- whether they strive for a disconnect or not.

Deep breath, and Keeler shifts again, eases himself back enough that he can meet Encke's eyes, and looking every bit the child about to be chastised. Because what else could this possibly be?

"Mm," Keeler offers as an invitation to proceed, then: "How are you even capable of thinking after that? Starting to think you worry more than I do."