Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

T’Challa stares at his mother in disbelief. She doesn’t look any happier about it than T’Challa feels, which is only moderately comforting. Just beyond his mother’s shoulder, Shuri seems angry, and tired, and won’t meet T’Challa’s gaze. Nakia stands a few steps further behind looking almost amused but mostly discomforted.

“What?” T’Challa asks, though it comes out as hardly a whisper. “What?” He says again after clearing his throat.

“Because N’Jadaka survived, and because you survived…” His mother trails off without looking away. Her back is straight and stiff. “You technically both have a rightful claim to the throne. And per the council, there are limited options regarding how to proceed.” She moves closer and lays a placating hand on his shoulder. “None of them are ideal.”

“What are the options?” T’Challa asks.

“Another battle. Truly to the death.” Her voice shakes ever so slightly.

“Or?”

She swallows uneasily. “Or dual kingship, a kingdom lead by the two rightful heirs.” A pause, and T’Challa braces himself for his mother’s next words. “It must be done by marriage.”

The room falls impossibly silent.

“Well, shit.” Shuri murmurs. Ramonda rounds on her with a disgruntled look. “Sorry, mama.”

The decision is simple, really. T’Challa has healed, but Erik is still recovering; not only that but Wakanda is still recovering, and cannot take more strife at its heart. With plans to expand, Wakanda needs to be stronger than ever—and another battle at its core would only weaken the nation further. Even Nakia agrees it may be for the best, which is telling enough to T’Challa.

A few days after the decision is made, Erik regains consciousness. He looks predictably smug when T’Challa makes the trip to Shuri’s lab to confront him.

“Well, well, well, what’s happening, cuz?” He asks, leaning forward with only a slight wince. T’Challa maintains a straight face as he approaches the table. He stops a few paces short of his cousin, and looks him up and down. His chest is still littered in the scars of his kills, but there is barely a faint line down his chest speaking to the wound from their fight. It’s pale against his skin and uneven against the rest of his scars. If T’Challa didn’t know to look for it, it would be essentially invisible.

T’Challa nods in greeting once he’s come to a stop. The grin on Erik’s face doesn’t falter even as he hauls himself into sitting up straight, chest puffed out in grandeur.

“C’mon now,” Erik taunts. “Lay it on me, let’s hear it.” He looks positively gleeful, but the longer T’Challa remains silent the more cracks appear in his armor. Eventually, he deflates just slightly, and T’Challa finally speaks.

“I believe you already know,” is all he says.

Erik rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, your li’l sis’ let it slip.” He leans back on his hands slightly, and the exceeding smugness fades from his expression. “Some crazy shit, isn’t it? All that fighting and we end up here anyway.”

T’Challa allows a small grin. “Indeed.” He takes walks closer still. “If you do not want this, I understand. It is not strictly mandatory.” He pauses, but Erik only stares back. “We are trying to do away with some traditions, and we have been looking to start anywhere.” T’Challa’s grin turns a little rueful and, he’ll admit, a little taunting.

Erik’s lips spread once more but less malicious than before. “Nah, man. I am all over this.”

T’Challa shakes his head. “Of course you are.”

“It’s everything I was aiming for anyways,” he hesitates then drags his gaze up and down T’Challa’s body. “And more.” He adds after the slow, lingering look.

Despite himself and despite the situation, T’Challa feels a blush warm his skin. “The council expects you will behave. There are many things to discuss, particularly in regards to how Wakanda can help our brothers and sisters outside the city.” T’Challa finally looks away to bring up a hologram on his wrist. He holds it out for Erik to have a closer look. It’s a list interspersed with maps and other diagrams. In between budgets and thoughtful comments some maps flash--the places that need their help the most.

T’Challa continues as Erik observes the hologram. “There will be no violence. No war. We will not be shipping out weapons.” T’Challa speaks firmly, directly, and is gratified when Erik shifts shamefully in his seat.

“I got you,” Erik replies quietly.

T’Challa nods. “We can discuss it more tomorrow, if you’re up for it.”

“I’m up for it now.” Erik retorts with defiance strong and sharp in his tone.

“I have no doubt,” T’Challa responds smoothly. “But I thought we might go to dinner, instead.”

Erik blinks. Clearly thrown, his expression turns scrutinizing in an instant. “Dinner,” he parrots back.

“Yes, dinner. The meal you eat later in the day?”

A breathy laugh escapes Erik’s lips and T’Challa reigns in the sudden urge to preen. “Dinner,” Erik says again but he slowly levers himself off the table. The diagnostics thrown up on the wall disappear one by one until he’s on his feet. As he sways, T’Challa reaches for him and lays a steadying hand on his elbow. The moment freezes and Erik looks slowly over to T’Challa.

“Thanks, cuz.” Erik says, and T’Challa lets his hand fall away. Erik stays still a moment longer, then turns to a nearby table with a small stack of clothes. He throws on a shirt and smooths out the non-existent wrinkles as the fabric settles. Once he’s satisfied, Erik looks up.

“Shall we?” T’Challa gestures to the ramp that will lead them down to the main part of the lab.

Erik takes another step but stops. “I’m not gonna be put in handcuffs? No shackles? No Dora trailing me every second?”

“You said you would not be a prisoner, I do not intend to make you one. I never did,” T’Challa clarifies. “But especially, given the circumstances now.” T’Challa turns to the smooth walkway and starts down it; he doesn’t hesitate and a few moments later he catches the sound of Erik’s cautious footfalls following him.

“Where we goin’ then?”

“My chambers. I thought it might be good to have time alone. To discuss matters.” T’Challa pauses just long enough for Erik to fall in step beside him.

“You’re really trusting me alone with you?”

T’Challa can’t help his smirk. “Something tells me I am not in any physical danger.” He shoots him a sideways look. It takes a moment for Erik to meet his eyes, but there’s a warm flush over his cheeks that renews T’Challa’s confidence. “This is not where I saw this— us going, but I am willing to embrace it.” He pins Erik with a thoughtful look, a challenge daring him to disagree.

Erik only nods.

Chapter Text

T’Challa watches Erik’s expression morph as they enter his bedroom.

The late evening light fills the room with an amber glow, highlighted by softly burning candles set on various countertops. The large window along the side is open and lets in warm air, leading out to a rock balcony.

“Fancy,” Erik surmises as he looks around. “S’nice.”

“You have a similar room just down the hall.” T’Challa mentions. He gestures to the table near the window. “Help yourself.”

Erik still moves slowly and cautiously, as though any moment the Dora Milaje will jump from the walls and take him down. Acting on instinct, T’Challa reaches out and skirts his hand over the back of Erik’s neck. He startles first, but calms fractionally. Together, arms brushing with each step, they move to the table. Erik sits first, then looks up with a stricken expression. T’Challa touches his neck again, a little firmer, and deliberately ignores the goosebumps that erupt under his hand.

T’Challa takes his seat only after Erik reaches for the food. They sit on opposite sides of each other, and silence ensues as they both gather food onto their plates.

“So,” Erik is first to break the silence. “What ‘matters’ did you want to discuss?” There’s a hint of venom in his tone, and T’Challa simply observes his cousin from across the table. T’Challa chews slowly and thinks over his words carefully.

“The marriage, primarily.” T’Challa answers. “The ritual is simple, and not urgent. The council is frankly more concerned with being certain you will not attempt to murder me at first chance, or take over the throne again in other ways.”

Erik blinks back. “I won’t,” he replies firmly.

T’Challa simply nods. “I know.” He spears a bite of meat on his fork and brings it to his lips. “This is a test, of sorts,” he admits before starting to chew. He gestures around the room, empty as it is, and swallows. “As I said, I do not think I am in any physical danger. The council simply wants proof of that fact.”

Erik relaxes minutely again. “Yeah, alright. Makes sense.” He won’t look up from his food, but eats slowly, still uncertain. It’s an odd look on him—someone who has been so unrelentingly confident from the moment he stepped foot here, brought down to a visage so frail. Erik’s gaze flicks up, briefly, and he watches T’Challa in return for only a moment.

“The council thinks it would be best to keep you busy.” T’Challa continues as he looks down at his own plate.

Erik makes a curious noise. “And how’re they thinkin’ of doing that?”

“You have a few options,” T’Challa says, unable to help feeling pleased. “There is the lab. While Shuri is on outreach missions, it would not go amiss to have someone in the lab maintaining—and perhaps creating—the technology.”

Finally, achingly slow, Erik looks up. “Really?”

T’Challa nods. “It may take some convincing to bring Shuri onboard with the plan, but I think she will trust my judgement.”

“What do you mean by outreach?” Erik sets his fork aside and his eyes are dark as they pin T’Challa in place.

T’Challa finishes his mouthful of food and sets his own cutlery aside as well. He breathes, takes a moment to compose himself, before speaking. “You were right.”

Erik’s sharp inhale of breath is almost lost in a sudden, warm gust of air.

“As I told you before, we are looking into ways to help people outside Wakanda. We cannot remain in a bubble. Things cannot stay the same,” T’Challa blinks and his father’s face appears behind his eyelids. It feels good to be doing more, but feels like a betrayal at the same time. “My father made mistakes, as did the kings before him. I want to fix things. To try to fix things.”

Erik’s mouth closes to a thin line.

“We started in Oakland. We have created a community outreach center. Shuri is heading the sciences division of it. Nakia is coordinating to create more centers, across California, and the globe.” Again, T’Challa raises his wrist and brings up a similar hologram as before. It shows the old apartment building—or rather, what it’s become. A fresh coat of paint does wonders, but the throngs of kids gathered around it outside (a picture Shuri had sent, earlier in the day) are what truly make the difference.

Erik’s mouth drops open again, and his eyes widen almost comically. “Shit.”

T’Challa closes the hologram. “It is a start. I have a meeting with the UN later in the week, to address our aid on a broader scale.” T’Challa lets his hand fall into his lap. “If you would like, you can help with that, as well.”

Erik looks surprised by the offer, more surprised than before. “The council is really gonna let me outta here, so soon?”

T’Challa shares a rueful grin with his cousin. “It may take some convincing,” he says again. “But I’m confident we could make it happen.”

“What else?” Erik asks, abrupt, and T’Challa doesn’t linger on the change of subject.

“Training is also an option. We are not sending warriors or weapons across the world, and if we were it would be the Dora Milaje, but we have ample places for you to train. Gyms, the landscapes. Any of it, really.”

Erik nods slowly. “Is there more?”

T’Challa can’t help but laugh, soft. “You do not have to decide tonight, but yes. There is an abundance to be done, both inside Wakanda, and out.”

“I’ll think on it, yeah.” Erik nods again, and T’Challa watches with rapt fascination as the uncertainty bleeds from him minute by minute. “What about the wedding?” His tone swiftly changes with a familiarly teasing lilt; T’Challa wonders if, in a different life, Erik and Shuri might’ve been thicker than thieves.

“It may happen at any time, as I said it is not urgent. It is not dissimilar to the ritual for taking on the mantle of king.”

“Am I gonna have to fight someone for your hand?” Erik asks, leaning on the table and smirking.

T’Challa shakes his head. “There is no one else who would want the throne, or myself.”

“What about—?”

“She never wanted to be queen,” T’Challa cuts across sharply. The knowledge that he and Nakia are over and done with—but still friends—stings, but not as bad as he expected. “She is happier helping people, and she is good at it.”

Erik looks appropriately cowed by the quick response.

“I think it would be best for you to heal more,” T’Challa says, “before we go through with the wedding. There will be no fights, but there is a journey to be made with the heart-shaped herb, and I’m sure you’ve noticed how draining its effects can be.”

Erik’s eyes widen again then narrow. “I burned those herbs.”

T’Challa smirks, this time. “Nakia is not to be underestimated. How do you think I survived?”

“Sheer fuckin’ luck?”

T’Challa laughs, louder, and it carries outside with the wind. “In a way, you’re not wrong. Nakia snuck into the gardens just before you set fire to them, and stole two heart-shaped herbs. One, she presented to M’Baku, to ask for his help.”

“But he didn’t take it.”

“No. A Jabari fisherman had rescued me, and M’Baku allowed the herb to go to me. The other, Nakia kept hidden until the dust had settled. We have already planted the second herb. It might take some time for the garden to bloom, and we aren’t sure how the herb might’ve changed, but we are hopeful.”

Erik sits back and looks faintly ill. T’Challa would feel bad, were it anyone else sitting across from him—it is not pleasant, but Erik must face his crimes head on. It is gratifying to see the regret on his features, at least. T’Challa takes pity on him, and speaks again.  

“There is one last thing I should mention, then you can go.”

Erik looks up slowly.

“The council made this a nonnegotiable piece of this agreement—but I would’ve insisted on it anyway.” T’Challa raises his wrist and the hologram flickers to life once more. This time, it is a map, with a schedule and list of names on either side. “You will speak with someone, we have plenty of professionals to choose from.”

“Therapy.” Erik remarks flatly.

T’Challa glares lightly at him, satisfied when Erik’s sneer falters. “Yes. It’s for the good of everyone. It is nonnegotiable,” he says again.

“I heard you.” Erik snaps back. “Alright, therapy, got it.”

T’Challa nods and stands. He holds out a hand to Erik, who takes it, looking annoyed all the while. “I will show you to your room,” T’Challa says. He lets Erik’s hand drop after a beat, and then turns. Like before, Erik follows close behind. They exit T’Challa’s room and turn down the hallway, opposite from where they entered. “I hope this is satisfactory. You can add to it as you like.”

He opens the door to an admittedly bare room. It has the minimum needed to call it a bedroom: a bed, in the center of the floor. It has the same window off to the side, but this one is closed and locked. T’Challa watches Erik take in the room, just as he did when they got to T’Challa’s room.

“The window is locked.”

“You are not a prisoner,” T’Challa retorts, cutting off the argument before it can begin. “It is a caution to protect yourself as much as others. Our bedrooms overlook a cliff.”

Erik snorts. “You think I might wanna kill myself?”

T’Challa frowns sternly. “You were ready to die at my hand, what is so different about your own?” Silence blossoms after his harsh words, but T’Challa has no urge to take them back. “Once we can be sure you will not harm yourself or others, the lock will come off. I doubt it will be there long.” T’Challa speaks as genuinely as he can, and it comes to him easily. Despite all that’s happened, he feels the truth of his words reverberating in his chest. He believes what he’s saying, and he can only hope Erik does, too.

“I’ll let you rest,” T’Challa declares when Erik hasn’t spoken for several minutes. “You know where to find me,” he adds. Cautiously, he takes a step closer to his cousin. Erik watches him from the corner of his eyes, but T’Challa doesn’t relent. He’s still acting on instinct, just as he did when he comforted Erik earlier.

He leans in and cups Erik’s chin gently. He doesn’t turn his cousin’s head, only holds him still with a grip easily broken. Erik doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe as T’Challa breezes a kiss across his cheek. “Sleep well,” he murmurs before his lips have entirely left Erik’s skin. He pulls back and leaves the room without looking back.

He’s over the threshold, with the door still open behind him when he hears Erik’s quiet response.

“You too, cuz.”

Chapter Text

When T’Challa knocks on Erik’s door the next morning, he doesn’t get an answer. He waits a few minutes and knocks again, but calls it quits when there’s still no answer. He fiddles with kimoyo beads and stays beside the door until two Dora Milaje are stationed outside it.

“He is not a prisoner,” he reminds them, waiting for their nods. “If he needs anything, assist him. Or, contact me if necessary.” He smiles at them then turns to leave. He feels a bit nervous leaving Erik alone—either because of what Erik will think, or what others will think. But T’Challa also knows that if he bothers Erik, that will only make things worse.

He puts the thoughts out of his mind and makes a beeline for their recently developed communications hub. Two more Dora greet him outside and he responds with an ‘x’ across his chest and a kind smile. The inside of the hub is bustling and busy, and it’s refreshing to see. There is a low level of chatter and the soft rumble of people hurrying about, making things happen.

“My king,” a voice greets from his left. T’Challa looks over to see Nakia grinning back at him.

“Nakia,” he answers softly. He reaches for her, and she comes to him in a hug. Formalities have never mattered much between them, aside from jokes, and T’Challa is grateful for it now. He still isn’t used to people bowing to him, reaching for his hands, all that comes with being king. He loves the people of his country, but not even his training as prince could’ve prepared him for their reactions. The familiar warmth of Nakia is comforting, and they pull apart with identical smiles. “The outreach is going well?”

“Very well.” Nakia motions for him to follow. “The attendance is steadily climbing, as are donations from companies such as the Gates Foundation and StarkTech. We have also gotten suggestions, and I have teams working through them now.”

“Suggestions?” T’Challa asks, watching the screens they pass as he trails a step behind Nakia.

“Other things we can do for the communities. People are enjoying the social branch, and Shuri’s sciences branch is incredibly popular, but they still feel more there to be done.”

“Of course. What are some of the suggestions?”

“The one we see most often is additional homeless shelters in the areas. Non-profit, of course, and ones that accept our brothers and sisters without question. Ones that accept…” Nakia sighs, then extends her wrist and presses a kimoyo bead. “Homeless shelters that accept drug addicts, alcoholics. Ones that offer classes and resources to help those people, specifically.”

From the display on the beads, a list forms with graphs beside it, and pie-charts. T’Challa observes the statistics, the number of substance-dependent people in relation to the overall population of the Oakland area. Beside it, the number of homeless people compared to both those numbers. It’s an easy decision, really.

T’Challa nods. “Very well. Are there any buildings in the area we could use for that?”

Nakia’s eyes gleam, and her smile is proud. “I already have a team researching possible locations.”

T’Challa laughs. “Of course you do. What are other suggestions?”

Nakia presses a different bead and the display changes. It’s a list of all the suggestion; some are highlighted, some have notes beside them that are everchanging as developments happen. “I have already given you access to this list. As I said, I have teams working on the ones I think are most viable. There are some that will be easy, others less so.”

T’Challa brings up the list on his own wrist and scrolls through it; it’s a sizeable list, and he can already pinpoint some ideas that are easier than others. “You’ll keep me updated as they are completed, and if you need my assistance.”

Nakia rolls her eyes affectionately. “Of course, my king.”

T’Challa scoffs and shoves at her gently. “Any other updates?”

“Nothing pressing. Everything is going quite well. The Dora are an effective deterrent from mischief, and most seem more intrigued by them than ready to antagonize them.”

“Good.” T’Challa skirts his fingers over her arm. “And you’re well?”

“I am well,” Nakia agrees. “It feels good to help my country this way, and help others.” She looks over her shoulder T’Challa with a soft smile at first, but the expression slowly fades. “How is he?”

T’Challa knew it was coming, and shrugs eloquently. Nakia snorts. “He seems fine. It is too early to tell, I think. He has a long way to go.”

Nakia hums thoughtfully.

“Come on now, don’t hold back.”

Nakia busies herself with her beads, throwing images up on screens and sending directions off to various people. She handles the chaos well, she’s in her element and it’s admirable to watch. Idly, though he knows it isn’t what would’ve worked for either of them, he wishes at times she was his queen.

“I trust you,” she tells him in a low voice. Her back is to him, and her shoulders are drawn with tension. “I do not trust him.”

T’Challa doesn’t sigh this time. He saw this coming as well. “No one does,” he points out. “A fact I am well aware of. As is he.”

“I told you not to let your father’s mistakes dictate what kind of king you would be.”

“I prefer to think that I would be the man—and therefore the king—I am regardless. I am not saying it will easy or simple, but nothing worth doing ever is.” He gestures around them. “This isn’t, hm?”

Nakia shakes her head. “I only hope you know what you’re doing.” She finally turns to face him and touches his cheek gently. “You have my support.”

He lays his hand over hers and leans into the touch. “I appreciate that, Nakia.”

She smiles at him, deceptively soft. “I will not hesitate to step in, should he cause problems.”

Nervous and touched at the same time, T’Challa huffs a quiet laugh. “I have no doubt.”

T’Challa spends the rest of the day around Wakanda; essentially, he attends to his kingly duties. He sits in on meetings, discusses matters with the other elders, makes plans for their future. There is some resistance amongst the general public against the outreach, but it’s easy enough to handle. It is a time of rebuilding and peace, and it’s stressful but not as bad as it could be, T’Challa knows.

Still, at the end of the day he is exhausted. He stops at his bedroom door first, then looks down the hall. The same Dora from earlier are still stationed, their, diligent as ever. Despite the exhaustion in his bones and the way his ever-whirring brain wants to finally rest, he walks down the hall.

“Has he come out at all?”

Shele nods. “To get food, and to walk around. He has not said much, my king.”

T’Challa nods. “He seemed okay?”

Shele shares a curious raised eyebrow with Ce’Dala, and the amused quirk of their lips dissipates in a split second. “He seemed fine, my king. He did not ask for anything more than assistance getting food. We did not follow him on his walk, as it did not seem appropriate.”

“Very good. You two are dismissed, he will be fine for the night.” He salutes them with the traditional ‘x’ over his chest, and they return the gesture. He waits until their gone to knock. “Erik?”

Still no answer, same as that morning. It stirs concern in his chest—Erik’s blithe comment about his life echoes in T’Challa’s head. He does not truly think Erik would endanger himself, but he’ll be the first to admit he doesn’t know his cousin all that well. They are still learning.

T’Challa sighs and presses his palm against the door. Knowing he’ll be heard, he murmurs, “I am down the hall if you need me.” He waits a moment, then turns back to walk to his room. He doesn’t get a response, not over the beads and not in the form of Erik turning up at his door.

He goes to bed a bit fitful, but dreams of sunsets and weddings and the future.

Chapter Text

T’Challa is unsurprised to find Erik waiting outside his bedroom door early the next morning. He beckons his cousin in while he turns to dress; there’s no tension as he turns his back on Erik to strip out of his bedclothes and into his royal clothes for the day. He can feel Erik’s gaze burning into his back like brands, but he doesn’t feel threatened or unsafe. If anything, a heat alights in his blood, and T’Challa silently chastises himself.

“What did you need?” T’Challa asks as he draws his pants up his legs.

“I want to keep busy,” Erik replies.

T’Challa grins, though Erik can’t see it. “Have you chosen, then? Shuri’s lab, or the Dora—?”

“Therapy.” Erik’s voice is rough and uncertain. He’s softer spoken than T’Challa has ever heard.

Startled, T’Challa faces him. “That’s all?”

“For now.” Erik clarifies after clearing his throat. His eyes dart side to side and he shifts where he stands.

“I think that is an excellent idea. I can show you to our medical facility today, and they will assist you.” T’Challa reaches out, emboldened when Erik doesn’t flinch away. He rests his hand on Erik’s shoulder and squeezes gently, and closes the distance between them with a few measured steps. “You may take as long as you need to decide how else you would like to ‘keep busy.’”

Erik nods and his throat works around words he doesn’t speak.

“Would you like me to show you to the facility now?”

“If you don’t have anything better to do,” Erik replies, a sharpness imbued in his tone that T’Challa is beginning to find more endearing than irritating.

“Very well.” He strides toward the door of his room, left open a crack, and holds it open. “After you.”

The walk to the facility is short, and Erik stays close to T’Challa’s side the entire time. Their arms brush on every other step, and it should feel undignified except—Erik is relaxed, moving swiftly, and T’Challa knows it is because of their continued contact. While the other man might never say as much, the contact means safety, and T’Challa is well aware of Wakanda’s less than favorable opinions on Erik, at the moment.

“If you need anything,” T’Challa murmurs as they closer to the infirmary, “do not hesitate to call.” He holds out a string of beads and loops them around Erik’s wrist. “For now, they are only connected to me. You can add contacts as you like: your therapist, a trainer perhaps, so on and so forth.”

Erik nods jerkily, then casts a sideways glance at the doors. “You comin’ in with me?”

“If you would like. I do not have anything else more pressing than this.”

Erik sighs and his nostrils flare as he considers the offer. Again, T’Challa reaches out and runs a hand over his bicep. “I think I’m alright,” Erik decides even as his gaze drops to T’Challa’s touch. He doesn’t shrug away from the grasp. “I’ll call you after I’m done, yeah?”

T’Challa smiles, and spares a glance around. Despite the nerves bubbling in his stomach, T’Challa leans over and brushes yet another delicate kiss across his cousin’s cheek. “I will be waiting.” He nods, then, and lets his hand finally fall from Erik’s arm. Without further fuss, he turns on his heel and strides down the hallway he came.

He goes the throne room and finds Shuri waiting for him. She grins at him and raises her hand; he meets her palm-to-palm and they both cross their arms over their chest after.

“Brother,” she says with a nod. “No meetings today?” She follows along beside him as he walks to the large windows at the front of the throne room.

“No meetings,” T’Challa agrees.

“How is he?” Shuri asks as she bumps companionably against T’Challa’s shoulder.

“He is cooperating,” T’Challa replies, then winces. “He has decided to go to therapy, to keep himself busy.”

“Keep himself busy.” Shuri murmurs back, mocking. “To keep him from killing anyone, you mean?” Her voice is sharp and cuts through to T’Challa, even if he expected the venom. Shuri’s eyes stay trained on her brother as she waits for a response.

“He is our father’s mistake.”

“That does not make him your responsibility.”

T’Challa turns to her. “Then whose? Who else should take responsibility, if not me?”

Shuri breaks his gaze with a huff; she turns her back on him and busies herself with her beads. “I trust you,” she tells him eventually. “I don’t—I won’t ever trust him.” She nods off in the distance, in the vague direction of the medical facility. “But I trust you, brother.”

T’Challa reaches out and hauls Shuri in for a brief hug. She doesn’t even struggle in his grasp, although she does groan after a few minutes and roll her eyes. It’s then that he lets her go.

“He is trying.” T’Challa says as Shuri walks toward the door.

“He’s barely even started,” is her quick reply. She stops with the door open, her delicate fingers curled around the edge. “We’ll see.”

Then, she’s gone. T’Challa sighs as the door swings shut and faces Wakanda through the window instead. It’s early in the day and the sun is still lower in the sky. Down below, the city is bustling with activity. It almost seems like a perfectly regular day, and the niggling sense of worry could almost be written off as simple nerves—the urge to do a good job, as king.

And yet, as T’Challa eyes scan over his city and he lingers on the spots, few as they are, damaged by what Erik did during his short time in rule… T’Challa knows they have left regular far behind them now. He swallows the nerves and holds his head a little higher.

He’s called back to the facility both too soon, and later than he anticipated. When he gets there, Erik is standing off to the side, leaning against the wall. His head is tipped back and his eyes are closed; T’Challa looks away from him to the doctor waiting by the door.

“My King,” she greets softly, arms crossing over her chest for a moment. “Erik has given me permission to discuss a few matters with you, today.”

T’Challa looks over to Erik instinctively, and the doctor—Z’Udeka—lays a hand on T’Challa’s arm. “He is only tired. Today’s session was a lot for him to deal with.” She tugs on his arm slightly, and guides him away from the lobby to a side room. T’Challa forces all his attention to her when the door shuts behind them, and Erik is left out in the waiting room.

“It’s too early to say much,” Z’Udeka advises him. She brings up a hologram from her desk. There’s a picture of Erik and a few notes beside it, including his most recent physical check before he was discharged. “But I’m hopeful.”

T’Challa nods. “Good.”

“It is my recommendation that he come as often as he feels he needs, but at the very least three times a week.” She marks this off in his chart. “Erik has agreed to this, and has added me to his contacts so that he may speak with me at any time.”

They talk for a little while longer. Not much detail, only surface level things but enough that T’Challa feels more at ease. As they stand to leave, Z’Udeka reaches for him again.

“My King, be careful.” She doesn’t wait for a response, and instead opens her office door. “It was good to speak with you.” Into the lobby—empty save for Erik—she calls out, “Erik? I will see you in two days.”

Erik nods without opening his eyes or moving away from the wall. He doesn’t stir until T’Challa is toe to toe with him.

“You look like you could use rest,” T’Challa observes.

“Food.” Erik grunts. He finally comes away from the wall and tilts his head side to side, relieving the tension in his neck.

T’Challa hums in agreement. “My chambers again? Or we might go out into the city.”

Erik scoffs, but it only sounds tired. “Your room s’fine.”

T’Challa reaches out and brushes his hand over Erik’s arm, then turns to the door. “Very well,” he says quietly. As always, Erik follows after him a pace or two behind. T’Challa resists the urge to slow so they’re in step, and allows Erik his privacy as they make their way back to the main palace. It isn’t until they’re riding up to the wing that houses their rooms that T’Challa turns to Erik.

“Did it go well?”

“Didn’t she tell you everything?” Erik asks in a tone that’s more tired than venomous.

“You know she didn’t,” T’Challa counters. “And if you do not want to discuss it, then we will not.” T’Challa exits the elevator first and takes quick strides to his bedroom door. Erik saunters behind him, and the silence stretches awkwardly. T’Challa internally berates himself for snapping, for rising to Erik’s constant jibes. It is tiresome, though, to constantly tread on a razor’s edge. Not for the first time he wonders if he made the right choice.

As they slip into T’Challa’s room, Erik clears his throat. T’Challa turns to him with an expectant eyebrow.

“It was fine,” Erik says without looking at him. He hurries to the table and gathers food onto his plate, then moves to the window. “Hey, can we sit out there? Could use the fresh air.” Without waiting for a response, he tries the door handle and makes a quiet noise of surprise when it slides open for him.

T’Challa makes quick work of dishing up his own plate and follows Erik out onto the cliff balcony. There’s no table or blankets set up but it’s a windless day, so they seat themselves a few feet from the edge.

“I am glad.” T’Challa responds after a while. “That is all I hope for.”

“Nah, c’mon. You’re hopin’ I’ll see the error of my ways.”

T’Challa stares at his cousin, curious and unimpressed. “Of course.” He answers. “But I do not think that is unreasonable.”

“I probably won’t ever be royal material.” Erik counters.

“That is not the purpose of this,” T’Challa snaps back, voice edging on too-sharp once again, but this time for a different reason. “The purpose is for you to heal, N’Jadaka. To undo at least some of the damage my father caused. To help you.” T’Challa sets aside his plate, no longer hungry. “I have no expectations that you will be a traditionalist. I only ask that you respect this culture—your culture. And that you respect yourself.”

Erik is quiet for a long time after his outburst. In his own silence, T’Challa marvels at the back and forth of his cousin’s emotions. So rapidly he flips from acceptance to rejection, from what T’Challa might even call excitement to begrudging allowance. It is as though Erik cannot make up his mind, and while T’Challa cannot fault him entirely it isn’t something he’s hoping to deal with forever. Especially not as dual kings, bound by marriage.

“I’m workin’ on it.” Erik eventually says. “No promises, but… I’m gonna try to work on it.”

T’Challa looks over again. “That is all I ask, Erik. I am trying, as well.”

Erik looks embarrassed and remorseful as he stares off into the distance. “Yeah, I know.”

T’Challa hesitates before saying more. “There is no one who is expecting you to... “ He searches for the proper words but comes up short. Instead, he amends. “There is no one who expects you to be less than yourself. Aside from the war mongering.”

Erik’s lips turn up slightly but all too quick his expression turns somber. “I’m trying.” He says again.

T’Challa nods and lets the conversation end. The absence of their voices isn’t nearly as awkward as before.

“How are you so okay with this, man?” Erik’s cheeks look warm but T’Challa is unsure if it’s because of the early day sun or what he’s about to say. “You don’t seem to have a problem gettin’ cozy.”

T’Challa can’t say he’s surprised by the question. “Partly because it is my duty,” he admits. “I am a king, and there are certain sacrifices a king makes for his country.” He tilts his head to grin at Erik. “But I do believe in you.”

Erik scoffs, but that’s also unsurprising.

“I believe that you are destined for greater things than you’ve achieved so far. I believe that Wakanda will be better for your presence, and I myself a better king.” He pushes their plates aside and reaches across the distance between them to clasp Erik’s shoulder. “And I do not find you unattractive.”

The admission has T’Challa’s heart racing, but it’s worth it for the smattered blush across Erik’s face.

“I think this is the right choice,” T’Challa continues. “And I would like you prove me correct.”

Erik looks first at his hand, then at T’Challa. He nods. “Yeah, alright,” he replies, soft and heavy, vulnerable and sharp at the same time. “I think I might go check out the gyms or something.” The change of subject is abrupt but he doesn’t move from T’Challa’s grip. “You wanna come?”

T’Challa isn’t opposed, but he shakes his head. “I think it would be best for you to have some time to yourself. I’m sure there are kingly duties that need my attention.” He grins at Erik and gets a fond eye roll in return.

Erik doesn’t say anything else, but he moves slowly. He goes up on his knees and leans over to kiss T’Challa’s cheek gently. The stubble framing his jaw nicks T’Challa’s skin, and he inhales sharply. Erik grins as he pulls back, and swoops in to kiss the corner of T’Challa’s mouth this time, emboldened.

T’Challa turns and watches Erik stroll back into the palace; he watches his cousin step through his bedroom and out the door on the other side, until he’s gone. Alone, T’Challa raises a hand to touch the side of his mouth, then his cheek. To himself, he grins. Despite all the worries and uncertainties warring inside him—ones bolstered by Okoye, Nakia, Shuri, near everyone who doubts Erik and doubts T’Challa’s judgement—he feels confident still.

It will not be an easy ride, but he’s always known that. That’s never been the point.