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VI.

Initially, it seemed like a good idea to walk Republic of Belarus' pet cat, Dasha, just to make herself useful. But now, though... Not so much.

It all started when Sasha spotted a handful of pigeons on the road. There were plenty of them here, in Paris. Pigeons of all sizes and colors; black pigeons, gray pigeons, white pigeons... And sure enough, the purebred Russian Blue cat attempt to jump on them, an old habit she inherited from her distant ancestors, but the Republic of Turkey firmly held her back, of course.

She absolutely did not want to upset the République Française if Sasha ate her beloved pigeons. No fucking away. She'd already done enough damage when... The Turk shook away those thoughts. Nevermind that.

But while she was thinking, the little gray cat had taken the opportunity to hunt and kill a pigeon. When she finally realized it, it was already too late. Sasha had a feathered severed head dangling from her petite mouth with scarlet colored blood all around her snout and was now looking up at her innocently.

''Drop that!'' She was horrified. The Parisian passers-by around her turned, looking at her concerned. ''Désolée,'' apologized Turkey over her shoulder, and tried at the same time to pull the bloodied head out of the cat's jaw.

Then, suddenly, Dasha sank her sharp fangs into her hand and almost immediately, blood started oozing out of the now open skin.

''Fuck, fuck, fuck!'' she cried out loud. She didn't care what people thought of her now.

''Турция?'' a near voice said. The Turk frooze.

V.

''Merhaba, Beyaz Rusya! Selamlar, Polonya,'' the Republic of Turkey said, greeting both of them, forcing a smile that probably looked as fake as a plastic Barbie doll. ''Am I interrumpting?'' she said, already preparing to leave.

If the Republic of Belarus was surprised, she did not show it. "Гэй, Турцыя!" she said with a bright smile on her tricolor face. ''Cześć,'' the People's Republic of Poland greeted her back. ''Jesteś wcześnie..."

''I just wanted to help,'' she replied. Poland opened her mouth but Belarus, being Belarus, beat her to it. The Polish gave her an arch look. ''You could walk Sasha,'' she offered, before turning to give the pale-eyed woman a glare of her own.

Sasha was a young, blue-eyed Russian Blue cat with shiny, silky gray fur that looked like smoke. She seemed to be bursting with energy, Turkey noted. She was the hard-drinking Belarussian's inseparable companion, and Belarus loved her - but not more than she loved the Turk, of course.

Finally, the taller nation sighed. "Alright,'' she accepted, nodding.

IV.

There, on the grass, the République Française was laughing as she scooped up Marie, her bicolor French bulldog. She looked so... happy. The Republic of Turkey smiled, but not without a teeny tiny, pratically non-existent squirm of guilt inside her chest.

''Fransa!'' she cried, already running up to her. The French looked at her in surprise but nonetheless hugged her back, the dog between them. France gave her a kiss on both of her bright red cheeks. ''Long time no see. Comment ça va ?''

''Well. I came to help,'' the Turk said. ''Not that you need it, of course,'' she quickly added when the French frowned. ''Her şey harika görünüyor, ha-ha...''

France seemed to relax at that, and the slightly taller nation allowed herself to let out a sigh of relief.

''So...'' said Turkey, feeling the heat rise to her cheekbones. ''Have you seen Belarus?'' France bit her finger, a sign that she was thinking. ''Dans le couloir...'' She paused. ''With Poland.''

The Republic of Turkey took a deep breath of the expensive smell of the boutiques, citrus, sandalwood, jasmine, the fragrant scent of bergamot oil that floated in the air.

This was Paris, better known as the ville des Lumières in French. Where the République Française lived.

The Turk remebered her as independent, sensible, perfectionist and proud country. The French was her second best friend and the Turk loved her to the moons and back.

But she ruined their relationship by having sex with her ex - a clear violation of the Friendship code - and she hated herself for that.

How could France ever forgive her after that?

She was thinking so hard as she walked that only the feeling of someone hitting someone's chest brought her back to earth. ''Sorry,'' she said, jumping to her feet.

He was royal blue-skinned with wide, startled eyes and looked oddly familiar. ''Um, hello,'' Turkey said awkwardly. ''Hi,'' he greeted her back in a low, barely audible voice.

The taller nation cleared her throat. ''Err, do I know you?''

''New Zealand. I'm New Zealand,'' he said, repeating his name twice. Turkey squinted her eyes. ''New Zealand...?''

''Belarus' boyfriend,'' he added, red out of embarrassment.

''Oh,'' Turkey said. ''So... where's Belarus now?''

''The last time I saw her she was at the hill... helping France,'' he muttered, looking away. Of course.

France had probably insisted on helping with her own wedding preparations, the Turk thought, chuckling. ''I don't want any bachelorette parties, bridal showers, makeup trials or any of that stuff,'' Turkey recalled her saying once, not so long ago. ''Tout ce que je veux c'est de l'épouser, aussi simple que ça."

Turkey glanced at the huge, poofy, wedding dress in pure white silk that she had bought for the French well hidden inside the present box she was holding, away from prying eyes. She had to give it to France sometime.

II.

''Mother?''

The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus started and then stopped, staring at the mass clutter of purses and huge piles of clothes in bright colors overflowed every surface of the room and the Republic of Turkey was in the middle of all this, trying to get all of her possessions in her fiery red luggage.

''Nevermind,'' the Turkish Cypriot said, shaking her head. But before she turned on her heels and left, the taller nation grabbed her thin, pale arm, sighing. ''Are you sure you're all right while I'm gone?''

''Oh, I'll be fine,'' she assured her, freeing her right arm from her adopted mother's grasp. "You're not getting out of the wedding on account of me," Northern Cyprus added with a smirk, seeing right through her.

"I'm not trying to get out of anything," Turkey said, faking innoncece, making her scoff. "I already have a flight ticket and all. I'll be there by... Friday." The shorter nation raised a skeptical eyebrow but didn't say anything.

The truth was that the Turk was looking for an excuse not to go. Not that the French woman hated her; no, she was too busy with her own life to care much about her daily problems.

Or she wasn't just ready to meet the Federal Republic of Russia again. After all, things were still... delicate after their last encounter. Plus, the République Française will definitely hate her if she ever learns the truth.

I.

It's always a mistake to sleep with a man who's in love your second best friend. Even though they'd broken up again - for good this time, he said for the umpteenth time.

And especially in a foreign city.

But then... she was young, and absolutely stupid. So yeah... She had one-night hook up with the Federal Republic of Russia, her once archenemy, after the République Française broke his heart to pieces.

Years later, she was a lot older, experienced and wiser. But returning to Paris for France's wedding was still going to be all kinds of awkward.

But she had been back to France before, of course. For holidays, for example. Just to admire France's extravagant Christmas tree and wish her Merry Christmas and give her a kiss or two on her bicolared cheeks. But even though the French was about to be married to someone, that is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, she still couldn't face her without a pang of guilt.

As for the other guilty party, Russia... She mostly carefully avoided him. Which, of course, was naturally going to be a lot harder to do now that we were members of the same wedding party (yay!). Amazing, Turkey thought sarcastilly, fucking amazing.

The Turk sighed. Oh, and before you get any ideas and start making wild assumptions, no, she wasn't hoping that since France was (finally) marrying somebody else, Russia would pull his head out of his ass and realize it was her that he loved this whole time like those pathetic, lovesick girls in cringe Wattpad stories.

But maybe... just maybe being a bridesmaid in France's wedding would bring the Turk and the French closer. Maybe this was her one chance to prove to the Russian - or at least to herself - that she was over him. She had better things to do with her life than obsess over an old, stupid crush.