The coolest blue warps the lilac that bleeds across the Wakandan sky and T'Challa forgets the meaning of home. It is no longer the colorful canopy overhead or the chorus of whispers from the waterfall. It feels like the tears staining the faces of his people mourning their King. Home never used to hurt.
There had been no time to react successfully, but he still lunged at his father to save him from the blast, to save him from the hope that shattered T'Chaka's life and spilled his blood. The Americans were never something to be trusted, but T'Chaka had chosen to trust in humanity, and it cost him everything before he could even finish a sentence.
Death isn't the end.
T'Challa knows this like he knows the world still turns even when his eyes are closed. Grappling with Death is just as slow of an exercise. Each step he takes, dripping nobility, poise and gentle stoicism, the other side of death, that knowledge of it merely being an usher to the Eternal is there, but moves further away, and he cannot quench it with his claws. He runs but his feet aren't quick enough.
"Father, please tell me what I am supposed to do."
His ears feel muffled. The fog of grief taunts him, never letting up for even a second, but he has people to lead. The crown of King is titanic, and his shoulders shake at the thought of its weight.
"I'm happy, Father."
That day, before the blast and the Black Widow's hollow condolences, T'Challa was happy and he cursed that little boy for not growing up.
Little boys are scattered without their fathers and ascending to manhood becomes more like breathing under water than soaring to new heights.
T'Challa wonders if only his arms and legs have matured throughout the years. His heart still feels six-years-old. The touch of his father's strong hand or the reassurance of his proud look could vanquish this hell, but he has to grow up sometime.
Sleep comes later and later but he finally succumbs as the rest of the Kingdom does. This time, he doesn't want to dream of T'Chaka. The crust of nightfallen tears make it difficult to open his eyes when the morning comes.
The suit is black, woven with vibranium and can withstand a rainstorm of bullets. It lacks a cape and he takes issue with that, wanting to resemble the warrior he'd admired all his life. The designer refuses, flat-out says no without minding his tone. It just isn't practical.
T'Challa finally agrees. He feels the suit adhere to his body and press against his skin, sealing him. It's almost like his fight has come back. The servants and designer leave and he looks into the mirror, seeing himself, watching vengeance dim the light in his eyes, and he knows that he will not stop.
He won't until every corner and crevice of the world fears Wakanda and its Black Panther. His prey is James Buchanan Barnes, a man Captain America calls friend. In his heart of hearts, T'Challa knew they couldn't be trusted.
He jabs nothing but the air, and the suit gives like an elastic band. The power of his ancestors courses through him with high voltage. He's ready to return to that stolen country for a reason he knows but still can't understand.