Anatoly moved back to the couch - the last few hours had been filled with pacing, treating injuries, and holding in emotions. Emotions that consisted mainly of frustration and anger. His brother had a concussion, broken ribs, and a broken wrist.
Vladimir heard his brother's approach. He opened one eye-the other was stuck shut and refused. He tried to push himself to a sitting position, but quickly realized it wasn't a wise choice. "When," wheeze, "did we get back?" He cringed as he took a breath.
"Yesterday." Anatoly sat down on the chair he'd pulled to the couch - his expression grim, though it didn't make it into his voice. He spoke with calm.
Vladimir huffed out a painful sigh. Crime didn't always pay, that was a true statement. He closed his eye, trying to keep the lights out-they hurt. His head ached from seeing them. "What happened? Don't remember..." He couldn't recall exactly what had happened.
"You refused the m*doks in charge of the operation." Anatoly breathed a soft sigh, looking over his sibling's battered face.
Vladimir brought a hand to his face and poked at it. He groaned softly. Well, he hoped that didn't last long... or that-that was unsettling. His finger traced along a line of stitches. "You..." he seemed to lose track of where he was. "Stitches?" He asked.
Anatoly smirked mirthlessly. He nodded, blinking slowly as he did so. "Da."
Vladimir blinked one eye as he stared at the blurry image of his brother. "How bad do I look?" he muttered, coughing quietly.
Anatoly tilted his head for a fraction of a second, "You've looked worse."
Vladimir breathed out a quiet laugh-he found it to be quite painful-and tried to catch his brother with a slight punch-that hurt too. He grunted out a word that his mother would NOT have approved of, then looked at his bound up hand. "Its broken, isn't it?" He closed his eye and breathed a very long sigh.
"Yes - stop moving," Anatoly commanded - hoping it was one of the rare occasions when Vladimir actually listened. He gripped his lower arm, inspecting the bound hand to insure he hadn't hurt it further, or had accidently re-done any of the damage.
Vladimir nodded slowly. He could swear his brain was no longer attached correctly, and was just sort of floating around banging into the sides of his skull. He muttered a quiet complaint. "How long do I have to "not move?" he asked. He didn't know how long he could survive without moving... boredom would kill him before pain ever did.
Anatoly rocked back in his chair. "Until you're healed. Poker?"
Vladimir sighed. It would be better than nothing... and besides, his "poker face" was unreadable under the bloody cuts and purple bruises... so he was bound to win, he only had one requirement. "We play for money."
Anatoly huffed in amusement, pulling out the deck of cards on the table beside them. He pulled them out, shuffling and hauling said table between them. "Start the bet?"
For a moment, Vladimir thought about it... "Fifty." It seemed like a fine place to start. He smirked at Anatoly.
Anatoly pursed his lips then went to separating cards and chips, matching his brother's price. He had a feeling Vodka and gambling were in the future.