The studio was warm, filled with the faint scent of oil paint and linseed, and the soft hum of classical music playing from an old speaker. William sat in the center of the room on a small wooden stool, his hands resting loosely in his lap. The late afternoon light filtered through the wide windows, casting a golden glow over everything it touched.

Across from him, Julius stood behind his easel, brush in hand, his brow furrowed in concentration. The young artist had insisted that William sit for him, brushing off the other’s protests with a half-teasing smile and a quiet but firm, “Just let me try.”

Now, William remained still, his heart thundering in his chest as Julius’s intense gaze flicked back and forth between him and the canvas.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a break?” 

William asked, his voice soft but amused. “You’ve been standing there for hours.”

“I’m fine,” Julius replied without looking up, his tone distracted. “But stay still. You moved a little just now.”

William bit back a laugh, allowing himself to relax into the moment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so seen. Julius’s focus was absolute, his every movement deliberate, his every stroke on the canvas filled with purpose. It was both humbling and exhilarating to be the subject of his creation.

As time passed, the silence between them grew more comfortable. William let his mind wander, watching the way Julius’s hands moved with quiet confidence, the brush in his fingers sweeping across the canvas. 

There was a kind of beauty in Julius’s focus, in the way he seemed to pour himself into his work without hesitation.

And then Julius broke the silence.

“Why do you always look like you’re carrying something heavy?” he asked, his tone thoughtful but without judgment.

William blinked, startled by the question. “What do you mean?”

Julius set his brush down and stepped back, studying his work with a critical eye. “You smile a lot,” he said, still looking at the canvas. “But it never quite reaches your eyes. It’s like there’s something you’re hiding.”

The words struck a chord deep within William, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. His hands tightened in his lap, his chest aching with the weight of the truth he couldn’t share.

“It’s complicated,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Julius glanced at him then, his gaze piercing but not unkind. “I thought so,” he said quietly. “But whatever it is, it makes you... real. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like you carry all this light and shadow at the same time. It’s... captivating.”

William’s breath caught. He didn’t know what to say, his heart pounding as Julius’s words settled over him like a warm blanket. How could this mortal see so much of him, even through the layers of deception he had woven around himself?

Finally, Julius stepped back from the easel, setting his brush down with a sigh. “Okay,” he said, his voice tinged with nervousness. “I think it’s done.”

William stood, his legs stiff from sitting for so long. “Can I see it?” he asked, his curiosity tempered by a strange mix of anticipation and apprehension.

Julius hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Go ahead.”

William approached the canvas slowly, his eyes widening as he took in the painting before him. It was... breathtaking.

The portrait captured him with an almost ethereal light. Julius had painted him as though he were both fragile and unbreakable, a figure of quiet strength and haunting vulnerability. His eyes, rendered in exquisite detail, seemed to hold a thousand unspoken truths, and the faint curve of his lips hinted at both sadness and hope.

“You’ve made me look like...” William trailed off, his voice trembling. “Like I’m something more than what I am.”

Julius stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the portrait. “I didn’t make you look like anything,” he said softly. “This is how I see you.”

The words sent a wave of emotion crashing over William. He turned to look at Julius, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Julius, I...”

The artist smiled faintly, his expression uncharacteristically open. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”

But William wanted to say something. He wanted to tell Julius how much this meant to him, how much he meant to him. Instead, he stepped back, his gaze returning to the painting.

In that moment, William felt something shift deep within him. The idea of reclaiming his immortality, of returning to Olympus and resuming his eternal role, no longer felt like a triumph. It felt... hollow. What was the point of eternity if it meant losing the fleeting, fragile beauty of moments like this?

As they cleaned up for the evening, Julius shot William a sidelong glance. “You really liked it?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with vulnerability.

William smiled, his chest aching with the depth of his emotions. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said honestly.

Julius’s ears turned pink, and he quickly busied himself with organizing his brushes. “Well, I had a good subject,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

William chuckled softly, but his heart felt heavy with a mixture of joy and sorrow. He couldn’t deny it any longer: he was falling in love with Julius. And with that realization came an even more painful truth.

How could he face the end of his time on Earth when every moment with Julius made him want to stay?

For the first time, William allowed himself to consider the possibility of not returning to Olympus. And for the first time, the idea of mortality didn’t feel like a curse. It felt like a gift.