The Mansion of Men

Why today?

"Don't move," Pol said, kneeling beside Arm, staring in horror at the sharp, rusted, metal bar protruding from Arm's abdomen.

"Is it bad?"

"It's not good."

Pol holstered his gun, pulled off his entire harness and unbuttoned his shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"We have to get you out of that thing."

"No," Arm said, shaking his head. They'd been pursuing a gang of enemy thugs and Arm had fallen into this abandoned metal work shop, right onto a piece of broken metal that was welded to the ground.

"Arm-"

"We'll call for back up."

"Our phones are dead."

"They'll track us."

"Not unless they don't hear from us in thirty minutes. You want to let rust just keep sipping into your body like this?" Pol asked, his voice shaking like he was about to cry.

"We'll wait... ugh!" he slammed his hand on the ground. "I'd rather not bleed out. We'll wait."

***

Everywhere was quiet, so that was a plus. If anyone came near, Pol would hear before they got too close. They were in an abandoned part of town, but Pol couldn't risk leaving Arm unprotected.

Pol wished there was something he could do to ease the pain, each time Arm winced. But there was nothing he could think of. If the roles were reversed, Arm would be telling Pol he was doing good. He'd be offering words of encouragement to keep Pol going. Pol didn't know how to do that. When he looked at Arm, all he could think of was Arm getting an infection or losing too much blood or dying, mere seconds before help arrived.

"I'm fine," Arm said, as if reading Pol's mind.

"You know," Pol said, with no other choices. "That first story that you published? The one about the two bodyguards? It was actually about us."

Arm scoffed, looking through the hole where he'd fallen.

"You're doing this now?"

"When else?" Pol asked.

"How about when I'm safe and sound and not on the verge of a fatal infection? How about then?"

Pol came closer and sat right beside Arm.

"Ever since we met-"

"Come on."

"-I've never been able to imagine a life without you."

"Please don't do this."

"I hate it when you go on missions without me. I hate it when I go on missions without you."

"Pol-"

"I don't care if I'm getting shot at, as long as you're beside me. I've never been able to-

"POL!" Arm shouted, placing a hand on Pol's thigh. "Stop it."

Pol hesitated, his lips quivering in frustration.

"I'm not saying anything new to you. You know. You have to have known. You can't be that oblivious."

"This isn't the time."

"Why not?"

"Because it feels like you're indirectly telling me that I'm going to die."

Pol paused, looking away, knowing that Arm was right.

"You've had six years to tell me this, Pol. Six years," Arm said as his voice cracked. "Don't tell me now or I'll lose hope of ever getting out of here alive." Pol opened his mouth to speak but Arm beat him to it. "Please."

And really, when had Pol ever been able to resist a plea from Arm?

***

Pol jerked up the moment he heard movement, outside. Looking down, he noted that Arm was still awake, but his eyes were drooping. Quietly, Pol stood and went to the entrance of the building, peeping out the door. The voices were coming closer and closer and he could hear them shouting.

Soon, he heard his name. Slipping out the door, he heard the voices, clearer. One was Pete, the other was Boss Chan.

"HEY!" he screamed into the night. "We're over here!"

Help had come. Arm was still alive. Finally, they were getting out of this place.

And maybe... maybe they'd finally have that talk.