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February 14th, 1913, Orsay, France
They can’t remember the name of the club they’re in. Hopefully, with just a few more drinks, they won’t remember their own name, either.
They’ve just drowned their thirteenth shot when a young man stumbles up to the bar and drapes himself gracelessly over the bar stool.
They shoot an appraising look at the other man and decide that they like what they see. The man is tall, much taller than they are, which is always a good thing, and he’s wearing just enough makeup to make them figure they’ve got a chance of taking him home tonight.
Or, you know, taking him into the bathroom. Or if this club has some sort of a broom closet. Whatever works.
This theory is more or less confirmed by the handsome young man leaving his stool to drape himself over their shoulder, instead.
“Salut, beautiful,” he murmurs right in their ear, his words slurring enough to confirm that he’s intoxicated while not being too intoxicated. Not that they’re sure they even believe there is such a thing. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
They move back just enough to turn their head, but not far enough that they aren’t able to feel the man’s warm breath on his lips. Emboldened by the thirteen shots, they lean in and steal a chaste kiss. They spare a second to consider that, in the clubs back at home, they would’ve been kicked out immediately for doing something like that. “Valentine’s Day?” Another kiss. “What’s that?”
The man moves away, much to their dismay. “You don’t know what St. Valentine’s Day is?” He sounds shocked. They hope that doesn’t mean they’ve lost their chance.
“Well,” they say, reaching up to mouth kisses along the man’s jaw, “if it's a Saint’s day, then I suppose that’s why I’ve never heard of it.” They point to their chest, smiling impishly. “Not very religious.” That’s not true, but their Warm Body for the Night doesn’t need to know that.
“It’s”––the man turns briefly to capture their lips with his own––”I mean, it's not, like, a religious holiday or anything. Not anymore. It's supposed to be about couples showing their love for each other, but honestly, for most people, it's just another excuse to get drunk and have sex.”
They leered at him. “Sounds good to me.” This time, when they kissed him, they made a point of opening their mouth, deepening the kiss.
The man broke away again, his lips flushed red and glistening. “Wait––you’ve really never heard of Valentine’s Day?”
Now that they know more about the holiday, they’re not exactly surprised. Their parents were never really into the whole “showing their love for each other” thing. Or, you know. Loving each other.
But they’re not here to talk about that. They’re kind of here to forget about that, actually.
“Does it matter?”
The man just looks down at them for a second––anddamn, he’s tall, which sends a shiver of anticipation coursing down their spine––then decides. “No.”
And then they’re kissing again, and the man is leading them away into the back of the club, and they don’t think about Valentine’s Day at all for the rest of the night.
February 14th, 1919, Berlin, Germany
By the time they are 22, they know what Valentine’s Day is. Or at least, they have a pretty good idea. They know it's a day that they can easily get laid on, so really, what else do they need to know?
Apparently, there’s a lot more that they need to know, according to the rather drunk young woman that they’ve found themselves sitting next to. Oh, and she’s a blonde. Could this night get any worse?
“Do you expect me to believe that growing up, you had never even heard of Valentine’s Day?”
This again. They’re not sure why they brought it up, actually.
“I really didn’t,” they confirm. “Now, Miss…?”
“Schmidt. But please, call me Ursula. Miss Schmidt was my father.”
Ursula then proceeded to laugh uproariously at her own joke. They ended up laughing a bit, too, because. Well. It was a pretty good joke.
“As I was saying, Ursula, we could…”
“No, wait.” She actually held up one manicured finger to stop them. “What about love ?”
“What about it?”
“What do you mean, ‘what about it’? Today is Valentine’s Day! It's supposed to be the day of love. Don’t you know anything about love?”
They’re about three seconds away from giving up on this woman and trying to find another partner for the night. But, they figure, they’ve been trying for this long.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. Why don’t we go back to my flat and you show me?” They leered at her, to make sure they got the point across.
“Oh.” The woman actually looks surprised, of all things. Were they actually being subtle, before? “I would, but, uh––”
Her glance catches and stays on something beyond their right shoulder. They turn, and sure enough, there’s another man standing there, holding two drinks. A very familiar looking man, actually. Which gives them an idea. After all, their philosophy in life was to always ask for what you want, because the worst thing that can happen is embarrassment but the best thing that can happen is nudity.
“I see! But of course, I know Karl. We met a few nights ago, didn’t we?”
Karl is beginning to blush. He probably never thought that he’d run into them again. Well, if this goes right, then Karl should be thanking them in the morning.
“Well,” they draw out the syllable, glancing between Karl and the blonde. “There’s no reason why the three of us can’t have a little fun.”
Next to him, the blonde makes a little squeaking sound. Karl looks decidedly interested.
“With… two men?” The blonde whispers. She looks a little afraid, but not horrified, which is a good sign.
“If it makes you feel any better,” they tell her, “I could put on a dress and you could pretend there are two ladies in the mix.”
She looks down at her own dress––which is silver and elaborately beaded––and then back up at them.
“Would you want to wear my dress?”
“Darling,” they say, leaning in to press a kiss on her bare shoulder, “I would love to wear your dress.”
Despite having only lived through five Valentine’s Days––or, well, only being aware of five Valentine’s days––they decide that night that this one is their favorite.
February 14th, 1924, Berlin, Germany
Their tenth Valentine’s Day is the worst.
They don’t even go out that night. They spend the whole day in their flat and drink until, this time, they really do manage to forget their own name.
Unfortunately, they remember it when they wake up the next morning. A small part of them wishes they hadn’t woken up at all.
But it's only a small part, at least.
February 14th, 1930, Berlin, Germany
Helga pops her head into their dressing room door. “Happy V-Day, Em!”
They arch one drawn-on brow at her––they haven’t drawn on the other one yet–– and says, “Thanks, liebling.”
She apparently takes that as an invitation to come all the way into the room. “The gals and I got you something!”
Baffled, they take the pro-offered box from her hand. “For what?”
“For Valentine’s Day, silly!”
Shit. They never realized that Valentine’s Day was another one of those holidays where you had to get people gifts. They had an excuse for the whole Christmas thing, but not so much for this.
“Fuck, Helga, I’m sorry. I didn’t get you anything,” they apologize.
“Oh, no, you didn’t have to! We just wanted to do something nice. To say thank you.”
“Thank you?” Now they’re even more confused. “For what?”
Suddenly, Frenchie appears in the doorway, too. “Oh great,” she rolls her eyes. “Is the Emcee being difficult about their gift?”
“I am not being difficult,” they protest, with great dignity.
“I told you this would happen,” Frenchie tells Helga, ignoring them entirely.
“I have never been difficult, ever, in my life,” they continue. That catches their attention; both girls turn to stare at them, their expressions almost comical in their disbelief.
“Anyway,” they mutter, quickly reaching for the box again. “I’m going to open my gift now.”
They tear off the red paper, and lifting the lid of the box, found––a bow tie. Exactly like the one they always wore for shows, but red, and with a pattern of tiny hearts.
For whatever reason, their throat closes up a little when they see it. Which is stupid, because it's not like they’re getting emotional over a gift or anything.
“We thought you could wear it for the show today!” Hegla says brightly.
“And then tonight, too,” Frenchie adds.
“Thank you, but––what’s tonight?”
“All of us at the club are going dancing tonight, to celebrate. Even Rosie and Lulu coming, despite the fact that it's their anniversary, which means you have to, too.”
For a second, they hesitate. Not because they don’t want to go out with everyone, because they do. In all their 18 years of Valentine’s Days, they had never gotten an offer which sounded so appealing. Which is what made them pause; only six years ago, they had been at rock bottom. How had they gotten so lucky?
Helga misreads their silence for dissent. “C’mon, Em! It’ll be fun. And you’re the best dancer out of any of us!”
"It’s true,” they acknowledge, speaking around the lump in their throat. My body is a gift from God. Except for my hips, which are clearly a gift from the devil."
Both girls laugh, and they feel an unexpected surge of happiness.
Forget the year with the threesome, they decide. This is going to be the best Valentine’s Day of their life, surrounded by friends they never thought they’d have.