The answer earns Damian a grave and considered nod in response. Enjolras doesn't know Marius particularly well outside of their mutual friendship with Courfeyrac, but he would feel compelled to do the same for him in a similar situation. For Gavroche, and Eponine, as well, and possibly even for the handful of strangers he'd met in the Arenas and the Capitol. He had led himself to believe in an equality in death, or at least that there should be meaning in it. One of those principles was compromised by the very nature of the games, but the other could be maintained. A respect could be maintained.

"I am sure they would appreciate your efforts." There's a hoarseness to his voice and the words feel thick and coarse as they catch in his throat. Perhaps it's the flames, perhaps it's the subject matter. In either case, the situation has turned, at least to his mind, from a casual encounter to something more sobering.

"My name is Enjolras. May I ask yours?" He doesn't offer a hand in greeting, or any other superfluous gesture. In Paris, or even the Capitol, he might, but even so, there's a Laconic quality to this boy which makes him think that the lack of pleasantry is almost to me more appreciated than any ingrained sense of propriety.