A (Horrid) Trip to the Lake [Open to Invasion]

[swissthing]

France could feel his brow twitching.

The water was freezing, his clothes were now wet and probably needed dry cleaning and above all that - he could do nothing as revenge to the creature that did this to him. Not only would that likely kill the little dinosaur (its flame seemed very important to its health), it was also something he couldn't bring himself to do. After all, it was not proper pet care to do that, was it?

So, he settled for glaring at the orange dinosaur that looked like it was snickering on the side of the lake. Such a pesky little thing, pushing him into the lake like that! Seriously, who knew what was in these dirty waters, you could see below the surface, yes, but still. It wasn't crystal clear or anything and-- what was that?

Merde, what was that?!

Scrambling away from the nip he had received on his leg, he crawled out of the water, panting. Glaring at the orange dinosaur, he gently tapped his forefinger to its nose, "Don't do that Clovis! You don't know what's in that water. Mon dieu, some weird sea creature could've tried to eat me!" All right, maybe he was being over dramatic.

However, that nip was very much real. Rocks and sand could not nip your leg! It would be unnatural. Besides, who knew what other weird dinosaur creatures existed, France had seen quite a few, actually, now that he thought about it. Not all of them liked to attack people, though, for which he was glad. However, the fish-dinosaur things might be different. He was not interested in having some weird leech latch onto him and suck the life out of him.

(Although, he might've deserved the push into the lake itself. Maybe asking Clovis to warm the lake up like a Jacuzzi was not the best idea, it certainly didn't take kindly to the suggestion. Maybe Pokémon mimicked the behaviour of their owners? Charmander certainly seemed to, getting all fussy over everything... not that France was fussy.)

Ignoring the snickering from the Charmander, he sighed, ringing out his wet clothes with a sigh and trying his best to get his hair dry. Damn, pesky Charmander... always causing problems.

Reaching towards his pack and wiping his face off with a small towel which he dropped on Charmanders head, he sighed and stood up, still slightly dripping from his dive in to the lake water. "Don't do that again," he insisted and then began to walk around the lake. After all, it was no fun being alone. Where was everyone?

[Sweden]

From experience, Sweden knew that all it took to do a bit of fishing was a strong, sturdy stick that wouldn’t give under the weight of a catch, a length of string—preferably uncolored—that would serve as the fishing line, and some bait. He also knew that finding such materials while firmly entrenched in the wilderness would be an easy enough task, as long as he kept in mind all of the skills he had learned from his childhood and searched with patience.

Sure enough, it only took what felt like a quarter of an hour to find a stick suitable to the task he had in mind. Siv had been a great deal of help. As soon as the Turtwig had realized what he was searching for, he had bounded through the bushes in his eagerness to help and taken to nosing his way across the ground. After a few large, sniffling intakes of breath not unlike a bloodhound on the trail of its quarry, he latched his mouth on something he thought would please Sweden.

The stick hadn’t quite been right, but it had only taken a few more tries for him to find something that would work, and the string he needed to go with it. Not too far away from where Siv finally snagged a stick well suited to be turned into a fishing pole, Sweden spotted something glistening in the branches of a nearby tree. Spider’s silk—or, at least, whatever the equivalent to it was with the new array of fauna in the area. Regardless, he climbed up and pulled some from the branches in order to wrap it around his hands. He could tell just by the feel of it that it would hold under the weight of a fish, even a particularly large one.

With the fishing pole and fishing line taken care of, all Sweden had left to procure was the bait. That was, perhaps, the one item he wasn’t worried about finding in the slightest. The soil of the area was perfect for housing worms and other burrowing insects. All it took was a handful of minutes, and a few handfuls of dirt, before he was at the edge of the lake with his coat spread beneath him, his pole in his hand, and his line in the water.

All of the tension in his body, every bit of ache or pain or tightness from his travels, seemed to melt away as he sat there and stared at the surface of the water. Sweden glanced away from his task only once to check on Siv. At his side, sprawled across a sleeve with, sure enough, the end of it in his mouth, the Turtwig napped in the sunlight, completely uninterested in the possibility of a catch or the promise of food. Sweden’s eyes squinted as his expression softened; it was during moments like these, when his normally playful pokémon was at his most quiet, that he was reminded of Hanatamago the most.

Soon enough, he found himself following Siv’s example. Without any notice of it happening, his eyes fluttered shut and his mind danced on the edge of unconsciousness as he basked in the warmth of the sun on his face. What felt like seconds later, the peacefulness of the day was shattered, first by a splash and then by a great deal of shouting. Sweden hummed in the back of his throat, the sound only somewhat cross, and opened his eyes to squint around at the area.

Sometime during his patient waiting, the sun had moved across the sky as late morning shifted into the afternoon. Sweden watched for a moment as light played across the surface of the water, his mind slow to process what he had heard. There had been snatches of French, he decided as he stared at the point where his fishing line hit the lake surface. Snatches of French, and a number of other things, in a fussy tone. It seemed familiar, in a way, as though he should recognize the voice—one of the predominantly French-speaking nations, perhaps?

His brow furrowed; one of his hands reached down to automatically check on Siv, and he let out a small sound of relief when he found the pokémon still sleeping. Offering a careful, soothing stroke that caused Siv to curl beneath his palm, Sweden pulled his hand away and looked further down the edge of the lake. Sure enough, he could see an indistinguishable figure moving toward him at a slow pace, but at the angle the sun hit his face, Sweden couldn’t make out any defining features.

He tapped the stick in his hand with a finger, his mind debating on what to do. Should he confront? Ignore, at least until he was approached? The latter of the two options seemed to be the most sensible—no sense in looking for trouble when it was not needed—and so he shifted his weight a bit on his coat, hunched his shoulders a bit, and studiously watched his line. Not the slightest nibble, but perhaps he could try to make some surströmming yet.

[swissthing]

Hands twisting at the soaked fabric of his clothes, Francis muttered under his breath about something or the other. Be it a new idea of disciplining the Charmander or how to properly dry out his clothes in the most efficient way possible. Deciding it was uncomfortable to walk with wet boots on and his heavy wet jacket, he shrugged the jacket off, the boots soon following off of his feet and held them in his arms. Attempting to get the water out of his shirt and pants, France sighed, “Troublesome little creature…” he murmured, bunching the jacket up in his arms.

Clovis wasted no time dilly-dallying by the water once it realized that Francis was already up and with full intention of leaving. Running across the ground with its unmistakable cries of, “Char, char, Charmander,” France knew the little dinosaur was right behind him. He never had any intention of ditching it, of course. Clovis wouldn’t allow that, every time France had even attempted to escape the little dinosaur, it had run to catch up and clung to him. Like a bipolar woman, it never seemed to know whether it wanted to make Francis’s life hell or cling to him. Which was why, when it attached to his leg, he had to peer down inquisitively. What in the world was it doing now?

“If you are trying to burn my leg, mon petit, I rather you not,” he muttered to it, a hand resting upon its bald head regardless of its intentions anyway. Looking forward, however, to where its blue eyes were intently staring, France understood at once what exactly had caught his attention so diligently. Not only was there the distinguishing shape of human life, but besides that, a small lump that France interpreted as being one of the strange creatures that had only recently begun to exist in the world. A wonder before his very eyes, France though. Perhaps they could explain the exact function of the little orange dino that had recently begun following him about like a little puppy (in both its adorable and destructive ways).

Deciding that curing their curiosity was better than standing and staring, he steeled himself and walked forward at a more hurried pace then he had begun with, Clovis trailing behind him fast enough to keep up, but still unabashedly hiding behind his legs. It was no surprise, then again, that he was so scared or worried about the situation. The Charmander had only encountered so many people before him and since, it had been with France for a majority of its time. Although its paranoia of other people (but not always Pokémon) was quite amusing to the Frenchman.

The other disadvantage of the Charmanders paranoia, though, was the fact that it tended to try to burn everything and everyone within sight if it was frightened. Slowing in their approach, France looked down at the dinosaur with stern eyes, holding out one finger to point at it to say that he really meant business this time. “Listen, I don’t want you to attack anyone, mon petit. Neither by burning, scratching or biting them.” He warned Clovis who seemed to glare and pout at him for a moment before resigning itself to the fact that, indeed, Francis did not want anyone leaving today with several burns marks and claw marks on their arms. He was only all too familiar with that feeling.

Absentmindedly petting the Charmanders head for the agreement, Francis smiled, “Magnifique! Now that that’s all cleared up…” Peering ahead, France squinted, trying to make out the figure that was sitting at the water’s edge but not succeeding in distinguishing all the details. Wondering just which nation (or perhaps a human?) he was to be dealing with, he looked down at Clovis once more and questioned the little one, who seemed to have better eyes than he, “Who’s up ahead, petit dinosaur?” He inquired and the blue eyes of the creature squinted to make out the details before stopping and running in front of France.

Making a comical, mimed interpretation of the man, France could only understand a few things from the performance. That the man was tall; had a Pokémon with him and was, apparently, not smiling but instead had a scowl upon his face. According to Clovis, that was. Whilst that was nice to know, Francis knew too many nations that matched that description. Well, the tall part was perhaps not as common, but the scowling certainly was. There was England, China, Hong Kong and various other nations still that constantly scowled day by day.

Closing the distance between the two people, eyes finally able to make out a face, he smiled. Even better than just another person – another nation! La Suède, to be exact, and Francis smiled, approaching without much hesitation, although stopping a few yards away. After all, the last thing he needed was to be attacked by the sleeping Pokémon on the ground, or, for that matter, its owner. Which whilst Francis doubted Berwald would up and attack him without reason, it was regardless something that he took caution about considering the other man was so tall.

“Sweden,” he called out, with a small half wave and bright smile, “I did not expect to see you here with your…” looking down inquisitively at the Pokémon lounging besides the other nation. France tilted his head to one side as he peered down at the green Pokémon that was lounging next to him, looking between it and its owner, as if expecting an explanation or an introduction whilst Clovis remained firmly behind his pants legs, looking at Sweden with suspicious and cautious blue eyes.

Although it was a wonder, in the end when he was able to make out the figure, that Sweden had not immediately come to mind. Not that the man in question was quite as grumpy as England (although sometimes it did seem that way to the Frenchman) but that he rarely smiled. A trait that France had become adjusted to over the years of having to meet eyes with the various nations over world meeting council tables (so long as he didn’t earn a glare, he was quite fine with the intense stare the Swede was characterized by).

[Sweden]

Sweden tried to focus on the stretch of lake before him, on the tiny shadows he could see darting just below the surface of the water. At one point, his eyes trailed after a larger shadow as it passed by his bait, and he tightened his grip on his rod in anticipation of a bite. Steady now… He locked every muscle in his body, so much so that even with the long, slow breaths he fell into purely on instinct, he could barely feel himself move.

What he did feel, to a point that bordered on painful with its intensity, was the coarse, knobby wood of the stick in his hands as it dug into his palm and fingers. The air around him, thickened water vapor from the lake, settled around him like a cocoon. Its heaviness pressed against what skin he left bare and weighed down on his lungs with each inhale, although not unpleasantly.

In that one, solitary moment he felt completely isolated from his surroundings, every inch of his being focused intently on the simple act of fishing.

At least, until the sounds started.

A muscle in his back twitched and, against his will, his gaze darted away from the surface of the water in order to glance at the source of the noise. He didn’t see anything, but the single moment of distraction caused him to be acutely aware of things outside of the small bubble he descended into. Sweden clenched his jaw and forced his eyes back onto the task at hand; the shadow of a fish lingered at his bait, and he felt his stick tug down a fraction as it took a nibble.

Despite his best efforts, his refocused attention didn’t stop him from hearing the small crunch of grass that came with every step the figure took, or the tiny rustling as something considerably smaller and lighter moved along with those footsteps. He hunched over, determined to make his catch, but couldn’t ignore that peculiar sound wet fabric made as it brushed against itself. The splash… It must have been him.

The already tense muscles in his shoulders seemed to bunch up even more when those sounds came to a sudden, abrupt pause. Sweden listened as the figure peeled something—shoes of some sort, and perhaps a shirt or jacket—off his person before resuming his casual stroll. Not too long later, he made another pause, this one closer, and Sweden’s ears could pick up the distinct hum of low muttering even if they couldn’t make out any particular words.

All the while, his eyes watched as the bait at the end of his line bobbed in the water and spread tiny ripples across the surface.

Not too long later, and to his growing expectation, the sounds resumed once more until they, and their source, were only a scant few yards away. There, silence befell the area again as the figure came to a stop, and though his gaze didn’t leave the water, Sweden did catch a flash of blond hair out of the corner of his eye. He braced himself for the approach, but didn’t anticipate the flamboyant lilt as that familiar voice called out his name, instead.

After a momentary pause, Sweden slanted a glance at the figure lurking not too far from him, and his brows rose a fraction when he discovered France of all nations standing there with a smile on his face and an orange pokémon at his side. So, it hadn’t been a predominantly French-speaking nation at all, but rather the predominantly French-speaking nation. Of all the possibilities that had occurred to him, that most certainly had not been one of them.

He had thought of Switzerland, perhaps, though the fussiness and lack of accompanying gunshots did seem out of character, or even America’s brother once he finally remembered him. Not France, though. Sitting there by the lake, surrounded by nothing but nature with the closest sign of civilization a considerable distance away on foot, he still couldn’t quite picture the nation traipsing about the wilderness, and that was with the proof of otherwise standing there for him to see.

Sweden tilted his head a fraction to study the proof in question, and he couldn’t help but notice how very rumpled the usually well put together nation looked. Boots and jacket in hand, the remainder of his clothes more than a little wrinkled and dark with a lingering dampness, the rest of him just as disheveled—Sweden had a feeling he was staring at the source of the splash he heard. The corner of his mouth twitched at the thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to show his amusement with France standing right there.

Instead, to cover the laughter that bounced inside of him, he cleared his throat and turned his attention to the tiny pokémon at the other nation’s side. It took him all of two seconds to determine that France’s new companion, whichever breed it was, had to be fire-based in its nature. In just as many seconds he realized that, with his own pokémon being of the leafier variety, that flame alit at the end of the creature’s tail posed a serious fire and health hazard.

At the mere possibility, Sweden reached out to pat Siv, momentarily grateful that he hadn’t awoken just yet. There would be no telling how he reacted to a new pokémon in the area, what with America’s Bulbasaur being the only one thus far that he had ever come close to. The last thing Sweden needed was for Siv to try to play with something that could potentially harm him—and he would try to play, no doubt about it.

The rod in his hand shook.

Sweden turned his attention back to the water, the current issue with France’s presence and his accompanying pokémon shoved to the back of his mind to stew over as he reeled in his catch. Both of his hands gripped his rod as the bait bobbed even more in the water. The muscles in his legs tensed in anticipation. Steady… He watched the fish tug the bait down, then let it go. Steady… Another bite, another release. Steady… The line jerked with a shaper tug.

Now!

Grunting deep in his throat, Sweden rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion, shifted his grip on his rod just a fraction, and yanked it back toward him all at the same time. The catch—a larger fish than he had anticipated, one with orange scales that glimmered in the sunlight and a pair of trailing whiskers—flopped wildly in protest, and sent a spray of water everywhere in the process.

Sweden adjusted his stance and twisted his body at an angle, his arms, hands, and the rod following the motion. Attached to the end of his line, the fish soared through the air and over to the shore of the lake. He flicked his wrists and, thus, the rod just as his catch let go of the insect that lured it in. With a protesting, “Karp!” the fish nose-dived into the lakeshore and began succumbed to a series of frantic squirms…

Right in front of France’s feet.

Oh.

Sweden nearly blinked at the unexpected reminder of the other nation’s presence, but instead settled for straightening to his full height. Had he been more expressive, he would have shuffled his feet once or twice as he debated on what to do about the situation. However, with a near limitless amount of self-control at his disposal, he merely stared at France in contemplation.

Should he address the other nation, or deal with his floundering catch at said nation’s feet?

After a moment, he decided it would be rude to not at least acknowledge France after he had thrown a fish at him, however unintentional that throw was. Clearing his throat, and casually moving his foot so that Siv was safely hid behind him in the event things took an unwanted turn, Sweden met France’s gaze and gave a single, shallow nod.

“France,” he greeted, his voice clear with a little bit of effort. Sweden paused for a moment, then decided there was little sense in trying to avoid the rather obvious issue at France’s fish. “Sor’y ‘bout that,” he added, nodding at the gasping fish flopping around with remarkable energy.

Falling silent, and at a loss for anything else worth saying, he hoisted his rod over his shoulder and stood there in wait. He wanted to go retrieve his catch, but it hardly seemed proper or decent to invade France’s space like that. Not only that, but moving meant leaving Siv open to that fire pokémon of his. Given that his neglect of France’s presence—in short, throwing a fish at him—could be seen as an act of aggression, such an opening would perhaps be best covered, for now.