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It’s not always complicated; sometimes, it’s as simple as bumping into each other on the street, brief annoyance that melts when their eyes meet, sharing shy smiles. “Let me buy you another coffee,” Magnus will say, or, “I’m sorry, let me make it up to you?” Alec will say, or, they’ll both go on their way, the thought of the other lingering on their minds and then they meet again by chance.
(“We’re fated, darling,” so many Magnus’ will say, because he’s a romantic at heart, but sometimes it will be Alec, quiet and happy and not as scared as he is in so many other lives.)
They’re not always Alexander Lightwood (or Alexandra, or Trueblood, or so many other alterations), a proud Shadowhunter and Magnus Bane, the High Warlock of Brooklyn. But they’re always, in every universe, a Nephilim and a Warlock, because it’s in their blood and their souls.
(“Star-crossed lovers, very romantic,” one of them will say, happy and laughing or sardonic and hurting, and the other will laugh or they won’t, depending.)
Sometimes it matters—wars come between them, expectation comes between them, demons and weddings and fear comes between them—but sometimes it doesn’t.
They’ll meet at a party, or a library, or a coffee shop. No fear or shame in the way, no Clave or expectations.
It’s not simple —it's never simple—but happiness comes easier to some versions of them than others.
In some universes, the Lightwoods stay loyal to the Circle and they’re fighting against each other, pretending the bond between them isn’t there; in some, Alec is turned into a Downworlder (in the worst possible turn of events, a vampire by Camille’s blood) and resentment will fester; in some, it’s simply Alec’s fear or Magnus’ pride (a Shadowhunter, of all things, and a Lightwood, he’ll think and try to move on instead of pursuing it, knowing what it might cost him) that prevents them.
But in every universe, they fall.
Even in universes where they’re impossible, where one of them doesn’t exist, or one of them dies too early or is born too late, or they, against all odds, miss each other and never meet, they will live with an unfathomable longing, a strange ache in their chests; nostalgia for someone they’ve never met, love like a missing limb.
(The late Magnus Bane is mentioned, or seen in a painting or a photo, and Alec’s breath will stop. “I know him,” Alec will mutter, unsettled and frantic. “I know him.”)
“Soulmates, Alexander, that’s what we are,” a dozen Magnus’ will say in a dozen different worlds and Alec, exasperated and fond, will laugh or roll his eyes or says, “Sure, Magnus,” and every one of them will, in a deep and secret place, believe him.