Enjolras retreats a prudent few steps, wincing, when the noise becomes deafening. Otherwise, he watches with fascination -- although he also averts his gaze from certain scenes.
(Are these fantastically detailed drawings, somehow, or some kind of miniaturized image of real people, or some other method entirely? He has no idea.)
At length, Combeferre switches off the device. Enjolras follows to the next room. Which is, indeed, violently pink. Numerous shades of violent pink, from the walls to the carpet to the upholstery to the ceiling beams to the spiral staircase in the center of the room. There are flowers. There are little painted birds. There's a hulking piece of furniture like a crossbreed between a sofa and a balcony.
Combeferre has, in fact, shuddered at the sight of it.
Enjolras looks across the room again. It's certainly full of... design choices.
no subject
(Are these fantastically detailed drawings, somehow, or some kind of miniaturized image of real people, or some other method entirely? He has no idea.)
At length, Combeferre switches off the device. Enjolras follows to the next room. Which is, indeed, violently pink. Numerous shades of violent pink, from the walls to the carpet to the upholstery to the ceiling beams to the spiral staircase in the center of the room. There are flowers. There are little painted birds. There's a hulking piece of furniture like a crossbreed between a sofa and a balcony.
Combeferre has, in fact, shuddered at the sight of it.
Enjolras looks across the room again. It's certainly full of... design choices.
"It has a second storey," he points out. Blandly.