The sharp snap of Quentin closing the book echoes around the room just long enough for the what? to be a not-entirely-clear bookend: irritated at interruption, or simply startled? It prompts Peter to raise a hand a wave it, dismissively though not as disinterestedly as it might come across and punctuated by the briefest of pauses as Peter's attention shifts from Quentin, to the wall, and back again whilst the handwave becomes more of a gesture at Quentin and the notebook.
"Just breaking the ice", he half-answers. "You seemed pretty wrapped up in—". That. Whatever that was.
At any rate, it'd been an of sorts, the kind of ice breaker designed to interrupt more than anything else. Peter has questions — predominately about where he is, why, and thanks to who; and about who Quentin is secondly; and whether Quentin has any relation to the first three sets of questions.
There are others, too — less at the back of his mind and more in a vague second-place, prominent enough to be the cause of the low-level panic in the pit of his stomach that says: nothing about this is good. The lack of light is ominous and only serves to make the shadows in the edges and the corners of the room seem more foreboding; make it less easy to make out the features of Quentin's face and details of his clothing. One of the few positives, Peter thinks, is that the absence of harsh lighting is a lot more friendly on his headache than anything more constructive for seeing would be.
There's a pause, then, one where Peter looks back at the ink on his hand and the corners of his lips twitch upwards, just briefly and he adds—. "It was either that or I let you in on my shameful secret — that I really don't understand immersive art installations."
no subject
"Just breaking the ice", he half-answers. "You seemed pretty wrapped up in—". That. Whatever that was.
At any rate, it'd been an of sorts, the kind of ice breaker designed to interrupt more than anything else. Peter has questions — predominately about where he is, why, and thanks to who; and about who Quentin is secondly; and whether Quentin has any relation to the first three sets of questions.
There are others, too — less at the back of his mind and more in a vague second-place, prominent enough to be the cause of the low-level panic in the pit of his stomach that says: nothing about this is good. The lack of light is ominous and only serves to make the shadows in the edges and the corners of the room seem more foreboding; make it less easy to make out the features of Quentin's face and details of his clothing. One of the few positives, Peter thinks, is that the absence of harsh lighting is a lot more friendly on his headache than anything more constructive for seeing would be.
There's a pause, then, one where Peter looks back at the ink on his hand and the corners of his lips twitch upwards, just briefly and he adds—. "It was either that or I let you in on my shameful secret — that I really don't understand immersive art installations."