[fic fill] It's Called Battleship
TITLE: It's Called Battleship
AUTHOR/ARTIST: erinilliana
RECIPIENT: nkiseki
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: France, Spain, Prussia, England
RATING: PG-13 for a bit of language
SUMMARY: France, Spain, and Prussia decide to play a naval game. England, in all his naval glory, is hell-bent on winning.
Francis isn't quite sure how it happened.
"Hahahahaha! Did you see that? Complete annihilation. What do you have to say for yourself, eh, France?"
He really doesn't get how it happened. It just did.
- - - - - - - - - -
He remembers walking down the streets of a relatively obscure city when he ran into Antonio. Apparently Lovino left him in his usual bout of rage, and being the big brother he is Francis offered to keep him company. It was supposed to be a harmless walk like any other, except with a tagalong, until it happened. It came suddenly, totally unpredictable, and it threw both nations off.
. . . All right, that’s a lie. Francis was the only one relatively surprised at the entrance. Antonio took it in stride, as per usual, more preoccupied with the tomato in his hand.
Gilbert.
Francis still can’t fathom how Gilbert manages to pop out from virtually everywhere with ease - in the bushes, bursting through guarded doors, even into houses he doesn’t have keys to (and he knows that Gilbert isn’t capable of picking locks, he destroys them instead of trying to do things the conventional way someone breaking in would). But he did it somehow, lunging out from an alley and throwing an arm around Francis before realizing that it was, in fact, Francis, and promptly shoving him off.
“Yo, Spain! What are you doing with a loser like this guy?” he greeted boldly then, his voice loud and demanding total attention.
Antonio was civil, if not a little slow on the uptake, although he understood the situation immediately when he directed his thoughts from the tomato to the two men. He only smiled that smile of his and started after Francis when he exclaimed that he’d something to tend to.
Gilbert, of course, tagged along.
- - - - - - - - - -
They are now at Francis’ place, playing a game of Battleship. Antonio suggested playing it, and Gilbert was all over the idea of destroying them both in a naval battle (that was entirely fictional but would grant the winner boasting rights). And as it went, Gilbert did crush his opponent: Francis.
Francis feels cursed at times, in all honesty. He never wins, and instead always loses, even in something as silly as board games. He watches Antonio start his round with Gilbert and, out of sheer curiosity, walks over to the latter’s side of the table and takes a glance at the game board. What he sees causes his brow to rise and he bends down next to the former nation, speaking in a hushed voice:
“You couldn’t have gone into a real naval battle with this formation.”
One look at him and Gilbert seems to hold back a snicker, adjusting in his seat to raise his shoulder and quiet Francis. When he tries to grab Gilbert’s attention again, there’s incessant pounding on the door suddenly, and an all-too-familiar voice rings out from the other side.
“France! I know you’re in there, you arse!”
Ah. Arthur.
Francis answers the door, glancing curiously at the shorter man as he allows the new visitor to come in. “Why the sudden visit, England?”
In response he raises his arms in an exasperated manner. “Don’t tell me you forgot. You - “ he pauses when his gaze rests on Antonio and Gilbert, the latter cheering as the former surrenders with a friendly smile on his face. He sees the boards on the table, and in an instant he’s beside the two, his expression inquisitive.
“What in bollocks are you two doing?”
“It’s called Battleship,” Antonio replies casually, to which Gilbert nods proudly.
“Play a round,” he challenges.
Arthur stands upright and crosses his arms. “I’ve other matters to tend to, unlike you two.”
There’s a certain glint in Gilbert’s eyes, and Francis knows that Arthur has no way of escaping the situation without losses. “You’re just chickening out!”
If there is one thing Francis has learned about his tea-loving bastard of a neighbor, it is that he’s got an ego too big for his frame. It’s already apparent that he’s not willing to back down after Gilbert’s taunting, his fists clenched and face turning slightly red at the implication of him, him, being a coward. True to Francis’ prediction, Arthur grabs another board and sits next to Antonio, propping the object up and picking up the playing pieces. He’s already getting the parts set up when he looks at everyone else.
“Well, go on you three.”
“It’s a one-on-one game, England.”
“I don’t bloody care! We can work it out with two-to-two. France, go to Prussia.” At this Gilbert bolts up and extends an arm.
“You take him! Spain, come here.”
Arthur drums his fingers on the table, clearly not about to put up with Gilbert’s foolishness. “Stick to the formation, damn it!”
“No, Spain’s mine. You partner with France.”
There’s the urge to sigh at the childishness of it all, and Francis merely shakes his head. They’re at it again, arguing over who gets whom for the team. Admittedly, Antonio would be ideal for a game of Battleship for his experience with the Invincible Armada. On the other hand, Arthur’s navy is highly regarded as the best around the world. Either would work for Gilbert, but not Francis.
Then it clicks. No one wants him.
Him. The big brother, the one with the best aesthetic sense of them all.
The lid comes off, and he explodes.
“This is no good! Not good at all!” he bellows. He immediately seats himself next to Arthur, taking the fourth board and setting up the pieces. “Fear not, England, big brother is here to usher us to victory~”
Arthur’s eye twitches. This is not a good sign.
“Get out of here, you bastard!”
“This is my house.”
“ . . . Tsk.” Arthur clears his throat and turns back to Gilbert, now with Antonio next to him and already ready to go. “Let’s get this game started already.”
- - - - - - - - - -Gilbert is watching him.
It’s Francis’ turn to clear his throat, and he stares intently at his own board. The others cannot see, and will surely not be able to get a strike in the first round. Gilbert continues to stare at him, but that will do little to help him. Francis is certain that he is safe, and leans back in his seat, allowing the former nation to make his call.
The moment Francis grants the opportunity, he yells, “F3!”
He hit. “It’s a hit!?” Arthur salaams.
“Bloody hell, what were you thinking when you set your board!?”
“It . . . must have been a lucky guess,” Francis assures him in an attempt to calm the Britishman. “It won’t happen again. Now, as for me - “ he looks directly at Antonio. “Would B2 be a hit?”
Antonio shakes his head. “It’s a miss.”
Arthur wants to slam his head onto the desk. He nearly does so, although he manages to stop himself right before his forehead makes contact. There’s a flash in his eyes that scream bloody murder (to whom, Francis doesn’t want to know), and he looks maliciously at the two opposing nations; Gilbert has that look on his face that makes him want to jump over the desk, while Antonio is living in his own pace, taking everything in with the “aura” of a friendly “neighbor.”
“Damn you, France!” he mutters before he says, to Antonio again, “G9.”
It’s a hit, and finally Arthur feels that something has gone right. Francis does a golf clap of sort, but otherwise keeps the applause to just that. Then everyone looks at Antonio, who looks at Arthur, then switches to France, calling “E3.” Much to the target’s chagrin, he hits.
“It’s another hit.” Arthur takes a deep breath, most likely in a poor attempt to calm himself.
Gilbert’s turn has come around again, and he points dramatically at Francis, laughing that crazy laugh - “ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha - ahahahahahahahahaha!” - Antonio and Francis remember all too well (it was the cackle that had went on and on for hours when Roderich had failed to show up on time). Nevertheless, the laugh is surely a bad sign for Francis, and he braces himself for the impact. He prays to God that he doesn’t get hit again. God loves him; he’d surely save him from the humiliation, wouldn’t he?
And there Gilbert goes again, staring. Staring into his eyes, to the very depths of his soul, where he feels naked and that perhaps Gilbert can indeed see everything and hear everything he is thinking -
“ - G3! You’re done!”
God doesn’t love him after all.
Francis holds back a shriek of sort, muffling it out when he realizes that Gilbert knows something he shouldn’t know. “Wait,” he says, “how did you know that that would sink my ship?”
Gilbert gives him an all-knowing grin that makes the Frenchman fear the answer about to be given. “Decorating your ships was the best idea you could have had for helping your enemies!”
Arthur, who is in the process of drinking tea when he hears this, nearly spits everything out. Fortunately, only a few droplets of liquid escape; unfortunately for Francis, the handful that did escape is now all over the board pieces. It’s at this time that Arthur stops choking and takes a look at the other’s dirtied board, his eyes widening ever so slightly.
“What in bollocks were you thinking!?”
“It was a matter of applying beauty to the game!” Francis protests, the pride evident in his voice as his partner sighs in aggravation.
“You don’t paint pieces blue and red and put glitter all over them, you fool! And what in the world is this; you’re not supposed to form pictures with your pieces, you were supposed to put them in formation!”
“I’ll have you know that this formation of mine is far more beautiful than that . . . buffalo of yours, England!”
“It was a fairly useful technique, you know,” Gilbert adds. “Every time you stared, I could just see where the pieces were from the reflection!”
There’s that laugh again, and that marks the end to Arthur’s patience.
Within seconds Francis is trying to leave the general area, Arthur has a penknife in his hand, Antonio is trying to calm the murderous nation, and Gilbert is busy laughing in his seat, inadvertently worsening the situation. Luckily for Francis, Arthur misses all twenty-six times and manages to calm down before the twenty-seventh hit, and they are back in their seats once more, the boards ready for the continuation of the game.
It’s Francis’ turn.
Francis misses again.
Antonio hits Francis at E6; Arthur retaliates by hitting him at F9.
Gilbert hits Francis at H7; Francis somehow hits Arthur at D2, which results in the twenty-seventh hit, in fact, hitting.
Within turns Francis is cornered and done with. Arthur is alone and against Gilbert and Antonio, and when the former nation teases him enough, he stands so abruptly and powerfully that his chair is knocked back down, and even Francis is slightly surprised at the movement.
“Don’t you dare underestimate me, Prussia! I have the greatest navy to have ever existed in history! I will never lose to you in this game, you hear me? Never!”
Never, indeed.- - - - - - - - - -
In the end, Arthur does in fact win, although with the strangest turn of events. Antonio eventually lost in fair game, almost like a repeat of what happened between him and Arthur in history. Gilbert, on the other hand, was growing increasingly amused by Arthur’s reactions to his remarks when he somehow, “miraculously” as he put it, lost. Francis was not in the room at the time, nor was Antonio. Why Gilbert lost, how Arthur dominated over him and won, they would never know.
But Francis reaches a conclusion amidst all this.
God was sleeping when Gilbert sunk his ship.~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A/N: For a sheet that shows the set-ups of the game boards up to G3, the link is here ( http://i34.tinypic.com/25071mw.png ). The pieces were filled in with specific arrangements in mind: Arthur and Antonio stick to an ideal formation where the units are evenly distributed and powered, Gilbert is just about everywhere and wild, whereas Francis tries to make his graph . . . pretty.
Clearly they make a big deal out of games, yes.
AUTHOR/ARTIST: erinilliana
RECIPIENT: nkiseki
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: France, Spain, Prussia, England
RATING: PG-13 for a bit of language
SUMMARY: France, Spain, and Prussia decide to play a naval game. England, in all his naval glory, is hell-bent on winning.
Francis isn't quite sure how it happened.
"Hahahahaha! Did you see that? Complete annihilation. What do you have to say for yourself, eh, France?"
He really doesn't get how it happened. It just did.
- - - - - - - - - -
He remembers walking down the streets of a relatively obscure city when he ran into Antonio. Apparently Lovino left him in his usual bout of rage, and being the big brother he is Francis offered to keep him company. It was supposed to be a harmless walk like any other, except with a tagalong, until it happened. It came suddenly, totally unpredictable, and it threw both nations off.
. . . All right, that’s a lie. Francis was the only one relatively surprised at the entrance. Antonio took it in stride, as per usual, more preoccupied with the tomato in his hand.
Gilbert.
Francis still can’t fathom how Gilbert manages to pop out from virtually everywhere with ease - in the bushes, bursting through guarded doors, even into houses he doesn’t have keys to (and he knows that Gilbert isn’t capable of picking locks, he destroys them instead of trying to do things the conventional way someone breaking in would). But he did it somehow, lunging out from an alley and throwing an arm around Francis before realizing that it was, in fact, Francis, and promptly shoving him off.
“Yo, Spain! What are you doing with a loser like this guy?” he greeted boldly then, his voice loud and demanding total attention.
Antonio was civil, if not a little slow on the uptake, although he understood the situation immediately when he directed his thoughts from the tomato to the two men. He only smiled that smile of his and started after Francis when he exclaimed that he’d something to tend to.
Gilbert, of course, tagged along.
- - - - - - - - - -
They are now at Francis’ place, playing a game of Battleship. Antonio suggested playing it, and Gilbert was all over the idea of destroying them both in a naval battle (that was entirely fictional but would grant the winner boasting rights). And as it went, Gilbert did crush his opponent: Francis.
Francis feels cursed at times, in all honesty. He never wins, and instead always loses, even in something as silly as board games. He watches Antonio start his round with Gilbert and, out of sheer curiosity, walks over to the latter’s side of the table and takes a glance at the game board. What he sees causes his brow to rise and he bends down next to the former nation, speaking in a hushed voice:
“You couldn’t have gone into a real naval battle with this formation.”
One look at him and Gilbert seems to hold back a snicker, adjusting in his seat to raise his shoulder and quiet Francis. When he tries to grab Gilbert’s attention again, there’s incessant pounding on the door suddenly, and an all-too-familiar voice rings out from the other side.
“France! I know you’re in there, you arse!”
Ah. Arthur.
Francis answers the door, glancing curiously at the shorter man as he allows the new visitor to come in. “Why the sudden visit, England?”
In response he raises his arms in an exasperated manner. “Don’t tell me you forgot. You - “ he pauses when his gaze rests on Antonio and Gilbert, the latter cheering as the former surrenders with a friendly smile on his face. He sees the boards on the table, and in an instant he’s beside the two, his expression inquisitive.
“What in bollocks are you two doing?”
“It’s called Battleship,” Antonio replies casually, to which Gilbert nods proudly.
“Play a round,” he challenges.
Arthur stands upright and crosses his arms. “I’ve other matters to tend to, unlike you two.”
There’s a certain glint in Gilbert’s eyes, and Francis knows that Arthur has no way of escaping the situation without losses. “You’re just chickening out!”
If there is one thing Francis has learned about his tea-loving bastard of a neighbor, it is that he’s got an ego too big for his frame. It’s already apparent that he’s not willing to back down after Gilbert’s taunting, his fists clenched and face turning slightly red at the implication of him, him, being a coward. True to Francis’ prediction, Arthur grabs another board and sits next to Antonio, propping the object up and picking up the playing pieces. He’s already getting the parts set up when he looks at everyone else.
“Well, go on you three.”
“It’s a one-on-one game, England.”
“I don’t bloody care! We can work it out with two-to-two. France, go to Prussia.” At this Gilbert bolts up and extends an arm.
“You take him! Spain, come here.”
Arthur drums his fingers on the table, clearly not about to put up with Gilbert’s foolishness. “Stick to the formation, damn it!”
“No, Spain’s mine. You partner with France.”
There’s the urge to sigh at the childishness of it all, and Francis merely shakes his head. They’re at it again, arguing over who gets whom for the team. Admittedly, Antonio would be ideal for a game of Battleship for his experience with the Invincible Armada. On the other hand, Arthur’s navy is highly regarded as the best around the world. Either would work for Gilbert, but not Francis.
Then it clicks. No one wants him.
Him. The big brother, the one with the best aesthetic sense of them all.
The lid comes off, and he explodes.
“This is no good! Not good at all!” he bellows. He immediately seats himself next to Arthur, taking the fourth board and setting up the pieces. “Fear not, England, big brother is here to usher us to victory~”
Arthur’s eye twitches. This is not a good sign.
“Get out of here, you bastard!”
“This is my house.”
“ . . . Tsk.” Arthur clears his throat and turns back to Gilbert, now with Antonio next to him and already ready to go. “Let’s get this game started already.”
- - - - - - - - - -Gilbert is watching him.
It’s Francis’ turn to clear his throat, and he stares intently at his own board. The others cannot see, and will surely not be able to get a strike in the first round. Gilbert continues to stare at him, but that will do little to help him. Francis is certain that he is safe, and leans back in his seat, allowing the former nation to make his call.
The moment Francis grants the opportunity, he yells, “F3!”
He hit. “It’s a hit!?” Arthur salaams.
“Bloody hell, what were you thinking when you set your board!?”
“It . . . must have been a lucky guess,” Francis assures him in an attempt to calm the Britishman. “It won’t happen again. Now, as for me - “ he looks directly at Antonio. “Would B2 be a hit?”
Antonio shakes his head. “It’s a miss.”
Arthur wants to slam his head onto the desk. He nearly does so, although he manages to stop himself right before his forehead makes contact. There’s a flash in his eyes that scream bloody murder (to whom, Francis doesn’t want to know), and he looks maliciously at the two opposing nations; Gilbert has that look on his face that makes him want to jump over the desk, while Antonio is living in his own pace, taking everything in with the “aura” of a friendly “neighbor.”
“Damn you, France!” he mutters before he says, to Antonio again, “G9.”
It’s a hit, and finally Arthur feels that something has gone right. Francis does a golf clap of sort, but otherwise keeps the applause to just that. Then everyone looks at Antonio, who looks at Arthur, then switches to France, calling “E3.” Much to the target’s chagrin, he hits.
“It’s another hit.” Arthur takes a deep breath, most likely in a poor attempt to calm himself.
Gilbert’s turn has come around again, and he points dramatically at Francis, laughing that crazy laugh - “ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha - ahahahahahahahahaha!” - Antonio and Francis remember all too well (it was the cackle that had went on and on for hours when Roderich had failed to show up on time). Nevertheless, the laugh is surely a bad sign for Francis, and he braces himself for the impact. He prays to God that he doesn’t get hit again. God loves him; he’d surely save him from the humiliation, wouldn’t he?
And there Gilbert goes again, staring. Staring into his eyes, to the very depths of his soul, where he feels naked and that perhaps Gilbert can indeed see everything and hear everything he is thinking -
“ - G3! You’re done!”
God doesn’t love him after all.
Francis holds back a shriek of sort, muffling it out when he realizes that Gilbert knows something he shouldn’t know. “Wait,” he says, “how did you know that that would sink my ship?”
Gilbert gives him an all-knowing grin that makes the Frenchman fear the answer about to be given. “Decorating your ships was the best idea you could have had for helping your enemies!”
Arthur, who is in the process of drinking tea when he hears this, nearly spits everything out. Fortunately, only a few droplets of liquid escape; unfortunately for Francis, the handful that did escape is now all over the board pieces. It’s at this time that Arthur stops choking and takes a look at the other’s dirtied board, his eyes widening ever so slightly.
“What in bollocks were you thinking!?”
“It was a matter of applying beauty to the game!” Francis protests, the pride evident in his voice as his partner sighs in aggravation.
“You don’t paint pieces blue and red and put glitter all over them, you fool! And what in the world is this; you’re not supposed to form pictures with your pieces, you were supposed to put them in formation!”
“I’ll have you know that this formation of mine is far more beautiful than that . . . buffalo of yours, England!”
“It was a fairly useful technique, you know,” Gilbert adds. “Every time you stared, I could just see where the pieces were from the reflection!”
There’s that laugh again, and that marks the end to Arthur’s patience.
Within seconds Francis is trying to leave the general area, Arthur has a penknife in his hand, Antonio is trying to calm the murderous nation, and Gilbert is busy laughing in his seat, inadvertently worsening the situation. Luckily for Francis, Arthur misses all twenty-six times and manages to calm down before the twenty-seventh hit, and they are back in their seats once more, the boards ready for the continuation of the game.
It’s Francis’ turn.
Francis misses again.
Antonio hits Francis at E6; Arthur retaliates by hitting him at F9.
Gilbert hits Francis at H7; Francis somehow hits Arthur at D2, which results in the twenty-seventh hit, in fact, hitting.
Within turns Francis is cornered and done with. Arthur is alone and against Gilbert and Antonio, and when the former nation teases him enough, he stands so abruptly and powerfully that his chair is knocked back down, and even Francis is slightly surprised at the movement.
“Don’t you dare underestimate me, Prussia! I have the greatest navy to have ever existed in history! I will never lose to you in this game, you hear me? Never!”
Never, indeed.- - - - - - - - - -
In the end, Arthur does in fact win, although with the strangest turn of events. Antonio eventually lost in fair game, almost like a repeat of what happened between him and Arthur in history. Gilbert, on the other hand, was growing increasingly amused by Arthur’s reactions to his remarks when he somehow, “miraculously” as he put it, lost. Francis was not in the room at the time, nor was Antonio. Why Gilbert lost, how Arthur dominated over him and won, they would never know.
But Francis reaches a conclusion amidst all this.
God was sleeping when Gilbert sunk his ship.~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A/N: For a sheet that shows the set-ups of the game boards up to G3, the link is here ( http://i34.tinypic.com/25071mw.png ). The pieces were filled in with specific arrangements in mind: Arthur and Antonio stick to an ideal formation where the units are evenly distributed and powered, Gilbert is just about everywhere and wild, whereas Francis tries to make his graph . . . pretty.
Clearly they make a big deal out of games, yes.