Welcome to Heart Hum
Older queer men choosing life again.
Choosing mischief, choosing bodies, choosing love, even with reading glasses and bakery breath.
They are not here to be quiet. They are here to live.
Kettle on. Heart open. Curtains up.
Catch up on the story so far…
The Pact
Maurice’s kitchen always smelled faintly of thyme, garlic, and questionable decisions. Tonight it smelled of grief too. Warm gin sat in mismatched glasses, sweating slightly in the last hours of afternoon light. Someone had found a tray of biscuits that looked like they’d been purchased around the same time as the Sydney Olympics. They were crisp in the wrong way. Like sadness and stale air.
The drag queens had left with air kisses and mascara smudges. The last relatives had muttered condolences and shuffled off. Even the widowed budgerigar in the hallway had stopped chirping.
Now it was only them. Four men. Four bodies heavy with loss and history and the peculiar exhaustion that comes from performing composure in public.
Roland perched on the kitchen stool like a disgruntled raven in silk. Edwin sprawled in the wicker chair that protested with each shift of his weight. Maurice sat at the table, elbows planted, staring at the lone candle he’d lit for company. Laurence stood by the sink holding his glass like a shield.
They didn’t speak for a while. Grief doesn’t like being rushed. It sulks until acknowledged.
Finally Edwin sighed. “Christ. I didn’t know funerals could dehydrate a man.”
Maurice stared at his gin. “Funerals dehydrate the soul. The gin’s for structural support.”
Roland sniffed a biscuit, then put it back. “If I die, for the love of God serve something edible. Or scatter my ashes in the Woolworths bakery aisle.”
Laurence managed a small laugh. “You’ll outlive us all out of sheer spite.”
Roland dabbed invisible dust off his sleeve. “Correct.”
Maurice breathed through his nose. Slow. Fragile. “He’s in the study. I put him there. Where his books are. He liked the smell of paper and dust.”
Edwin reached across and touched his wrist. A short, strong clasp. “You did right.”
Silence pooled again. The kitchen clock ticked like it wanted to be dramatic but had only one gear.
Maurice exhaled in one long shudder. “Everyone expects grief to be solemn. I don’t feel solemn. I feel furious and horny and hollow and strangely hungry. Like my soul’s got jet lag.”
Roland lifted his glass. “To all three. Rage, lust, and snacks. The holy trinity of middle age.”
Maurice snorted. Then his voice trembled. “The house feels wrong without him. Too wide. Too still.”
Laurence sat at the table carefully, as if grief were something he might spill. “It’ll breathe again. So will you.”
Maurice’s fingers twitched. “I don’t want to fade. Old men vanish. They soften around the edges until they’re nothing but background furniture.”
Edwin raised his glass in salute. “I refuse to be upholstery. I plan on dying in motion. Possibly while failing a yoga pose.”
Roland tapped his glass gently on the table. “We’re not done. None of us. We’ve been warriors and fools and sinners and saints. And survivors. I won’t age politely. It sounds ghastly.”
Laurence stared into his gin. The candle flame flickered. “I’m afraid of being alone. And of trying. I’m afraid I’m late. Late to everything. To freedom. To bravery. To loving properly. I was always careful, and now I think I’ve missed something important.”
Maurice touched his hand. “You haven’t missed anything. You’re here. We’re here. Time’s rude, but we’re ruder.”
Roland raised an eyebrow. “Say it. Let’s make a pact. We’ve lost too much to waste what remains.”
Maurice straightened. “One year. We live. We say yes to touch and joy and ridiculousness. We scandalise the neighbourhood. We do yoga or Grindr or theatre boys or whatever makes us pulse.”
Roland shuddered dramatically. “I’ll re-download Grindr. Pray for me. Technology intimidates me. It keeps asking me for location permissions. Location? Darling, if they want to find me, they need only follow the perfume and sighs.”
Edwin thumped the table. “Yoga for me. Lads in tight shorts. It’s practically a memorial service for my libido.”
Laurence didn’t speak. The idea terrified him and awakened him at once. Joy as rebellion. Touch as protest. How reckless. How necessary.
Maurice looked at him. “Laurence?”
Laurence swallowed. “I’ll try. That’s all I can promise. I’ll try.”
Maurice smiled. “Trying’s sacred. We try together. A brotherhood of stubborn geriatrics.”
Roland placed one elegant hand in the middle of the table. “To life.”
Edwin placed his hand on top. “To filth, where appropriate.”
Maurice added his. “To choosing to stay.”
Laurence hesitated, then placed his hand on theirs. “To not fading.”
They squeezed. Firm. Defiant. A little drunk.
Outside, the world continued humming its ordinary song. But in that kitchen something shifted. They looked at one another and saw not old men but comrades. Not the end, but a beginning disguised as loss.
Laurence whispered, “I miss him already.”
Maurice closed his eyes. “So do I.”
The candle flickered. The biscuits remained uneaten. The pact settled between them like a spell.
Laurence’s house felt too quiet when he returned. Funerals always leave a strange emptiness in their wake, like a party that forgot to end properly.
He hung his jacket neatly. He smoothed his tie. He stood in the hallway uncertain what to do next. Tea felt too small. Bed felt too big.
A soft chime broke the silence. His phone lit up.
Theo: “Are you home safe?”
Laurence hesitated, then typed:
“Yes. Thank you.”
Another pause. Then:
Theo: “Can I bring you company? Or should I just send you something distracting, like photos of my dog wearing hats?”
Laurence’s chest warmed. “You’d bring yourself and a dog in hats?”
Theo replied:
“The dog’s theoretical. The hats are real. As am I. May I come over?”
Laurence stared at the words. Brave. Terrifying. The ghosts of caution rose.
He typed:
“Yes.”
Thirty minutes later, a soft knock. Laurence’s hands shook as he opened the door.
Theo stood there, brown singlet, gym-built, eyes soft with concern and something like hunger held gently. He stepped in without theatrics, just a warm presence crossing a threshold.
