For James Dillon the shock was far greater...but apart from a slight change of color he betrayed no particular emotion.
Dillon never expected to see Maturin again. It is so long, and so far from Ireland.
(flashback)
"I am so sorry it should have come to this."
"There was nothing to be done, my dear."
They were too intense, both of them, only needing an infinitesimal amount more of passion to consume themselves and each other. It had been Maturin's idea that they part- he was always the more moderate one- but Dillon agreed that it was for the best. They would have killed each other in the end, otherwise.
Maturin let go Dillon's hands for the last time, with an almost physical crack, and began to walk away. He turned back just as Dillon started after him. They kissed, softly and long, but it was a gesture without love.
That was the last time they spoke. They saw each other only once more, at Rathfarnham, and they were there and gone; it was all right, now.
"I do not like that Maturin fellow," said Redmond. "He has the look of an informer about him."
Dillon turned on him suddenly. "He has not. You may say what you like about his looks, but Stephen Maturin is not an informer. Will you withdraw that remark, sir?"
"I will not."
"Then I shall have to ask you for satisfaction. My second is Grogan; yours may call on him at his convenience. Good day." Maturin always used to be his second.
Dillon met Redmond two days later. They were fighting with swords; he had wasted several guineas by tossing the coins into the air and shooting them, for pistol practice.
Grogan asked Redmond once more if he would apologize and withdraw his remark; he refused. It had only been an idle comment, but it had become a tenet when challenged.
It was over quickly enough. Sometimes after a duel, Dillon regretted the fight. He did not regret having to kill Redmond.
(/flashback)
"...I am very much afraid James Dillon wants more." He closed the book and stared at its cover for a long while, far, far away...
Maturin looks up from his journal to see Dillon standing in front of him. "We are...friends, are we not?" Dillon asks quietly.
"Of course."
"Then I must be candid with you. After the last time I saw you, I fought Redmond for calling you an informer." He does not need to go on: his duels are always to the death.
Maturin looks almost angry. "Can I not fight my own duels, for all love?"
Dillon grips his shoulders, as he did when they parted years ago, and kisses him roughly and seriously: loss has taken from him that look of having found a private joke that Maturin remembers.
He tears himself away. "No. I go too far. Perhaps you have a lover, you do not love me anymore; but you must know that I still love you."
Maturin stands and steps closer to him. "Never in life, James." They kiss long and deeply, as if to compensate for their time apart. Dillon has an arm around Maturin's shoulders and the other stroking his face with long fingers; Maturin's are around Dillon's waist and running through his dark red hair.
"How I have missed you," whispers Maturin. He curls his fingers around Dillon's collar and into the hollow of his throat. Dillon's teeth are at his lip, and his hands undo his shirt and trace his skin.
And so they take what comfort they can. They both know it will not be long now.
When Jack picked him up he thought he was only hurt; but turning him he saw the great wound in his heart.
