A/N: Ok, this is my first AKT fanfiction and likely my only, though I love the Chaucer and Wat romance and beloved characters. My Wat and even my Chaucer are probably going to be ooc but oh well. I did make Wats thoughts sound intelligent and the likes.
Warnings: This is Wat/Chaucer Slash. Mature content is just about guaranteed; I don't shy from the smut, so if you don't like, beware.
(This chapter is in Wats POV btw.)
Chapter 1: Wat Wants
When I was to pass on the kiss from Lady Jocelyn to Will, I was tempted not to at all, even though I couldn't help but follow the request through. Even when I had the last minute debate whether or not I should do it, I really had to force myself to remember my loyalty to my good friend. It wasn't quite his lips that made me nervous, or how I had to kiss his lips, or how I thought he might react. It was none of that. I couldn't even have had a small fear of how he would react, for I knew he wouldn't care. Especially since he knew it came from Jocelyn's lips through mine. I wasn't disgusted by having to pass on the kiss; that wasn't what had my brain fonging itself.
It was blue eyes, clear like broken glass, and blonde hair that was lighter than on Wills own head. It was a watching gaze that awaited the news from Jocelyn, though not as heatedly as Will. It was my being afraid on how he would react. Yes he, you must know I'm talking of Chaucer. My words come out chopped and short and not as pretty as his, which fills me with a full want to Fong him, because in my head I have thoughts and expressions and I try hard to sound as fancy and romantic as he does; by the time I get the words to my lips I can't put them together and I end up tripping on them. Even if I can never sound or truly be as witty and clever as him, I'm distracted by his words, by the look in his eyes that never dies. The look that I've seen, since even when I first saw him in all his naked glory walking down the dirt road, that has yet to vanish from his face. So yes, I was worried of his watching eyes.
He's a, well, a writer is what he called himself. So it didn't worry me that he might be as disgusted as I should have been at the moment. When I actually think more on it, I know there was no reason for me to have cared, especially how it all turned out. Though with even more thinking and some simple drinking on my part to loosen my own thoughts, I realized that my mind fonged itself because even then, the reason I cared about what Chaucer would think was because I didn't want him to see me kiss anyone else, or even know that Jocelyn had given me her kiss to pass along. The dreams I had at night that were against what holiness I've learned, made me feel small and guilty of having Chaucer witness me with anyone else.
I'm not a writer, I don't write poems or speak his fancy words that fly out too fast for me to fully grasp, and swoons the crowds. I'm not trying to pretend to be, but I know I am smarter then I'm looked at as. My passion just fuels me fist, not my tongue.
Later when Will became a Sir of his own heritage, and Jocelyn his rightful bride, I wasn't sure what was happening. It was my mind fonging itself over and over at every turn. It was only so long before it became awkward for me to try to turn the fongings onto Geoff, every time I'd swing my fist at a snarky remark, I'd get distracted by the amused shine that glossed his eyes at his own wits, or the coy smirks that turned his lips, and my first would hit it's mark with a weakened blow. Even I could tell by the sideways glances from Roland and the curious eyes of Geoff that the lack of passion in my fists was beginning to get noticed. I tried not to actually hit him, but to threaten him instead; it was easier for me to appear myself and unaffected when I could just take him by his shirt collar and give him a shake. Though even that would only last so long until I'd notice the feel of his skin against my knuckles and the beats of his heart. My palms would sweat against his shirt fabric and my words would form even choppier as I forced fresh threats and promises of fongings out before I would storm away from him. Never before did I take so many times to thank my face for filling with blood so easily from yelling; it stopped anyone from seeing the shameful sight of me actually blushing like any frail woman with crushes.
Soon I couldn't stand the way the daily routines were turning. Will and Jocelyn fought over how to live, and me and Roland fought over whether it was time we left for our ways. He agreed with Jocelyn that Will had said he'd settle down. This meant that we, other than being friends were not needed. Will on the other side wanted to keep our gang, keep to our adventures. They were the adventures that I lived for, despite risk of poorness and hunger. They were adventures that kept me with what little of friends and family I had. It kept me close to Chaucer who I'd grown to like and admire as much as he fueled my own anger and passion. We even had Kate who was quite stern and quiet sulking around, waiting for us to disband and leave her as alone as she was when her late husband had died.
I was scared; Chaucer's critic comments and lively bursts were the only things keeping us lively with what had become normal. Day and day passed and I was trying not to look at Chaucer with such meaningful looks, or put too much thought into the words he directly spoke to me. But the more I tried not to, the more he seemed to be around me, the more I realized I could lose the comfort of his teasing and my ability to secretly enjoy his touch through my threats. I'd be left traveling with my unpretty words and anger and my dreams would be hollow.
Finally Kate had snapped. It had happened suddenly, but when I asked Roland he said he had seen it coming. An agreement was made. My heart and mind fonged each other. My passion that had so earlier left my fists had trapped itself in my heart and now I had to realize that with the news that we'd travel a year before we'd all settle, together or apart, that instead of losing Chaucer, and my best friends, I had to live with them. Travel with them. I had to chance finding a naked Chaucer fishing for money in our tents to pay off his debts. I had to either find an excuse to stop fonging him all together or confront the twists he made my gut feel. I didn't think I could do either.
So now only a month into the promised year, practicing for Will to enter more tournaments when the time comes, I find myself tent mates with Chaucer and Roland. Though I'm fearful with the way Christiana is eyeing Roland and the attention the faithful maiden of Jocelyn is getting form him. It will be only a short time before they earn a tent to themselves and I'm left with Chaucer. If he didn't have so many things about him that were both maddening and interesting, I could simply ignore him. But every night when it is completely dark, he sets up candles and writes down pretty words that he mutters out loud occasionally, while I throw in a threat or two for him to shut up or blow out the lights. Not because it annoys me like I say, but because his pretty words fall from his smooth lips like sweet wine and I can't concentrate on anything else. Well, some nights when the candles are low enough with Chaucer absorbed into his work and Roland not yet in or perhaps already snoring, I get distracted by Chaucer himself. The pretty words still flood my ears but my eyes are locked on the shadows cast on his face from the flickering flames. I notice everything, the shape of neck and the hollow at the base, the way his clothes hang off him in places, the blonde hair messed from his hand running through it and his eyes. Chaucer's eyes when he writes are livelier then when he talks. They show his own frustration, his own concern, amusement, pain and passion, always a passion. These nights I love and fear. They aren't as rare as I'd like to say, but if they were any more of a common occurrence than I'd be lost. Lost in his pretty words, and his, well, I might as well say it, his pretty face. If Roland leaves, these nights will e every night and my stares will eventually dig burn on him and he'll notice. And I fear, yes, I fear which makes me angry, that I will have no ability to stop even when I'm caught.
I admit I'm drawn to him, I want him. I have had plenty of women, but I've never had a sin, a man. My heart has ached before and I've fallen to a lover's mercy many times, enough times that I shouldn't want another, especially one that makes feel so much fire. But this fire isn't just the wish to fong him, but a fire that spreads from my fists to all of me and, honestly, I like it. As much as it makes e want to swing at him, I get the urge to take his lips and stake claim like no other ever could. I am not womanly and I don't claim that he is either. His narrow hips and his lean stomach do not belong to a woman but they beckon to me as if they did, like a woman's should.