Survival Of The Fittest

...Roberta’s brain was starting to catch up with her mouth, and making her aware that she could not throw Quentin into the ocean. He was huge in multiple directions. And maybe, MAYBE, it was really stupid of her to make threats and she was about to be stabbed.

But there was also a point where if you backed down, you looked even sillier.

“Y-yeah, you better fuckin’ run!” Roberta shouted after him, fists raised (albeit half-heartedly).

And Finn was either being sarcastic or equally stupid, because… nope. Not badass. She wasn’t on a rooftop this time, but Roberta would think she’d stop making this goddamn mistake if she stopped drinking.

“Shut up, it’s dumb as hell,” Roberta hissed under her breath. Her fists were still up, and she was still eyeing Quentin warily as he moved further away, hoping he wouldn’t turn around. She probably would have to try punching him if he did. That was just kind of a grave she’d dug.

And Quentin vanished into the dark.

((Quentin B. Skinner continued elsewhere))

Fred blinked, taken aback.

“Oh. I thought it was pretty impressive, but…” he trailed off. Roberta had kind of quietened down herself, maybe a bit nervous, or something? That made sense, to be honest. Some protective instinct or another kicked in deep in his heart and he thought of how best to reassure her.

“If he’d tried anything, I’d have, uh, I’d have stepped in. Yeah.”

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. Not the inspiring display of masculinity he’d intended, but it’d do. He’d probably blown any chance of impressing this girl anyway. Sometime shortly before the “both the idiots” remark, if he had to guess.

Sighing, Fred rummaged around in his backpack and pulled out another drink. You sure you don’t want one?, his subconscious asked Roberta again. But instead of opening it this time, he just sat it on the rock beside him.

Aaaaaaaand… Quentin was gone. Thank fucking god, on so many levels. The tension in Roberta’s clenched fists and shoulders evaporated once he’d disappeared into the night.

“Step in?” Roberta snorted. “Uh huh, sure you would have, Finn. You couldn’t even fuckin’ speak.”

Her eyes flickered to the beer he’d placed down in a way where she could have reached it, and her nose scrunched up and she glared at the ocean, wanting in equal measures to chug that beer or to kick it across the beach.

Alright. Alright alright maybe he was just putting it there for himself, don’t fucking do that, don’t start another fight. Just be chill at this dude.

“Not that you should, anyway, like… you’re a tightrope and he’s a beach ball, you’d just get flattened,” Roberta said quickly, scratching the back of her neck.

Chill. Nailed it.

“Uh, it’s Fred. Not Finn.” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Roberta may have got his name wrong, but she was probably right on the money with the rest of what she said. It got under his skin more than he’d ever admit. If Quentin had so much as raised a fist, Fred knew he’d have folded.

Grateful though he was that Quentin had left, that left him in the awkward situation of having to contribute to the conversation again.

“He uh, does look a bit like a beach ball, doesn’t he. What do you reckon his problem is anyway?”

“Drugs” was probably the correct response, but maybe Roberta would have more insight than Fred on that topic.

“Fred. My bad,” Roberta said dismissively, waving her hand slightly.

Fred, Finn, same thing really. Honestly, she was surprised he’d had the stones to even correct her, he looked like a small breeze might emotionally knock him over.

“Who cares? He’s only my problem if he’s in my eyeline. Don’t have fuckin’ time to wonder about it.”

Roberta checked her phone. Right, she’d told him she was on her way back. If she didn’t get going soon, her uncle might worry.

“Well… uh, bye.”

With that, she started trudging back down the beach, leaving Fred and his sad, lonely beers on the beach behind. Though she made a conscious effort to not go the same way Quentin had gone.

((Roberta Chen continued elsewhere.))

He pushed Quentin out of his mind when Roberta did the same.

"Who cares." Fred agreed.

He searched for another conversation starter, since that one had failed to, well, start a conversation. He was out of time, though: Roberta was leaving.

“Yeah, see you around.” Fred’s hand waved at her back as she disappeared abruptly into the dark.

“Nice talking to you” he said, or maybe just thought.

(Fred Hobbes continued elsewhere.)