Welcome to Heart Hum

Every Sunday, we sit together.
Tea steaming. Biscuits trembling. A page turned, a laugh shared, a feeling permitted.

This is not about youth.
It is about after. About the quiet miracle of still being here.

Men who have outlived lovers, disco, and shame, now ambushed by desire once more.
Bodies that creak yet remember joy. Hearts that learn again that grief and laughter can share a bed.

There will be tenderness, absurdity, and the courage to begin again.
Each chapter arrives slow and warm, a reminder that life does not end just because someone said it should.

~ Read Chapter One ~

The Shape of Heart Hums

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.

Maurice woke with a start, the bedsheets twisted around his legs like a lover’s reluctant goodbye. The room smelled of stale tea and the faint, phantom whiff of jasmine that had no business being there in November. His heart thudded unevenly, as if it couldn’t decide whether to race or surrender. Grief, that sly bastard, had a way of sneaking into dreams, twisting them into memories, or perhaps memories into dreams, either way, it left you hard and aching and utterly alone.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling fan that spun lazily, like a drunk trying to waltz. The clock ticked: 3:17 a.m. The witching hour for widows, he supposed. Or widowers. Or whatever the hell you called yourself when your partner departed mid-thrust, leaving you with a story no one would believe and a swing that now hung in the courtyard like a guilty secret.

Maurice closed his eyes again, willing sleep to return, but instead, the dream flooded back. No, not a dream, a memory, polished by time and longing until it gleamed like a well-oiled thigh. Fiji, 1998. Or was it ‘99? Dates blurred after a while, but the heat, the salt, the sweat, those stuck like sand in crevices you didn’t know you had.

They had gone to escape the drizzle of winter and the quiet judgments of neighbours who still whispered about “those two.” Albie had booked the trip on a whim, flashing tickets like a magician pulling rabbits from hats. “Paradise, darling,” he’d said, eyes twinkling. “Where the men are bronzed and the morals are optional.”

The resort was a sprawl of thatched bungalows hugging a turquoise bay, where palm trees leaned like flirtatious drunks and the ocean whispered promises it rarely kept. They spent days lounging on white sand, sipping cocktails that tasted like liquid sunshine, and nights tangled in sheets that smelled of coconut oil and possibility.

It was on the third evening that they met him. Kai. Or was it Kava? Names were secondary; bodies were the language that mattered. He was a local guide, all sun-kissed muscle and easy smiles, with skin the colour of polished teak and eyes like dark lagoons you could drown in happily. He led snorkelling tours by day, but by night, he lingered at the bar, trading stories for drinks and glances that lingered just a beat too long.

Albie spotted him first, of course. Albie always did. “Look at that one,” he’d murmured into Maurice’s ear, voice low and wicked over the rim of a piña colada. “Like a god who forgot his loincloth.”

Maurice had followed his gaze, and oh, yes. Kai stood there, laughing with a group of tourists, his sarong slung low on hips that promised rhythm and ruin. Broad shoulders tapered to a waist you could span with two hands, if you were lucky enough to try. His hair was a wild cascade of black curls, salted from the sea, and when he caught their eyes, his grin split wide, white teeth flashing like a challenge.

They bought him a drink. Then another. Conversation flowed like the tide: light at first, about reefs and fish and the best spots for sunset. Then deeper, as the rum loosened tongues, stories of island life, of lovers lost to the waves or the cities, of nights where the stars seemed close enough to pluck.

By midnight, the bar had emptied, and the three of them wandered down to the beach, barefoot and buzzing. The moon hung fat and silver, turning the waves to mercury. Kai led them to a secluded cove, hidden by rocks and fronds, where the sand was still warm from the day’s heat.

“Here,” he said, voice a rumble like distant thunder, “the ocean sings for lovers.”

Albie laughed, that bright, infectious peal that could charm serpents. “And what does it sing for three?”

Kai’s eyes darkened, playful. “A symphony.”

They stripped under the stars, clothes pooling like shed skins. Maurice remembered the thrill of it, the vulnerability, the audacity. Albie’s body, lean and pale from city life, contrasted with Kai’s golden form, all sinew and grace. Maurice himself felt like the bridge between them: sturdy, silvering at the temples, with a chest that still turned heads in saunas back home.

Kai moved first, confident as the sea. He pulled Albie close, kissing him with a hunger that tasted of salt and spice. Albie melted into it, hands roaming over Kai’s back, tracing the ridges of muscle like a map to treasure. Maurice watched for a moment, arousal coiling low in his belly, before joining them. He pressed against Albie’s back, lips on his neck, hands sliding around to tease nipples that hardened under his touch.

They tumbled to the sand, a tangle of limbs and laughter. Kai was generous, his mouth everywhere, nipping at Albie’s collarbone, then lower, tracing a path down his chest with tongue and teeth. Albie arched, gasping, fingers digging into the sand as Kai took him in, slow and deep, the waves crashing in rhythm with his movements.

Maurice knelt beside them, kissing Albie fiercely, swallowing his moans. “Beautiful,” he whispered against Albie’s lips. “You’re both so bloody beautiful.”

Kai looked up, eyes gleaming, and reached for Maurice. “Your turn, tokani.” His hand wrapped around Maurice, firm and knowing, stroking with a islander’s unhurried pace. Maurice groaned, hips bucking, as Kai’s mouth left Albie and enveloped him instead, hot, wet, insistent. Albie watched, grinning wickedly, before leaning in to kiss Maurice’s thigh, then higher, his tongue joining Kai’s in a filthy, exquisite duet.

The night blurred into sensation: sand scratching skin, the cool lap of waves at their feet, the heat of bodies pressing, sliding, claiming. Kai guided them with effortless command, positioning Albie on all fours, entering him from behind with a gentleness that belied his size. Albie cried out, pleasure-pain mingling, as Maurice knelt in front, offering himself to Albie’s eager mouth. They moved like a wave, Kai thrusting deep, Albie rocking between them, Maurice lost in the wet heat enveloping him.

Sweat slicked their skins, mixing with sand and sea spray. Kai’s hands gripped Albie’s hips, pulling him back with each thrust, while Albie’s moans vibrated around Maurice, drawing him closer to the edge. “Yes,” Kai growled, voice thick with accent and desire. “Take it all. For me. For him.”

Maurice came first, spilling into Albie’s mouth with a shuddering gasp, stars exploding behind his eyelids brighter than the ones overhead. Albie followed, body clenching around Kai, his release spilling onto the sand as he whimpered Maurice’s name like a mantra. Kai held out longest, his rhythm faltering only at the end, burying himself deep in Albie with a roar that echoed off the rocks, collapsing over them in a heap of trembling limbs.

They lay there afterward, panting, tangled like driftwood. Kai’s laughter rumbled first, deep, joyous. “The ocean approves,” he said, tracing lazy patterns on Albie’s back.

Albie, ever the wit, lifted his head from Maurice’s chest. “Darling, if that’s approval, I want a standing ovation next time.”

Maurice chuckled, pulling them both closer. The night air cooled their skin, but the warmth between them lingered, a shared secret under the indifferent stars. It wasn’t love, not with Kai, anyway. It was adventure, pure and primal, a reminder that bodies could still surprise, even as the world tried to tame them.

Back in the bungalow later, sand still in unmentionable places, Albie had whispered to Maurice, “That was filthy. And perfect.”

Maurice had kissed him then, tasting salt and satisfaction. “Like us, love.”

Now, in the dim light of his empty bedroom, Maurice opened his eyes, the memory fading like mist. His body ached with unmet need, but his heart, oh, his heart hummed with something softer. Grief and joy, twisted together like those fairy lights in the courtyard.

He swung his legs over the bed, walking to the window. The swing still hung outside, swaying gently in the breeze. “You greedy bastard,” he murmured to the night, a smile cracking through the tears. “Even in dreams, you steal the show.”

The church hall smelled of talcum powder, overbrewed tea, and Dior Sauvage applied with the confidence of a man who believed more was more. Folding chairs sat in uneven rows as if someone had fought a losing battle with geometry. Paper serviettes fluttered in the breeze from an elderly ceiling fan that turned with the enthusiasm of a government clerk on a Friday afternoon.

Laurence stood near the urn of weak coffee, watching steam rise like an insufficient prayer. He was dressed in a black suit that had known better body proportions, better hips, a better jawline. The fabric pulled slightly around the ribs. The collar fussed at his throat as though judging. His tie was crooked, and he kept smoothing it even though he made it worse each time.

He had slept little since the night. He had spent hours at Maurice’s house, sitting on that same courtyard chair long after the paramedics left, holding silence like a fragile glass. Now here he was, doing what men of their generation always did. Trying to look appropriate. Trying to behave. Trying not to fall apart in front of strangers and the people who knew him best.

Edwin arrived first. He stormed in like a gale in too-tight suit trousers. His jacket sleeves were slightly short, exposing freckled wrists and a tattoo of an anchor half hidden by age spots. His beard was salt and pepper, emphasis on salt, trimmed with the imprecise enthusiasm of someone who had done it in the bathroom mirror without his glasses. He held two packets of Scotch fingers and a bottle of whisky under one arm, because he did not trust any tea not brewed by a sailor.

He spotted Laurence and lifted the biscuits in greeting.
“There he is. Christ above, you look like you have been ironed by grief, mate.”

Laurence attempted a smile.
“And you look like you robbed the lost property box at a lawn bowls club.”

Edwin snorted, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Death suits none of us, but some far less than others.”

Then his eyes softened.
“How is he?”

“‘Maurice? Fragile. Furious. Quiet. Trying to pretend he is furious about the wrong things.’”

Edwin nodded.
“Good. If he was serene I would start checking for possession by Gwyneth Paltrow.”

They both fell silent. The kind of silence men learnt after years of losing people. Not empty silence. Shared silence.

Then Roland made his entrance.

He glided in. There was no other word. Silk scarf, dramatic coat, black trousers pressed into submission. Every year made him more theatrical, as if ageing were a role he had been preparing for since birth. He carried himself like a vintage wine that refused to be poured for less than a ballet and an aria.

He surveyed the room, nose wrinkling.
“This is less funeral reception, more badly funded church fete.”

Edwin rolled his eyes.
“You are lucky we did not end up in the basement of the RSL with doilies and a cheese platter from 1987.”

“I would have preferred that. At least kitsch has commitment. This is purgatory with pickle sandwiches.”

Laurence could not help smiling. Roland’s brand of disdain had always been oddly comforting. It reminded him that life still had ridiculousness to spare.

The sandwiches sat in triangles on tiered plates, curled at the edges like elderly toes. The fillings were mysterious: tuna pretending to be chicken, chicken pretending to be mayonnaise, and something that might have once aspired to be ham.

Two drag queens hovered by the urn full of tea. Veils. Pearls. Sensible heels. Faces painted in tragic opera mode. Their hips shifted restlessly, as if unsure whether to mourn or vogue.

Edwin nodded toward them.
“Maurice booked them, did he not?”

Roland kissed the air in their direction.
“He insisted. Said no funeral of his would be free of glamour and questionable lip-sync.”

Laurence exhaled a breath that trembled at the end.
“Albie would have loved this. Truly.”

Roland’s expression softened.
“I know.”

They waited together. The room filled with soft shuffles, throat-clears, and the faint buzz of gossip. People whispered about Albie as if his memory might be startled by volume. Some old men hugged awkwardly, shoulders colliding like uncertain furniture. A handful of younger men stood about, doing their best to blend reverence with support, watching the elders navigate tradition and grief as though learning choreography.

Theo was among them. He lingered near the doorway, hands tucked neatly behind his back, posture gentle. He caught Laurence’s eye briefly, then looked away with a respectful bow of his head. The warmth that travelled through Laurence’s chest was alarming. And not unwelcome.

Maurice arrived then, flanked by the queens like royalty smuggling emotion behind feathers. He wore a black suit too, though his jacket was open, shirt unbuttoned one notch too far for church decorum. His eyes were red. His hands steady by sheer force of habit.

He scanned the room, saw Laurence, Edwin, and Roland, and moved toward them as though the air held weight.

Roland cupped his cheek.
“You look beautiful. Devastated, but radiant. It is terribly French of you.”

Maurice snorted a laugh that was half sob.
“Lovely. That is the look I was aiming for. Bereaved harlot.”

Edwin stepped forward and hugged him. No words. Just arms and breath and old men trying not to break.

Then it was time. Chairs scraped. People sat. The minister, an elderly woman with hair like polystyrene foam and an expression that suggested she had seen more than one scandal in her time, approached the lectern.

Maurice stood first to speak. He cleared his throat. And cleared it again. Then the microphone squealed for good measure.

He began softly.
“My Albie…”

His voice cracked. The hall waited. Someone dabbed at their eyes. Someone coughed like death owed them a favour.

He tried again.
“He was a nuisance. A flirt. A man who believed boundaries were for the heterosexuals.”

Laughter rippled politely.

“He taught me to swear in five languages and how to love without apology. He… he never shut the bloody front door properly. And he… oh, Christ, I cannot do this.”

He covered his face. One of the drag queens offered a lace hanky. He waved it away with trembling dignity.

Roland placed a hand on his back. Maurice inhaled, straightened, and nodded at Laurence.

“You do it,” he whispered.

Laurence, surprised, pushed himself to his feet. His knees protested. His throat burned. He walked to the lectern like a man approaching an altar and a firing squad all at once.

He swallowed. Looked up.

“Albie was…”

His voice failed. Entirely. Silence thickened.

Then, absurdly, beautifully, his hearing aid whistled.

The room froze.
Laurence blinked at it.
Roland coughed. Edwin snorted. Someone giggled nervously.

Laurence pressed the device. The feedback squealed again, louder.

“Oh for fu…”

He slapped it.
The whine cut off.

The room laughed gently. Thank God.

Laurence gathered himself.
“Albie was love made loud. He loved badly at times, and beautifully at others, and always without hesitation. He cared for Maurice like devotion was a sport. He believed queerness was defiance, and joy was duty.”

His eyes filled. He tried to continue. His voice broke anyway.

“And he died getting railed in a fairy light courtyard. Which, frankly, feels… ambitious.”

A gasp. Laughter. A few tutting noises. Mostly utterly delighted horror.

Laurence sniffed.
“If there is a heaven, the reception will not be ready.”

The crowd laughed again. Tears rolled. Even the minister shook slightly in what might have been suppressed mirth or suppressed scandal.

Laurence placed both palms on the lectern and whispered,
“We will love you forever. You stubborn, radiant man.”

He stepped away. Maurice reached for his hand, squeezed it tight.

Afterwards, the hall turned to murmured chaos. Sandwiches taken. Triangle crusts abandoned. Cups of tea balanced alongside hip flasks someone had smuggled in like contraband.

Edwin stood with Roland and Maurice, all three nursing cups of something amber from Edwin’s whisky bottle, poured into flimsy polystyrene cups.

The younger men hovered nearby. One stroked Maurice’s shoulder casually, grounding him. Another quietly adjusted Edwin’s collar, like tending to a favourite coat. They were gentle presences, respectful, amused at times, protective in others. An entire unspoken code of care threaded between generations.

A tiny drama unfolded nearby as one older gentleman whispered to another about Albie’s end.
“Stiff as a board, apparently.”
“In more ways than one,” his friend replied.

Roland choked on his whisky. Edwin slapped his back. Maurice muttered,
“They will discuss this for decades. Good. Let them.”

At the refreshments table, a lad in his thirties poured sherry. He wore a black suit that fit too well. Hair neat, jaw clean. He caught Laurence’s gaze as he handed someone else a drink. Old habit made Laurence look away. Then curiosity dragged his eyes back.

The young man smiled. Soft. Warm. Familiar in a strange way. A smile like invitation and kindness and something unspoken.
Laurence’s heart thudded like he had been caught doing something embarrassing in a school corridor.

He turned away sharply.
Edwin noticed.
“Someone caught your fancy?”

“Ridiculous,” Laurence murmured. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

Maurice, overhearing despite apparent grief fog, arched a brow.
“If God gives you a thirst, do not waste it on tea.”

Roland sipped sherry and nodded.
“Youth looking at age with light instead of pity. That is not common. Do not waste the moment.”

Laurence tugged at his collar again.
“I am mourning. There are triangle sandwiches. I am not flirting next to mayonnaise.”

Edwin grinned.
“Who said anything about flirting? Looking is free. Living is free. You promised to keep breathing on purpose.”

Laurence swallowed.
“I did.”

Maurice leaned close and whispered,
“He went happy. We owe him defiance.”

Then, as if the universe approved, someone turned on a small speaker and an Edith Piaf track warbled through the hall. Drag queens began swaying. Old men shuffled memories into motion. Someone spilled coffee. Someone else proclaimed they were gluten intolerant but would risk it for the sausage rolls.

Chaos. Tender chaos.

Laurence watched the room through the blur of grief and love and absurdity. For a moment, the world felt stitched together by hands that refused to surrender. Old men kissed old men on cheeks. Younger lovers fetched napkins and water and quietly caught tears when needed. A community held itself like stained glass in a storm.

Roland lifted his cup.
“To our fallen saint of filth.”

Edwin raised his.
“To joy, even when it hurts.”

Maurice closed his eyes, whispered,
“To love that does not end when bodies do.”

Laurence lifted his.
“To being here. Still here. Even now.”

They drank. The sherry tasted like varnished regret and family tradition. And also like courage.

Laurence exhaled, long and trembling.
“He went happy, the bastard.”

Laughter shimmered through them again. Grief softened into warm ache. The room carried them.

And across the hall, the handsome young man smiled once more at Laurence, as if to say: “Life is not finished with you yet.”

Laurence looked away, breath unsteady, pulse frantic as a teenager’s.
Hope hurt. It always did. But there it was anyway. Persistent as ivy.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he was ready to feel it.