#ruskey

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.

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.