A/N. No reviews necessary for this story. I've been working on this one for a while. I took inspiration from Viva La Vida by Coldplay. It's pretty recognizable, but it would make sense to read it while listening. Oh, and let's see if you can see the deliberate mistake I made. Cookies for you if you do!

As always, nothing is mine. Everything is owned by Columbia Pictures, 20thCentury Fox, Buena Vista International, and Brian Helgeland.

If he was going to be honest with himself (he never was), he would he admit he was not into gambling for the money.

Sure, he enjoyed the pay. He could sleep in a warm bed that night (perhaps with someone to share it), eat something, and leave the pub with the clothes still on his back. But that wasn't the reason Chaucer gambled.

He did it for the power.

Even in the very beginning, he felt it. Surrounded by drunks and whores in a dirty pub, Geoffrey Chaucer felt power. When he rolled the dice, he could feel the fear in his enemy's eyes. Those sober enough (and willing to pay attention) held their breath, waiting for the dice to fall. It was in that moment that Chaucer felt unconquerable. Even with all his swagger and pompous attitudes (not to mention his stylish attire), he never felt as invincible as he did when gambling. He was completely independent. He never cheated; no, he did not need to. And if he fell behind, he merely relied upon his wit and elocution to charm his way out of any situation.

But if he found himself in a dismal situation with no hope of return (which happened more often than not), it did not matter. The powerful feeling lingered after, which made even the ridicule, death threats, and stripping (both clothes and dignity) bearable.

And so he never thought twice about it. The power, the ability control people – it all came as second nature.

Until he met Wat.

Wat frustrated him to no end. His poor grammar, manners and hygiene put him off. He took pleasure in starting fights, and was obvious with his attentions of women. It was not easy for Chaucer to understand, but he felt distaste for the man. But he was fascinated by him; fascinated with every twist and turn that each (frustrating and truly annoying) piece of the puzzle brought him.

Of course, this was at first. At first, Wat was loathed. Chaucer loved to poke fun at him. He made fun of his attire, his "quick wit," his love of booze. When Wat snapped back, Chaucer felt power.

Then he discovered who Wat was.

He slowly put the pieces of the puzzle together. He observed Wat's simple fascination with everything around him, an almost a child-like view of the world. He saw Wat's love for the "family" around him. He noted Wat's affection for everyone (yes, everyone) when drunk. And when one night of "affection" ended in a sloppy kiss between the two of them, which Wat seemed not to remember in the morning, Chaucer realized his position of power over Wat was slowly slipping.

Chaucer, as odd as it sounded, was falling in love.

He suddenly felt out of place. In such a tight group of people who had been devoted to (fought for) a common goal, he was uncomfortable. His usual confidence disappeared, and was replaced by a heightened sense of awareness. If Wat was near, his skin prickled, and Chaucer turn inward. Their banter ceased as Chaucer avoided Wat more and more. He was unused to a feeling of weakness (inadequacy).

And so Chaucer ran. When Wat appeared, Chaucer would slip away, muttering excuses. He went out of his way to sleep near Wat, realizing that it was difficult to rest while counting the breaths of the man. He spent more and more time at pubs, trying to lose himself in gambling. But even his vice could not distract him for long. Chaucer watched the relationships around him, Will and Jocelyn (He chose her after she almost killed him? Ridiculous), Roland and… the maid, or whatever her name was. He was deeply afraid. So he ran.

It caught Chaucer by surprise when someone found him out.

It made perfect sense that the person to confront him would be Kate. Ever-observant Kate was always studying, keeping note. She was the only one not distracted by a relationship (staying true to her husband). She scrutinized Chaucer almost (almost) as much as Chaucer studied Wat. When she cornered Chaucer, it was almost dusk, and the sun setting in the west.

"Just tell him." Kate said. Chaucer stood, stunned, for a few moments. Then he snapped to attention.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He denied (maybe a little too forcefully).

"It's apparent to all watching," Kate said, "He knows you're avoiding him. He thinks you hate him. Apologize, and tell him."

"A Chaucer never apologizes," he fervently announced, and then hesitated.

"I will."

"Good. Go." She said, with satisfaction in her voice.

He searched out Wat, doubt following in every step. It took a while, and when he finally found him in a tent, fires were being lit around them, casting long shadows. Wat was bending over some bags, adjusting something (they were off to another tournament in the days ahead. That man would never rest), while Chaucer stood at the entryway. Nervously, he cleared his throat. Wat didn't even turn around.

"Talkin' to me again, eh?" Wat asked, his voice gruff.

"Look, I haven't been avoiding you, I'm merely busy!" The protest sounded fake to even his ears, and Chaucer (internally) cursed his weakness around the man. Wat merely scoffed. "Right, so I have. I just… needed to think things over."

"And you couldn'ta done that and talked ta me?" Wat turned around and looked at him intensely, one eyebrow raised.

"Err… no." Chaucer stumbled. He didn't know what to say next. Apologize? Pour his heart out? He decided to do what he did best - bullshit his way out of a situation, and make it up as he went along.

"What I don't understand is why you couldn't have just acknowledged me." Wat looked exasperated. "I know you like using all your ruddin' words. I thought we were gettin' on better, and I … well, I just though you coulda talked me. I know you don't always like me, but you didn't have to completely ignore me, ya know!" He shouted the last part, as Chaucer flinched.

"That's just it. I could not talk to you because, well, you are you. Y-you… frustrate me, to no end." Chaucer took a deep breath. "Yet I also find my self oddly fascinated by you. I watch you, your interactions, and my interest increases." Wat was looking confused at this point, so Chaucer began to rush, abandoning all pretext of suavity. "When I think of you, my stomach curls. You inspire me, you cause me pain, you infiltrate my thoughts at night. I find myself composing you poems, comparing you to flowers, the moon, anything, really. I succumb to thoughts of you, to interests. I'm amazed by you. I don't find you repulsive – in fact, quite the opposite. I want to stop being jealous every time you flirt badly with a barmaid. I want to be the one you cover with affection when you have a few too many pints. I want to be near you everyday, to hold you, and watch you, every single hour of every single day." Chaucer's eyes never left Wat, disturbed that his (weakness) caused him to say such things. But Wat's face was inscrutable. The shadows cast by the candles obscured his face slightly, making it impossible to read. Chaucer waited, the silence stretching.

"You ruddin' idiot," Wat suddenly exclaimed. Chaucer stepped back, surprised. "You use all those fancy words to describe something so simple." And within split seconds, the distance between them was closed. Wat looked up at the taller man, his face suddenly close, and his eyes expressive.

"I like you too, in some messed up way."

And suddenly, Chaucer was glad the weakness made him act.

(But he certainly wasn't giving up gambling.)