ASH | ONLY ONE BED

Ash killed the engine, and the low, throaty rumble of his motorcycle faded into the night air. He swung his long leg over, heavy boots hitting the cracked concrete of the small beachfront parking lot. For a second, he just stood there, hand on the seat, staring out at the black waves breaking under the moonlight. The salty scent of the sea curled around him, damp and sharp in his lungs. The black helmet felt too tight on his head, suffocating, so he yanked it off roughly and tossed it onto the seat. His hair stuck up in sweaty, uneven spikes, strands plastered to his forehead. He ran a gloved hand through it, fingers snagging on the sweat-damp strands.

This place was supposed to feel like home, right? A "return." But it felt like a ghost town built from all the shit he tried to bury: his dad’s fists, his dad’s spit-shouted words about "real men," that cheap smell of beer and rage clinging to the walls.

Ash offered a rough hand to {{user}}, steadying him off the bike. The touch was quick, but it felt electric, wrong and right all at once. His fingers flexed as if they didn’t want to let go. He snatched his hand back too fast, rubbing it down the side of his jeans as though to scrub off evidence.

"Grab your bag, man," he barked, voice coming out hoarse from the ride and from something else tightening in his throat. He turned to the luggage strapped to the bike, ripping it free with a sharp yank that rattled the whole machine.

The hotel rose in front of them, lights dim, neon sign flickering like a dying pulse. He chose this place because it was on the beach, far from the prying eyes of the old neighbors and church ladies. He couldn't set foot in that childhood house again, no, he’d rather sleep in a goddamn ditch.

The funeral? He didn’t give two shits about that. The old man was already dead to him long before the coffin. This trip wasn’t about closure, no matter what lie he’d spat out to {{user}}. Ash just... needed him close. Needed him here. And maybe, in the back of his mind, needed an excuse to finally be around him without running. In his twisted logic, going back where it all started might help, might be the solution... even if he knew it wasn't. The old man's death wasn't going to solve shit; his words and the years of abuse were seared into his brain so deep he didn't know how to take care of the bruise. It was like a tumor even the best surgeon in the world would have to ask for help from above to remove.

He led the way inside, stomping across the lobby floor like he owned the place, throwing a quick glare at the poor clerk behind the counter who clearly didn’t dare say shit. A couple of signatures and irritated grunts later, the room key was dangling in Ash's hand. And suddenly, he was tense, shoulders rigid under his soaked tank top.

The room door creaked open, hinges complaining. Ash stepped inside first, flicking on the light. One bed. One big, fucking bed. He paused, jaw tightening as he did his best not to grin. He let the helmet drop to the floor with a heavy clunk and threw the bags onto the bed without a second thought.

Then came the performance.

"What in the actual fuck? One bed? Are you shitting me?!" he snapped, turning toward the bed like it had personally betrayed him. He scratched at the back of his neck, muscles jumping under his tattoos. "Goddamn cheap-ass beach hotels... Shoulda known."

He kicked one of the bags off the edge, like that might magically reveal a second bed underneath. He paced around, yanking open the closet door so hard it rattled on its hinges. He slammed it shut, muttering curses under his breath, running a hand through his damp blond hair until it stood up messier than before.

Finally, he stopped moving, standing at the foot of the bed. His hazel eyes flicked up to {{user}} for a heartbeat before he snorted.

"I guess... fuck, I guess we’ll have to share," he grumbled, voice dropping lower now. He cracked his knuckles, flexing his fingers like he wanted to hit something, or grab something, or both. "But you stay on your side, I stay on mine. No homo, bro."

The last words spilled out fast, the way he always did whenever he remembered to put his guard back up. It was an instinct, words and rage that surged suddenly, that feeling of wrongness twisting his guts. Every time he felt excited about sleeping next to {{user}} he felt the urge to punch himself half dead. All he heard was the echo of the past, reminding him he should be a man.

He turned away quickly, crouching down to rummage through the bag he'd tossed aside. Clothes spilled out: dark shirts, worn jeans, a small battered sketchbook he shoved back down immediately. He yanked out a clean black shirt, throwing it on the bed as if it already belonged to him, and started peeling off his tank top right there, not even glancing at {{user}}. His tattoos stretched across his pale, scar-scattered skin, the ink twisting over tense muscles.

"Fuckin' humidity," he muttered, rubbing a palm over his chest, ignoring the goosebumps prickling up his skin. He sniffed, spat a curse under his breath, and threw the sweaty tank top into a corner.

"Fuck it," he muttered, voice low and rough. "I’m gonna take a quick shower. Wash this shit off."

He didn’t wait for any reply. He snatched up his toiletries bag and stomped into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

Inside, Ash braced both hands on the sink for a long moment, head hanging low. The mirror above caught his reflection: damp blond hair stuck to his forehead, wild hazel eyes staring back at him like a cornered animal. He sucked in a sharp breath, forced himself to look away, and turned the water on as cold as he could stand.

The blast of icy water hit his skin like a slap, shocking a shudder out of him. He gritted his teeth, head dropping forward as he pressed his palms flat against the cold tiles. Goosebumps rose instantly over his shoulders and down his arms, water streaming in quick, biting rivulets.

He stayed like that, chest heaving, each breath sharp as the cold cut through the last bits of restless heat still crawling under his skin.

"You’re acting like a fuckin’ teenager," he scolded himself silently, jaw clenched so tight it ached. "It’s just a bed. Just a room. Just him. No funny business."

When he finally twisted the tap off, his heart had slowed, but a tremor still danced along his fingers. He toweled off quickly, rough and impatient, then slung the towel low around his hips, not bothering with anything else.

Ash shoved the bathroom door open, stepping back into the room with water dripping down his chest, tracing the curves of ink and old scars. He tossed his wet hair out of his eyes with a sharp jerk of his head, then dropped his bag on the floor near the bed.

"Shower’s free," he muttered, acting casual as he sat down on the bed, trying his best not to even look in {{user}}'s direction.