36. That's What Love's About – Stacie Orrico
It was in the way Mokuba knew when to babble about anything and everything, reminding Seto about the existence of the outside world, and when to just sit reading in his office.
It was in the way Seto put his coat over his little brother when he fell asleep, not smiling or tucking wayward black hair behind his ears, but still making sure his feet weren't cold.
It was in the way Yami always waited until Yuugi had fallen asleep before retiring into the Puzzle.
It was in the way Anzu collected an extra lunch for Jounouchi from the cafeteria and deposited it in front of him, whether or not he'd told her he had nothing to eat.
It was in the way Raphael repeated each name of those he'd lost before he went to sleep each night, no matter how tired he was.
It was in the way Mai trawled Duellist Kingdom looking for Star Chips she didn't actually need.
It was in the way Isis would stop whatever important work she was doing to talk to Malik, even if she had a deadline, or a government official on the phone, and her brother had nothing to offer except noncommittal grunts.
It was in the way Ryou carefully kept all his letters to Amane in a lockbox, which he eventually brought out and showed his friends after they returned from Egypt and stopped calling him just Bakura.
It was in the way Amelda reduced himself to a duelling machine for the memory of his brother.
It was in the way Jounouchi never had to look over his shoulder in a fight to know Honda's back was against his.
It was in the way Grandpa Mutou stopped ogling Anzu's chest and started asking her opinion on which socks went with which shirt.
It was in the way Yuugi knew the names of ballet steps without knowing how to actually do them.
It was in the way Valon sat on his porch, staring at sunsets, and saw impressions of blonde hair and violet eyes in the clouds and sky.
It was in the way Anzu rearranged Yuugi's hair so it didn't list to one side without breaking stride in whatever she was talking about.
It was in the way he didn't mind.
It was in the way nobody – not Honda, not Otogi, not even Jounouchi – ever commented about it.
It was in Rishid's tattoos.
It was in speech after declaration after speech, shouted and gritted and wept with varying degrees of consciousness but always the same amount of sincerity.
It was in sacrifice. It was in battle. It was in being reunited. It was in missing what was absent, never forgetting what was precious, and knowing the right time to let go.
Some said it was nothing. Some said it was everything. Some couldn't decide whether they wanted it or not, and others had to teach themselves what it was after a lifetime of not experiencing it. For some it was the most complicated thing in the world, while for others it was as simple, impulsive and inevitable as breathing.
It was never the same way twice, and nobody could feel it the way others did, because it was inexplicable as the meaning of life and expansive as the possibility of tomorrow. You couldn't ask someone to explain it without them resorting to clichés or waving their hands and declaring, "It just … is."
It wasn't something that could be reduced to a corny phrase in a Hallmark greeting card.
It was hurt. It was pain. It was joy. It was fundamental. It was excessive. It was mysterious. It was effortless. It was multi-faceted. It was sometimes disturbing and downright bizarre. It could also be the most perfect state a heart was able to experience, even if only for a single beat.
What was it?
Well, what else could it be?
It was love.
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