Ashes and Daffodils

"Holy Saturday"

The church was too quiet for a Saturday. Caleb pressed the last key on the baby grand and let the chord linger in the rafters. F minor--his favorite key. Dark, unrepentant. Honest.

Dust motes drifted in the shafts of light from the tall, narrow windows, catching on the edge of the altar like forgotten blessings. The sanctuary still smelled faintly of incense from last night's Good Friday service--smoke, salt, and something ancient.

He stared at the rows of empty pews. They looked different this year. Like they were waiting for something that might never come.

Or someone.

"Beautiful," a voice said from behind.

Caleb turned.

He hadn't heard the doors open, but there he was--Marco. Tall, olive-skinned, curls messily tucked under a gray beanie, cello strapped across his back like a cross. He smiled like a sunrise that didn't know it was shining.

"You're early," Caleb said, straightening. His voice didn't quite match the formality he'd rehearsed in the mirror. "I was just running through the vigil pieces."

"Sounded more like mourning than rehearsal." Marco stepped down the center aisle, the wood groaning beneath his boots. "F minor. You grieving something?"

Caleb blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I mean--musically. It had weight to it. Like your fingers were remembering something your heart hadn't caught up with."

A flush rose to Caleb's neck before he could stop it. "Are you always this forward with church people?"

Marco slid his cello off his back and sat casually in the front pew, like he'd done it a thousand times. "Only the ones who look like they haven't been touched in a while."

Caleb's throat tightened.

Jesus.

He turned his back and busied himself with the hymn sheets.

He'd specifically asked for someone professional when Reverend Diane insisted on a guest instrumentalist for the vigil. They needed something new, she'd said. Something "hopeful." She'd chosen Marco--a graduate student from the music conservatory nearby--because his demo had "passion." Passion. That word again.

Caleb hadn't expected the man behind the bow to be passion personified.

"So," Marco said, drawing the bow slowly across the cello strings in his lap, "is this the part where we rehearse, or should I start confessing sins I haven't committed yet?"

Caleb turned, exhaling through his nose. "Let's start with `Were You There.' I want it stripped down. Just cello and piano. Keep it slow. Let the rests breathe."

Marco's eyes flicked up. "You breathe when you play?"

"I try."

"Show me."

God, his voice had that velvet scrape to it--low, teasing, but dipped in something serious. Caleb sat at the piano, fingers poised. He nodded once.

Marco drew his bow.

They began.

The first notes hung between them like a whispered prayer. Marco's playing wasn't just skilled--it was sensual. The way his body curled into the instrument, the tilt of his head, the way his wrist bent, like he was coaxing secrets from wood and string. Caleb matched his pace, letting the piano lean into the cello's ache.

The sanctuary disappeared.

The music became confession.

And for one long, bleeding moment, Caleb forgot how long it had been since someone touched him and meant it.

When they finished, neither of them spoke.

Marco was watching him.

Not the piano.

Not the altar.

Him.

"I take it you've played that with someone before," Marco said quietly.

Caleb stood, the bench scraping slightly. "My husband."

There it was. The wall. Clean. Inevitable.

"Oh," Marco said, but not in the way people said oh when they were sorry. More like he understood. "He was a musician too?"

Caleb hesitated. "He sang. Badly. But with conviction."

Marco smiled softly. "When?"

"Last year." Caleb cleared his throat. "Easter."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

The silence stretched again. Not awkward. Just... suspended.

Marco leaned his cello gently against the pew. "Do you ever think grief isn't about what we've lost, but who we're afraid to become without them?"

Caleb looked up, sharply.

That hit too close.

"You talk like you've lost someone," he said.

Marco didn't answer right away. He tugged off his beanie, revealing more of his messy curls.

"Myself," he said finally. "But I'm clawing my way back."

Their eyes met.

It was stupid--too fast, too raw--but Caleb felt it in his chest. A flicker. A thaw.

He turned before it became something he couldn't control.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said briskly. "Service is at seven. Be early."

Marco stood but didn't move. "You don't believe in Easter, do you?"

"I believe in getting through it."

"Hmm."

Caleb didn't ask what that meant. He didn't need to.

________________________________________________________________________________

That night, Caleb sat alone on his back porch with a glass of red wine and the Easter vigil program in his lap. The spring breeze tugged gently at his collar. From here, he could see the edge of the garden--overgrown now, but daffodils still bloomed where Ethan had planted them.

They came back, even when nothing else did.

He finished his glass, stepped inside, and turned on the shower.

He didn't mean to think of Marco.

But he did.

The way his hands moved over the cello. The sound of his voice. The heat behind his smile.

Caleb leaned against the tile and let the water beat down over his face.

He was hard.

The ache had been building for months, tight and bitter, tied up with guilt and memory. But this felt different. This wasn't about forgetting Ethan. This was about remembering himself.

His hand slid down slowly, deliberately.

He imagined Marco's fingers replacing his--rougher, confident, curious.

He pictured Marco's mouth. Not rushed. Not asking permission.

Caleb groaned softly, bracing against the wall.

The image built in his mind--Marco on his knees, the cello bow forgotten, lips parted, that intense gaze looking up from between his thighs.

His hips bucked into his hand, the slick heat of water and want carrying him further than he meant to go.

It didn't take long.

He came with a stifled gasp, forehead pressed to the cool tile, water washing everything away.

Ashes to ashes.

He turned the shower off and stood there, chest rising and falling.

This was nothing. Just stress. A fantasy.

Tomorrow was Easter.

He'd wear black, play the chords, bow his head, and pretend he wasn't standing on the edge of something new.

_______

"Resurrection Morning"

The bells started at six.

Not loud--just a soft peal drifting across the rooftops like a whisper too sacred to ignore.

Caleb was already awake.

He stood in the bedroom doorway with his tie undone, coffee cooling in his hand, watching the sun climb over the horizon through the bare window. His church clothes were laid out on the bed like armor: charcoal slacks, black shirt, deep purple tie--the color of penance.

He hadn't slept well. He'd dreamt of music, of fingers on strings, of lips against his chest. He'd dreamt of Marco.

When the knock came, it wasn't surprising.

It was too early for anyone sane. But Marco had never struck him as particularly tethered to normal hours--or boundaries.

Caleb opened the front door.

Marco stood on the porch, backlit by gold morning light, holding two coffees and a Tupperware container of something suspiciously homemade.

"Happy Easter," he said.

Caleb blinked at him. "You're two hours early."

"I figured you'd be awake."

Caleb eyed the coffee. "You guessed correctly."

Marco handed him one. "I made spanakopita. My grandmother's recipe. Don't tell her I used store-bought phyllo. She'd rise from the grave and beat my ass with a rolling pin."

Caleb stared. "You brought me Greek Easter pastries?"

"I'm Greek. It's our thing."

"And you just... show up?"

Marco grinned. "You fantasized about me last night. I figured I earned breakfast rights."

Caleb's face went stone still.

Marco didn't flinch.

"I'm not wrong," he added quietly.

Caleb exhaled through his nose. "Jesus Christ."

"I think he'd be cool with it."

"You're impossible."

"You're beautiful when you're flustered."

Caleb stepped back and let him in.

The air inside was warmer, but no less charged. Marco kicked off his boots, left the Tupperware on the counter, and wandered toward the open back doors where the garden peeked through.

"These yours?" he asked, nodding toward the daffodils.

Caleb followed his gaze. "His, actually."

"Your husband's."

Caleb nodded once.

"They're perfect," Marco said. "Messy. Defiant."

Caleb leaned in the doorway. "I haven't touched the garden since the funeral."

"They didn't need you to. That's the thing about daffodils--they remember how to come back on their own."

Something about the way he said it--like it wasn't just about flowers--hit Caleb square in the ribs.

He looked away.

Marco stepped closer, slowly, as if giving him time to stop it. "Can I ask something?"

"No one's ever stopped you before."

Marco's voice dropped. "When was the last time you were kissed by someone who meant it?"

Caleb's throat worked.

Too long.

Too damn long.

He didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

Marco reached out, slow and sure, fingers brushing against Caleb's jaw. A quiet, reverent touch.

"I'm not trying to replace anyone," he whispered. "But maybe you don't have to stay buried with him."

Caleb closed his eyes.

And leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first. Measured. But it deepened quickly, as if they'd both been holding their breath for months. Marco tasted like cinnamon and coffee. His hands slid around Caleb's waist, pulling him closer, anchoring him in something terrifyingly real.

Caleb groaned into the kiss, and that was all it took--Marco pressed him against the doorway, hips flush, heat unmistakable.

"Bedroom?" Marco murmured.

Caleb nodded. No hesitation now.

In the bedroom, they didn't rush, but they didn't waste time either. Caleb stripped his shirt, revealing a chest dusted with dark hair, lean and toned from years of restraint. Marco looked like he wanted to devour him.

"Goddamn," Marco said, stepping in close. "You have no idea how sexy you are, do you?"

"I'm--" Caleb started to deflect, but Marco shut him up with a kiss that didn't ask--it took.

Their pants hit the floor fast. Boxers gone. Skin against skin. Caleb's cock already hard, flushed red, leaking at the tip. Marco's wasn't far behind--thick, curved just right, twitching between his abs and Caleb's stomach as they pressed together.

Caleb pushed him gently back onto the bed, watching him stretch out--olive skin, dark curls, that half-lidded, fuck me stare. Marco spread his legs and dragged a hand down his own chest, teasing a nipple as if to say what are you waiting for?

Caleb moved between his thighs.

"Let me taste you," he said, voice low.

Marco's breath hitched. "Yeah. Fuck, yes."

Caleb bent down and took him into his mouth.

Warm. Hard. Smooth skin and salt and pre-cum. Caleb wrapped a hand around the base and sucked him slow and deep, swirling his tongue over the tip, making Marco buck against him.

"Shit, Caleb," Marco groaned, threading fingers through his hair. "That mouth--God, don't stop."

Caleb didn't.

He hollowed his cheeks and took more, using both hand and lips, pumping with rhythm and intent. Marco was a mess--muttering curses, gripping the sheets, hips twitching.

When Marco warned he was close, Caleb pulled off with a wet pop, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I want to fuck you," he said. "Want to feel you wrapped around me."

Marco reached for his jeans on the floor, pulled out a small bottle of lube and a condom--like he came prepared.

"Then do it," he said, voice ragged. "Don't make me beg."

Caleb slicked his fingers and got to work, pushing one inside slowly. Marco gasped, hips lifting.

"You're so tight," Caleb murmured.

"Then stretch me," Marco hissed, eyes locked on his.

Caleb added a second finger, then a third, scissoring and curling until Marco was panting, hole slick and open, twitching with every touch.

"Now," Marco said. "God--Caleb, please. Just fuck me already."

Caleb rolled on the condom, lubed himself, and lined up.

He pushed in slowly--inch by inch, until Marco gasped and arched, legs wrapping around his waist.

"Jesus," Caleb groaned. "You feel fucking incredible."

Marco bit his lip. "So do you. Don't be gentle. I can take it."

That flipped a switch.

Caleb pulled out and thrust back in--hard. Marco cried out, not in pain, but pure pleasure.

Their bodies slammed together, rhythm building fast. Caleb grabbed Marco's hips, angling deeper, driving into him over and over.

"Right there--fuck, Caleb, right there--"

"Yeah?" Caleb growled, sweat dripping down his chest. "You like getting wrecked on my cock?"

Marco moaned, stroking himself. "So fucking good--don't stop--harder--"

Caleb pounded into him, balls slapping against Marco's ass, bed creaking beneath them. The air smelled like sweat, sex, spring air, and something holy.

Marco came first, shooting across his stomach with a cry. His hole clenched hard around Caleb, dragging him right over the edge.

Caleb thrust once more, deep and desperate, groaning Marco's name as he came.

He collapsed on top of him, both of them gasping, bodies tangled.

Outside, the daffodils danced in the morning light.

Caleb lay sprawled across Marco's chest, breath hot and uneven, cock soft and sticky between their stomachs.

"I didn't expect that," he murmured, voice husky.

"What?" Marco said, stroking lazy circles on Caleb's back. "To come like a college freshman?"

Caleb chuckled. "To survive Easter morning without guilt gutting me like a fish."

Marco's fingers paused, then resumed, slower. "I don't want to erase your grief, Caleb. Just... remind you that you're still alive."

He kissed the top of Caleb's head.

It was quiet for a beat.

Then Marco added, low and cocky: "Also, I'm still hard."

Caleb lifted his head, brows arching. "Seriously?"

Marco smirked. "You think that ass of yours didn't leave a lasting impression?"

Caleb rolled his eyes, but when he shifted, he felt it--Marco's cock, still rock solid, pressing hot between his cheeks.

"Jesus," he muttered.

"Not quite," Marco said, grinning. "But I am willing to worship you."

Caleb bit his bottom lip.

He didn't need to be convinced.

He reached for the nightstand, grabbing more lube with practiced fingers.

"You topped last round," he said. "My turn."

Marco blinked. "Wait--you want to--?"

Caleb straddled him in one fluid move, planting both hands on his chest. "What? You think I'm too saintly to ride a dick like I mean it?"

Marco's eyes went wide, lips parting.

"... Holy fuck."

Caleb slicked Marco up, stroking him once, slow and firm, before positioning himself.

"Just relax," he said, breathy, already rubbing Marco's tip against his entrance. "I know what I'm doing."

And then he sank down.

Marco's hands flew to Caleb's thighs, squeezing hard.

"Jesus--Caleb--"

Caleb took him inch by inch, muscles clenching, eyes fluttering shut as he bottomed out.

Full. Stretching. Deep.

He rolled his hips, slow and deliberate, grinding down until Marco was a gasping mess.

"Fuck, you ride like it's Sunday mass," Marco groaned.

Caleb smirked. "This is a form of prayer."

He began to move--slow at first, hips rolling with sensual rhythm. Marco's cock hit deep, grazing that spot inside him that made his toes curl.

The sound of skin on skin filled the room.

Caleb threw his head back, riding harder now, hands braced on Marco's abs. Every bounce sent heat sparking up his spine. He leaned forward, bracing his palms on either side of Marco's head, dragging their chests together.

"You're so deep," he whispered in Marco's ear. "You feel fucking perfect."

Marco could barely speak. "I'm--God--Caleb, if you keep doing that--"

Caleb clenched down hard, grinding in a tight circle.

Marco shouted.

Caleb laughed, low and breathless. "You close again?"

"Don't you dare stop--"

"I wasn't planning to."

He kept moving, faster now, riding Marco with abandon. His own cock swung hard and half-erect between them, leaking onto Marco's chest. He wasn't chasing his own orgasm--he was chasing control, dominance, power--and it felt good.

Marco's hands slid to his ass, gripping, guiding, thrusting up to meet every bounce.

"Caleb--I'm--fuck--"

"Come inside me," Caleb growled. "I want it. Fill me up."

That did it.

Marco bucked hard, groaning so loud it echoed off the walls, cock pulsing inside Caleb, unloading deep. Caleb felt every twitch, every throb, and he loved it.

He slowed his hips, milking every drop.

Then he collapsed forward, sweaty and smiling, cheek pressed to Marco's.

"I can't believe you just let me use you like a toy," he murmured.

Marco grinned. "You can use me anytime, Father Fuck-Me."

Caleb laughed--actually laughed--and rolled off, panting.

They lay in silence for a moment, tangled and ruined.

Marco glanced sideways. "You're glowing."

"Shut up."

"No, seriously. You look ten years younger. I think I just exorcised your trauma with my dick."

Caleb covered his face with a pillow. "Oh my God."

"Wrong again. Marco. But easy mistake."

They both cracked up.

But beneath the laughter, something had shifted.

There was no shame. No regret.

Just heat. Intimacy. Connection.

And Easter morning sunlight washing over the bed like a benediction.

______________

"Resurrection"

The church potluck was already in full swing when Caleb pulled into the gravel parking lot, sunlight glinting off the polished hood of his sedan.

He sat in the driver's seat a moment, hands still on the wheel, watching families stream in through the community hall doors. Pastel dresses, crisp white shirts, laughter floating through open windows. All of it familiar. All of it foreign.

Marco shifted beside him in the passenger seat, wearing a pale blue button-down that Caleb had insisted he borrow. He hadn't bothered to button the top two buttons, of course. His neck and collarbone gleamed golden in the morning light.

"Second thoughts?" Marco asked, voice soft.

"Only third, fourth, and fifth," Caleb muttered.

Marco reached over and rested a hand on Caleb's thigh. "Then let's just say we came for the deviled eggs and leave if it gets weird."

Caleb glanced down at the hand.

Warm. Steady.

He reached for it and laced their fingers together.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm done hiding."

They got out of the car and walked in together.

Heads turned. Conversations paused. Someone dropped a fork.

Caleb smiled politely, nodded to a few stunned parishioners, and led Marco to the long table covered in plastic-wrapped casseroles and chocolate bunnies.

He hadn't been back since Luke's funeral. And now he was here with a man who looked like he belonged in a Calvin Klein ad and had definitely fucked him through the mattress just hours ago.

Progress.

"Caleb," came a voice.

He turned.

Linda Carter--his late husband's closest friend--stood in a peach blouse, arms folded, lips thin. Her eyes flicked to Marco, then back to Caleb.

"Nice to see you again," she said coolly. "And who's this?"

"This is Marco," Caleb said, steady. "A friend."

Marco extended a hand. "Nice to meet you."

Linda didn't shake it.

There was a beat of tension thick enough to cut.

Linda looked at Caleb, and for a moment--just a moment--her expression softened.

"He would've wanted you to be happy," she said.

Then she turned and walked away.

Caleb exhaled.

Marco leaned in. "That was her not being a bitch?"

"You should've seen her at the wake."

They laughed. It helped.

They filled their plates. Sat at the edge of the lawn with a few friendly faces who asked polite questions and didn't flinch when Marco touched Caleb's hand under the table.

And then--because of course--Caleb caught Marco giving him that look.

The one that said I want to bend you over that folding table and remind you who made you scream last night.

Caleb shifted in his seat.

"Don't," he hissed under his breath.

Marco smirked. "What? I'm just admiring the Easter spirit."

"You're gonna give me a spiritual crisis in front of children."

"That's kind of my kink."

Caleb choked on his lemonade.

Fifteen minutes later, they slipped away--through the hall, past the kitchen, and into the narrow bathroom by the coat closet.

Caleb locked the door and spun, shoving Marco against it.

"You're insatiable."

"You didn't say no."

They kissed--hard. Caleb's hand already unbuckling Marco's belt, shoving jeans down just enough.

Marco groaned, cock half-hard already, leaking at the tip.

"You're insane," Caleb said, dropping to his knees.

"You love it."

And he did.

He took Marco into his mouth, fast and hungry, licking and sucking like he'd been thinking about it all morning.

Marco bit his knuckle to stay quiet.

"Fuck--Caleb--you're gonna make me--"

Caleb pulled off, spit-slicked and breathless. He turned, hiked his own pants down, and braced against the sink.

"Come on," he whispered. "I need you. Right here."

Marco didn't hesitate.

He spit in his hand, slicked himself quickly, and pushed in. Caleb moaned, gripping the sink as Marco filled him from behind.

Fast. Dirty. Reckless.

The kind of sex that made shame a non-factor.

The kind that screamed I'm alive.

Marco grunted, thrusting deep. Caleb's eyes rolled back.

"Harder," he whispered. "I want to feel it tomorrow."

Marco obliged.

When they both came--Marco spilling deep, Caleb gasping against the mirror--they stayed like that for a moment. Pressed together. Breathing hard.

Then they cleaned up, washed their hands, and slipped back out into the sunlight.

As if nothing had happened.

________________________________________________________________________________

Later, after the crowd had thinned, they walked the edge of the garden where Luke had once planted daffodils. They were blooming again. Bright. Alive.

Marco bent down and picked one.

"Is it weird," he said, "that I feel like he'd be okay with this?"

Caleb stared at the flower. Then at the sky.

"No," he said quietly. "He would."

He turned to Marco, who looked a little nervous now.

"What?"

"I just... I know I'm not perfect," Marco said. "I say too much. I joke too much. I fall too fast."

Caleb stepped close. "You also kissed me like I mattered. Held me like I wasn't broken. Fucked me like I deserved to feel again."

Marco swallowed. "So... what now?"

Caleb looked past him, toward the blooming field.

"I don't know," he said. "But for the first time, I'm not scared to find out."

Marco smiled, slid a hand into his.

They stood in silence.

Just two men, wrapped in the soft breath of spring, standing where grief once bloomed--and something new had taken root.

End.

But not the end.

Because resurrection isn't just one moment-- It's what comes after.