"You don't have to walk me home."
"Yes I do." He stood on the porch beside his love, both watching the scattered leftovers of a rainshower fall onto the sidewalk. His love rolled his eyes, then smiled, and they held one another close for a few moments.
"Better get going then. Mom will have a fit if I'm home late again."
"Fine, fine, let's go."
They walked down the driveway hand in hand as evening mist began to roll up the street. It smelled of summer, and of rain; it smelled, he thought, very much like love. He allowed his love to guide him around corners and up neighborhood streets, following him. Sometimes his love was a few feet ahead, and sometimes he was there, beside him, their bodies close. He felt lost in the mist, and was glad of his love's guidance, for it was as if everything had disappeared; were it not for the steadily decreasing evening light, he doubted that he would know what time of day it was. It felt as though the fog crept through his mind, blanketing everything.
"You walk so slow!" his love said, smiling. His sweet voice was loud, and seemed to echo as if they walked among cathedral pews. Any sound was magnified in that quiet, humid air, and it felt almost wrong to speak, to make any irreverent noise in the stillness. He nodded and smiled back, walking faster, aware of the slapping of his shoes on wet concrete and the lighter patter of the other's feet. His love moved like a dancer through the fog, as if he were a part of it, fading in and out.
The fog thickened as streetlights flicked on, and the numb detachment in his mind grew. Part of him worried at it, but he quickly silenced his concern, somehow certain that awareness, reality, consciousness were painful, and that it was wise to enjoy his dizzy detachment while he could. After all, it would be a long walk home.
"You're so quiet tonight," his love half-whispered, quieter now as it grew darker.
He shrugged.
"We live in a good neighborhood. I don't know why you have to walk me home every time."
"Who knows what could happen?" he said, after a pause, and his own voice sounded distant and strange to him, almost cracked. His throat was dry. When was the last time he had a glass of water? He couldn't remember, and although he knew that was strange, he let it go, let the concern slip away into the fog.
His love laughed, and looked at him, smile glowing and eyes shining in the purple-grey light of dusk. "Do you really worry?"
"About you? All the time. What if I lost you?"
His love smiled again, but he saw uncertainty flash across brown eyes. "You never will. I've told you that. There's nothing to worry about."
"I still like to walk you home." Something twisted in his stomach, but disappeared quickly.
"Well, I'm glad you do." His love squeezed his hand, soft palm wrapped in a fog as thick as cobwebs.
They walked together in silence to the top of the street, then turned left, and they had arrived. He had walked it a thousand times, but tonight it felt new, bigger and ill-proportioned. It was the fog, he told himself, and the weather. And he was tired. Oh, he was so tired. When had he slept last? He remembered sleeping beside his love, hearing his soft breaths, feeling his warmth, but it seemed so long ago. Last night? No, he had walked his love home last night, as he had the night before, and the night before that. He shook off the feeling, knowing he could sleep when he was home.
"Well," said his love, and they paused in an island of light beneath a streetlamp as the sea of fog and darkness rolled around them.
"I love you," he said, and his voice sounded feeble and petulant in his mind.
