* I CAN DO THIS ALL DAY ;

         ❝ Steven, you’re late. Was there something more pressing that was taking up your time? ❞ She inquired, peering at him intently for a moment. While she hated having to speak HARSHLY to him, she knew it had to be done. After all, she was the one meant to bring him to meet the others; so that he would get the information he needed.

                      ❝ You know how much they HATE waiting. ❞

       ❛ no ma’am, ❜ his reply comes almost immediately upon finding peggy, his posture straightening in a manner of respect. at the moment, there was nothing more pressing than this meeting. the thought has him speaking up once more as they walk swiftly towards their destination. ❛ sorry ma’am. ❜ 

twilight feels like another cremation. ashes that seep into his flesh, infused marrow-deep he doesn’t know how to differentiate the burnt from the sum. alternatively, it’s a zero. nothingness that imbibes on his ichor. he doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t inquire. not anymore. used to wake up every morning with the weight of syllables clamouring his mind. kings don’t ask. kings don’t weep. there’s no room for weakness. he’s been so used to this, swallowing the pills that swell like lumps in his throat. maintains the lies. maintains the smiles.

it’s only when the robes fall, when the curtains close — it’s only then that he remembers how to breathe ( feels like the exit from the ancestral plane all over again, or this, the escape from the atrophies of death ). not even shuri can heal the mementos that mark his every mind chamber with tallies, knowing fully well that she’s also one that needs healing. they’re all suffering. one way or another… does it matter? kings don’t cry. kings don’t weep. he doesn’t tell her, doesn’t tell anyone that in his sleep, he always sees baba’s death all over again. all this numb, the senseless state of being as he wakes up heaving.

and there’s this, the whole falsity about how love cures. there’s no cure for the wounds that keep gushing, waterfall as he excavates himself from the halved consciousness that reminds him of the freefall. to a coma. the only difference is that now he has someone else to witness him as he breaks out of another fitful sleep. when it’s not steve, it’s him. interchangeable. irreplaceable. there’s something about the way they rest that doesn’t coexist with the traumas that they’ve exchanged their lives with. they escaped too many deaths, but at what cost?

the life that they live does not constitute for a peace of mind. that is something, as a soldier and an avenger, that he has sacrificed time and time again. through the losses that were both personal and a mission           they remain. and he knows that the man laying next to him is no stranger to the feeling of loving and losing someone. it appears the only thing the living are good for is to mourn the dead. an ironic thing. one that evades no one.

it is when he hears the tell tale signs of t’challa struggling does he emerge from his half-asleep state and slips into awareness. the sheets ruffle at the slightest of movement but when he starts, he does not stop. he will toss and turn until finally          finally he wakes up. then it is not the rustling of the duvet but the labored breathing that sparks steve’s attention to focus. a part of him understands what the other experiences. nights have been shared where both of them are unable to keep themselves steady as they would in the daylight. another part of him will never truly comprehend the entirety of it.

*wants to rp with everyone*