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T’Challa appears at his door in loose gym clothes, the curve of his jaw taut and the line of his mouth soft.
Erik agrees, despite the sweltering heat of nerves and insistent thump of something he can’t describe building in his chest.
They spar because in a way, it’s the only thing that makes it easier to ignore the itch between them. They spar because it helps.
Erik beats T’Challa, easily, within 2 rounds without the usual smugness he’s expecting from himself.
They fuck, too.
A lot.
T’Challa, despite the soft creases by his eyes and the gentle rasp of his voice, fucks hard.
His hand, rough and scarred from battle, wraps achingly tight around Erik’s throat, Erik’s legs thrown carelessly over T’Challa’s shoulders. He feels so incredibly full; the angle at which he’s nearly folded in half gets T’Challa deep inside of him. His thrusts come sharp and fast, over and over again until the whimpers caught in Erik’s throat transform into pained groans and he’s coming with a shudder.
Afterwards, when Erik’s panting softly, wincing at the come leaking out of him, T’Challa stands and shuffles towards the bathroom. He comes back with a damp rag and begins, almost so gently that it hurts inside Erik, to clean the sweat and come off of him.
“I'll be right back,” he hums a little and then tips his head towards Erik, kissing the high point of his cheekbone.
Erik sniffs and pushes T’Challa off of him with a lazy arm.
Erik watches T’Challa head into the bathroom, unable to look away from the blunt scratches on his back.
—
It feels as if, for days, something has been building up inside him. Erik mentions it offhandedly to his therapist in one of his council mandated sessions. She doesn’t even raise an eyebrow and suggests an increase in physical activity and presses a journal into his hands.
“For your thoughts. Bring it when you see me next.” She smiles.
Erik barks out a laugh, rough and low, but takes it anyway, fingertips smoothing absently over the leather spine.
He leaves, followed closely by two Dora Milaje to his room. Inside, Erik tosses the journal on his bed and changes into a pair of shorts and a t shirt. He came to Wakanda with nothing but the clothes on his back, his father’s ring necklace and a dead man. His clothes had since disappeared and his only option was traditional Wakandan clothing. But shortly after he settled in, someone had stocked his closet full of western clothes and Erik knew it was safe to assume it was T’Challa’s doing.
T’Challa.
T’Challa with sharp, catlike eyes and an unwavering gaze. T’Challa and all his morals and choices and consistent insistence of Erik’s good side. T’Challa and his faith that Erik could change.
Erik sighs and leaves his room.
For the first time, he takes his chances jogging in the royal gardens. Erik never even bothered to attempt it for a few weeks since the heat was still on him from his attempt to overthrow their king. He supposes it's fair since he did try to commit treason.
He laughs slightly, mostly to himself and mostly at the irony of his entire situation, and begins his run. There are guards everywhere but he can’t find it in himself to be annoyed; the gardens are beautiful. Lush, green grass covers the grounds around the paths and thick bushes and trees with vivid flowers and buds spot the grass. There are benches occasionally that follow the trail of the path and even a large swing built on one of the bigger trees with a thicker trunk and branches. The entire path runs for nearly a mile and a half.
Erik runs several laps, each time increasing his speed until his breathing is laboured and it feels as if his heart might beat right out of his chest.
Yet he can’t bring himself to stop.
When he reaches the swing, he speeds up again and continues to run several more laps. His calves burn but the itch in his brain disappears to the back as he focuses on the searing pain in his lungs. Erik forces himself to run 5 more laps before finally stopping. He bunches over immediately, panting hard as he tries to catch his breath.
Erik stumbles slightly on his way back to his room, gulping down some water as he enters, slamming the door shut behind him.
Peeling his shirt off, Erik clenches his teeth, pressing the hot water button on the wall in the shower as he tugs off his shorts. It becomes slightly hard to breathe and he realizes warily that he might have pushed himself too hard.
There’s a short knock at his door; Erik already knows who it is. He opens the door, considering turning T’Challa away but when T’Challa gives him a crooked smile, he can’t bring himself to.
“T’Challa,” he mumbles and then makes his way into the bathroom, taking a slow breath through his nose. He can feel beads of sweat trickle down his neck.
“Erik,” T’Challa’s voice is so pleasantly warm and deep.
Erik’s about to tell T’Challa that now isn’t a good time for whatever T’Challa’s here for but a sudden wave of dizziness passes over him.
Erik sinks to his knees, one hand immediately gripping the seat of the toilet, and throws up.
T’Challa’s beside him immediately, one cool hand pressed at the nape of Erik’s neck. Heat rises to his ears and he heaves again before fumbling to flush and pushes T’Challa’s comforting hand off of him.
“Are you okay?” Concern ebbs at T’Challa’s voice and Erik waves a hand, attempting to stand up. T’Challa’s arm slips around his hips and he helps Erik stand. He waves his hand in front of the tap and cups his hands under, catching enough water to rinse his mouth.
“I’m fine, man,” it comes out sharper than he intends but T’Challa doesn’t even hesitate, one hand rising to Erik’s shoulder with a firm grip.
“What happened?”
Erik scoffs, “ran too much, I’m fine.”
He jerks his shoulder and T’Challa lets his hand drop.
He’s not. The nausea has passed but his lungs ache and his legs feel as if they might give out. He doesn’t tell T’Challa that though.
T’Challa hesitates for a moment and then leans forward, brushing a kiss on Erik’s sweat damp temple and then grasps his hand, squeezing tightly.
“Shower,” he motions to the shower where the water is still running, “I am here.”
Erik, too tired and worn to protest, nods.
—
He writes in his journal one night when the moon is bright and large and he wakes up with a frantic gasp, chest heaving.
He doesn’t know what to write, the pen sits loosely in his grip, the journal open to a clean white page. Eventually, he writes some bullshit, pen moving across the page, leaving scrawled letters in its wake.
When he’s finished, he slips the journal under a few folded clothes in his closet. Erik leaves his room and then asks the Dora outside his room to tell him where T’Challa’s room.
They don’t tell him for a moment.
“I ain’t gonna try to kill him,” he states and one of them looks at him as if she would ever believe that.
“Your king ain’t gonna be happy if I tell them you didn’t help me,” he’s above making mild threats to people just doing their jobs but something tingles distractedly in the tips of his fingers and he realizes he just needs to see T’Challa.
One of them speaks up and points him in the general direction, telling him to turn right at the bend and go straight down the hall. He nods in thanks and then starts to make his way towards T’Challa’s room.
It’s not hard to tell which one is T’Challa’s room; there are Dora Milaje standing alert outside and several guards spread across the hall.
Erik strides carefully, surprised when none of the guards or Dora who eye him with narrow, sharp eyes, object as he knocks on T’Challa’s door.
“Your entourage outside ain’t exactly sharp about letting a criminal into their king’s room,” he says as soon as he enters, shutting the door behind himself softly.
T’Challa, looking mildly worn and distracted, laughs raspily with a tip of his chin, “I have instructed them to let you in at any time.”
Erik pauses.
Something hot and fast drops from his throat and into his chest, weaving against his heart. It’s definitely new.
The trust T’Challa puts in Erik, the sheer damage Erik could cause if he had the tools to. And yet, T’Challa does not seem to care.
The thought is jarring; startling and new in his mind.
Instead, he shrugs, “you put a lot of trust in me, man.”
T’Challa nods barely and then takes a seat on his bed, patting the space beside him.
Erik follows, cautiously sitting beside him.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Dreams?” T’Challa asks.
“I don’t dream,” Erik lies.
T’Challa turns, “I was about to sleep now,” he trails off, “I would like it if you spent the night.”
There’s no way for Erik to read the emotion in his voice. It’s even and smooth and Erik nods.
He’s not tired; seeing T’Challa sit languidly in nothing but a loose, thin cotton shirt and worn sleeping pants is a image he can’t shake.
He wants to kiss T’Challa with an overwhelming need, he wants to push him against the wall and pull deep growls and stuttered moans from his mouth and then let T’Challa fuck his throat until it’s raw and he can’t fucking breathe.
He wants so much, so fast and so hard, that it leaves him reeling, mind whirring at an inhuman speed as he attempts poorly to catch up with his own thoughts.
So he kisses T’Challa hard, letting him kiss back with a soft ease and underlying pressure, one hand sliding over T’Challa’s shoulder, fingers digging hard into the flesh.
T’Challa pulls away breathlessly and then pushes Erik towards the pillows, throwing a leg over his hips and straddling them. Erik stabilizes him with a hand on his hip and then kisses him again, harder and slicker until he can no longer hear his own thoughts blaring loudly in his mind.
—
He wakes up shaking.
T’Challa’s asleep beside him so Erik doesn’t move. Doesn’t get up like he so desperately aches to. Doesn’t scramble for a gun he doesn’t have under his pillow with clever fingers. Doesn’t jerk the door open to check for nonexistent enemies that his mind insists are there.
Instead, he stares blankly at the ceiling, at the intricate Wakandan designs and trimmings until he’s pretty sure he’s memorized them. Until he stops shaking.
“Erik?”
T’Challa’s voice is soft, a bare whisper. He rubs his eyes, squinting at Erik.
“Go back to sleep, man.” Erik replies.
“Dreams?” T’Challa asks.
Erik’s scoffs, “I don’t dream.”
“Of course.”
T’Challa doesn’t say anything else and then pulls the covers over them, hesitantly turning towards Erik and flinging his arm over his torso.
He waits nearly ten minutes until he’s sure T’Challa’s asleep. His breathing evens out against Erik’s collarbones, his lashes fluttering slightly against his neck.
Erik sighs.
“Dreamt about my old man,” he breathes out, barely above a whisper, “kept seein’ him fall,” he pauses, “I wasn’t even there.”
The idea is ridiculous; there’s no way he could even imagine how it went down and yet, there it is in his mind, the image of his father crumpling to the ground, sharp and bright.
“I’m losin’ it,” he sighs.
T’Challa only shifts slightly, burying his face farther in the crook of Erik’s neck.
“I lost his necklace too,” it feels pathetic, saying that out loud.
He feels helpless again, like when he was a child and his mother used to find him with stolen trinkets stowed away in his bag.
“I can’t even look for it,” his voice cracks slightly.
His hand twitches in the sheets; Erik turns to his side, his back away from T’Challa and goes to sleep.
—
In the morning, Erik slips out the door with a yawn.
The guards posted outside don’t bat an eye.
Later in the evening when he stumbles into his room after a particularly gruelling run, Erik finds the necklace, gleaming and golden, on his bed. For a moment, his heart stops. He snatches it off the bed, fingertips grazing the grooves on the chain, stopping at the woven band on the ring. He thinks about last night and his sheer weakness, a moment in which he almost let himself go. He realizes, almost with a laugh, that he really can’t tell what fake sleep is.
As he slips the chain back on his neck it dawns on him that he really doesn’t care.