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"I'll leave you here," T'challa parked along the sidewalk and said. He glanced down at the suitcase Shuri balanced on her knees, held loosely to her chest. "You sure you'll be okay?"
"You worry too much." She waved him off. "I'll be fine."
Paris was no Wakanda. It lacked in vibrancy and liveliness. Where she was used to seeing deep browns and rich greens, she saw paleness and brown so faded it was almost white. No sprawling marketplace.
No Africanacity.
Her brown ankle boots tapped a steady beat against the cracked pavement, her trench coat flapped in the wind. The sound of T'Challa driving off was but a quiet hum underneath the noise of the city.
The short building reached five stories above her to try and touch the sky. Wrought iron balconies and large windows adorned its face, greeted Shuri as she craned her neck to stare up.
It was no Wakanda, certainly. But it had a charm about it that was worn and undoubtedly European.
"Good afternoon, Miss Udaku," a short man, frown in place and as finely pressed as the black pinstriped suit he wore, greeted her. With a sweep of his arm, he ushered her away from the arching entrance.
"Shuri. Call me Shuri." Her voice was assured as she said it. He had dropped the Princess, she was grateful.
"We have awaited your arrival, Miss," he caught himself and continued. "Shall I get your ... Bag?"
"It's fine—" Shuri paused.
"Fauntleroy."
"Fauntleroy." And was he born for this job or what? She battled to keep a smile away. "I'll manage. Oh, and I have a package coming in tonight. Thought you should know."
"Of course." Fauntleroy let her go with a short nod, an embarrassing sort of bow.
The elevator doors slid open smoothly. Shining silver opening to a small room of brass.
Shuri was many things, but she was no romantic. And the idea that she was beginning to fall in love with this city, or at least La Grande Porte, wasn't something Shuri would let take hold.
The lift stopped with a ringin g ding!
Flowers in dainty baskets hung from each white door, pink petals and sweet lilacs, a passage of pastel and swirling scent.
"Why do you have to lecture there?" T'Challa had asked, brow furrowed in confusion. "What does Paris have that Wakanda doesn't?"
"The PSL," Shuri answered without hesitation, peeking from behind a pair of heavy goggles. Paris Sciences et Lettres, it was all she could do not to talk about it every second.
"Ours are better."
"Which is why I have to lecture there," Shuri explained. "I need to spread Wakandan knowledge."
"What else do they have there?"
"The Eiffel Tower," Shuri answered. Eyes narrowed, she shot a look at T'Challa, who's hand hovered over a collection of discs sitting idly on one of the lab counters. "Don't touch that. I won't let you in here anymore if you carry on like this."
Atop a swivel stool, at a cluttered table, sat Nakia. She had raised her eyes from the thick booklet balanced on her lap, met Shuri's gaze with a smile, a gentle roll of her eyes.
"You won't stay in mother's holiday house. You won't stay in a penthouse. You won't stay in a hotel," T'Challa complained, drawing his hand back to his side. Fidgety, he dusted his hands over his sides. "You won't even go with any of the Dora. What trouble do you want to cause the white people, Shuri?"
"Aah, T'Challa," Nakia spoke up, a tsk in her voice. "Expect a bit more from your sister." A subtle wink.
"Yes, my king," she had joked, "expect a bit more from me."
But T'Challa was T'Challa, and even if he tried he couldn't let things go. Not really. Not properly or completely.
The whole drive from the airport to the apartment building, T'Challa had repeated the same six-point speech.
The whole drive from the airport to the airport building, Shuri had stared out the window and ignored him.
Standing outside her room door— its shade of pale in uniform with every other shade of pale painting every other door on that floor— Shuri heard his voice in her ear.
She hesitated. For only a second.
"You asshole!" The angry, irritated shout was the very first thing she heard when she entered the apartment. "You fucking asshole."
The cacophony of sounds carried loudly and easily from a room nestled somewhere around the corner.
"Hello?" Shuri called out, hand slipping into her pocket and circling the small blade she had brought with her. She dropped her bag beside the lavender sofa, took a step further into the living room. And she was grateful her voice didn't shake when she asked, "Who's there?"
Her roommate. Something else T'Challa had laughed about, had openly questioned. "You can have a whole floor to yourself," he had said, flicking her on her arm, "why bother with a roommate?"
It was all the University could offer. Shuri didn't mind, she actually liked the idea of sharing with someone new.
"Sorry." A tall girl, slender and with hair the colour of beach sand after a drizzle of rain, fell out of her room and against the passageways door's frame. "I'm in the middle of a Fortnite marathon. I didn't hear you come in."
And the second thing Shuri heard? King Princess playing in the background.
"Michelle Jones," she introduced herself with a tight smile, "My friends call me MJ." So, maybe it sounded like she had rehearsed that line.
"Shuri," she returned. Her bag, lightweight as she followed MJ, rolled swiftly behind her. "My friends call me... Well, they call me Shuri."
MJ held her hair away from her face, tied loosely in a low ponytail. Her low chuckle filled the room, echoed over the sound of the music and sang over the bustle of the late-afternoon crowd as they rushed to and from work.
"Nice to meet you, Shuri."
A passage branched off from the living room. A contrast to the lounge— modern and painted a soft white, lined by windows evenly spaced and framed in a darker shade of white— it awed Shuri, the way soft sunlight filtered through and dusted the passageway, despite how much she wanted it not to.
It was terrifying to her, how easily she was falling in love with Paris.
How certain she was she was going to fall in love with everything the city held.
The passage was a short one. Two powder blue doors at each end flanked one which stood a pale yellow.
MJ— already she was thinking of her as MJ, as if they were friends— stopped near the passage's end.
She waved a hand at the tall door. "Your room's behind here," she said, pushing the door open, "Mine's behind the other blue door. We'll share the bathroom and everything else."
"Most of this place is student quarters, right?" Shuri asked. She knew the answer, of course she did— the amount of research she had done into everything concerning PSL was astounding, even for her.
MJ dipped her head in a short and agreeing nod, continuing to talk as she lead the way into Shuri's room as if it were her own.
"A lot of the first and second floors are for the students." She drew velveteen curtains apart to let in the dying rays of light. The colours of the sunset danced on MJ's skin— painted her in the most beautiful shades of orange, of gold and yellow, that Shuri couldn't help the sharp intake of breath at the sight. "And fourth and fifth is almost all guests."
MJ turned to face her. Hands on her hips, she surveyed the room. Barefoot, dressed in thick black leggings and a loose orange shirt, she left Shuri blind to her surroundings.
"So," Shuri set down her bag and began, "Do you go to PSL?"
"No." MJ quirked a quick frown, revealed a hollow dimple. "My sophomore Mathlete team got invited up here. We're 'guests of the French' for the next few months."
She was curious; hungry for every bit of information this strange girl could offer her.
Shuri was too easily distracted to be a good listener. But to MJ she listened intently. She lapped up every single sentence, every single word, every single pause between the words.
The song had changed— King Princess to something Shuri only vaguely recognized.
Absent-mindedly almost, MJ tapped her foot along to the hard tune, muffled and floating from the confines of her room.
"You're not gonna ask about me?" Shuri queried. With ease, she hefted her bag onto the Queen-sized bed. Popping it open, the bag unfolded to reveal layers and layers of separate compartments.
MJ looked about ready to leave. Her room, her music, her marathon game of Fortnite, it would all call her away eventually. And Shuri didn't really want that.
Casting a glance at Shuri's bag, she pulled her mouth into an impressed half-frown without further comment. Instead, she said, "I know who you are. Everybody's looking forward to hearing you speak."
"You say it like you're not."
"I'm rooming with you," MJ explained plainly. "It's difficult to be too impressed by someone who's snores'll disturb my sleep, and who's underwear will be in my bathroom."
Hands halted from unpacking. "I don't snore."
"Everybody does." It was said the way she said everything, with a simple certainty. A subtle, hidden laughter in each word, even when she was attempting to be serious. "It's not a big deal."
She left then. No throwaway look over her shoulder, just a tap against the sturdy doorframe as she exited Shuri's new room.
Down the passage, the click of her door was deafening in the otherwise hush of the apartment.
A grin she couldn't control blossomed on Shuri's face, upturned her mouth into something she couldn't chase away.
She glanced at her phone. The groupchat T'Challa had created was already spammed with curious and worried texts.
Maybe she'd ignore them for a little while longer.
"Fucking Parker," MJ's angry cuss, muffled but still distinct. "We're supposed to be friends. Loser."
Yeah, Shuri thought. Just a little longer.