Laertes has been busy at the same work, drawing off sweater and shirt and jeans; when his eyes meet Enjolras's again, they're as bare as one another, like two guileless youths in a pastoral painting. Laertes likes that Enjolras is neither proud nor ashamed. It seems right that he should exist complete unto himself, untouched by the weight of others' regard.

Even so, Laertes can't help laying a hand over the scar that lies closest to Enjolras's heart. It does not escape his notice, that the number matches the number of Enjolras's friends. "If thou wouldst not have me look, or touch, I won't," says Laertes softly.