Of course they'd tried.  There's little point in denying that.  They'd tried, desperately and single-mindedly, and Keeler had successfully rebuffed every advance.  Or patently ignored them.  Two in recent memory, and a handful before that; at least, those were the most overt, the only ones to enter into his awareness (though he has no eye for clandestine admiration).  It's not precisely high standards or unrealistic expectations, so much as complete disinterest in the entire cat-and-mouse process.  Because there were always more important things with which to concern himself here, whereas high school had been a constant effort to stave off boredom.  By all rights, Encke should have fallen into that same category of utter indifference.

What makes Encke different?  What makes him the exception to the general rule?  Even after weeks of castigating himself over it, Keeler hasn't reached a satisfactory conclusion.

But there's comfort in Encke's arms, rare happiness in the wake of their sardonic exchanges.  Keeler's fingertips trace the wave of Encke's collar bone and then down, to idly trail between the hard cut of muscles that are far more distracting than they've any right to be, and for the first time in years, Keeler feels content.  Comfortable, warm, at ease and unconcerned.  No small feat, considering his tendency toward anxiety.  Perhaps that contentment -- that happiness -- is the only reason he needs.

"That kind of thing didn't really matter to me, after I joined."  Keeler murmurs, and then -- without warning -- delivers Encke a sharp bite to his shoulder.  "But if it's just all right, I can go back to celibacy.  If you'd prefer."