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Richter knows by now not to question the figure darkening the doorstep of the building across the street, keeps strolling away from the scene with an eye out for a laundromat even as it peels itself off of the wall it was leaning on and heads towards him. He wishes there wasn't blood pooling in his socks, winces a little with every soggy step. He's not familiar with this part of town, hopes he can get off the street before the approaching sirens pass him, heading towards the building he'd recently vacated.
The scuffling steps behind him don't bother to quiet as he slows down to get a bearing on his surroundings. The sign up ahead is bright, announcing 24-hour services, and he speeds up gratefully. He catches a glimpse of his blonde, slouching shadow in ripped jeans in the reflection of the storefront as he pushes the door open.
The dryer he's shoved against is still warm, and he darts his head around to check for other patrons, but it's as empty as a swimming pool in winter.
Both of Jacket's hands are balled into his slick windbreaker and he uses the grip to pull him into a harsh kiss, smashing their noses together briefly before they right themselves, teeth clicking as they tilt their heads.
The adrenaline of the night has faded, and the hand he snakes down to undo Jacket's jeans is weak, but he manages, faring a bit better with the kiss. Jacket's hands on his own fly are impatient, and he's yanking his pants and underwear down as soon as he can.
They pull out of the kiss for air, and Jacket runs his hand up his neck, dragging another man's blood across his jaw.
Richter is the first to get his hands around their dicks, and the friction is too much, even with his palms as clammy as they are.
In such close quarters, he has to crane his neck to get at Jacket's sharp jaw with his mouth. Richter wonders what this fence post of a man, sickly pale in the fluorescent lighting, knows about close quarters, literal or metaphorical. He knows almost nothing about him but he bets a lot, and not very much, respectively. It's in how he commands himself, silent except for the microexpressions that flit across his face so quickly. This is a man not used to connections of a nonmurderous variety, and Richter can tell he's been the first person to be afforded the privilege to get used to his face, let alone to begin to compile a mental library of all the ways it can rearrange itself. He hasn't gotten any of them figured out yet, but that hasn't stopped him from trying.
Jacket bats his hands away, and spits on his palm in a matter of fact way that has him reconsidering his earlier assessment of his 'metaphorical close quarters' experience. So not his first experience, but it's been a while.
They're both exhausted, and it shows in their movements, both trying to get off as quickly as possible, all pretense stripped away to avoid expending more effort. The rhythm is steady, only adjusting for Richter's little involuntary hip movements, something he hadn't been able to get under control even back when he was getting laid regularly.
Richter drags his blunt nails across the exposed skin right above Jacket's ass just to see another tiny reaction. This one looks a bit like intrigue, and the strokes speed up. Richter tries again and gets a low sound in return.
Jacket cums a couple of pulls later, fluid dripping down and providing a slide so good that Richter himself cums soon after, spattering Jacket's t-shirt.
After they recover, Richter strips down without theatrics, divesting Jacket of his clothes in the same matter of fact fashion. Jacket takes a moment to look disgruntled, appearing smaller without his letterman, before allowing him to take everything but his namesake. He folds the jacket carefully, setting it on top of a dryer as Richter tosses everything into a machine, grabbing a rag left on the counter to scrub at the scabbing blood tracked from collar bone to cheek.
They sit together on a bench, the silent tension of previous meetings all but dissipated as they wait for their clothes to finish.