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Will sometimes wishes that he had met Hannibal in another life; another century; maybe another world; he wonders if Hannibal would be the same man lounging next to him on the lavish couch, engrossed in a medical journal. Will thinks about how it would have played out– if either of them would have turned out differently, given the chance. Will wonders who they might’ve been in centuries past –peasant farmer and butcher, Roman emperor and scribe, perhaps rival kings– and how they would have met; if they would have met. He wonders if he would have been a nameless victim or maybe a nameless face. A body lost in the crowd.
He glances over, gaze coming to rest on high cheekbones, a stubbled jaw, and Hannibal’s eyes– dark as blood in the moonlight. “Beautiful,” Will thinks, and he wonders if he’d ever stop to admire Hannibal in another life; wonders if their paths would have ever intersected. His gut tells him that they would have, eventually, whether it was at their beginning or their end; whether they knew each other for only a moment or for a lifetime; for a decade or a week. Will doesn't believe in destiny, but that doesn’t stop his mind from running through all of the possibilities.
“An endless string of coincidence and careful planning,” he thinks, watching as Hannibal’s lithe fingers turn the page. He knows that in another life or another world, he must have killed Hannibal and Hannibal must have killed him– it’s a logical conclusion and an unavoidable one. Sometime, somewhere, the earth was still too raw to house both of their hearts, and one was forced back into the unending vastness of Before. He acknowledges this with nothing more than an infinitesimal tilt of his head toward the older man.
He knows that in another time they may have been free of the blood on their hands– if it would ever have been there at all. He knows that this love, this conjointment of their souls, would have happened regardless. He is sure of this fact; as sure as the steady rhythm of his heart as it pounds against his ribs. Will often wonders about their future and their past, about their present; about how each moment will pan out. He thinks that, maybe, each world acts as a domino effect for the next. He wonders what will happen when the last domino falls.
“Any particular reason for the burning stare, Will?” Hannibal asks, and Will blinks, mind settling as the man turns another page, lips quirking up at the corners in a smirk. Will smirks back and reclines further into the cushions.
“Just wondering,” Will says, closing his eyes just as the other man raises his head from his book, expression scrunched in curiosity.
“About what?” Hannibal inquires, amusement clear in his voice.
“Dominos,” Will replies, smiling. Hannibal is silent for a moment, before breathing out something close to a laugh and turning back to his journal.
Will wonders if they could have been happy together, from the start; wonders if the universe would have allowed that. He decides that in another life; another century; another world, that they must have started here, in their home, a fire burning low, and the cold held at bay. Will maps out what their ending must’ve been, if they were allowed this peace from the beginning.
He wonders.