It's true. It's nearly impossible to be close friends with Combeferre without being drawn into occasionally ridiculous inquiries into natural philosophy and medicine, and Enjolras is generally willing when not otherwise occupied.

This includes now. Enjolras gives him a tolerant look, and then swings his leg over the miniature horse's back.

His feet are still on the ground, and there are no stirrups. Well.

If it's meant to be a toy, fine, but if it's meant to be any kind of instruction in horsemanship it's sadly lacking. This is nothing like sitting on even a small pony, and the saddle which is molded to its back is both strange and shoddily constructed.

(The light of the room's many lamps, and its more uncomfortably bright lights set into the ceiling, gleams on the red walls and reflects glitteringly from the mirrors scattered about the room. Amidst such surroundings, Enjolras's black suit is a single somber note, set off by his bright hair and rosy face, the noble profile warmed now by tolerant affection; set off, too, by the lacquered shine of the black horse he's sitting on. Its mane gleams.)

After a moment, he essays a somewhat dubious bounce.