⇋10 Six is good
Title: Six is good
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating and Warnings: T - for swearing and ethnic slurs
Characters: Australia, Canada, France; OCs - New Zealand, Sri Lanka/Ceylon, India; mentioned Turkey and England.
Word Count: 2,045
Notes: Written for hetalia_contest's Week 018 prompt 'Picnics'.
Summary - They've been stuck in Gallipoli for half a year, who could blame them for wanting a break?
It was a lovely day in the Dardanelles - a lovely Mediterranean spring day, characterized by a soft breeze, warm weather and endless amounts of clouds - it made you want to jump over the trenches and shout ‘yah boo sucks to you, Fritzy!’ Fortunately, New Zealand had better ideas for the day than both getting oneself killed and interrupting the rare, relieving period of silence they had been enjoying for the last few days.
“We never really had picnics with England, did we?” Australia mused, staring up at the clouds and chewing noisily on a biscuit sent from home. He had to say; this new, oat-y recipe was absolutely scrumptious. New Zealand looked up from the long-hoarded supply of fruitcakes, and stared at Australia rather blankly.
“He had picnics with me,” he said simply.
“…Shut up, New Zealand,” Australia griped, “and cut us some of that fruitcake.” New Zealand grinned, cutting a rather short slice for his fellow ANZAC.
“Mmmm, that’s the stuff,” Australia laughed, scarfing the cake down, “Speaking of that posh ol’ berk, you think he’d enjoy a picnic as well?”
“Don’t bother. Ceylon tells me…” New Zealand leaned closer and lowered his voice, “every night, France cooks him fillet mignons in sauce béarnaise, plum duff and cream custard.”
“Mate, you’ve got to be pulling my leg! You mean…”
“That’s what she told me.”
Australia looked perturbed for a few moments, before shrugging and digging out another biscuit from their shared tin. “Nah, he wouldn’t, you probably misheard her - can’t tell what those curry-munchers are saying, yanno?”
“That could be true,” said New Zealand, leaning back on the shabby tartan blanket they had laid at the driest point of the trenches they could find. Naturally, mud was slowly soaking into the cloth.
♚♔
“Wonder how Abdul is,” Australia thought aloud, reclining back on the blanket, into the shade cast by the trench walls, “Funny ol’ raghead he is, maybe he’s surrendered, and the poms forgot to tell us.”
“It’d explain why we haven’t been shooting each other’s brains out for the last few days,” New Zealand shrugged. They were silent for a few more minutes, basking in the glow of their post-feast state - saying a lot for how desperately they had stored supplies. Australia tossed a tin of beef jerky in his hand for a few minutes, staring at it thoughtfully, before tossing it at New Zealand.
“What?” New Zealand asked, grabbing the tin from rolling off the blanket after he failed to catch it.
“Chuck it over the top for Abdul - what’s his real name, Sadiq? - and give him some of these ripping biscuits as well - you’ve seen the crap he eats.”
“I don’t see why I have to do it,” New Zealand frowned, staring up at the top of the trenches behind him.
“Because I got shot in the foot, remember? You’re a bit of a drongo sometimes, Eddie, now go on,” Australia yawned, further stretching out on the blanket and tossing a biscuit to New Zealand.
“Okay, Richie,” New Zealand said, crouching up and quickly tossing the tin and couple of biscuits as far across no-man’s land as he could, shouting, “Hey, Abdul!” at the top of his voice.
“Mate, I told you, it’s Dickie now,” Australia said as New Zealand sat himself down again, pointedly ignoring him. No more than a minute later, the faint, deep call of “Hey, Johnny!” could be heard from over the trench. Australia chuckled.
♚♔
They were in a heated, extremely intense debate, (“It’s tar, Richie, you need to see that.” “Fuck off, it’s not like you can come up with any of the finer points of Marmite.” “Well, England agrees that it’s better than Vegemite.”) when the insufferably familiar smacking sound could be heard from the distance.
“I was wondering when he’d turn up!” Australia laughed, as the figure of a dark skinned man loomed around the corner of the trenches.
“Eh, you having a picnic and you don’t invite me?” the young man asked, his English marred either by his heavy accent, or the large amounts of paan in his mouth. He crossed his arms at the two and grinned toothily at the same time, revealing his red-stained teeth.
“Sorry, mate, we couldn’t find you!” Australia laughed, patting a spare space on the blanket next to him, “Come and eat with us! We’re having vegemite and marmite sandwiches, but I reckon you’ll be having the vegemite, eh?”
India grinned even wider, spitting once before manoeuvring through all the food and empty tins to sit between Australia and New Zealand.
“Where's the rest of your mob?” New Zealand asked, before taking another bit out of his sandwich.
“Oh, who knows!” India laughed, surveying the sight before him, “And I gotta say, you have very disgusting food in Australia!”
“And New Zealand,” the country in question added, looking somewhat awkward and ending up unheard as India continued to look towards Australia.
“So, heard any new orders from England?” Australia asked, propping himself up on his elbow. India shook his head.
“No, no, back to the Western Front,” India shrugged, “Will not make a bit of difference down here, though, I think.” Australia hummed thoughtfully, wondering what exactly India had against England.
“That leaves the six of us here, then,” New Zealand said, “Us three, Canada, France, and the Africans.”
Australia suppressed a smirk, leaning forward, and asking “How many, Eddie?”, while India looked almost scandalized.
“I said six, you moron…” New Zealand started, before trailing off with a frown, “Shut up, Richie.” Australia sniggered, while India looked at New Zealand for the first time that day.
“What are you talking about sex for? Do not change the subject to something disgusting, filthy khota!” India scowled, glaring at the awkward-looking New Zealand, before cracking another grin, "Aaay, I got you! He's so easy, this one!" New Zealand opened his mouth, and closed it again, frowning at India. Australia only laughed harder.
“Ah, don’t be such a codger, Eddie, calm down - you too, cow-kisser,” Australia cackled, reaching over for another jar of vegemite, “Now, India, you’ll love this…”
♚♔
The part of the trenches where they set their picnic - which had been going on for six hours by then with no end in sight, they were contemplating skipping dinner and breakfast for the next two days at this rate- was one of the cleaner spots you could find their side of no man’s land. Lost letters, pens, watches and boxes were only, mildly scattered around the walls and floor of the area. None of it worth taking for their own - England had hordes of better quality items that he didn’t really need, after all. The sun was slowly setting behind them, and the balmy day was rapidly cooling into a pleasant, mild evening - the best of the entire campaign.
“…and after Alexander the Great said that, I go to find King Porus in my cousin’s home, and I hear we became friends then! Very peculiar, I tell you,” India laughed, scratching his moustache. The two nations next to him listened intently; both nibbling on the last few biscuits left and feeling much, much younger then they had that morning.
“After that, I am not sure of the details - go find Bengal tomorrow, ask him. I was busy with other things…”
“Like what, mate, tell us!” Australia grinned, leaning in closer to India. India sighed dramatically, returning the grin before they heard a shout from the distance.
“W-who’s there?!” a voice cried out, as a lantern and a pistol poked out from around the corner.
“Bloody hell!” Australia exclaimed, dropping the biscuit from his mouth, “It’s us, the ANZACs! Who the hell are you?”
“Oh” the voice came again, as a familiar face came into view, returning the pistol to its holster and lowering the lamp. He swept back his hair nervously and approached them, “sorry, I thought you were the Huns.”
“Never mind, Matt,” Australia grinned, “grab a seat, eh?” reaching to pat next to him on the blanket, and found the entire thing was littered with tins and boxes.
“I’ll be fine standing, but thanks,” Canada said, smiling as he bent over to get a good look at what was going on, “So, what are you doing? France was looking for you earlier, and I didn’t know what to tell him, so…”
“It’s a picnic,” New Zealand said, giving Canada a faint smile, which Australia eyed curiously - those two always had some connection, and it always mystified him.
“Oh!” Canada’s smile grew, “is there anything, uh, left over?” he asked, eying the small towers of, very empty, tins stacked up on and around the blanket. Australia quickly shoved the last ANZAC biscuit in his mouth as New Zealand rolled his eyes.
“Hey, you like Paan? I got plenty of Paan here,” India said, patting his side pockets. Canada raised an eyebrow questioningly, to which India dug out several exotic looking leaves and nuts.
“Don’t do it,” Australia whispered, although loud enough for everyone to hear, “I gave it a shot, and look what it did to my mouth!” he opened his mouth wide, revealing red stained gums, teeth and tongue. Canada laughed, and shook his head.
“Sorry, I don’t think so,” he said to India - who in turn shrugged and added more to the load that was already in his mouth.
“No problem, more for me!”
♚♔
It was pitch black when they heard the rumbling.
Their first instinct was to grab their guns and aim them across the trench. Canada and India, however, were the only two to have their guns on them - and the rumbling was coming from behind the trenches.
Their second instinct was to duck back down again - nobody felt like provoking an attack from the Hun at this time at night.
Their third instinct was to sit around dumbly, wondering what the hell was going on and asking each other so.
Their fourth instinct was to run - forgetting everything they had set up earlier that day - as fast as they could from the sudden downpour.
Their fifth, and final, instinct was to run back through the rapidly flooding trench, collecting the swearing Australia, rather unhappy that he happened to have use of only one foot in a flood.
♚♔
France peeked outside of his tent, grimacing at the torrential rain and storm. He gave a pitying glance out to the poor diggers, sitting in their dripping, freezing tents, while basking in the warmth of his lavish, cosy and very dry headquarters.
“Enjoying the weather, Ceylon?” he asked the young woman standing outside of his tent, holding her gun as steady as she had the whole day. She blinked the rain out of her eyes, sparing him a glance, before returning to her position, “I suppose you must be used to this where you’re from, non?” he crooned, undeterred by her unrelenting disregard of him - she hadn't spoken a sentance to him all week that didn't end with 'sir'. She was usually like this, he thought to himself, even not at war. Always quiet and reserved - quite sweet, he liked to think, but England often assured him otherwise. Interesting to note, as well, she was without her normal amount of solid gold jewellery - only a few bangles adorned her arms today. He sighed, smiling, and leant against the nearest tent pole. He sighed, smiling, and leant against the nearest tent pole.
“I do wonder where Mathieu is,” he said aloud, staring out onto the cliffs and trenches, “I asked him to go tell Arthur’s set we were expecting this storm…” he trailed off thoughtfully, before shrugging nonchalantly.
“I have plenty of room in here, ma chère, if you would care to get out of this horrid rain,” France grinned, “You don’t want your lovely bracelets getting ruined, non? Tonight we’re having Basil salmon terrine," he winked.
Ceylon eyed France uncomfortably, before shaking her head, “No thanks, eh, sir.”
France shrugged again, smirking, “Arthur’s taught you well, ma chère.”
Notes:
- The Gallipoli Campaign of WWI. I must note, there were accounts of extreme misery and hardship there from the soldiers, and many accounts of silly larrikin/Turkish funtimes. This would be a silly larrikin funtime. I would also like people to note, from that link, the participants of the campaign. It wasn’t just two countries, their pommy leader and Turkey.
- Food rations the soldiers at Gallipoli got included beef jerky, biscuits and other poxy food items the British sent out. The lucky soldiers got ANZAC biscuits and fruitcake from home.
- Oh no, I have human names. Australia is Richard Murray - Richard because it was an immensely popular male name in Britain during the 1700s, which leads to the most suitable nickname ever for Australia, and Murray because no matter what first name you pair with it, it will sound insufferably Australian. It’s also the name of a major river down under! And New Zealand is Edmund Rochester, because the ‘Ed’ names have always been tremendously popular in Britain, and Rochester means ‘an uneven, rough, and stony place’, as well as being English - and the Kiwis have always been more posh than the larrikins next door.
- Ottoman troops called Frankish troops 'Johnny', and Frankish troops called the Ottomans 'Abdul'. A funny little war quirk, like how they'd lob their rations over the trenches in exchange for the others' rations.
- Paan. I decided, with the guidance of a friend, that it’d be a great character trait for India. Headcanon, oh yes.
- My Australia is kind of racist. Because Australia is kind of racist. I apologise for the ethnic slurs he spouts but talk to any Australian born before the fifties - hell, plenty born after the fifties as well - and they'd use the same terms too, I guarantee.
- The New Zealand accent renders the word 'six' into the word 'sex'. It's a great source of amusement for us immature Australians.
- Alexander the Great’s Indian conquests.
- Also. Count the Blackadder references, I dare you.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating and Warnings: T - for swearing and ethnic slurs
Characters: Australia, Canada, France; OCs - New Zealand, Sri Lanka/Ceylon, India; mentioned Turkey and England.
Word Count: 2,045
Notes: Written for hetalia_contest's Week 018 prompt 'Picnics'.
Summary - They've been stuck in Gallipoli for half a year, who could blame them for wanting a break?
It was a lovely day in the Dardanelles - a lovely Mediterranean spring day, characterized by a soft breeze, warm weather and endless amounts of clouds - it made you want to jump over the trenches and shout ‘yah boo sucks to you, Fritzy!’ Fortunately, New Zealand had better ideas for the day than both getting oneself killed and interrupting the rare, relieving period of silence they had been enjoying for the last few days.
“We never really had picnics with England, did we?” Australia mused, staring up at the clouds and chewing noisily on a biscuit sent from home. He had to say; this new, oat-y recipe was absolutely scrumptious. New Zealand looked up from the long-hoarded supply of fruitcakes, and stared at Australia rather blankly.
“He had picnics with me,” he said simply.
“…Shut up, New Zealand,” Australia griped, “and cut us some of that fruitcake.” New Zealand grinned, cutting a rather short slice for his fellow ANZAC.
“Mmmm, that’s the stuff,” Australia laughed, scarfing the cake down, “Speaking of that posh ol’ berk, you think he’d enjoy a picnic as well?”
“Don’t bother. Ceylon tells me…” New Zealand leaned closer and lowered his voice, “every night, France cooks him fillet mignons in sauce béarnaise, plum duff and cream custard.”
“Mate, you’ve got to be pulling my leg! You mean…”
“That’s what she told me.”
Australia looked perturbed for a few moments, before shrugging and digging out another biscuit from their shared tin. “Nah, he wouldn’t, you probably misheard her - can’t tell what those curry-munchers are saying, yanno?”
“That could be true,” said New Zealand, leaning back on the shabby tartan blanket they had laid at the driest point of the trenches they could find. Naturally, mud was slowly soaking into the cloth.
♚♔
“Wonder how Abdul is,” Australia thought aloud, reclining back on the blanket, into the shade cast by the trench walls, “Funny ol’ raghead he is, maybe he’s surrendered, and the poms forgot to tell us.”
“It’d explain why we haven’t been shooting each other’s brains out for the last few days,” New Zealand shrugged. They were silent for a few more minutes, basking in the glow of their post-feast state - saying a lot for how desperately they had stored supplies. Australia tossed a tin of beef jerky in his hand for a few minutes, staring at it thoughtfully, before tossing it at New Zealand.
“What?” New Zealand asked, grabbing the tin from rolling off the blanket after he failed to catch it.
“Chuck it over the top for Abdul - what’s his real name, Sadiq? - and give him some of these ripping biscuits as well - you’ve seen the crap he eats.”
“I don’t see why I have to do it,” New Zealand frowned, staring up at the top of the trenches behind him.
“Because I got shot in the foot, remember? You’re a bit of a drongo sometimes, Eddie, now go on,” Australia yawned, further stretching out on the blanket and tossing a biscuit to New Zealand.
“Okay, Richie,” New Zealand said, crouching up and quickly tossing the tin and couple of biscuits as far across no-man’s land as he could, shouting, “Hey, Abdul!” at the top of his voice.
“Mate, I told you, it’s Dickie now,” Australia said as New Zealand sat himself down again, pointedly ignoring him. No more than a minute later, the faint, deep call of “Hey, Johnny!” could be heard from over the trench. Australia chuckled.
♚♔
They were in a heated, extremely intense debate, (“It’s tar, Richie, you need to see that.” “Fuck off, it’s not like you can come up with any of the finer points of Marmite.” “Well, England agrees that it’s better than Vegemite.”) when the insufferably familiar smacking sound could be heard from the distance.
“I was wondering when he’d turn up!” Australia laughed, as the figure of a dark skinned man loomed around the corner of the trenches.
“Eh, you having a picnic and you don’t invite me?” the young man asked, his English marred either by his heavy accent, or the large amounts of paan in his mouth. He crossed his arms at the two and grinned toothily at the same time, revealing his red-stained teeth.
“Sorry, mate, we couldn’t find you!” Australia laughed, patting a spare space on the blanket next to him, “Come and eat with us! We’re having vegemite and marmite sandwiches, but I reckon you’ll be having the vegemite, eh?”
India grinned even wider, spitting once before manoeuvring through all the food and empty tins to sit between Australia and New Zealand.
“Where's the rest of your mob?” New Zealand asked, before taking another bit out of his sandwich.
“Oh, who knows!” India laughed, surveying the sight before him, “And I gotta say, you have very disgusting food in Australia!”
“And New Zealand,” the country in question added, looking somewhat awkward and ending up unheard as India continued to look towards Australia.
“So, heard any new orders from England?” Australia asked, propping himself up on his elbow. India shook his head.
“No, no, back to the Western Front,” India shrugged, “Will not make a bit of difference down here, though, I think.” Australia hummed thoughtfully, wondering what exactly India had against England.
“That leaves the six of us here, then,” New Zealand said, “Us three, Canada, France, and the Africans.”
Australia suppressed a smirk, leaning forward, and asking “How many, Eddie?”, while India looked almost scandalized.
“I said six, you moron…” New Zealand started, before trailing off with a frown, “Shut up, Richie.” Australia sniggered, while India looked at New Zealand for the first time that day.
“What are you talking about sex for? Do not change the subject to something disgusting, filthy khota!” India scowled, glaring at the awkward-looking New Zealand, before cracking another grin, "Aaay, I got you! He's so easy, this one!" New Zealand opened his mouth, and closed it again, frowning at India. Australia only laughed harder.
“Ah, don’t be such a codger, Eddie, calm down - you too, cow-kisser,” Australia cackled, reaching over for another jar of vegemite, “Now, India, you’ll love this…”
♚♔
The part of the trenches where they set their picnic - which had been going on for six hours by then with no end in sight, they were contemplating skipping dinner and breakfast for the next two days at this rate- was one of the cleaner spots you could find their side of no man’s land. Lost letters, pens, watches and boxes were only, mildly scattered around the walls and floor of the area. None of it worth taking for their own - England had hordes of better quality items that he didn’t really need, after all. The sun was slowly setting behind them, and the balmy day was rapidly cooling into a pleasant, mild evening - the best of the entire campaign.
“…and after Alexander the Great said that, I go to find King Porus in my cousin’s home, and I hear we became friends then! Very peculiar, I tell you,” India laughed, scratching his moustache. The two nations next to him listened intently; both nibbling on the last few biscuits left and feeling much, much younger then they had that morning.
“After that, I am not sure of the details - go find Bengal tomorrow, ask him. I was busy with other things…”
“Like what, mate, tell us!” Australia grinned, leaning in closer to India. India sighed dramatically, returning the grin before they heard a shout from the distance.
“W-who’s there?!” a voice cried out, as a lantern and a pistol poked out from around the corner.
“Bloody hell!” Australia exclaimed, dropping the biscuit from his mouth, “It’s us, the ANZACs! Who the hell are you?”
“Oh” the voice came again, as a familiar face came into view, returning the pistol to its holster and lowering the lamp. He swept back his hair nervously and approached them, “sorry, I thought you were the Huns.”
“Never mind, Matt,” Australia grinned, “grab a seat, eh?” reaching to pat next to him on the blanket, and found the entire thing was littered with tins and boxes.
“I’ll be fine standing, but thanks,” Canada said, smiling as he bent over to get a good look at what was going on, “So, what are you doing? France was looking for you earlier, and I didn’t know what to tell him, so…”
“It’s a picnic,” New Zealand said, giving Canada a faint smile, which Australia eyed curiously - those two always had some connection, and it always mystified him.
“Oh!” Canada’s smile grew, “is there anything, uh, left over?” he asked, eying the small towers of, very empty, tins stacked up on and around the blanket. Australia quickly shoved the last ANZAC biscuit in his mouth as New Zealand rolled his eyes.
“Hey, you like Paan? I got plenty of Paan here,” India said, patting his side pockets. Canada raised an eyebrow questioningly, to which India dug out several exotic looking leaves and nuts.
“Don’t do it,” Australia whispered, although loud enough for everyone to hear, “I gave it a shot, and look what it did to my mouth!” he opened his mouth wide, revealing red stained gums, teeth and tongue. Canada laughed, and shook his head.
“Sorry, I don’t think so,” he said to India - who in turn shrugged and added more to the load that was already in his mouth.
“No problem, more for me!”
♚♔
It was pitch black when they heard the rumbling.
Their first instinct was to grab their guns and aim them across the trench. Canada and India, however, were the only two to have their guns on them - and the rumbling was coming from behind the trenches.
Their second instinct was to duck back down again - nobody felt like provoking an attack from the Hun at this time at night.
Their third instinct was to sit around dumbly, wondering what the hell was going on and asking each other so.
Their fourth instinct was to run - forgetting everything they had set up earlier that day - as fast as they could from the sudden downpour.
Their fifth, and final, instinct was to run back through the rapidly flooding trench, collecting the swearing Australia, rather unhappy that he happened to have use of only one foot in a flood.
♚♔
France peeked outside of his tent, grimacing at the torrential rain and storm. He gave a pitying glance out to the poor diggers, sitting in their dripping, freezing tents, while basking in the warmth of his lavish, cosy and very dry headquarters.
“Enjoying the weather, Ceylon?” he asked the young woman standing outside of his tent, holding her gun as steady as she had the whole day. She blinked the rain out of her eyes, sparing him a glance, before returning to her position, “I suppose you must be used to this where you’re from, non?” he crooned, undeterred by her unrelenting disregard of him - she hadn't spoken a sentance to him all week that didn't end with 'sir'. She was usually like this, he thought to himself, even not at war. Always quiet and reserved - quite sweet, he liked to think, but England often assured him otherwise. Interesting to note, as well, she was without her normal amount of solid gold jewellery - only a few bangles adorned her arms today. He sighed, smiling, and leant against the nearest tent pole. He sighed, smiling, and leant against the nearest tent pole.
“I do wonder where Mathieu is,” he said aloud, staring out onto the cliffs and trenches, “I asked him to go tell Arthur’s set we were expecting this storm…” he trailed off thoughtfully, before shrugging nonchalantly.
“I have plenty of room in here, ma chère, if you would care to get out of this horrid rain,” France grinned, “You don’t want your lovely bracelets getting ruined, non? Tonight we’re having Basil salmon terrine," he winked.
Ceylon eyed France uncomfortably, before shaking her head, “No thanks, eh, sir.”
France shrugged again, smirking, “Arthur’s taught you well, ma chère.”
Notes:
- The Gallipoli Campaign of WWI. I must note, there were accounts of extreme misery and hardship there from the soldiers, and many accounts of silly larrikin/Turkish funtimes. This would be a silly larrikin funtime. I would also like people to note, from that link, the participants of the campaign. It wasn’t just two countries, their pommy leader and Turkey.
- Food rations the soldiers at Gallipoli got included beef jerky, biscuits and other poxy food items the British sent out. The lucky soldiers got ANZAC biscuits and fruitcake from home.
- Oh no, I have human names. Australia is Richard Murray - Richard because it was an immensely popular male name in Britain during the 1700s, which leads to the most suitable nickname ever for Australia, and Murray because no matter what first name you pair with it, it will sound insufferably Australian. It’s also the name of a major river down under! And New Zealand is Edmund Rochester, because the ‘Ed’ names have always been tremendously popular in Britain, and Rochester means ‘an uneven, rough, and stony place’, as well as being English - and the Kiwis have always been more posh than the larrikins next door.
- Ottoman troops called Frankish troops 'Johnny', and Frankish troops called the Ottomans 'Abdul'. A funny little war quirk, like how they'd lob their rations over the trenches in exchange for the others' rations.
- Paan. I decided, with the guidance of a friend, that it’d be a great character trait for India. Headcanon, oh yes.
- My Australia is kind of racist. Because Australia is kind of racist. I apologise for the ethnic slurs he spouts but talk to any Australian born before the fifties - hell, plenty born after the fifties as well - and they'd use the same terms too, I guarantee.
- The New Zealand accent renders the word 'six' into the word 'sex'. It's a great source of amusement for us immature Australians.
- Alexander the Great’s Indian conquests.
- Also. Count the Blackadder references, I dare you.