Chapter 60. Beacon Days 39

As Jaune strolled out of the Beacon Maid Cafe after his lunch, flanked on either side by Melanie and Miltia, he felt the distinctive shape of a shoe land upon his back to shove him through the doors all the faster. He moved with the motion, spinning on his heels to face his assailant not with a snarl but a cheeky grin for he had an inkling of who the culprit may be. Sure enough, the disgruntled maid named Ruby Rose met his gaze, one foot still off the floor.

"Thanks for the meal, Ruby. I'll drop by again tomorrow!"

Ruby stuck out her tongue. Grabbing the side of the doors, she slammed them shut. The message was clear: Stay out.

"She's so fun like this," said Melanie, echoing an earlier sentiment. "The food we ate wasn't bad, either, so I'm definitely down on coming back."

Miltia scrunched her nose. "I don't know. Like, that hamburger was fine, but the dessert could use work."

"Wasn't it alright? You might just be a picky eater."

"Am not!" Miltia turned to him for support. "Right, Jaune?"

Scratching his cheek, Jaune glanced away. He contemplated on how to soften the blow, and decided on honest truth.

"You kind of are?" he ventured, and Miltia stopped everything to give him this lost, soulful look.

Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes. It could have melted even the coldest of hearts, and left Jaune nearly spellbound. Nearly, because prior experience told him she was putting on an act, and he countered by poking her forehead—Miltia went cross-eyed to look at it, shattering much of her crocodile tears' effect on him.

He then clarified further, "And us, too, really. I wouldn't call it being picky. More…discerning."

"Ooh, I like that," Miltia cut in to make him smile.

"It's true, too. Don't you think we spend way too much of our paychecks on higher class cake shops and cafes?"

"I don't think so?" Melanie said with a slight frown. She shared a confused glance with her sister. "We go to normal places."

Jaune raised an eyebrow. "For meals like breakfast or dinner, yes." Their taste—his included—when it came to those ran the gamut of culinary options. It might be street food one day, sushi on the next, then the third night would have them happily cooking instant ramen at home. They weren't shy to eat whatever. Except, when it came to one thing. "I'd say Johnny's is the only casual place we go to for desserts, and that's because the guy sacrificed his entire family line for the power to make amazing ice cream." Or so went the theory among the shop's customers. The prevailing story flip-flopped from one possibility to another every few weeks. "Any other time, it's upscale patisseries or nothing. That colored our expectations, I think."

Miltia shot her sister a smug look. "See? I'm not picky, I'm fancy."

Now it was Melanie's turn. The idea that she had a poor sense of taste? It wasn't great to hear. Her cheeks puffed up in a pout, and she crossed her arms. The simple and honest petulance was no less effective on him than her sister's ploy.

He said, bluntly, "You had vanilla, and even the most basic vanilla cake already tastes pretty dang good."

Melanie opened her mouth to voice a protest, closed it, mulled on the statement, and finally responded with, "Fair."

Now, chocolate. You can mess up chocolate. The delicate blend of sweet and bitter was an eternal chase for perfection, one that pastry chefs the world over have never quite managed to accomplish. Some even say that such a flawless dream only existed in the fantasy of our imagination, that the beauty of chocolate lay in its manifold flavors, each suited to a different tongue.

To sum up the point of that, the chocolate cake he ate back there was kind of meh in his opinion. Serviceable, but not anything special, and not suited to his tongue. He's had worse, he's had so much better. The food certainly wasn't the main draw of the Beacon Maid Cafe.

To sum up the point further, Melanie said what they were all thinking at the moment, "Man, they're banking hard on the pretty girls, huh?"

And Maid Ren. Never forget Maid Ren.

He shrugged. "I mean, don't people say that's the point?"

"Even The Club doesn't survive on our gorgeous faces, Jaune."

"Though it's a close run thing," Miltia said, raising a finger in objection.

"Oh, definitely, that place would go bankrupt without us hanging around every night. But, you know, there's the drinks, the music, the good vibes. That stuff helps a little. A solid twenty percent."

So it's mostly them, was what she's saying in the end.

But she had a point. Was that really what it came down to? Jaune could believe the one about The Club, except he would have to admit that he's biased to hell and back in regards to the Malachite sisters. For others, however, was a shallow thing like beauty the be all, end all of these places? Did it cancel out the many times that Melanie and Miltia carried out their bouncer duties to beat up rowdy patrons? When Yang twisted a grabby maid cafe customer's hand so hard they heard the cracking of bones? Or the mediocre food they just ate?

"I suppose we'll confirm the truth of it at our next destination," he said.

"And where's that?" Miltia asked.

"The Haven Host Club, where those idiots have nothing but their faces going for them."

-o-

Down in a different wing of the building, a music room usually stocked with a full complement of instruments and sound equipment had been transformed into something new. Now, it's an establishment catering to an altogether different type of entertainment. There's still music drifting from its doors, a soft mix of jazz and club, only it was there to serve as…as the frills to a maid costume, let's say. A background detail, understated and best noticed when missing, yet enhancing the whole of the outfit.

(No, he wasn't stuck on maids. What would give a person that silly idea?)

Upon entering the host club, Jaune was struck by how familiar it seemed to him, like coming home. A long look around the room placed the sensation—Haven had borrowed the playbook for his uncle's nightclub. Bright lights illuminated the central space of the room. It's where the liveliest portion of the business carry on, with food and drinks and raucous laughter. At the same time, careful positioning of those same lights, in combination with curtains to block out the windows, dimmed the booths along the walls. It shifted the mood there to a quieter, more intimate setting.

The drinks flowed freely, glasses drained and filled again at a brisk pace. Imitations of alcohol, rather than the real thing, judging by the bartender's stock (and the fact that he would have had words if they bought from a source other than him), but the atmosphere was authentic enough to sell the image.

The men in suits, he need not mention overlong. They're everywhere, scattered across the room. By habit, they became categorized as nameless mooks in his mind.

A second look, this time drawing on his experience as a Yakuza, and he took in the subtler notes. Patrons, drunk on ambiance, were spilling their life stories, and secrets, in far greater details than they perhaps should. It's nothing damning—much—since for the most part these customers comprised students of the Academies or Vale's universities, with a smattering of mid-twenties on their day off and mothers whose children enrolling here will be very embarrassed come tomorrow. A younger crowd, playing at pretend.

The money exchanging hands was as far as it got from pretend. The silent girl handling the counter stood next to a cash register that bulged with Lien. At their tables, people handed over stacks of Lien cards, sometimes using it to compete for the attention of their preferred host. Jaune found it rather unnerving how they would afterwards leave the shop while flat broke with grins on their faces.

Rubbing his chin in thought, he considered the potential for this business. Drop the setup into the sleazier side of town, and he can see it profiting the Red Axes a hundredfold over what was happening here. Information, money, connections, a confluence of many desirable traits were present, while the similarities it shared with his uncle's place meant an easy start.

Jaune's eyes changed to money signs as he came to a decision.

Yoink. This idea was his now. A summer project to get him some spending funds.

As Jaune contemplated a second vacation to Vacuo and the very serious implications thereof (mainly of the swimsuit variety), an employee detached themselves from the general goings-on, making a beeline for their group. Behind them, a forlorn chorus of cries went up to lament their departure. The host in contrast, wore an expression of great relief. One would think they've escaped a lion's den.

Androgynous features, just shy of soft femininity. A crisp suit in mono white. Green hair styled in a boyish cut for the occasion. The result was the prettiest man, who in truth was no man. Haven had an answer to Maid Ren in the form of Host Reese—although the girl might harbor objections to her role.

Jaune pointed to his cheek as she drew near, "You have a little…"

With a squeak, a flushed Reese wiped at the lipstick mark on her own cheek left by a flirty customer.

"How long has it been there?" she cried. "Is that why they all kept trying to sneak a kiss on me?"

The seething jealousy of her fellow hosts within earshot was a thing to behold. A few among them appeared quite popular—three quarters of Team SSSN in particular—but Jaune noted how the mood at their tables were still subdued compared to the area Host Reese just vacated. None of them had a lipstick mark to their name. It was only her.

Weird. Wasn't she a little too short? Her hair too bright? Figure too slight?

"I feel like you're thinking a lot of rude stuff about me…"

"Of course not." His eyes drifted to the side, avoiding her piercing stare.

"I dunno," she deadpanned. "They say you're a lying liar who lies, and you denied that waaay too fast."

For strange reasons beyond Jaune's comprehension, she did not believe him. Surely, that cannot be. His sterling reputation was without reproach.

Drawing on the lessons of the Yakuza way, Jaune puffed himself up in outrage. "Who dares speak such slander!? Bring them out, I will have a talk with them!"

Melanie and Miltia broke off from their own conversation to applaud his spot-on act, taken straight from their teachings. He basked in the praise.

The lesson, at the core, went like this: Instead of admitting to one's flaws, try doubling down and challenge your foe to a fight. Win the ensuing battle, and you prove the righteous one in the eye of all parties involved. It's practically the method of mediation between Yakuza toughs.

(Results may vary. Lose, and you lick boots.)

Reese was less impressed by the display, lacking the proper background to appreciate it. Beside a split moment in the beginning where she quailed under his fury, the girl recovered to blow a raspberry. "That's half the school you're looking for, then. Even your goons, Team CRDL, believe it. Heck, everybody you've ever beaten up found out firsthand how shameless you are. Remember the card trick?"

Ah.

…Heh, right, tossing money in the air so he could stab people in the throat when they look up would leave a lasting impression. The anger he feigned vanished in a flash, revealing a sheepish expression.

"Come on, that's not me anymore," he said with a cherubic grin, one hand rubbing the back of his head.

Skeptical, she asked, "Really?"

"Really, really."

Showing that she had much to learn, Reese cracked a smile at that, sweet and innocent. "Alright, whatever, dude…" Letting the matter lie, she planted her hands on her hips, and said, "So I'm gonna take a wild guess you're here for that dumb contest with Sun?"

He nodded.

"Figures." She rolled her eyes. "You boys and your dick-measuring. We can get you set up." Looking to Melanie and Miltia, she asked, "Will he be attending to you for this thing?"

"Hell yeah!" Melanie cheered, Miltia nodding along emphatically.

Turning, Reese signaled to her classmates with a wave. "Cinder reserved one of the tables for you, so you can follow Arslan there. Jaune, stay here and we'll lend you a suit."

Jaune blinked, blankly, and tried to wrap his head around the notion.

Borrow a suit? Inconceivable!

Sensibilities thoroughly offended, he objected, "Tell me you're joking. What in the world could be wrong with what I'm wearing? This is my best jacket. The fabric is—"

"—Too serious, dude!" Reese finished for him. "It's intimidating! How did you never realize the way it looks to anyone coming from Mistral? Ditch the threads and we'll get you something better for the job."

Raging intensified.

As if it weren't enough, Reese seemed to recall a pertinent detail, and peered at him in suspicion. "Do you have that sword of yours in there right now? Yeah, that's got to go. You'll scare away our other customers if you pull that out."

Jaune whimpered at the unreasonableness of it all.

Fifteen minutes later, standing in front of a mirror, he…well, he didn't own up to the idea that he was wrong. No, never. Showing weakness in front of anyone but the twins was not in the cards.

That said, if the Haven students happened to offer the suit at a good price to him afterward, he wouldn't refuse. And, hey, in that light it wasn't a borrowed suit, was it? The whole elaborate charade would count as a fitting. An extensive stress test of the material before a purchase.

He turned this way and that, ensuring that everything looked tidy in the reflection. The clothes Reese provided him were a tad gaudy compared to the sets he usually wore. She kept it dark, which was good. Shiny, which was not, or at least not in this case where it suggested copious use of synthetic fibers. He held out hopes that the fabric was satin.

It didn't feel like satin. Sadness.

In happier news, the embellishments to the clothes helped to paper over the cheapness. It turned out he had a preference for flowers and vines embroidery on a suit. The muted purple shading really made the design pop when it's laid atop the black.

Reese gave an appreciative whistle when he walked out of the changing room.

"My taste is lit!" She circled him, scanning up and down. To check out the full effect, as she put it.

She seemed to linger for longer than necessary behind him.

"It's adequate," was the highest praise he'd allow. The empty spot under the jacket where a long knife should be added a slight sense of awkwardness to the ensemble, bringing down the overall score he would award the suit. 6/10, somewhat passable. "Which shop did you get this from, by the way? I might visit."

"Nah, it's nothing professional like that." As she spoke, Reese passed over a magazine marketed for young women she scrounged up from somewhere. It's not exactly what he had asked for, but Jaune took it anyway and began skimming the pages for a spot of last minute studying, listening with half an ear. "Cinder set up an arrangement with students from one of the fashion schools in Vale. We got these for practically free, and in return we showcase them to the public."

Even better. "Text me their number. I want to see what they can do with proper materials."

"I can ask around for it. If not Cinder, then Emerald might know. Ya ready, dude?"

Jaune held up a finger, gesturing to wait. "One moment."

The suit was important, but it wasn't everything.

As was so often the case, the lessons he learned under Melanie and Miltia were applicable on an almost universal basis. In every situation, he could find relevant advice to overcome the challenges facing him. Today was no different, and might perhaps be even more apt than usual, because the ordeal before him involved working in a host club.

And what was a host?

Well, at a basic level, he's some guy in a suit separating a person from their hard-earned money.

Thing was, that all depended on his ability to present an image, to sell the story. A host needed to behave a certain way, talk a certain way, and look good while doing it. They had to inspire those they meet, forge a reputation out of thin air that people could believe in. That larger-than-life persona was how they kept the customers coming back. It's a confidence act, when all is said and done.

It sounded sleazy. It was. Host clubs stood on the borderline of legal and illegal. At the worst of those establishments, their tactics have sent clients and employees spiraling into lifelong debt, ensuring that none involved could easily escape that life. The industry first took off in Mistral and became entrenched there over the years. In the modern day, they chafed in close proximity, often residing in the same general area—i.e. where the money was concentrated—and were locked in daily competition with each other for the largest share of the pie. Other Kingdoms, meanwhile, saw various offshoots springing up for one reason or another, though very few have achieved widespread success against local competitors.

So, yeah, they're pretty much Yakuza, just without the back alley brawls.

Jaune already had the suit, adjusted to match the setting. Now he needed the other elements of a foppish poser—ahem, of a man working this profession: the walk and the talk. A good host fine-tuned his to the taste of the guests. In this case, that meant Melanie and Miltia, because of course he was going to game the contest in his favor.

Also, they required pampering, and he was always happy to oblige.

The question was: what did they love to see from him?

Easy answer. Confidence. Attentiveness.

Placing the magazine down, Jaune rolled his shoulders, and leaned back a touch to affect the classic swagger of Yakuza everywhere.

That was the easy part, and the point where the analogy of Yakuza and host started to break down. One's a fighter, the other a lover. One's goal was to intimidate, the other to cajole. The rest of his attitude in the day to day, such as the stomping and the sneering, would do more harm than good from here on out.

Instead, he drew on his experience as a waiter going forward. What did that bring to the table? Gentleness, the smoothness of motion which conveyed a tranquil, approachable disposition a street punk lacked. He wasn't here for battle, but to charm, and his feet glided across the floor in a stark departure from the violent peacock strut for which he was known. He kept his strolling posture tight, elbows and knees in, going for a slow, sleek walk that highlighted his height. Half-lidded eyes and a roguish smile copied straight from the magazine completed the look; it melts hearts like nobody's business, apparently. (The magazine phrased it as 'dropped panties' in truth, but the sentiment stood.)

He brushed the curtains aside with one hand, strode out under the club lights, and the show was on.

Striking a pose of one fist on his hip allowed Jaune the chance to pause and absorb the scene in a natural manner, so as to orient himself without seeming lost. He soon located his girlfriends at a booth on the left side of the room, their circular sofa and table sectioned off behind a red rope denoting the host club's VIP area, or Queen Cinder's domain as Reese and her classmates nicknamed it for her eternal presence there—though the joke might be on them since she started calling it that too, loving the name.

They had spotted him in turn and were staring hard at his new ensemble, which was encouraging. Confidence buoyed, he sent them a wink.

Melanie and Miltia drooled.

Definitely buying this suit.

He weaved through the tables and guests to get to them, snagging a menu from the bar along the way. All three of them have a list of their favorite drinks, but considering they're all various shades of alcoholic none of those were being served here. He checked out the options with a surreptitious glance.

He looked up in time to catch a head of messy blond hair, and a monkey's tail, at the one other occupied table in the VIP area. Sun Wukong—in a gold suit of all things—turned around on his sofa at the exact moment Jaune passed him, and they locked eyes.

Time slowed down. The music faded to a murmur, then rose again in a crescendo to a fast, heavy beat. In this world, there existed only them, enemies at the start of a deadly duel.

"Wukong."

"Jaune."

"Nice suit." Finally covering up, are you? The sky must be falling.

"Thanks. Yours, too." Thanks. Yours, too.

Such was the intensity of their glares that those spectating swore they saw sparks erupt between them.

In the background came many a squee of girlish glee, and the snapping of photos, to remind them that, oh, other people were in the room.

"You seem to be taking good care of Cinder." He nodded to said person, who waved a magnanimous hand before clearly dismissing him from her mind, gaze drifting back toward Wukong to rake her eyes over his physique. "Getting an unfair headstart over me, are we? I knew you had it in you."

"Neptune told me Cinder was thirsty and needed something to drink. I couldn't leave her high and dry hearing that," Wukong explained. He then indicated Melanie and Miltia. "And you say that as if you didn't bring those two here."

Jaune gave a noncommittal shrug, admitting nothing. "Think what you like. Still, I suppose I could be generous. Use whatever advantages you have, Wukong. I'll just break through it all."

"That's my line, Jaune."

The tension would snap with but a single moment of weakness, the two wolves raring to tear into one another.

"May the best man win."

"May the best man win."

Nothing more needed to be said. Jaune pivoted on his heels, and continued on.

Let the contest begin.

…

…

…Jaune poured out a cup of tea, sliding it in front of Miltia as he laughed along to her tale. They might have talked for hours throughout today, and yesterday too, but the twins always seemed to have more stories to tell, more things to say. So, he sat back and let the sound of their harmonizing voices wash over him. It's a song he could listen to for hours on end.

Man, this was the life.

Although…

Where's my hot-blooded battle? The exchanges of our blades and convictions?

He had not a clue of what a host battle would look like, but he doubted it consisted of hanging out on a comfy couch and flirting. Okay, yes, it's nice. The three of them did that a lot, every chance they got, whether it was at their apartment hideaway or a rooftop cafe. He just couldn't shake the feeling that he was doing the 'host' thing wrong, and the same applied for Wukong at the next table over.

Hell, he forgot about the guy for the last five minutes. Nothing has remained of the earlier dramatic atmosphere.

Noticing a momentary flicker of Melanie's eyes, Jaune pushed thoughts of the contest aside, and pulled the plate bearing an assortment of chocolates closer to her. She eagerly snatched one up and popped it in her mouth.

"Thanks, Jaune," she said, smiling sweetly.

"Always, Mel." He hefted the teapot, tilting it a fraction. "More tea?"

She nodded.

To the outside observer, it would appear a careless pour, with Jaune holding the teapot out at shoulder height—two feet above the cup—and tipping it without hesitation. The smooth, even stream belied his effort, the cup filled to precisely three-quarters full and not a single molecule more. Not once did the teapot shake, nor the flowing tea waver.

A steady hand breaks fewer plates.
Thus once more in his pockets, the tips overflowed. –Service Lesson #02

The two girls appreciated the display, at least, clapping their hands for him. After, Melanie sipped at her cup. She hummed in contentment, missing that an errant drop of tea was trailing down the corner of her lips.

"Ah. Careful there," Jaune warned.

"Hm?" She tilted her head, not getting what he was referring to. With the pout, she looked adorable.

So, naturally, Jaune pulled her into his lap.

"There's tea on your lips, Mel," he said, leaning in.

Now understanding his intentions, she gave a saucy smirk, and drew closer. Her eyes fluttered shut in anticipation.

"No kissing!" Reese called out in alarm from her place at the bar counter before they could go any further.

Drawing back, the pair glared at her, with Jaune speaking up. "Hah? Why?"

"We're not that kind of place, okay? And, yanno, you might encourage them." Reese jerked a thumb to the side, indicating the gaggle of guests clamoring for their 'sweet prince Reese' to come out of hiding in the VIP area. "So, please, none of that," she begged, a tad anxious.

Jaune huffed in annoyance. "Fiiine. I guess I can tone it down." He held up his hands, entwined with that of Melanie and Miltia. "Is handholding allowed, or is that also too lewd for you?"

It worried him that the girl proceeded to seriously think about the matter, consulting with her classmates and everything.

Leaving them to that nonsense, he considered his next move. A line drawn in the sand on most physical acts has limited the options available at his disposal. The issue was, the twins have become accustomed to that level of intimacy, regarding it as a punctuation of sorts between him and them, used to finish off a round of flirting before they start anew. Removing it required a replacement act just as compelling, all the more so if he wanted to dispel the frown on Melanie's face. She had taken the interruption with great disappointment, dropping back in her seat with a whine to convey her protest.

He leaned in close, and whispered in her ear, "You're beautiful."

A hitched breath, and Melanie's eyes grew round at the unexpected comment. She seemed about ready to pounce on him, then thought better of it upon recalling the pesky rules of the host club and turned away with cheeks blushing red. Unable to contain a beaming smile, the girl played with her hair as she sent glances his way.

Well. This reaction was fine too.

In fact, he would like to see more of it.

A look to his other side revealed Miltia sporting an eager expression, bouncing in her seat as she waited for what he'd do. In his search for an answer to that, Jaune's gaze drifted down to her hand held in his. Bringing it up, he chanced a kiss on the back of it.

No dissenting voices ensued from the background. He took that to mean they've deemed such a thing innocent enough to be permissible in the host club. The effect could not be denied, though. Miltia appeared quite pleased by the courtly affectation taken from a fairy tale.

Jaune made a mental note to study those princess movies in-depth. There's gold for him hidden there, going by their responses.

The success of these two cases built him a roadmap, one he put to liberal use. Charming murmurs, little confessions, gentle touches, his repertoire expanded in real time as he delved into any sources of inspiration he could remember. Sprinkled into their conversation, it kept the tension between them on a strong simmer. At some point, the two sisters have ended up snuggled against his side.

He glared at Reese when she opened her mouth to object, striving to communicate in silence the utter bullshit of that call should she make it. Wisely, she raised her hands in surrender and backed off.

Sometime during the hour, Jaune vaguely recalled one intention or another to outdo Wukong and Cinder. Since he would very much like to win, he craned his ear and listened in on their competition to see how that's going.

He heard Wukong's voice striking an odd tone, and a stumbling cadence to his words that nevertheless suggested a song—no, poetry! Jaune peeked over the couch to catch a glimpse of their side, where the other boy had one foot planted on the table surface.

"Roses are red
Violets are blue
Your name is apt
I'm Falling for you."

Cinder Fall swooned.

Jaune gagged.

Breaking out the puns? In a poem? Blech.

That was terrible. Cinder loved it, and as Wukong lowered himself to a seat, his classmate heaped praises upon him for his grasp of the verse, of the depth of emotions, and of the subject matter to the point that he grew shy. She lauded him to the moon.

Once again, Jaune gagged.

Aaand now Melanie and Miltia were looking at him with clear expectation on their faces. Did they want him to compete with that? Jaune contemplated the idea.

Mala…Mel…Mil…Melons? No, Melanie would kill him. Dammit, there's nothing he can make out of their names!

They didn't even like puns. A lot of people would agree with that sentiment. As for the poem…well, for something so deeply personal, a host club seemed the wrong place for it. In what world did that not result in pure awkwardness for everybody?

Cinder's world, apparently.

The sight of the girl, joyful and full of laughter at Wukong's antics, caused Jaune to sigh. Grudgingly, he conceded a minor win to the other boy for that act.

Because that was the point, wasn't it? The people walking in through those doors may well be shy or hesitant to speak their desires, so don't just provide what they ask, provide them what they want. Sell a dream. Looks may draw a crowd, but the essence of service will have them coming back.

As Jaune had done, Wukong understood the purpose of the job—the soul of a host. He applied the right lesson, and arguably went further with it than even Jaune himself. Within the boy's eyes, there was no pride, no shame, only the crude yet sincere effort to create a memorable experience for his guest, accomplished off the cuff. The guy was a natural.

Jaune turned back to the twins with new resolve, unwilling to be outdone.

It's not about him. It's about them. And what Melanie and Miltia wanted, was a cheesy poem made for them.

"Roses are red…"

Sue him, he's not a poet.

The two boys ramped it up from there. Jaune broke out the drinking games for his table, a familiar thing sure to make Melanie and Militia feel comfortable despite the lack of actual alcoholic beverages. He threw a few rounds to them so they could gloat over him. Wukong came in after a while to suggest a match between their two groups, which turned out to be a play on Cinder's competitive spirit, the girl growing visibly excited any time she won.

Jaune dumped water on his own head on the excuse of cooling down, the wet shirt look doing a number of things to the twins. Wukong answered by taking off his shirt, because one) of course he did and two) another round of drinking games gave Cinder the pretext to run her hands all over his muscles whenever she 'turned the wrong way.' (There were an inordinate number of those instances, and Cinder started being happier with losing than winning.)

One unforeseen consequence, the rest of the host club took notice. Customers wanted a comparable experience, and the hosts had to step up their game. They copied Jaune and Wukong at first, but as time went on little pockets of ingenuity sprang up here and there, a few so inspired that Jaune followed their lead.

The place made money hand over fist, and Jaune helped them do it. He couldn't stop, even knowing that, too caught up in the drive to prove himself the better host.

He'd show them without a doubt that it was him.

-o-

Amidst the wild revelry, one host stayed out of it, ensconcing her butt on a seat at the bar and hissing like a cat at any who tried to remove her.

Watching the two boys leading this madhouse, she muttered to herself, "I wonder when they'll realize there's nobody keeping score."

Author's Notes: Sleepy. (⩌_⩌)

… (–_–) Zzzz