Changing the Title Later Pt. 1 (on AO3)
Erik cannot say he is surprised when he opens his eyes again.
Underneath all of the vengeance and anger, he displayed a side he hasn't shared with anyone. Ever. Ultimately, the one moment of sincerity was all it took for his cousin, T'Challa, to decide that he was worth saving. As if his soul, his heart, and all of his broken pieces can be scavenged up within the borders of Wakanda. It is far too late for that now.
Erik is fully aware that he has someone else in the room with him, but he chooses to stares at his hands, thinking how much he wishes that he didn't say the words. He would rather have no life at all than to be in pain, to be angry at everything that passes. He's been this way for far too long.
"N'Jadaka," he hears T'Challa, but he is so tired. Tired of trying to kill everything that had relation to his destructive life. Erik looks up, sees the concerned look from the King, and he hates it. He hates how he is still breathing. Why is he alive?
"Why did you do it?" T'Challa keeps a safe distance, stalking forward slowly. Erik cannot help but snicker at the amount of trust there is between them, especially when there should be none at all. All it takes it one instance of weakness.
"You deserve better than what any of us could have given you. I wanted -" Erik's mood shifts like someone flicked a switch, eyes glaring as he stands. He can see the dosage of fear in his cousin's eyes at the action, sees the tensing of his opponent's body. The way that it should be. They should hate each other, wish to spend every waking minute wanting to rip each other's throats out. Yet there is still those same caring eyes under that fear.
"I wanted to die and you figured saving me was the best option?" Spitefully he laughs. "You're selfish." Erik touches at the scar, feeling the ridges beneath his finger. He felt the blade puncture his heart, the blood releasing from the wound as he extracted the weapon from his dying body. It is just another scar to his already defeated heart.
There is an itch to scratch through the recovered area and rip open his skin again. Maybe he can find something long enough to pierce his lifeline again. His entire body is a story of nothing but devastation. Can he just be the boy he once was? There is no way and that fact was accepted many years ago.
"I'm sorry." Is he sorry for saving him? Sorry for not being sorry for saving him? Sorry for doing the one thing Erik has ever asked for in his life, since he usually takes it anyway. Sorry that never being able to understand the emotions revived from the grave of his past self? It doesn't matter because the apology means nothing to someone who is as dead on the inside as they want to be on the outside.
"Can you kill me again?" Erik already knows the answer. T'Challa could not let him die the first time, there is no way he can manage to try a second time.
"Of course not." Bewildered, the King draws himself closer to face the war criminal. If he wanted to, he could kill him. Could grip his head tightly and jerk it so tightly, he can feel the snap of T'Challa's neck under his hands. Could wrap his hands around his throat and wait until T'Challa kills him in self-defense. Would he rather kill T'Challa or force T'Challa to kill him? At the moment, it leans towards the latter. In all moments, in truth, it leans towards the latter.
"Then don't be sorry if you can't fix it." Erik turns and sits back on the bed he was already on. Something in him itches. He wants to hurt himself, always has. Something in his pride, in his mission, has always stopped him from the final step, but now there is nothing. He has nothing, has won nothing. Everything that he has done was for nothing because he didn't win. Looking back, why did he really do it?
"I can't fix it. Only you can repair the damages." He has spent most of his life trying to heal the damages. If he didn't succeed, then death was the best option. At least he could be with his father again, two rejected Wakandans outside of the ancestral plane in their beat apartment discussing their mistakes. N'Jobu made a mistake, but he cannot forget the sorrow in his father's eyes when he saw him, when he told him that it is just life, that everyone dies.
Fuck, he didn't mean it. He wishes he had said something different like how much he missed him and loved him. He wishes that he had told him about the struggles of everything that has happened since that night. The only thing that felt right was to bring pain to himself and others. Something is wrong with him, he knows it. He's known it from the first time he intentionally hurt himself, just to see how it would feel, only to figure out it was one of the only times he has felt alive.
The only times he has felt alive was when he was hurting himself or others.
"I wouldn't know how to even start." There is no hope for him.
"I will help you, N'Jadaka."
"Why are you even trying with me?" T'Challa smiles a little, turning to the door.
"You deserve everything you never received." He leaves, a locking mechanism clicking behind them.
Erik finds that last statement very hard to believe. In fact, he believes the exact opposite of it.
The silence is his best friend. Ā Since T'Challa left for his UN announcement - something T'Challa made sure that he knew about - there was no one else. Everyone in the entire nation either feared or despised him. Not that he blames any of them, since that was the reactions that he wanted anyway. He strutted into Wakanda, took over the country, and ripped it apart easily. All it took was the immediate trust of W'Kabi.
He wonders what happened to him. Was he executed or banished?
All Erik has in the four walls are his thoughts, and every so often, one good thought will pop up. Otherwise, it's mostly about how he should be dead, the various ways he could kill himself right now so he doesn't have to keep going. The silence does no good to him either, only encouraging him to speak the ideas aloud to make them more real. Erik can close his eyes and be back in the apartment, the hidden weapons and plans behind the wall. It smells of home. The last time he even remembers the scent.
All of those dreams fade when he opens his eyes again, even in the dark, and all he can see is walls. This isn't home. He hasn't been home in a long time, nor does he even know how to find it again. God what is wrong with him?
He must be going mad in here. He hasn't had this must self hating thoughts racking his brain since before he made a plan to get back at the very people who caused all of this. Fuck them all. Fuck all of this. But-
Maybe he has always felt this way. Maybe he just let the idea of blaming others for his inability to heal overtake the journey to be okay with himself. Is he okay with him? The scars say otherwise; he wears everyone's stories but his. The scar from the vibranium blade is the only thing that was his.. maybe he does have a story. It would be a very shitty story, though.
Growing up, he had dreams; they may have never of come true, but they were dreams nonetheless. He wanted to do something with his life, even thought about the day he would meet his family - see Wakanda. Instead, this is his life.
He hears the sound of the door opening. He doesn't have to look to see the only person who has bothered to even see him.
"Sup, T." T'Challa shifts under his gaze. Erik runs a hand down his cheek, feeling the wetness transfer onto his cheek. He keeps his head high, using both of his battered hands to wipe the rest of his silent tears away.
"Are you okay?" There it is. Is he okay? Hell no, he's never been okay, but Erik doesn't say it.
"I'm perfectly fine, just chilling in my motherland in a cell. It's all I've ever wanted." It's not a cell, just a contained room that he cannot leave without T'Challa's permission, which is exactly what T'Challa recites to him.
"I'm working on finding a better alternative, N'Jadaka, but you must want to be better." Better? Really?
"Death was my alternative. You took that away from me."
The beads on the King's wrist glow, distracting him for the moment. Erik can tell it is something that will need his attention, but T'Challa dismisses the notification. "Cousin, I want to make a promise to you. One day, you will know what freedom is - past bars and pain. You will find light, N'Jadaka." T'Challa looks at him, but it feels like he is looking through him, as if his broken everything is on a platter for him to see. Erik looks away.
"Good luck." It doesn't hold as much sting as Erik was expecting.
"I must go, but I will be back tomorrow."
"Are you going to come back every day too? Is that a part of your shitty promise?" T'Challa leaves the door open, as if trusting him not to fight his way through the walls. How dare he assume he won't high tail out of here.
"Do you wish for it to be?" The question hangs in the air. It angers Erik more than anything. Pampered King thinks he knows everything about him because he knows one story? If he rotted in here by himself for the rest of his life, he wouldn't care. It would feel a lot better than seeing the oversensitive kitten.
He doesn't think about the question or the answer coming from the small voice in his head, dropping to the floor. He flexes his arms, pushing himself up from the floor and going back down again.
Erik hates sleeping. If he sleeps, he dreams again.
His old dreams used to be memories of the faces of the numerous people he has killed. They haunt him sometimes, especially the children. He was a soldier, a damn good one, and not every scar on his skin was intentional. Sometimes he can remember his father. After decades, the details can get fuzzy, but he'll never forget the blood on his hands.
The bulk of dead weight in his lap as he screamed.
It has been days since he last slept fully. In training, he had learned quickly that sleep was not a necessity in life or death situations. He was not held by the same expectations as war had given him, but he can't sleep. If he sleeps, then everything that he tries so desperately to restrain in the back of his thoughts come back. Exhaustion rest heavy on him, despite the small spurts of sleep he had allowed himself. There are no bombs or real enemies trying to kill him anymore. Just himself.
Erik feels his head slowly drop, distantly, and he snaps back up, blinking rapidly. He can't, he shouldn't. He tries to convince himself that there is an enemy ready to kill him, he needs to be alert, but it does as much good as pinching himself did. Eventually, Erik just gives up, slumped against the wall as his eyes slide shut.
He opens his eyes to chaos. Fire wraps its arms around buildings, crumbling them under its passionate hold. He hears screaming, but it's not from everyone around him. The gun weighs heavy in his hand and he lifts it, positioning it so that he can fire if needed.
He weaves through the destroyed buildings, ignoring the people running past him. The enemy must be in this direction. The crackle of fire and his shoes on the floor. This is his mission. Bullets fly past him and Erik instantly ducks for cover in the rubble. The adrenaline rush through his veins, pulsing at the endless amount of scars coating his body like added nerves. Erik waits for the right moment before popping out of his cover and shooting the guy down.
He walks to the man just to make sure he is dead. Small doses of victory fill his spirit, but the mission is not done after one kill. Nonetheless, this is another scar to place on himself once he returns. When he reaches the dying male, it isn't the enemy at all.
Erik kneels quickly, fear replacing the prior excitement as he looks at his father. He killed his father. He checks the wound to see if there can be any way to save. He has to save him - he needs to - he cannot live without him. He didn't do this. His dad shouldn't even be here. Tears collect.
"Don't you leave me again. Please, Baba," but it is a bit too late. Erik holds his hand tight but in the end, his father's grip is what falters. Erik's head drops as well as his hope. Crimson coats his hands as he holds N'Jobu tight once more. He killed his father.. his failure.
"Daddy?" Erik hears him before he sees him come around the corner. Tattered shirt and innocent flooded face, he faces himself. Young N'Jadaka's eyes widen as he runs away, but the infrastructure collapses around him as the fire stalks closer. Erik can feel the lick of the burn as it begins to wrap itself around younger version of him. N'Jadaka screams for help, looking to him, eyes begging for their lives. Do something. Please!
But Erik doesn't. He just holds N'Jobu tighter as his skin boils in relevance to his younger self.
Fire can consume what was him, but his pain will always kill him in the end; that is the last thing he thinks of as his allows himself to be set ablaze.
"N'Jadaka!" On an instinct, he swings. T'Challa dodges out of it and his hands stay. Crazed, he backs himself into the wall, willing to fight until the end.
"'l'll kill you. I can't, can't," air doesn't enter his lungs the same, like the burn remains, "I can't.." T'Challa holds his shaking body close and Erik is overwhelmed in his smell. He doesn't know what is happening, he can still smell the smolder and hear the ringing in his ears. The feel of a flame racking his body.
"Breathe, follow my breathing." But all he wants to do is to get away from him. Away from everyone. Erik scratches, hits, whatever he can do to get out of the situation. T'Challa locks his hold with the herb-induced strength, leaving him no choice but to calm down. The room settles and the senses of his dream dissipates into reality. The cage decorated to look like a room in a mansion.
"I'll kill you," Erik reminds as he exhales a deep breath. A common silence develops between them, neither good or bad, and he gets a response once his breathing corrects itself.
"I know. For now, you need help." Ā He is released and he bolts to the other side of the room. It doesn't seem to bother T'Challa. Erik glares with intention to cause harm as he turns to the window, fulgent.
"Didn't work then, didn't work now." This is ridiculous. He doesn't need T'Challa or any-fucking-body. Didn't even need himself.
Erik laughs. "Promises don't mean shit if they're never kept."
