. when you can live forever, does love lose its meaning? .

i. apollo

He didn't sleep that night.

He never slept on nights like this - nights spent in the bed of a mortal lover, nights spent in the finite world. It wasn't because he didn't want to waste precious time (how precious was time when it would never run out for you?), nor was it because he wanted to watch them sleep. No, he spent all night wondering, deliberating, racking his mind. All night - every time - trying to decide whether or not he still loved them after loving them.

He was never prepared by the time morning came, but he didn't fear the confrontation. He never buried his face in a pillow; he never pretended to be asleep. Sometimes, he was lucky: sometimes he could escape, write a sorry-note, crawl into his chariot (disguised as his sports car of choice), and do his duty, leaving his fling behind him.

He wasn't heartless. Of course he imagined the tears welling up in their eyes as they read the last words they'd ever get from him - always the same, rarely personalized:

I'm so sorry, angel. Had to go. Duty calls. I'll see you again someday.

xoxo, Apollo.

He always made a point to end it with 'someday'. It was such a bittersweet word: a heartbreaking farewell, and a tiny promise, rolled into one. He was also mindful of his wording: "I'll see you again." I'll see you - I'll be seeing you, he sung under his breath as he scrawled it on a napkin, a sticky note, a gum wrapper each time - I'll see you from afar and I'll smile, because I'll remember the way you looked when I first approached you, when I flashed that winning smile, when I charmed my way into your life. You might not see me. We might never meet again. You could very well forget me entirely. But I'll be seeing you.

And when the Fates decided to interfere, it was apparent to him. It wasn't his omniscience - even the god of prophecy stood no chance against destiny - it was the time. If she was chosen by the Fates, she would rise before the sun. Before he felt that familiar tug in his gut, that natural urge, her eyes would flicker open, she'd divert them almost immediately as a reaction to his unintentional glowing - the essence of the sun growing stronger within him as black night approached vibrant dawn - and she'd speak: a tiny "Good morning," or "You're awake?" And at that moment, unceremoniously, his mind would whir with recognition, though he never registered it outwardly. He'd shift and flash her a slight smile, and respond to whatever she had greeted him with politely.

But it was beyond the mere time that she woke. It was more than the way it all fell into place in his mind. It never caught him off guard that he knew; what incessantly blew him away was that someway, somehow, someplace deep in her mind, she knew.

Because eventually, realization would color her features. Her blissfully sleepy smile would melt, and she'd begin studying him, and she'd study him until she found words, and then she would ask, "What are you really?"

Somehow he never expected that.

Somehow, each time, he remained convinced that the question was rhetorical - that she didn't need an answer. She knew already, somewhere deep inside, just like he knew at the very forefront of his mind.

"What are you really?" he would echo mentally, over and over until he met her gaze again.

And he'd take a moment to gather his thoughts. Then, he'd force a smile in her direction, and reply, ever so smoothly, "If I told you, darling, you wouldn't believe me."

"How do you know?" she'd ask, her expression one of genuine shock and fear, like a deer caught in headlights. "Won't you tell me?"

"Believe me, my sweet," he'd answer her - at this point he'd take it upon himself to rise from the bed, foreseeing her reaction - "believe me when I tell you, you'd never understand."

Then would come the flood of impatience.

"No!" she'd cry, clambering across the bed to him. "Where are you going? Tell me. Who are you really? What aren't you telling me?"

It would break his heart, but he would ignore her pleas. She'd reach for him and find him forever out of reach, gone from her - already gone. He'd bend over a nightstand or end table or counter; he'd produce a slip of paper from somewhere, anywhere; and he'd write the information she'd need in the distant future, with each stroke of the pen deliberate and purposeful - because he truly didn't want to leave. He could feel the hurt emanating from her, and he knew she didn't want to see him go.

He'd turn to offer it to her, and her tear-filled eyes would scan the paper. She'd look up again, confusion written plainly on her blotchy face. "Camp Half Blood?" she'd ask. "What is this? This address…is it where I can find you again?"

Wordlessly, solemnly, he'd press his lips to her forehead before whispering, "Don't worry about it now. Keep it. Don't you ever lose that, you hear me? You'll need that someday. I promise."

He'd turn to leave, and she'd shout after him, always. She'd try to block the exit, to follow him out, refusing to let him leave her. But in the end, she'd sink to her knees and sob - ugly, rapt sobs - crumpling the note he'd written in her fist.

He wondered why he did it. He wondered why he ensnared so many hearts only to crush them. He wondered why he loved so much. He wondered if he ever really did love at all. He wondered if he knew what love was anymore.

He much preferred his encounters with male lovers - the goodbyes, at least. He never ran the risk of leaving them with something life-altering. They never had to be reminded of him every day for the rest of their lives.

A/N: First chapter only. There will be more.