[ He shakes his head, taking a last few steps before coming to a halt three or four rows back from the stage edge, close enough he can see the man's face a little more clearly, not so close he's craning his neck to do so. ]

Not opera, especially, but I do enjoy music.

[ He sets a hand on the curving back of the nearest seat, thumb running over the textured fabric. The man at the piano watches him with those fog-colored eyes, almost unblinking, but he doesn't seem annoyed. If anything, he seems willing enough to have this conversation, strange as it is, though it's— it's strange. The melody he'd been playing had been simple but wistful, so full of some emotion Gustave couldn't quite name, but the man himself is almost reserved.

Or maybe he just feels awkward. If so, that's a sensation they share.

Gustave lifts his hand and gives the top of the seat a few pats, unsure if he should simply leave the piano player to his music and the empty hall, if the man is just politely waiting for him to go.

But he speaks about playing, his hobby, he calls it, and Gustave's brow flickers into a quick frown that clears up again almost instantly. Hobby it might be, but it means something to the man, he can tell. A little of that wistfulness from the melody that had led him here was there, just now, in his voice. ]

I'm not exactly a connoisseur, but if you'd like an audience, I promise to be both attentive and appreciative.