AN: It's sunday morning for me, around 6am when i post this... I have not slept yet... Ugh. But gotta work right? Adulting be hell mode bruh.
At least i have my stories. Huhuhu, they're my escape. I love you ROBIN and the other character who's in my new novel posted in patron now.
Oh shameless plug again. Advance chapters in my Patreon and Kofi available. If yah just want to make a one time donation, go to KoFi. Links ar the end of this chapter 🫰😂
Sorry, all the coffee is getting to me.
Anywho, here's a chap.
~~
1982 Manchester
Robin's POV
Ok, current disguise: blonde hair and hazel eyes. And before you ask—yes, I know it looks good on me. Everything looks good on me. But blonde? It just feels...off. Like I'm wearing someone else's wig.
I mean, I'm not saying I'm against blondes—hello, Rosalie is Exhibit A—but being blonde myself? Meh. Let's just say I'm not planning to meet my mate like this. I prefer contrast in a pair. You know, dark and light, yin and yang, peanut butter and jelly. But hey, preferences are like cocktails: everyone has their own mix, and that's fine.
So, curious about my current gig? Guess.
3... 2... 1...
I'm a bartender! Yes, another job crossed off the endless list of professions my past-life self was obsessed with trying. Turns out bartending is fun, if you ignore the drnk people crying about their exes. But the best part? You get to hear all kinds of wild stories without anyone asking for yours. Perfect for someone like me who can't exactly explain, "Oh yeah, I'm immortal and currently on my 37th alias."
It alll started when my boss, Steve, asked me to be the private bartender for some "big-deal client."
"Big-deal how?" I asked, wiping down the counter.
Steve grinned. "You'll see."
Mysterious. But fine, I could handle mysterious. I mean, what were the odds it'd be someone truly wild? Like, I don't know, a rock legend or something?
Spoiler: it was a rock legend.
When I arrived at the posh house, the first thing I noticed was the energy. Music blared from the speakers, laughter echoed through the halls, and the vibe screamed, This is not your average party.
Then I spotted him.
Freddie Mercury.
Yes, the Freddie Mercury. The man, the myth, the legend. The voice that could shatter glass and hearts in equal measure. He was wearing a bedazzled outfit that practically blinded me, and his mustache was so iconic it might've been listed as a separate guest on the invite.
"Oh, darling, you must be the bartender!" Freddie greeted me with a dramatic flourish. "What a vision you are! Blonde, mysterious, and serving drinks? I love it already."
I blinked, then plastered on my best professional smile. "That's me. Your private bartender for the evening."
"Fabulous," he said, clapping his hands. "Now, be a dear and whip me up something dangerous. Surprise me!"
And just like that, I was bartending for Freddie Mercury.
As the night went on, Freddie kept coming back to the bar, each time with a new request.
"Something fiery this time, love," he'd say.
Or, "Let's try somthing sweet. Like you."
The man was a flirt, no question. But it was harmless, playful, and—honestly?—kind of flattering.
"So," he said at one point, leaning on the bar. "What's your story, Blondie? You don't seem like the usual bartender type."
I shrugged, keeping it vague. "Just someone who likes to try new things."
"Ah, a fellow adventurer," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I knew I liked you."
We chatted more, and by the end of the night, we were trading stories like old friends. He told me about his wild tours, his bandmates, and his love life, which was just as chaotic as you'd expect.
I, in turn, shared some (edited) tales from my own romantic escapades, including a very censored version of Rosalie. No vampire details, obviously. Just enough to make Freddie laugh and call me "a heartbreaker in disguise."
Freddie liked me so much he invited me to a concert. One concert turned into two, and before I knew it, I was practically part of the entourage.
Freddie was magnetic, both on stage and off. But the more time I spent with him, the more I noticed something was...off. It was subtle at first. A tiredness in his eyes, a slight pallor to his skin.
It hit me one night as I was replaying scenes from Bohemian Rhapsody in my head. (Yes, I loved the movie in my past life. Sue me.) I remembered how his story ended, and my heart sank.
I didn't want to believe it, but my senses told me the truth: Freddie was already sick.
~~
1982 Manchester
Freddie's POV
The house felt quiet in a way that pressed against my chest, even though the air was thick with music and the faint scent of champagne from last night's "celebration." I put the word in quotes because, honestly, what was I even celebrating anymore? Another record? Another concert? Another excuse to drown myself in pleasure and exces so I didn't have to sit with my thoughts?
The band wasn't the same. We weren't fighting, exactly. It wasn't that dramatic. But there was this...distance between us now, like we were all running in different directions and pretending we weren't.
Mary was moving on. My Mary. Well, not my Mary anymore. She was with someone else now, starting a family, building a life. She still cared for me, I knew that. But I wasn't her priority anymore, and that stung in a way I couldn't quite describe.
Jim, my lover, was a steady presence, sure. But even he couldn't quiet the restless storm inside me. And my manager, Paul? Let's just say I trusted him about as far as I could throw him.
I was surrounded by people, yet I felt utterly, bone-deep alone.
The idea came to me one morning, somewhere between the fifth cup of coffee and the first cigarette of the day.
I needed a party. A big one. Something to fill the silence, to remind me I was still alive, still capable of feeling something. Anything.
"Freddie, darling," I said to myself in the mirror, "you need a proper distraction. Something fabulous."
That's how it always started—with a flash of inspiration and a relentless determination to make it happen. I picked up the phone and started barking orders.
"Champagne. Cases of it. No, magnums. I don't want anyone drinking out of a bottle smaller than my ego."
"Music? Yes, I want a band. No, not Queen. I'm not working tonight."
"And get me a bartender. Not one of those drab, lifeless ones, either. I want someone interesting, someone with flair."
My assistant hesitated. "What do you mean by 'flair'?"
"You know, darling," I said, waving my hand as if they could see it through the phone, "someone who could mix a martini and a scandal in the same breath. Someone who doesn't bore me to tears."
As the party preparations began, I buried myself in the details. It was easier than thinking about the mess I was in.
I'd been spiraling for months now, drowning in drugs and hedonism, trying to chase some elusive high that would make everything better. Spoiler alert: it never worked. The highs were fleeting, the lows were endless, and the in-between was unbearable.
Still, I told myself this party would be different. This one would fix everything.
When the bartender arrived, I was busy charming some new guests who had just walked in. I didn't see her at first, but the moment I turned around, I stopped mid-sentence.
She was standing behind the bar, blonde hair catching the dim light, hazel eyes scanning the room like she was sizing up everyone and everything. She looked poised, confident, and—dare I say it—mysterious.
"Darling," I said, striding over to her, "you must be the bartender."
"That's me," she said, her voice steady but with a hint of humor. "Your private bartender for the evening."
Her tone was cool, but there was a spark in her eyes that intrigued me.
"Well, aren't you just the picture of intrigue," I said, flashing her my most dazzling smile. "I hope you can mix a drink as well as you hold a secret."
She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What'll it be?"
I laughed, delighted. "Surprise me."
As the night went on, I found myself returning to the bar more often than strictly necessary. Not because I needed another drink—I could've waved a hand and had one brought to me. No, I went back because of her.
There was something about her. She didn't fawn over me like everyone else did, didn't treat me like a god or a commodity. She just...saw me.
And she was funny. Sharp, witty, and unafraid to tease me in a way most people wouldn't dare.
"So," I asked her at one point, leaning on the bar, "what's your story, Blondie?"
She shrugged, her expression unreadable. "Just someone who likes to try new things."
"Mysterious and adventurous," I mused. "I like you already."
She smirked. "You like anyone who pays attention to you."
I gasped, clutching my chest dramatically. "How dare you? You wound me, madam!"
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the hint of a smile.
As the party raged on, I found myself opening up to her in ways I hadn't expected. I told her about my band, about the tension between us, about Mary and Jim and how lost I felt.
She listened without judgment, nodding thoughtfully and occasionally offering a sarcastic quip that made me laugh despite myself.
"You're a good listener," I told her at one point, feeling oddly vulnerable.
"It's part of the job," she said with a wink.
By the end of the night, the party was winding down, but the hollow feeling inside me hadn't gone away. If anything, it was worse.
I caught her eye from across the room, and for a moment, I thought about telling her everything. About the drugs, the emptiness, the fear that I was burning myself out and didn't know how to stop.
But then someone called my name, and the moment passed.
After everyone had left and the house was quiet once more, I sat in the corner of the living room, nursing the last of my champagne.
I thought about her—about how she had seen through the glitz and the glamor to the man underneath.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt a tiny spark of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as alone as I thought.
~~
It started innocently enough. Robin had become a constant in my life, slipping into my chaotic world with an ease that unnerved me. She wasn't just a bartender anymore; she was my confidante, my partner in crime, my voice of reason when I refused to listen to anyone else.
That night, we were sitting in my living room. Jim was out, and the house felt unusually quiet. Robin was sipping something non-alcoholic (of course), while I cradled a glass of wine like it was my lifeline.
"Freddie," she began, her tone too serious for my liking, "I need to talk to you about something."
"Oh, love, not the serious voice," I groaned, waving a hand. "You're ruining the mood."
"Freddie, I'm serious," she said, leaning forward. "I think you should get tested."
My stomach sank. The words hung in the air, heavy and oppressive.
"For what?" I asked, though I already knew.
She hesitated, then said it. "HIV."
I laughed, but it was hollow and forced. "Darling, you've been watching too much American news. I'm fine. Fit as a fiddle, as they say."
"Freddie." Her voice was firm now, no trace of her usual teasing. "You're not invincible. Please, just get checked."
I set my glass down harder than I meant to. "Oh, so now you're a doctor, are you? Shall I book you an appointment at the Royal College of Medicine?"
She didn't flinch. "I'm not a doctor, but I'm not blind, either. I know you. I see you. And I'm worried about you."
"Worried?" I scoffed, standing up. "Why? Because I'm living my life? Because I'm not cowering in fear like everyone else?"
"It's not about fear, Freddie," she said, standing too. "It's about being smart. About taking care of yourself."
"Don't you dare lecture me," I snapped, pacing the room now. "You don't know what it's like to be me. To be constantly watched, judged, adored, and discarded all at once. You don't know what it's like to feel so bloody alone that the only comfort you find is in a stranger's bed!"
Her expression softened, but she didn't back down. "You're not alone, Freddie. I'm here. Jim's here. Mary's here. But none of us can help you if you don't help yourself."
"Help myself?" I echoed, laughing bitterly. "What, by admitting I might be sick? By confirming everyone's worst fears? No, thank you. I'd rather not know."
"Freddie," she said quietly, stepping closer, "not knowing doesn't make it go away."
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I turned away, running a hand through my hair.
"I hate you right now," I muttered, though we both knew it wasn't true.
"No, you don't," she said, her voice gentle now. "You're just scared."
I didn't respond. I couldn't.
The next morning, I woke up to find a note from Robin on the coffee table.
Freddie,
I know you're angry with me, but I don't care. I care about you too much to stay silent. Please, for your sake and for everyone who loves you, get tested. I'll go with you if you want. Just don't ignore this.
It wasn't signed, but it didn't need to be. I stared at it for a long time, her words echoing in my mind.
I wasn't ready to admit she was right, but deep down, I knew she was. And that terrified me more than anything.
~~
AN: I'm too tired to write anything proper now. Brain shutting off. But i hope this chap was at least decent.
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