Host Club on the Pleasure Planet (On the Pleasure Planet)

EPILOGUE

Benedict glanced up at the clock, blinking as he realized it was already past five. He practically leapt out of the worn leather chair he now called his own, nearly knocking it over and almost tripping over a couple of file folders he’d been storing on the floor at the same time.

He didn’t care; he was late. He’d gotten so caught up in figuring out details for the upcoming gala—specifically, how much cheese they needed to order from Abbot Bartholomew and the brothers—that he’d lost track of time.

He grabbed his keys, hustled out of the office, and locked up before taking the stairs two at a time. He joined the ever-present flow of people in Kateria’s streets, rushing toward his destination.

The Pub was as dingy as ever, but the atmosphere had changed. Now when he entered, it didn’t reek of desperation. Instead, there was a cozy, homey feel to it—like one was entering a hall of friends and good cheer.

In fact, it felt something like the dining hall at the abbey always had, and Benedict almost smiled as he made his way to the end of the bar, claiming the seat next to the squeaking door that let the bar staff in and out. One of the servers nodded to him, clearly recognizing him although he couldn’t say he knew them. Probably new staff, then.

Three arms landed on the bar in front of him, slamming down a pint and making him jump. He turned and found Mig frowning at him. “You’re late,” she practically growled.

He let his ears slide back toward his skull. “Er, sorry?” He turned, scanning the bar. “But so is Oz.”

Mig’s frown deepened as she pulled back. “Yeah,” she agreed, but she didn’t add anything further. She folded her arms and looked toward the door, as though she might summon the Vetruvian simply by staring hard enough.

It seemed to work, because the door opened and Oz stepped in, glancing down at the watch strapped around his wrist. It wasn’t anything fancy—plain metal with a black leather band—but it made Benedict’s heart swell to see it there. It had been the gift he’d chosen for Oz on their first anniversary.

Mig relaxed as Oz approached them. “Ah,” she said, “there’s my best customer.”

“I thought I was your best customer,” Benedict said, pointing to himself.

Mig gave him a cool look. “Second-best,” she said, lifting a brow that dared him to challenge her.

“I don’t see how,” he grumbled. “Oz never pays the tab.” Benedict always did, partially because Aunt Belladonna’s estate still had bank accounts on bank accounts, and partially because he wanted Oz to save his pennies for something he really wanted. Like the trip to Vetruvius he kept talking about. The shapeshifter wanted to see his ancestral home.

Oz slipped onto the barstool next to Benedict. “Sorry,” he said, almost breathlessly.

Mig offered him a stein, which he looked at like he’d never seen one before, eyes widening. “Ah, no thanks,” he said, shaking his head and pushing the mug away gently.

“What!” Mig boggled. “My best customer refusing his pint?!”

“How are you going to keep the business afloat?” Benedict asked, and Oz’s shoulders came up around his ears as he flushed.

Mig shook her head. “I’ll figure something out,” she said, then glared at Benedict. “And don’t you dare offer me another loan.”

“It’s there if you need it,” Benedict said. He’d offered Mig a loan to help smooth the ownership transition. Of course, it had been a fairly generous offer—no interest, flexible payment terms, and so on—but the new owner of The Pub had her pride, and she’d refused. She’d wanted to see if she could stand on her own two feet first.

So far, it seemed she was standing tall, although Benedict figured she might eventually need the loan to redecorate. Maybe get rid of the dive bar decor.

But that was none of his business anymore. The Pub belonged to Mig and her staff, and they could do as they pleased.

He turned to Oz. “Not drinking?” he asked, lifting a brow.

Oz turned that burnished color again and shook his head. Mig passed him a fresh stein filled with water—no further questions asked. He stared down into it, his brows knitting, his mouth falling open, like he had something to say. Benedict sipped his own beer, prepared to wait for the Vetruvian, but someone called his name and he turned to face the approaching alien.

By the time he was done with the conversation about construction at Gastronomique, Oz had drained his stein and slipped off the stool. He was looking at his watch. “I’d better get to work,” he said.

Benedict took another swallow of his now-warm beer, then slid the stein toward Mig. “See you tomorrow!” he called to her, waving, then following Oz through the bar.

He lengthened his stride to keep pace with the Vetruvian as they weaved through the busy sunset streets. Oz, the little bastard, kept lengthening his stride too, and soon Benedict was jogging to keep up with him.

They were both panting by the time they reached Saveur. Benedict grabbed Oz by the shoulder just before the shapeshifter darted in the kitchen door. He dragged Oz back into the alley, clapping both hands on his shoulders and glaring at him.

The Vetruvian stared back, and for a second or two, Benedict nearly drowned in his brown gaze. Then he shook his head, remembering his purpose, and said, “What’s going on with you?”

Oz seemed to shrink away from him, and Benedict tightened his grip, realizing the shapeshifter was trying to literally slip away from him. “Out with it, Oz.”

“Er,” Oz said, “maybe … maybe we could talk about it at home? After close?”

Benedict frowned but slowly released his hold on Oz. “Fine,” he said. “But I don’t know what’s going to be easier to talk about at four in the morning than it is now.”

Oz took a sharp breath. Instead of saying anything, he made a beeline for the door.

He studiously avoided Benedict until close, which was a feat in and of itself, considering tonight was the Harvest Moon Masquerade Ball, which meant they were hopping all night long. Benedict wished he could have gotten lost in the warm glow of the night, of a successful event: the dining room was full of chatter and clatter, and karaoke was in full swing. Even the silent auction went better than he could have hoped for.

But every time he glanced over at Oz, that nagging feeling came back, eating away at the sense of pride and success, casting a shadow over what should have been a triumphant evening.

Finally, the last patrons were ushered out, the floors were mopped, the lights turned down, and he locked the door with a decisive click. Then he turned on Oz, who was patiently standing on the stoop. Despite being avoidant, the Vetruvian had waited for him to walk home—maybe force of habit, or maybe he’d had enough time to process whatever he needed to tell Benedict.

They started to walk without a word. The moon shone down on them, its luminosity waning in the face of the rising sun, dawn already streaking the sky.

“So,” Benedict drawled, kicking at a loose stone, listening to it skitter against the cracked asphalt as they turned the corner. He jammed his hands in his pockets.

He almost tripped over a pothole that had been there for ages as Oz blurted, “I’m pregnant.”

It took a second or two to right himself. “Sorry, what,” he managed to croak, turning a bewildered glare on the Vetruvian.

Oz hunched his shoulders up around his ears and stared at the ground. Benedict waited a second or two, then said, as gently as he could, “Ozzie?”

Oz turned his head viciously. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know it could happen,” he said, scowling.

Benedict let the gears in his head turn for a second or two, then said, “Why are you sorry?”

Oz startled. “Uh, because?”

“Because …”

“Because I didn’t know it could happen? Because we weren’t careful? Because?—”

Benedict waited again. One thing he’d learned about Oz in the last year was that the Vetruvian very rarely started with what was actually bothering him, only coming to it if you let him spiel long enough.

Sometimes, though, he didn’t, and Benedict needed to fill in the blanks. “Because you don’t want this?” he asked, tilting his head. That was honestly the only reason he could see to be upset.

Sure, he was surprised , and it was gonna take him a hot minute to process the reality of what Oz had said. He felt numb to it for the moment; the idea that Oz, his Vetruvian partner, was pregnant, didn’t feel real. He’d have to give it a couple of days.

Oz winced, then looked at the ground again, almost sorrowfully this time. “Because you don’t want this,” he practically whispered.

Benedict thought about that for a moment, pursing his lips, weighing his answer. Finally, he asked, “Why wouldn’t I want it?”

“Uh,” Oz said in a terribly sarcastic tone, like he was about to tell Benedict the most obvious thing ever, but he stopped there. He looked wildly at Benedict. “Because you don’t?”

“Who says?”

They ground to a halt outside some abandoned shop and just stood there, staring at each other.

“Think about it,” Oz said.

“I am thinking about it,” Benedict said. “So my Vetruvian boyfriend didn’t know he could get pregnant, and now we’re …”

“Having a baby,” Oz practically wheezed.

Benedict nodded his head once. Oz was looking more frantic by the second, so he said, “I don’t see any issue with that, other than if my boyfriend doesn’t want to have a baby.”

Oz faltered. “I—uh. I … don’t know,” he fumbled finally. “I’ve never … I never thought about it.”

Which made sense. Oz had, one, never thought it was possible, and two, probably never given thought to having kids, because he’d only been free for a year of his life. Before that, he’d been a slave—and just like he’d never thought about getting married or falling in love, he wouldn’t have considered kids.

Benedict put an arm around the Vetruvian’s shoulder, drawing him in closer. “Let’s think about it, okay?” He gave Oz a little squeeze, trying to reassure the shapeshifter.

Oz exhaled, sinking against Benedict as he relaxed. “Yeah,” he said, “okay.”

Benedict squeezed him again, then took a step forward. Oz didn’t follow, so Benedict turned back, facing the shapeshifter.

Oz’s brown eyes were shining in the lamplight, and Benedict slowly realized the Vetruvian was crying. “Oz?” he asked, doing his best not to panic. This was a guy who had taken a bullet for him without second thought, who had beaten up mobsters, who tended bar in a host club on Kateria. Not much made him cry.

“I love you,” Oz sniffed, then lifted an arm to dash the tears out of his eyes.

“I love you too,” Benedict returned, opening his arms. “C’mon, let’s get home. The sun’s almost up.”

Oz sniffled again, then rushed forward, allowing Benedict to settle his arm on his shoulder again as he dabbed at his eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered, “hormones.”

“I don’t think hormones caused you to love me,” Benedict said, and Oz scowled.

“You’d be surprised,” he said dryly, and Benedict grinned, then clapped the Vetruvian on the shoulder.

He was pretty sure love was more than a chemical reaction, but he’d never been one to follow science. Instead, he believed, perhaps not in God any longer, but in a world of spirits and magic, a divine universe where anything could happen—even a monk and a bartender falling in love while salvaging a criminal empire on the notorious pleasure planet.