It is habit, truly, but he'd also worn it today to attempt to cover some of those bruises if he should run into a certain person that might ask questions of him. Enjolras closes his eyes briefly at the kiss, and nods, settling into a familiar routine. First the waistcoat, then the trousers, lastly the shirt and undergarments; all disposed of with a simple economy that is quite characteristic of Enjolras. He does not pause to show himself off or preen, simply because he does not see the point of it. Laertes may look all he likes, should he please; Enjolras has nothing to hide, not even the nine lingering scars that mar his smooth chest. He stands for a moment after placing his clothes in a somewhat neat pile, eyes flicking to Laertes' face, somewhat uncertain.