It had been much easier to thread through the crush of people (There are... many more people. Here. Tonight. Than I'd thought.) when Flint was following in Lily's wake. Yet he was tall enough, looked like he moved with some purpose... and he limped, so that didn't hurt. People stepped aside quickly enough, the introvert glancing back once to make sure Lily was all right, still following.
Flint leaned against the piano once he got close to it, taking a healthy swallow of the alcohol, far more than he'd sipped at the bar. Damn crowd. Steady on, Flint. A deep breath. Don't abuse fine liquor. Music won't sound right. Still, there was about half of it left when Flint set the glass down on a cocktail napkin, above the ledge where the sheet music would've been placed. If there'd been any music. He was playing blind, as he thought of it. Playing by ear, from memory. Truth be told, he preferred it that way.
Settling himself down in front of the keys, Flint decided that even though it might spoil the full effect of the outfit (Sorry, Delia), he needed to roll his shirtsleeves. As he removed first one cufflink, then the other, tucking them into a waistcoat pocket, Flint asked, "So. Music fan? Or just this decade?"