"Hey, Mike, long time no see." Oberon greeted the tavern owner casually as he slid into the seat closest to the bar counter. "I think I heard someone mention cocktails—huge help, that. I haven't had one in ages. Could I get a cocktail, please?"
"Uh… should be possible?" Mike glanced over at Guinevere, who was wiping sweat from his brow behind the counter.
"…Should be," Guinevere muttered to himself, trying to recall any of the cocktail-mixing videos he'd once watched online. Of course, he'd completely forgotten everything. But he remained calm—panicking wouldn't help. A cocktail is just a bunch of mixed drinks, right? So he could just grab whatever drinkable stuff Mike had, mix it all together, then add a bunch of spirits. As long as it didn't kill Oberon, it should count as a cocktail.
Suddenly, Oberon shivered, sensing something ominous. He soon realized why.
"…You call this a cocktail?" He eyed the glass Mike had set before him.
"Yes… I think so," Guinevere nodded earnestly.
"Why is it this color?" Oberon pointed at the drink: a dark liquid with weirdly colorful, frothy bubbles on top. "Cocktails shouldn't look… like this."
"Well, cocktails are supposed to be colorful," Guinevere insisted. "As for the black color and foam… I added cola."
"…Was that intentional or an accident?" Oberon swallowed.
"Intentional," Guinevere admitted. "I figured if it wasn't colorful, you wouldn't know it's a cocktail."
Oberon mulled it over but didn't dare sip it. He felt like he'd instantly die if he drank that. He pushed the drink away and decided to cut to the chase:
"You're the Guinevere Altria's been looking for, right?"
"Ah… so you figured it out?" Guinevere buried his face in his hands. He'd hoped to come up with some excuse, but Oberon had already recognized him.
"I didn't spot you at first—just saw you skulking around, which raised suspicions. Then I asked, and you basically admitted it," Oberon shrugged.
"…Damn."
"So, tell me—how do you know Altria?" Oberon leaned forward, a grin spreading across his face. "I left only a short while ago. How did you manage to steal her heart in just a few days? She's got a huge mission to fulfill, yet she's saying that if you're not around, the journey might as well not start."
"Well…" Guinevere hunched his shoulders, racking his brain. He felt like Oberon was staring at him like an angry father who just discovered his daughter had been abducted and is demanding answers. But how to explain? "I don't actually know her."
"You don't know her?" Oberon raised an eyebrow. "Then why is she suddenly looking for you?"
"Ask her—I have no idea," Guinevere blurted. He'd never met Altria in reality; their whole relationship was born in the simulator. Telling Oberon they "met online" would be social suicide. Better to play clueless.
"If you don't know her, why avoid her?" Oberon looked genuinely puzzled.
"Well, what if you oversleep and show up late to work, and your coworkers give you weird looks? Then they tell you that some woman claiming to be your fiancée just came looking for you and even beat up your colleagues—and you don't know this woman at all. Wouldn't you want to hide?" Guinevere found his explanation actually quite reasonable, even felt a bit proud of himself for the logic.
"So, you think Altria is some stalker who suddenly fell for you and is harassing you?" Oberon asked, narrowing his eyes. Guinevere noticed cracks forming on the table from Oberon's glare.
"I swear on my life I've never met her before today. If I had, may lightning strike me down and I never find peace!" Guinevere raised his hand in oath. It was the truth: he'd never met her in reality.
"…" Oberon stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. "Well, if that's the case—meeting her could clear things up. She probably got the wrong impression, but trust me, she's not a bad kid."
Guinevere hesitated for a moment, then shook his head firmly: "No, it's better not. Thanks, but I'll pass."
"She won't be kidnapped by some stranger—I have no objection to you meeting her—but are you sure you don't want to give her a chance?" Oberon pressed gently.
"...Honestly, there's no special reason," Guinevere admitted, gazing out the window. "I'm just scared."
"Scared?" Oberon blinked. "If you're worried by her rash behavior, I assure you she means well—she really is a good kid—"
"No," Guinevere cut in. "I'm afraid she'll be disappointed when she sees me."
Oberon went silent as Guinevere continued: "I don't know what she sees in me, why she likes me… I think she's overestimating me. I'm nobody special—my twenty years of life hold nothing I can be proud of. Someone like me, randomly liked by her—that must be some mistake."
He recalled Altria once asking in the simulation: "Why would you want to travel with a magic-less, plain faerie like me?" She must have mustered a lot of courage to ask that. She knew that if she asked, regardless of his hidden flaws, he'd reveal them all.
At least, both in simulation and reality, Guinevere had never harbored ill will toward her—he simply liked her, but without any deep conviction. He was just a gamer who liked his "waifu" avatar, no different from his fondness for figures or models—an utterly trivial affection in human society. Yet that trivial affection shone as something pure in the malicious faerie realm.
Guinevere felt heavy inside. A lucky childhood heals you for life; an unlucky one takes a lifetime to heal. Was he prepared to heal Altria's tragic past? Did his affection match her love that would sacrifice everything for him? Any hesitation in answering that would be insincere. He had no such resolve or ability.
So he feared. Feared disappointing Altria, feared her discovering how mediocre he truly was. The thought alone gave him chills. Perhaps he wasn't afraid of pain or getting hurt so much; more, he feared being found useless and pitiful, and the look of disappointment on the person he cared about. That was unbearable.
Thus, as a typical shut-in would, he chose avoidance again: "To avoid disappointing her, it's better we never meet. Please tell her—though I don't know what she sees in me—I'm not the amazing person she imagines. Farewell."
He left the tiny tavern abruptly. Oberon stayed seated, silent for a long moment, then picked up the odd-colored drink and took a small sip.
"No wonder Altria fell for someone as ordinary as you so quickly… From your talent for bizarre concoctions to your twisted insecurity, you're a perfect match," Oberon murmured. "But if avoidance could solve everything, life wouldn't be so complicated."
A white shape fluttered in through the window and settled beside him. "You're back, Blanca. Marked him already? Thanks for your work."
"Is that okay? I checked—he's suitable for her, I think," the moth-like familiar replied.
Oberon stroked the creature's head and smiled: "Then help me find Altria again and bring her to the one she cares about."
"Sure… though once she sets her mind on something, ten bulls couldn't pull her back."
"Exactly why she needs a little help. I'll stand by my foolish pupil."
Just then, Mike, who'd been oblivious until now, approached. "So… is that cocktail any good?"
Oberon glanced at the bizarre-colored drink again and smiled: "Honestly, it's not as awful as expected… But I wouldn't recommend you follow his mixing method. If you can find a decent teacher to learn proper cocktail-making, it's worth it—sometimes change is inevitable, and having someone push you helps, right?"