𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐈𝐄 ━━ finnick odair ✓

𝐨𝐧𝐞. ( self improvement )

"Move your knight to take his bishop," I instruct, pointing to the spot on the board that I refer to.

"Well what if I want to move my rook to take that pawn instead?" Ronan challenges me.

"If you do that, then Grant will do that, and then you'll have to respond here, and then he'll do that and you'll basically be done for," I explain, gesturing rapidly around the pieces.

"But I can work with that," Ronan protests, stubborn as usual.

"Fine," I relent, knowing that I can't force him to do anything.

The game is over in minutes, Grant reigns supreme once again. After months of the two of us trying to teach Ronan to play chess a bit better, we both are on the borderline of giving up. Ronan's smart enough to learn strategy, but almost always allows himself to overestimate his ability to get out of a sticky situation. What was at first entertaining has now become tiresome. Ronan's sour face is proof that nobody's heart is really in it anymore.

"Maybe next time, Ronan." Grant, as usual, doesn't have the heart to criticize his friend.

We retire to the less contentious activity of idly playing cards. Ronan nearly always beats us at poker, so it's sure to restore his good mood. Blight joins us to play as our dealer, ready to show his face now that his best friend isn't sorely losing at chess.

Our group dynamic is very different here, chit chat begins almost as soon as our first round does. It's been almost a year since Grant and I started learning how to play from the two older men, so it doesn't take nearly as much focus as it used to. At least the conceptual part of the game doesn't.

"Fara quite obviously has some combo that is going to wipe us out," Ronan says, raising his eyebrows at Grant.

"You don't know that," I assert.

"You're still doing that thing with your nose when you have a good hand and try to fake us out," he argues.

"At least she stopped giggling when she had a bad hand." Grant procures a goofy smile. "Or the blushing when she wasn't confident which way it would go."

"I'm not doing anything anymore!" I insist crossly, covering my nose with my hands.

"You're getting better, but I can still read you like a book." Blight chimes in, putting the final nail in the coffin.

The two other men fold, and I'm left to lay my royal flush on the table.

"Fine!" I admit. "I really am trying, though."

"We know," Ronan assures me, putting his hand on my back to rub soothingly. "Blight is right, you are getting better."

Playing cards is fun, but there's an incredibly important undertone to the games we choose. Ronan insisted on teaching us to play poker when he learned how bad Grant and I were at lying. He asserts that we must learn to handle ourselves better in order to handle any sensitive information he might pass along about our brewing rebellion.

He's always been careful not to cut us too close into the fold, and I suspect it's not only because of our inability to lie. The same goes for Finnick, who seems to be receiving about as little as we are. We all suspect that it has more to do with our age than anything else. That fact has resulted in a comedic overstating of our maturity in every possible scenario. Around Ronan and Blight, each conversation is sure to contain a mention from Grant that age twenty-five is actually when researchers believe the brain is fully developed; Finnick often asserts that twenty-two is the age when fishermen are allowed to apply to be crew captains; and I'm left to meagerly assert that I'm a very mature eighteen-year-old.