Enjolras's mind is already on plans and tactics, the autopsy of a failed revolution and the changes that might remedy some of its disasters. But all the same, his lips twitch at that sally.

He knows himself. If lack of laughter's a fault, then yes, it's one of his.

Grantaire is on the other side of the room; it's not so large, but still, it divides them. Enjolras doesn't reach to press his arm or shoulder as he might otherwise. Instead, after that brief instant of humor, he turns to let himself out.