His first mistake was not realising there's an 'after' this. After, Keeler curls up, diminutive in an ocean-wide bed that only looks bigger for the one person still half-heartedly intent to occupy it.
His second mistake was ignoring a classical flight before fight scenario, delaying until he could not only estimate, but witness hard damage, the way Keeler licks his wounds with the silent pride reserved for captains who decide to go down with their ship.
And his third mistake was assuming at any time, at any point, that Keeler is anything but a brilliant emotional amputee, who borrows control by osmosis and exercises strategy as a desperate measure against getting hurt.
That's three errors, counted - counted again, as Encke wastes away minutes, on the brink of leaving his seat at the edge of the bed, but never quite prevailing - and they're three more than he can afford. His hand reaches out to offer lies and comfort, to dig out the traces of Keeler's fine hair between onion layers of organic cotton; it falls, disoriented in empty retreat, eluding contact.
He needs his downtime, there are too many implications between them for Keeler to give them, and now, breathing uneven, he's stuck claustrophobically between two equally bad calls. The burn in his chest stings, spreads, and he exhales through it, keeps it in check. He needs a cigarette. He needs whatever interval of time and thoughtlessness tobacco and tolerable vice can provide. He needs -
"Keeler," he says softly, slow to rise and face the lines of the man who's now 'officially' his lover and his owner and his victim. The sheets slip beneath his bent knee with comic perseverance when he leans down and - finally, awkwardly - collects Keeler and his train of blankets like a bride bereft, one hand secure beneath the soft inside of his navi's legs, while the other struggles to support a thin back without bruising it. Maybe there's some use to Keeler's flimsy frame, because Encke can damn well carry him like this the entire span of this monster-cruiser, let alone the short distance to the suite bathroom.
"Sorry." And there's the conceit of debate on whether he's apologising for disturbing Keeler's beauty sleep, or his whole fucking life for the past three weeks. "That should have been a proper invitation."
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His second mistake was ignoring a classical flight before fight scenario, delaying until he could not only estimate, but witness hard damage, the way Keeler licks his wounds with the silent pride reserved for captains who decide to go down with their ship.
And his third mistake was assuming at any time, at any point, that Keeler is anything but a brilliant emotional amputee, who borrows control by osmosis and exercises strategy as a desperate measure against getting hurt.
That's three errors, counted - counted again, as Encke wastes away minutes, on the brink of leaving his seat at the edge of the bed, but never quite prevailing - and they're three more than he can afford. His hand reaches out to offer lies and comfort, to dig out the traces of Keeler's fine hair between onion layers of organic cotton; it falls, disoriented in empty retreat, eluding contact.
He needs his downtime, there are too many implications between them for Keeler to give them, and now, breathing uneven, he's stuck claustrophobically between two equally bad calls. The burn in his chest stings, spreads, and he exhales through it, keeps it in check. He needs a cigarette. He needs whatever interval of time and thoughtlessness tobacco and tolerable vice can provide. He needs -
"Keeler," he says softly, slow to rise and face the lines of the man who's now 'officially' his lover and his owner and his victim. The sheets slip beneath his bent knee with comic perseverance when he leans down and - finally, awkwardly - collects Keeler and his train of blankets like a bride bereft, one hand secure beneath the soft inside of his navi's legs, while the other struggles to support a thin back without bruising it. Maybe there's some use to Keeler's flimsy frame, because Encke can damn well carry him like this the entire span of this monster-cruiser, let alone the short distance to the suite bathroom.
"Sorry." And there's the conceit of debate on whether he's apologising for disturbing Keeler's beauty sleep, or his whole fucking life for the past three weeks. "That should have been a proper invitation."