Work Text:
He realized, at a very early age, that what he wanted was never the first choice. That his country and his people were always first. That his family and the council were his guides and to trust only in them. Never in his heart and only in his mind.
He realized then, that being king was never something he could ever truly want from the bottom of his heart.
He goes on missions and does his duty and at the end of the night when the palace slowly sinks to sleep, he seeks the solution for his ache in the arms of a man that does not want the same.
“I know what you are doing,” Nakia says finally on the jet ride back from a particularly easy mission in southern Italy where thieves tried to get away with Wakandan tech from an outreach facility.
“Doing what?” He asks and hopes that Nakia does not say what he fears next.
“He is troubled,” she leans back against the seat and pinches the bridge of his nose, “you deserve better.”
“You know,” she continues, “he is dangerous. The very fact that is alive after what he tried...” she shakes her head, “our country suffered at his hand.”
T’Challa presses his mouth together tightly but doesn’t say anything.
“I care for you, T’Challa,” she wrinkles her nose, “this is not right.”
“I will be fine.”
He offers her a slow smile, and then, when she shoots him an unconvinced look, “he needs our help.”
“He doesn’t need your help,” her voice goes firm, “you cannot love someone who does not have the ability to love you back.”
“He is just lost,” T’Challa insists and he can feel the slight hysteria rise in his throat slightly.
“Lost souls are always the hardest to help.” She sits up a little, mouth twitching into a soft, sympathetic smile.
“I don’t trust him, T’Challa, and I advise you not to either.”
—
He goes by the swing in the royal gardens sometimes. Sometimes, when it feels as if he might succumb under the weight that sits heavy on his shoulders. As if he might make a wrong move and it would all be over.
“I am fine,” he assures the Dora Milaje with him and then beckons for them to leave.
For now, all he wants is to be alone with the moon and his thoughts.
T’Challa strolls leisurely down the brick path, stopping to pluck a pale orange flower off of a bush. He rolls the stem between his fingertips and sighs, pulling petals off absently as he makes his way to the swing.
Surprisingly, Erik is already there sitting cross legged on the wide swing, two guards standing a few feet from him.
T’Challa doesn’t move; Erik looks lost in his own thoughts, brow furrowed slightly, fingers thumbing at the ring necklace that sits against his chest.
T’Challa treads closer and then gestures to the two guards; they look at him once, nod, and then leave.
Erik looks up, gaze troubled, yet sharp and attentive.
“What are you doing out here?”
Erik purses his lips, “thinkin’,” he pauses, “you?”
“I come here to be alone.” He replies and then, when Erik looks as if he might stand up, he adds, “but I do not mind your company.”
It feels impossible to read Erik, feels impossible to be able to see what’s happening inside his mind. His unpredictability is expected and yet, it still wears T’Challa down.
Erik taps the empty space beside him on the swing; T’Challa ducks his head and then sits.
“Are you alright?”
Erik sniffs and then scoffs, shaking his head.
“You keep askin’ that, as if you even give a shit. Therapy sessions are over, man, I ain’t gonna talk about this shit anymore.” Erik’s voice rises slightly.
T’Challa doesn’t reply. Something harsh feels as if it’s caught in his throat.
“I care.” He says slowly, tipping his chin forward, tentatively reaching towards Erik.
“Yeah,” Erik jerks his head and scowls, pulling away from T’Challa’s touch.
“I want,” T’Challa says carefully, unable to stop the words bubbling at his tongue, itching to be said, “I want to take care of you.”
Erik goes silent and for what seems like an eternity, doesn’t say a word.
T’Challa sucks in a sharp breath, scrubbing a hand over his chin before standing.
“I am sorry.”
Erik shakes his head, “you don’t wanna take care of me,” he looks up and his eyes, sharp and cunning, go weary, glistening in the mellow light that spills from the sky.
“It’s pointless,” he laughs, a jagged, wet noise and T’Challa presses his mouth together.
He wants to touch Erik, wants to cup his jaw and smooth the droplets that fall from his eyes away and to kiss away the hurt and anger and sheer amount of pain that’s swelled inside his chest until he feels like can’t breathe.
He wants so much to be so close that he can taste Erik’s skin on his lips everyday and wants to perhaps love Erik one day despite the constant litany of wrong and impossible and foolish that fills his head like poison.
Yet, what he wants is what he cannot have because he is the king and kings, he thinks wearily, do not get what they want.
So he sighs and says, “not to me,” and then, “not if it is you.”
T’Challa looks down at Erik who still sits on the swing which sways gently and doesn’t move when Erik reaches forward. Doesn’t move when Erik presses his forehead to T’Challa’s sternum. Doesn’t move when he feels the wetness soak through his tunic and when Erik’s shoulders shake.
He presses his palm down on Erik’s shoulder and runs the other hand through the rough strands of his dreads and does not speak.
—
“It feels like something died here,” Shuri scoffs when she finally looks up from her lab table, wrinkling her nose, “can you lighten up, please?”
T’Challa snaps his gaze up to meet Shuri’s, momentarily distracted before sighing.
“Sorry.” He says and then approaches her table, mustering a smile.
“What are you up to, baby sister?” He asks, fingers tracing over the sleek, rectangular object sitting on her lab table.
Shuri flickers, mouth turning up into a slight smile, “working on something new,” she tips her chin back, head brushing against T’Challa’s shoulder, “it’s a surprise.”
T’Challa lets his smile grow, “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
Shuri beams.
It feels easier, more routine in Shuri’s lab with the gentle whir of the vibranium mine behind them and her inventions being tinkered with slowly as the backdrop to his intrusive thoughts.
“How is Sergeant Barnes?”
He flops down on one of the empty seats near Shuri’s computer.
“He is well,” she pauses, “he is recovering. Though, he has asked about his friend, Captain Rogers, a few times.”
T’Challa nods thoughtfully, “I’m sure we can arrange something.”
Shuri shrugs, “yeah,” and then turns back to her latest idea.
—
T’Challa hesitates to visit Erik for a few days.
After what happened in the gardens, the way Erik, always so quick and sharp, like the blade of a knife and clever, eyes gleaming and calculating and so utterly unreadable, crumbled against T’Challa like sand washed against the shore line.
It shakes something new and uneasy inside his chest.
He visits his mother, feeling somewhat younger and more tired, head falling into her lap, seeking comfort and solace.
She doesn’t say anything, only skims her fingers against his hair and recites a poem from her book with a gentle, kind smile.
“My son,” she says after she is finished, “what is on your mind?”
T’Challa bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard, sitting up and stays still for a moment.
“I feel as if I have done something wrong.” He whispers.
She slowly puts her book away and then turns to him, “why do you say that?”
“I have disturbed…” the words feel trapped, caught in his throat, crumbling before they reach past his lips, “I have disturbed a peace I should not have.”
He struggles for a moment; the words aren’t right but they will have to do since it feels as if there is nothing else to describe the ache that’s settled deep in his bones.
She hums, cupping his face in her cool palm, “N’Jadaka was never at peace, my love.”
“I only tried to make things right.” He fumbles and then laughs, a rough noise, “it seems as if I have made things worse.”
“T’Challa,” she clicks her tongue and then frowns slightly, shaking her head, “what you are doing is noble and courageous. He is the way he is because of your father,” she pauses, “it is not your job to fix a man who does not wish it.”
“I can try.” He replies and that somehow ends the conversation.
—
He visits Erik, who looks as if he’s already attempting poorly to forget what even happened. Erik offers him a wicked grin and kisses him hard enough that it’s almost dizzying, mouth unforgiving and lets T’Challa pin him harshly to the wall. He stays still when T’Challa hoists him up, wraps his legs around T’Challa’s hips and moans, breathy and raspy and music to T’Challa’s ears.
As if he had never said anything at all.
When they’re finished, Erik pushes T’Challa off with a gentle arm and then tugs off his loose pants and shirt, heading towards the shower.
And somehow, it burns deep inside his chest, almost bitterly, when Erik doesn’t look back.
T’Challa clears his throat and leaves.