The Hand Of A Punchbowl Angel

20250615

Prompt from PrideOnThePage

It was one of those nights where Monty wasn’t sure whether he’d run away from home. It wasn’t like he’d decided to never go back, he just… he didn’t want to be in that house right now. For the third night running.
No idea whose house this was. Whose party. Whether they realised he’d wandered in as a tagalong, uninvited. Unwanted. But nobody had questioned him yet. And his stomach was full of pizza and sausage rolls and heady fruit punch.
When the room started spinning he opened the window just a crack and rested his forehead on the sill. Pondering whether drinking more would cause him to lose his sole meal or if he’d get away with it. He knew nothing he put in his stomach could fill the chasm in his chest, but… numbing it for a while sounded good.
Then fingertips gently pressed against his elbow.
He wasn’t in the way; he’d made sure of that, crammed himself into a corner away from everyone and everything. So either this person had figured out he wasn’t supposed to be here, or they were checking on him.
Monty managed what he hoped was a reassuring mumble. By now, “I’m fine” was a lie worn smooth.
They didn’t say anything. But the hand slowly drifted to his shoulder and squeezed. A small gesture. A moment of reassuring contact.
It jabbed the void he carried, the physical comfort swamped by something emotional, and tears sprang to his eyes. Without thinking he reached up and grabbed the hand, squeezing it tight, keeping it in place.
Their skin was warm and dry against his clammy fingers. Their nails were short but… he felt the slickness of polish on them.
Goth or… kindred? His pulse fluttered. He wanted to look up at them, let them see his earring, but the moment he opened his eyes they’d be a full person and he just… he couldn’t handle that complexity right now.
Their fingers laced into his. Their pulse a steady metronome caressing his skin.
Another hand - their other hand - slipped across his back to squeeze his other shoulder, and he shifted to grant access.
The massage started gentle until he leant into it. Then the fingers revealed their strength. Each squeeze hurt but each release brought matching euphoria and he could feel himself being remade by their touch and he never wanted it to end. They kneaded the void like dough, punching it down and folding it and twisting it until a pretzel of longing pulsed under his collarbone, salted by his tears.
Chapped lips pressed against his nape and it was the sweetest sensation in the world.
Their voice was deep. Husky. “You got somewhere to go?”
He did, kinda, but… saying ‘yes’ would mean letting go. So he shook his head.
“Phil’s got a spare room. Let’s borrow his shower.”
Oh. Right. Three-day funk. Monty’s cheeks warmed as he took his angel’s hand, his eyes fluttering open.
Just for tonight, he was home.

Prompt was “Touch”.