Chapter Text
"Igama lam liyi N'Jadaka, " his father pronounces slowly.
"Igama," Erik says. He chews on his bottom lip. "Um. Igama..."
"Lam liyi N'Jadaka," N'Jobu says gently.
Erik groans. "I suck at this. It's too hard, Baba."
"Oh? You speak English, don't you? You only think it's difficult because we don't practice."
"And because it's hard."
"Don't complain. Your tongue can get used to it." N'Jobu's hard fatherly veneer breaks as he smiles. "Your father is a very clever man. I'm sure you will pick it up."
Erik smiles back.
"We'll practice," N'Jobu says, giving his shoulder a squeeze.
They do. Every night in between when Erik goes to bed and his father goes to work, they practice together. Often there are other people in the apartment so they stick to English. Erik wishes his father's origin wasn't a secret so they could speak together like other families in the diaspora. In lieu of that his father turns their private everyday conversations into lessons. He's making good progress, his father tells him. He'll be a natural in no time. His family back home will be impressed when they hear him speak.
He can't practice Xhosa for a long time after his father dies. His throat closes up around the words and tears come to his eyes when he imagines his father's voice.
As he ages he finds direction and the pain dulls into something more useful. He grabs every Wakandan dictionary he can but it's difficult when he never hears the language spoken. He looks for recordings of Wakandan TV media and finds nothing but English, no other media being available outside of Wakanda. He wonders for a while if his father's home country is North Korea.
In his rare televised appearances T'Chaka addresses crowds in English. Erik watches him speak and records over old VHSes to learn the flow of the language from his uncle's cadence. Every time he hears the accent he can't help the way his chest hurts. He wishes he'd recorded his father's voice.
"Utata ngu N'Jabu," he whispers to himself. "I am his son. Igama lam liyi Erik." He frowns at the hard switch between his choppy Wakandan accent and the American pronunciation of his name. "Igama lam liyi N'Jadaka."
It's well over a decade before he speaks Xhosa with another person: a Wakandan spy in disguise as a Somali migrant. As soon as he catches the man he combs through his gear, disposing of his communication and tracking devices before he bothers interrogating him. He asks about his mission.
The spy looks confused. Erik's hurt him enough to know the lack of understanding is real. Erik repeats himself, enunciating until he's understood. The shock on the man's face when he asks questions about Wakanda gives him more satisfaction than he expected. He doesn't get anything informative out of the spy since his role is limited. He keeps the guy alive for a while, promising to spare him if he teaches Erik everything he can. The language is so different from books when spoken and their conversations are stilted by the man's obvious fear. When he's learned what he can he kills the spy.
"N'Jadaka. N'Jadaka?" A small pause. "Erik?"
Erik curses under his breath and turns to T'Challa. "What?"
T'Challa nods at a projection in front of him. "We were trying to map out the best locations for our outreach centers. I wanted your input."
Erik looks at everyone else at the table. There are a good many eyes on him, most of which look away at his gaze. He has no idea what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.
"Yeah, fine," he says, getting to his feet.
Every room in T'Challa's quarters is bigger than the apartment he grew up in. T'Challa's got a "small" private library and his bedroom has several smaller rooms connected to it. Erik only asks about them once.
"A king several generations back had them built for his mistresses," T'Challa says. He coughs into his fist.
"I was joking but you really got me sleeping in the royal prostitute’s room?" Erik leans against the door frame of the largest guest room. The meager collection of items that he'd moved into T'Challa's room during his reign has already been moved in.
"We can find other accommodations if you'd prefer but after the wedding it may be awkward to have my supposed partner in the opposite side of the palace."
"I'm not going anywhere." Erik watches a black cat hop down from the window sill and cross the room.
"Good. I'd hoped you would stay. Bast here is the only one who's been using these rooms as of late." T'Challa kneels down to pet the cat. "Infidelity isn't exactly encouraged among royalty these days."
He laughs sharply. "Like you aren't planning to see Nakia on the down low."
"Ours is a political marriage. You're free to see whoever you like."
"Hope Wakandan girls like their dick appointments with a side of treachery." T'Challa smiles briefly at that. "So what now? We play passive aggressive roommates till one of us dies?"
"I was hoping the passive aggression might be left behind after a certain point but yes. Essentially. Must you look at me like that?"
Erik doesn't turn away or school his expression. "Like what?"
"As though my every action is done with an ulterior motive."
"Isn't it?"
"Sure, in this instance it's making us friendly enough that you only consider killing me if I do something egregious."
"Don't tempt me, cuz. I did it once."
"See? We're already joking about your murder attempts. We've made excellent progress."
"Oh yeah, deff," Erik says with a dismissive shrug. "You know I once strangled a guy with his own pajama pants? Didn't have anything else on hand."
"How charming. Luckily I'm a very light sleeper."
Erik hums vaguely. "They always are. You said you could find me other accommodations, what if I wanna share your kingly bed?"
T'Challa raises an eyebrow. "Do you want to share my kingly bed?"
"Let's say I do."
"I'd consider it but probably refuse. I think things would be infinitely more peaceful if we didn't. At least for now."
"Good to know." Erik steps back and T'Challa picks up Bast before the door can slam on both of them.
"We can finish most of the paperwork now," the immigration lawyer says, holding a stack of papers out to Erik. "Your citizenship won't go through until after the wedding but at that point it should all go very smoothly."
Erik doesn't look at the papers. "By law the children of Wakandan citizens are citizens."
The lawyer frowns. "Well that's. Uh, yes but—"
"Regardless of where they're born. I wasn't that bad a king."
"Ah."
"Or was the fucking prince not a citizen?"
"Yes, of course he was. Of course. It's only that you're an American citizen which cancels out your Wakandan citizenship. Wakanda does not allow dual citizenship."
Erik picks up his passport, not breaking eye contact. He holds a lighter to the corner until the vinyl catches. "Not interested in dual citizenship." He drops the passport to the floor. The vibranium infused tiles don't burn.
"U-understood, my prince. If you want to complete your citizenship process before marrying we can cancel your American citizenship." He carefully pushes a stack of paper in Erik's direction.
"Shouldn't need to in the first place," Erik mumbles. He takes the documents and the lawyer visibly relaxes.
"You already have a War Dog tattoo, is that right?" the lawyer asks. Erik tugs down his bottom lip and the man makes a note on another sheet of paper. Erik picks up a pen and looks the top sheet over. He pauses before finishing the first sentence.
"This says my name is Erik Stevens."
The man flinches. "We are going by your birth certificate, and your passport."
"That passport?' Erik nods at the floor.
"Yes, its been destroyed—"
"My name is N'Jadaka."
"I understand but—"
"It's what my father named me."
"I understand, my prince. But from a legal standpoint."
Erik stands up.
"You-you can change your name here!" he says, throwing up his hands. "As soon as your citizenship has been processed. That's perfectly legal!"
He leans over and places the papers back on the desk. "Fucking pain in the ass. I'll be back after the wedding."
"Yes, my prince." The lawyer stands and bows. "Thank you, my prince."
"Yeah, shut it."
He goes back to T'Challa's rooms after. He finds T'Challa is sitting in bed, a book in hand.
He nods. "Good evening, Erik."
"Fuck off, your highness."
"Sleep well."
Erik pauses with his hand on the door to his room. "How long till we tie the knot?"
"A little under two weeks." At Erik's annoyed grunt he adds. "This is definitely an expedited wedding. Normally there's weeks of commingling among both sides of the family but we don't have to worry about that."
"Lucky us. Don't see why we can't just sign a paper and call it a night."
"Bast, no. Haven't you ever been to a—"
Erik stares at him silently.
"That's right. You haven't." T'Challa puts his book aside. "The wedding is more for the community than it is for us, so a lot of work will go into it. If all the livestock in a twenty mile radius doesn't fear for its life then our ancestors will be sorely disappointed."
"Great. Can't wait." He shoos T'Challa's cat out of his room and shuts the door behind him.