"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.
