The corner of Enjolras's mouth quirks a little, in some private and complicated emotion.

He's never liked being bled. No one with whom he's share the sentiment is at this table; the urge to look over to catch someone's eye is hard to suppress.

(And if he can't see the extent of Simon's courteously suppressed horror, he can at least guess that some of that polite neutrality is deliberate. It only stands to reason for a man of so far into the future.)

"I'll pass that on."