When they are alone, Erik is actually the more physically affectionate one, and initiates contact constantly, but feels self conscious and resentful about it. T’Challa eventually realizes this and starts casually touching him in public and in private (brushing hands, shoulder claps and squeezes, nudges, a sneaky nuzzle).
For a while, Erik’s actions and motions seem relatively normal.
It’s been nearly a year since the day Erik fumbled against the blade buried in his chest, pain and searing anger evident on his face, anger seemingly flaring farther when T’Challa’s hand, firm and resistant, gripped his own on the blade, preventing him from pulling it out. Nearly a year since Erik’s resentment grew into frustration, his anger smothered, his sheer pain something softer, something controllable. Nearly a year since Erik’s challenges to fight turn into more easier requests to spar in the training facility and his hands, rough and careless against T’Challa’s skin turn more hesitant, more gentle.
And then, as if dawning on T’Challa almost immediately, like a sudden storm crashing against the back of his mind, he realizes that his touch is welcomed.
The way his hand, firm against the nape of T’Challa’s neck keeps him in place as he softens inside Erik, the way their bodies, slick with sweat and drenched in moonlight stay molded together, T’Challa’s face buried in the crook of Erik’s neck, his nose brushing against the wild thump of his jugular. The way, when Erik jolts awake occasionally, fists clenched tightly in the sheets, almost instinctively leans back against T’Challa, body warm, shoulders rigid as he accepts the embrace, accepts the kiss T’Challa presses to his temple.
T’Challa, filled with a genuine relief and somewhat secret adoration, only reaches for Erik more often, after council meetings, hand firm against Erik’s shoulder or after they spar, fingertips brushing idly against Erik’s as they down their water before Erik wipes the droplets accumulating against the corner of his mouth with a grin and lunges towards T’Challa, mouth clashing against his.
And in a way, behind the privacy of T’Challa’s door, between ruined sheets, Erik is more accepting of T’Challa’s touch.
“You touchy,” Erik comments in a raspy voice, clearing his throat as T’Challa skims his fingertips over the hard curve of his jaw.
T’Challa hums, “do you want me to stop?”
Erik shifts away from T’Challa’s gaze but shakes his head, “nah.”
So T’Challa only nods, hand smoothing over Erik’s jaw, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
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