The Power of a Touch
The power of a glance. That was what Marius obsessed over. According to him, a glance was the most powerful thing in the world. But lying there, tangled with the sheets in Enjolras' arms, Éponine couldn't help but think that the man she thought she loved was wrong.
A touch was far more powerful. A touch of the hand, the brush of skin against skin, a soft kiss on the lips... A glance was lust, while touch was desire, passion. Where a glance was longing, a touch was hope.
She hadn't felt hope in a long time, but Enjolras' touch had awoken it within her that night, a hope that burned like a fire. More than that, he had made her feel desired and beautiful. Maybe that went hand in hand with the hope, but that didn't matter to her. All she knew was that he had made her feel it through his touch.
She had never thought in her life that a man like Enjolras could make her feel so much. She had always seen him from a distance, high on a pedestal, seemingly above such human desires. As cold and distant as the stars. However, that had not been the case tonight.
He had been as far from the cold, marble statue that his friends made him out to be as was possible. He had been warm, fiery, almost animalistic as he ran his hands down her back and sides, and had seemed half-starved as he had kissed every inch of her fragile body – her lips, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts...
She shuddered at the memory of the fire he had awoken within her, unlike anything she had felt before in her life. She doubted even Marius could make her feel such things, and the thought confused her, for she was so sure that she loved him. And yet...
As she lay there, gazing at him, she felt her heart soften. She could see clearly now the shadows around his eyes, and the lines across his face from worrying, even as he slept.
She was hardly surprised at what she saw. He was the leader of the revolution, even though he acted hard and strong around his friends, he was still human. He was just as weak as any other.
Carefully, she reached out a hand to brush a lock of his golden hear, still damp with sweat, away from his face. He looked almost peaceful asleep, but the clear exhaustion – both from his hard work and from the events of less than an hour earlier – marked him too much. Part of her wanted to leave, to avoid the awkwardness that would inevitably come in the morning when they both woke, but she found found for the first time in her life that she couldn't.
She could not bring herself to leave him now, when the revolution was set to start in the morning, at General Lamarque's funeral procession. She couldn't help but feel now that just then, in the brief calm before the storm, he needed her just as much as she needed him.
Softly, she pressed her lips to his head, and allowed herself to rest in his arms. Whatever the morning brought, she would have now, and that was what mattered. She would be able to remember the power of his touch.