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Things die down and slowly, Wakanda begins to resume the everyday bustle of life.
T’Challa spends most of his days with the council debating and deciding on the best uses of Wakandan technology in different regions of the impoverished world.
Nakia, despite the tug in her heart pulling her away from Wakanda and towards the world, stays by T’Challa’s side and helps him decide.
“T’Challa,” she whispers softly and he nods, blinking several times to keep himself awake.
It’s nearly midnight but the first shipment of Wakandan technology, heat powered molten plasma guns for faster construction, is set to leave at dawn.
“You,” she cups his jaw in her cool hand and sighs, “should sleep.”
“I am fine,” he waves a hand in the air but offers Nakia a crooked smile to reassure her.
It doesn’t work; she shakes her head and ushers him out of his chair with promises to finish the last few bits and pieces of work as long as he heads to sleep. Nakia, he supposes, is too good for him and always knew better.
T’Challa gives her hand a gentle squeeze and stands, walking out of the throne room, flanked by two Dora Milaje.
He’s beginning to feel the day’s activities finally catch up with him and it feels suddenly like his feet have become heavier and a deep ache has settled in his bones.
T’Challa reaches the bend which separates the hallway leading to his room and the farmost wing of the palace where Erik is. He sniffs, and then motions absently for the Dora to leave.
He waits until they disappear down the hall and then shuffles, albeit nervously, towards Erik’s room.
For a moment, he hesitates; what they’re doing is dangerous. With every tip of Erik’s chin as he presses kisses to T’Challa’s mouth, with every breathless noise and gentle nudge of his nose against T’Challa’s cheek, T’Challa falls deeper..
He sighs and then pinches the bridge of his nose, deciding the worst thing that will happen is he will get too nervous before he has a chance to knock.
T’Challa makes his way down the hall and then knocks sharply before he can stop himself.
Erik opens the door with only mild annoyance and ushers T’Challa in. He slips through the small opening in the door, barely inside before Erik’s hand is against his neck, his mouth slick against T’Challa’s.
“I was waiting for you,” he mumbles and T’Challa shudders, arm wrapping tightly around Erik’s waist, tugging him close.
He pulls away barely and T’Challa sighs; they’re so close he can taste Erik on his tongue, the familiarity of hard liquor and the warmth that comes with it.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Erik breathes and T’Challa laughs, nudging Erik back towards his bed with the tip of his shoe, one hand fumbling against his the buttons on his tunic.
Erik lets himself fall back against the bed and momentarily, T’Challa finds himself unable to look away from the smooth planes of Erik’s jaw and neck, drenched in pale, shimmering moonlight. He presses a hand against Erik’s collarbone, pushing his body farther into the bed and groans; moonlight covers his own hand and it’s hard to tell where Erik ends and T’Challa starts.
“You a real starer, man,” Erik slips a hand over T’Challa’s wrist and slides it over his arm and towards his neck, gripping tightly.
He pushes his hips apart slightly, making room for T’Challa to settle.
T’Challa toes his shoes off and nestles between the crook of Erik’s legs, knuckles brushing absently against Erik’s cheekbone.
“I cannot help it,” he murmurs and then kisses Erik hard, teeth clacking against his, leaving smears across his mouth.
For a while, it feels good to just lay there, Erik’s one hand playing loosely with the hair on the nape of his neck, his mouth so incredibly soft and hot against his own.
Yet he can’t help but pull away slightly and then yawn, unable to stop his exhaustion from bleeding through.
Erik, T’Challa knows will get awkward soon as it dawns on him that they probably won’t have sex tonight. It’s not love, whatever they’re doing. They’re fucking around, tentatively, until it gets too close and one of them slips. T’Challa thinks, warily, that it might be him.
He sits up on his knees, rubbing one eye, “I should go.”
He stands and begins to wriggle his shoes back on when Erik nudges his hip with an outstretched leg, shaking his head.
“Bunk with me tonight,” he says, deliberately not making eye contact with T’Challa and pats the space beside him.
T’Challa offers him a small smile, tilting his head slightly and buttoning the few opened buttons on his tunic, “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
Erik finally turns, gaze sharp, flickering from T’Challa’s eyes and towards his mouth, “just come,” he sniffs and then pushes himself towards one side of the bed.
T’Challa stands still for a moment; he’s so tired he can feel it in his bones and briefly, his room feels miles away. He nods shortly and then begins to undress until he’s wearing only his undergarments, folding his clothes neatly as he goes.
Erik gestures towards his closet and T’Challa makes his way over, picking up the first pair of sweatpants he spots and tugging them on.
The bed is comfortably big and there is enough space for T’Challa to lie down a few inches away from Erik. Despite not touching Erik, he can already feel the heat radiating from Erik against his own bare skin.
T’Challa sighs and closes his eyes.
—
He wakes up embarrassingly late.
The first thing he notices is how close Erik is to him. His arm is flung across T’Challa’s torso, one leg woven tightly with his. T’Challa’s arm is trapped beneath Erik, Erik’s head resting barely against his shoulder.
Sunlight streams through the panels on the windows, soaking the entire room in shimmering light and Erik’s face with a smooth blanket of warmth. He looks incredibly peaceful, the harsh lines of his mouth softened, lashes fluttering against his cheekbones as he breathes, lax and slow.
Something catches at T’Challa’s heart, a slightly warm and growing feeling that spreads across his chest. He shakes it away and then attempts, poorly, to get up without waking Erik up.
It takes him five minutes to move Erik’s head and slowly untangle their legs, pushing the blanket off as he stands. Clumsily, T’Challa buttons his tunic back up and pulls the sweatpants off, folding them and placing them on the side of the bed in exchange for his pants.
He feels blearily tired yet alert as he glances back once more to Erik’s sleeping form with a sense of both warmth and dread.
The game they’re playing is no longer dangerous, it’s carelessly wrong. And T’Challa is losing poorly.