[BL] Dearest Bussy

The sky outside was the color of over-steeped hibiscus tea—dark, bitter, and vaguely floral. Waikīkī hummed beneath him like a sleeping animal, restless but contained. And Bussy… Bussy sat perched on the marble edge of a rooftop infinity tub like a deity no one dared worship out loud.

He was naked, except for a silk Versace robe sliding off one shoulder and a delicate gold chain around his ankle. Steam curled up from the bath, fogging the night air and clinging to his cheekbones like flirtation. A bottle of Dom stood sweating next to his knee. In one hand, a Cuban cigar, barely smoked. In the other, a crystal coupe that sparkled like lies under moonlight.

He didn’t sip it.

He stared.

At nothing.

Or maybe at everything.

“My name,” he said aloud, to no one, “is Bussy. B-U-S-S-Y. Like the thing you’re thinking of… but priced higher.”

A pause.

He tilted his head to the left. His earrings—gold hoops, large enough to lasso a small man—glistened.

“I’m not a whore,” he continued, voice low and melodic like a villain in the second act of a musical. “I’m a luxury. I’m an institution. I’m the reason half this city’s marriages are still intact.” A slow inhale. “And the reason the other half are not.”

From inside the suite behind him, a muffled male moan.

Bussy sighed.

“Don’t mind him,” he said, flicking ash over the tub’s edge with all the ceremony of a queen excommunicating a subject. “He came. He paid. He can cry himself to sleep now.”

He reached for the champagne, swirled it, and took a languid sip.

“People always ask me,” he continued, turning his gaze to the city lights far below, “how I got into this. ‘What happened to you, Bussy? What made you like this?’” He smirked. “As if pain’s some kind of tragic prerequisite. Bitch, I was born fabulous. The trauma just gave me layers.”

He shifted, spreading his legs shamelessly wide under the water, one knee rising to rest on the tub’s lip. The motion revealed nothing, and everything.

His skin gleamed. His eyes glittered. And his voice—his voice dropped to a whisper.

“But if we’re being honest…”

A pause.

“I wasn’t always like this.”

Thunder rumbled in the far-off distance—somewhere over the Koʻolau Mountains, drama rehearsing its lines.

The suite interior glowed with lazy opulence—rose-gold lighting, mirrored ceilings, and the faint scent of sex clinging to velvet drapes. Somewhere in the next room, a man snored with the broken rhythm of a post-orgasmic regret spiral. Bussy, freshly toweled and glowing like a skincare ad with secrets, sat cross-legged on a marble coffee table, his phone balanced on one knee.

On speaker: Dede.

“—and I told him you don’t do virgins, widowers, or clowns,” Dede was saying, voice crisp and nasal like a champagne flute with teeth. “And he said—and I quote—‘Tell him I’m not here to fall in love. I’m here to make amends.’”

Bussy blinked. “That’s already too many red flags, babe. If he uses words like ‘amends,’ I’m out. That’s rehab speak.”

“Oh, honey.” A pause. “That wasn’t even the red part.”

Bussy stood, phone still on speaker, and strolled to the floor-length mirror by the bed. He examined himself clinically: collarbones like knives, thighs like theology, and cheekbones that could start wars. He pouted. Adjusted one curl.

“Name?” he asked, flatly.

“He wouldn’t give one.”

“Ugh. Pass.”

“He said he’d triple your usual rate.”

Bussy dropped into a chair like a queen refusing an unwanted crown. “Still pass.”

“Full night. No kink. Just companionship. And you can leave at dawn.”

A pause.

Bussy chewed the inside of his cheek.

“I said… pass.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Dede said, dryly. “He said he’d make a charitable donation in your name. To that homeless queer teen shelter you always cry about on Instagram.”

Silence.

“Oh now he’s got religion,” Bussy muttered.

Another pause.

“Fine,” he said. “But I want first-class drama. Champagne chilling. AC at sixty-nine degrees. And he better have teeth. Real ones.”

“Noted,” Dede said. “Suite 723. Tomorrow night.”

Bussy narrowed his eyes. “Where?”

“The Royal Hawaiian.”

Another pause.

Longer.

Colder.

He stared at himself in the mirror, suddenly very, very still.

“Did you say… 723?”

“I did.”

Bussy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Tell me you’re joking.”

Dede paused. “You okay?”

But Bussy had already hung up.

Back in his own penthouse, Bussy moved like a ghost draped in Gucci. The room was all hard lines and soft lighting—glass, chrome, and cruel symmetry. His heels clicked against the polished floor with surgical precision. The walls were pristine white, the furniture obscenely minimalist. Nothing here existed by accident. Just like him.

He tossed his keys onto a tray shaped like a hand and made a beeline for the walk-in closet—no mirrors in this one. He couldn’t stand to see himself when he felt like this. Not when the past was rustling in the walls again.

He peeled off his clothes with the mechanical grace of a dancer who’d long forgotten the number. The garments slipped from his body like a discarded promise, puddling on the floor in a way that deserved a close-up.

Then he crossed to the dresser.

Second drawer.

He opened it.

Inside: satin gloves, leather harnesses, a row of perfect sunglasses, and one small, innocuous velvet box.

He stared at the box like it had cursed him.

After a moment, he opened it.

A photograph.

Old. Creased.

Two boys on the beach. One of them, unmistakably younger—happier—was Bussy. No eyeliner, no jewelry, no angles. Just teeth and sun and someone’s arms wrapped around his waist. The other boy?

The other boy had a jawline so sharp it could’ve been CGI.

Kainoa.

Bussy closed the box with a snap like he was extinguishing a candle.

He whispered into the silence, “I buried you.”

And then, venomously: “Stay dead.”

The room answered with stillness.

Bussy turned and stalked into his bedroom. He threw himself on the bed dramatically, limbs akimbo, like Elizabeth Taylor in a cologne commercial. He stared at the ceiling fan like it had offended him.

His thoughts were spiraling.

Kainoa is dead.

Suite 723 is a coincidence.

This is just another man who smells like regret.

He sat up abruptly.

Snatched his phone.

Typed one word into the search bar: “Kainoa.”

Autofill tried to help.

He deleted it.

Closed the phone.

Tossed it on the floor like a threat.

“No,” he said to the empty room. “You don’t get to haunt me.”

Then, a long breath.

A whisper.

“…not again.”

The Royal Hawaiian stood like a grand, pink mirage against the Waikīkī shoreline. Palms whispered overhead. The air smelled like overwatered orchids and old money. Inside, the lobby glowed in gold-leaf opulence, dripping with chandeliers and soft piano jazz that could put a man in a trance.

Bussy moved through it like a blade.

He wore all black.

Not the lazy kind—this was couture mourning.

A sheer silk blouse that clung like a second skin.

Tailored slacks that creased with every step.

Pointed stilettos with a red lacquered sole.

Sunglasses indoors. Glossed lips.

Dead behind the eyes.

The elevator dinged.

He stepped in.

Pressed 7.

The ride was silent, except for the rising sound of his own heartbeat. Or was that the elevator’s hum?

No.

It was him.

Suite 723.

The numbers pulsed in his mind like a curse.

The last time he was in that suite, his heart hadn’t been broken—it had been annihilated.

That door.

That hallway.

That boy.

He’d been twenty-one.

Naive. Dangerous. Madly in love.

And then… abandoned.

Ghosted without warning.

No note.

No goodbye.

Just empty sheets and a phone that never rang again.

The elevator stopped.

A soft ding.

The doors opened.

Bussy stood frozen, staring into the pink-and-gold hallway like it was a battlefield.

Then he stepped out.

Slow. Measured. High-heeled.

Every step a performance.

His body said: Unbothered.

His mind screamed: Don’t let it be him.

He reached the door.

Suite 723.

The brass numbers glinted, smug.

He raised a hand.

Paused.

Something was already happening—he could smell it.

Not fear. Not cologne.

Memory.

That damn cologne.

Spicy. Warm.

Tom Ford? No.

Him.

He knocked once.

Silence.

Then—

Click.

The door opened.

A man stood there.

Shadowed.

The hallway lights caught only the outline—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, a mouth that looked like it had made and broken promises.

Bussy’s breath hitched.

His lips parted.

His voice cracked, barely a whisper.

“…No.”

The man stepped forward.

And finally—finally—Bussy saw him.

Same jaw.

Same eyes.

Older now.

Richer.

Taller, somehow.

And looking at him like he’d seen a ghost.

“Bussy,” the man said, voice deep and intimate like a song he used to hum.

And Bussy—

Bussy slapped him.

Hard.

“YOU DON’T GET TO SAY MY NAME.”

Then he turned on his heel, ready to walk away, to vanish, to end it—

But the man caught his wrist.

Gentle.

Unmoving.

“Please,” he said. “Just listen.”

Bussy didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

But he didn’t pull away.

The camera of life zoomed in on his face.

Tears welled.

Lips trembled.

And somewhere, a thunderstorm began.