The first language humans had was gestures. Gestures. A movement of part of the body, especially a hand or the head, to express an idea or meaning. Gestures conveyed meaning. They always had.
Then, language became more complex. It was spoken. It was written. It was translated. Then, there were thousands. Thousands of languages, none of which that could be understood by all.
Callie said, "I'm selling the house." In her language she meant, "It's too hard. I can't be here without you."
She meant: I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
Arizona understood it as, "I'm done. Moved on. It's really over."
And — weeks later — she said, "You can tell me, Callie. You can always tell me." In her language, she meant, "I want to hear about your life. It hurts that we live so separately."
She meant: I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
Callie understood it as, "I'm done. Moved on. It doesn't bother me to hear that you have, too."
And that didn't hurt until it did.
Language deceived. Language confused.
Except gestures. Gestures were understood by all. Even by those who spoke different languages.
Even by those who didn't know each other anymore, because of the pure confusion of spoken word.
But, at Jo and Alex's wedding, when their song — that special, spectacular song — began to play, Callie and Arizona finally spoke the same language. They finally understood each other.
Because — despite everything, despite the crowd of dozens of people around them — their heads snapped up as the first notes began to play, and they found each other's eyes: warm blue and gentle brown.
And then, as casually and as unthinkingly as ever, they each innately reached out towards the other, motioning towards each other — a silent invitation to come hither, to come closer, to dance and be one. Dodging the crowds of people, they furiously ambled towards each other, their hands shaking with the need to find each other.
Finally, they stood before each other, and they both immediately knew. Even as everything else had dissipated — all the anger, the hurt, the pain — their love had endured.
Their love had prevailed. It had proven itself more powerful than opposing forces.
And — so close — they saw each other's breath hitch as they stepped into each other's space for the first time in so long.
It was a gesture they both understood.
Callie offered a hint of a smile, unsure of how to continue. How to ask for what she wanted. How to ensure that Arizona wanted the same.
"Hey," Arizona breathed. "Want to—"
"Yes," Callie immediately finished, her hands finding the blonde's waist as she stepped closer.
Arizona breathed out a sigh of relief as her arms wrapped around Callie's shoulders, pulling their bodies tightly together.
Closing their eyes, they felt the rhythm of each other's speeding heartbeat, and then the change as it slowed to a comforting calm that came with finally — finally — coming home.