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“I can’t believe Slider is getting married,” Maverick says, turning the heavy cream cardstock over in his hand. The envelope, addressed to LCDR Peter Michael Mitchell, lays torn open on his counter. He’s in his small kitchen, phone tucked against his shoulder, Ice’s voice in his ear. “You never mentioned he had a girl,” he adds, tone accusatory, “Mary. Have you met her?”
“Mary Elizabeth,” he corrects. “She came to visit while we were at Norfolk. Sweet girl.”
“I gotta say, I’m surprised I made the guest list,” Maverick says with a huff of laughter.
After their time on the Enterprise, Maverick and Slider didn’t really keep in touch. He’ll ask about how he’s doing and get the secondhand updates from Ice but he hasn’t actually seen the man since their victory celebration on the flight deck in ‘86.
“You did save his life. Guess that counts for something,” Ice replies dryly. He clears his throat. “Think you’ll make it?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“We could split a room.” A pause that Maverick definitely does not read too much into. “If you want.”
Maverick hopes his sharp inhale can’t be heard over the line.
In the six years since TOPGUN, he and Ice have crossed paths twice. In ‘88, Ice had been stationed in Miramar with the Freelancers while Maverick was still teaching cocky pilots how to not only be better but to be the best. They’d deepened the friendship that began on the Enterprise in the aftermath of the Layton rescue with visits to the O Club and seeing movies off base, two sodas and a shared bucket of popcorn between them, kernels thrown at the screen and laughter loud enough they’d gotten kicked out of at least one screening. Ice deployed with the Constellation within six months and Maverick remembers seeing him off, a strange ache in his chest as he watched the carrier depart.
Contact with Ice was scarce for the next few years, limited to the occasional letter when Ice was deployed and irregular phone calls when he wasn’t. In ‘91, Bush announced Operation Desert Storm and Maverick deployed with the Ranger as part of the Wolfpack squadron. He’d just claimed his bunk in the cramped officer’s cabin when the door opened and Ice, of all people, stood in the doorway, haloed by artificial light and surrounded by steel, jaw working a piece of gum. There was a familiar rush of excitement that came from seeing an old friend and beneath it a flash of heat, low in his belly, that made him nervous.
Because where there was heat, there was fire, and Maverick didn’t think he would survive getting burned.
Now, even with another couple years and almost three thousand miles between them with Ice on a staff billet out on the east coast at Oceana and Maverick back in Miramar, he still feels that old heat when he hears Ice’s voice during their calls that started sporadic but soon became routine.
“What, no hot date?” Maverick asks with a forced laugh that he hopes Iceman doesn’t notice.
“No date,” Ice confirms. His words hang in the silence until he adds, “Not unless you—“
“No, no date here, either,” he’s quick — maybe too quick — to say. Ice hums thoughtfully.
“Alright, well, I’ll call the hotel and get something booked.”
“Thanks, man. Just let me know what I owe you.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mitchell,” Ice says. He sighs. “I should go. They’ve got me scheduled for a briefing I have to prepare for. Talk to you soon.”
“Later, Iceman,” Maverick replies. “Don’t work too hard.”
He can practically hear Ice’s eye roll as he hangs up the phone.
Ice is waiting for him outside the gate when Maverick gets off his plane, duffle and garment bag slung over his shoulder. Ice had made the three hour drive to Raleigh early the same day as Maverick’s late evening arrival, offering to pick him up at the airport so he wouldn’t have to deal with getting a cab. Maverick had protested but now, after white knuckling his way through a flight he had no control over, he was grateful.
“You sure are a sight for sore eyes,” Maverick says, taking him in. His hair is darker, the bleached style he sported during their run at TOPGUN left behind in the ‘80s, but still cut to regulations — longer on top, shorter on the sides. There’s a little bit of early grey dusting his temples and deeper creases in the corners of his eyes. He’s paired a casual polo shirt with some khaki slacks, looking like he’s stepped off a Ralph Lauren runway, hands tucked in his pockets and that familiar casual confidence that makes Maverick feel a little untethered.
Still devastatingly handsome, Maverick thinks. Some things never change.
“You look like shit,” Ice replies with a laugh that lights up his whole face. It makes Maverick smile, insult be damned.
“Doctors make the worst patients and pilots make the worst passengers.” Maverick shrugs. “Made it here in one piece, at least.”
“Thank god for that. Sli would have been mad as hell if you upstaged his wedding with your funeral.”
Maverick punches him in the shoulder, earning him another laugh, and Maverick thinks, this is good. He can do this.
Ice drives them to the hotel, an AM news station playing at a low volume instead of music, which seems like a very Ice thing to do. They talk a little bit but Maverick mostly stares out the window and taps his fingers on his knee and bounces his leg because the car smells like leather and Ice’s cologne, something rich and warm, and it’s messing with his head more than he’d ever admit out loud.
The hotel is nicer than Maverick expected, nice enough that he feels underdressed even just walking through the lobby in his worn jeans and wrinkled t-shirt. He lets out a low whistle as the gold elevator doors slide together, their warped reflections staring back at him.
“Mary Elizabeth comes from old money,” Ice says. “Southern belle, that one.”
Maverick hums. “And Slider buys the cheapest beer at the bar. A match made in heaven.”
“They do say opposites attract.”
Maverick catches Ice’s eye in the reflection and looks away, staring at the buttons like they’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. The car jerks to a stop on the tenth floor and the doors slide open, Ice exiting first and Maverick trailing behind him down the hall lined with lush carpet and tasteful paintings.
Ice stops in front of a door marked with a gold 1034 and pulls a card from the back pocket of his slacks, sliding it through the reader and pushing down on the door handle to let them inside. He flicks the lights on as he goes, a small chandelier illuminating the room.
Two queen beds with pristine white sheets take up the majority of the space. The one closest to the window has been claimed by Ice, the Navy issued duffle that matches Maverick’s own sitting at the end of the bed. Maverick hangs his garment bag in the small closet, right beside Ice’s, before dropping his bag to the floor and flopping face first onto the bed.
“Long day?” Ice asks. Maverick turns his head to look at him.
“Jet lag is starting to hit,” he replies with a yawn. He can feel his eyelids slipping closed. “These beds are nice.”
“You better shower before you pass out.”
“Don’t wanna.”
Maverick hears the creak of mattress springs before large, warm hands are on his shoulders, turning him over onto his back. He squints against the light, looking up into Ice’s amused face and absolutely not feeling breathless at the expression of what he thinks is exasperated fondness staring down at him.
“You’ll thank me later,” Ice insists, prodding him until he sits up.
He gets to his feet and shuffles into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He spends too long trying to figure out the three knobs that control the shower but finally the water is hot and the pressure is better than anything he’s experienced in years. He scrubs himself down with a tiny bar of French soap and watches the suds circle down the drain, his thoughts drifting to the man just outside the bathroom door.
And that’s the crux of the problem, he thinks, because even when Ice isn’t physically there, Maverick will still think about him. During the day, when he mentally files away something he wants to remember to tell him during their next call. At night, in bed, briefs shoved just low enough to get a hand around his dick, blue eyes and a deep voice and tan skin in his mind’s eye.
He slams the faucet to cold, the sudden burst of frigid water making him gasp, but it does the job of shocking his body into submission, his balls practically crawling back into his body to escape the cold. He shuts the water off and steps out, drying off with one of the fluffy towels and wrapping it around his waist to step out of the bathroom.
Ice is in his bed, reclined against the pillows with a book in his hands. He’s wearing glasses, rectangular frames perched at the end of his nose. He’s changed into sweatpants and a USNA shirt that’s seen better days, letters faded and a hole in the stretched collar, but he looks comfortable and something about it makes Maverick’s pulse kick into overdrive.
He doesn’t look up when Maverick scurries to his duffle bag and digs out a new pair of briefs and his flannel sleep pants that he almost never wears at home but here, sharing a room with Ice, he figured it would be courteous to wear clothes. He quickly pulls both on and returns to the bathroom to hang his towel and brush his teeth.
“New glasses?” He asks Ice when he’s back in the room. The man looks at him over the frames, a faint dusting of pink blooming over his cheeks.
“Just for reading,” Ice says, a bit defensively. “I’m still cleared to fly.”
“Didn’t say you weren’t.” Maverick tugs the sheets free of their crisply tucked corners, crawling into bed beneath them. “They make you look distinguished.”
“Distinguished,” Ice repeats flatly. “Is that your way of saying I look old?”
“When have you ever known me to spare your feelings?” Maverick gives him a pointed look. “If I wanted to say you look old, I would say you look old.”
A furrow forms between Ice’s brows but he doesn’t say anything in return. Maverick makes himself comfortable, tossing and turning a few times, wrestling the pillow beneath his head into a ball and facing away from Ice. He hears the book close, the lamp click off, the muted shuffle of Ice in bed.
“‘Night, Maverick,” Ice says, quiet, like he’s being careful not to wake Maverick if he’s already asleep.
Maverick waits a long time before whispering, “Goodnight, Ice.”
Lieutenant Ronald Eugene “Slider” Kerner and Mary Elizabeth Thompson tie the knot on a cloudless Saturday afternoon at the same Baptist church Mary Elizabeth’s parents got married at, some thirty years prior.
Slider looks dapper and polished in his dress whites, medals gleaming on his chest, posture perfect. Maverick watches Slider’s expression soften when the bride makes her entrance, gliding down the aisle looking every bit a princess in her fluffy white gown, her arm looped with her father’s and tears already carving paths down her cheeks. She dabs a handkerchief delicately beneath her eyes and smiles radiantly when she reaches Slider, her father folding her hand into her soon-to-be husband’s and giving her a parting kiss on the cheek before taking a seat in the front pew beside his wife.
Slider’s parents are mentioned during the ceremony, dearly departed, but there are aunts and uncles and cousins that have come out to support him, along with the slew of officers, some familiar to Maverick and some not, that wolf whistle when he dips Mary Elizabeth and kisses her like they’re the only two in the room until the Minister clears his throat. In a nod to Slider’s Jewish upbringing, a glass wrapped in a white cloth napkin is placed at their feet and with his wife’s hand clutched in his, he stomps on it until it breaks and pews erupt with another round of cheers.
It’s not until people are beginning to stand and take their exit does Maverick notice the way Ice’s eyes are glassy. He elbows him in the ribs and Ice laughs wetly, blinking up at the ceiling to stop the escape of any tears.
“Softie,” Maverick teases. “Careful, they’ll revoke your call sign if they know you have feelings.”
“Shut up,” Ice grumbles but there’s no heat to it. “It was a beautiful ceremony.”
“It was,” Maverick agrees.
They follow the flow of guests out of the building and towards the parking lot. The wedding party is sticking around for pictures at the church but everyone else disperses into cars and cabs, heading to the hotel for the cocktail hour and reception.
In the car, Maverick convinces Ice to let him put on music and he hums along to a song on the first classic rock station he finds. Ice is quiet until he asks, “You ever think about settling down?”
And Maverick can’t say yes, but only with you, even if that’s not something I should even dream about, so instead he says, “Maybe one day.”
Ice hums and that’s the end of the discussion, though the question lingers like smoke in the back of Maverick’s mind.
At cocktail hour, Maverick and Ice are greeted by old friends — Hollywood, Wolfman, Chipper, Sundown, Merlin, and even Cougar — and others who are familiar by call sign alone, like Pitbull and Challenger and Viking from Slider’s years at the Academy. They eat tiny finger foods and sip from frosty bottles of beer obtained from the bar in the corner until the ballroom is opened and they’re ushered inside to find their dinner seats.
A band plays from a small stage, adding to the din of conversation around the room. He sits between Ice and Merlin, who introduces him to his wife, Camille, before asking him what he’s been up to in the last few years. They talk and they drink and Maverick steals glances at Ice, admiring the breadth of his shoulders in the formal uniform he hasn’t seen him in since graduation.
The bride and groom arrive, introduced as Lieutenant and Mrs. Kerner by a lively emcee. The clinking of forks against glassware fills the room and Slider dips his blushing bride for the desired kiss.
Dinner is served by waiters dressed in all black. It passes in a blur of conversation punctuated by the scrape of cutlery over fine china. The newlyweds make their rounds and when Slider reaches their table he’s greeted by rowdy slaps on the back that make him laugh. Mary Elizabeth watches with a sweet smile, eyes sparkling.
“Congratulations, Slider,” Maverick says, shaking the taller man’s hand with a firm grip. Slider smiles, but it’s nothing like the cocky grin he’d always flash at TOPGUN. It’s pure, genuine happiness.
“Thanks, Mav. Glad you could make it out here,” he says.
“Oh, you’re Maverick!” Mary Elizabeth says, bypassing his outstretched hand for a hug. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“You have?” Maverick asks, looking at Slider, who is looking anywhere but at him. He turns up the good ol’ Mitchell charm, all megawatt smile. “All good things, I hope?”
She giggles, a dainty hand held up in front of her mouth. “Well, Ron says Ice is always—“
Ice chooses that moment to appear and Slider takes him under his arm in a hug that jostles his entire body, making him laugh. Whatever Mary Elizabeth was about to say is lost in their display and they spend a few minutes talking before Maverick excuses himself and heads for the bar. It was probably a mistake, choosing an open bar with so many aviators present, but Maverick won’t say no to a good thing.
He’s just been handed another beer when Ice sidles up next to him and orders a vodka, neat. Blue eyes lock on Maverick over the rim of the glass as he takes a sip and Maverick makes a valiant effort to not stare at the long line of his throat when he swallows.
Mission failure.
“You having a good time?” Maverick finally asks.
“It’s nice seeing everyone,” Ice replies. He looks out over the crowd, the same thoughtful expression on his face that he’d had on the drive back to the hotel. “I’ve known Slider for a long time and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy.”
“It’s a good look for him.”
They lapse into companionable silence, sipping their drinks and watching the dance floor fill with people. A pretty blonde approaches them and Maverick straightens up when he notices her gaze drag over him.
“What’s a girl gotta do to get a handsome soldier to dance with her?” She asks with a cheeky grin.
“Aviator,” Ice says. Maverick shoots him a pointed look.
The girl is undeterred by Ice’s frosty response. “Same thing,” she says with a wave of her hand and a laugh that’s only slightly strained.
“Not really.” Ice drains the rest of his drink in one impressive gulp. His expression is neutral but Maverick clocks the slight tick of his jaw. “Soldiers are Army.”
“I’ll take you for a spin,” Maverick says, steering her toward the dance floor with an arm thrown over her shoulders. He risks a glance back toward Ice and finds him watching with a stony expression, jaw tight and shoulders tense.
“What’s his deal?” The woman — Candace, one of Mary Elizabeth’s friends from college — asks while they turn in slow circles, her arms looped around his shoulders and his hands on her waist.
“He just takes some getting used to,” Maverick replies, looking for the man in question in the crowd.
“I’ll say.”
They leave it at that. The band plays three songs that Maverick spends swaying with Candace. Slider and Mary Elizabeth drift by them, lost in each other, and Maverick spots Cougar and his wife on the edge of the dance floor during the last song. All the while, his thoughts drift to Ice, who is no longer at the bar, and Maverick is left to wonder what the hell his deal was.
Maverick tells Candace he needs another drink and high tails it back to the bar, searching the crowd for Ice as he goes. Not seeing him, he gets himself another beer and wanders back to the dinner table where some of the guys are still gathered. He’s catching up with Hollywood when a heavy weight knocks into him from behind, nearly taking him down to the ground.
“What the hell—“
“Done dancing?” Ice asks, mouth close enough to Maverick’s ear that a shiver races down his spine.
He turns slowly, placing a steadying hand on Ice’s chest. Ice is grinning at him, face a little flushed, eyes half lidded but gaze still sharp. He leans a little too far to the right, stumbling over the air with an uncharacteristic giggle. His hands close on Maverick’s biceps for balance, warm even through his uniform jacket.
Tom “Iceman” Kazansky is drunk and to Maverick’s internal delight and external horror, he’s a clingy son of a bitch. His arm wraps around Maverick’s waist like it’s the most natural place for it to be and Maverick’s traitorous body whole heartedly agrees, even as his brain lights up like an HUD blaring missile lock warnings.
Ice slings an arm over Maverick’s shoulders, leaning heavily against him, tucking his face into the crook of his neck. Slider appears before him, lips tilted in an amused smile as he watches them.
“Good, he found you,” Slider says. “You should get Lieutenant Wasted back to his room before he does something embarrassing.”
“That’s Lieutenant Commander Wasted,” Ice replies. He points a finger at Slider. “I outrank you.”
Slider knocks his hand out of his face. “Yeah, yeah. You got this covered, Mav?”
“Uh, sure, yeah,” Maverick agrees. He pats Ice on the chest. “C’mon, let’s get you upstairs.”
Ice and Maverick say their goodbyes on their way out of the ballroom, bursting through the oak doors into the much quieter hallway. They make it through the lobby, Maverick supporting Ice’s weight with an arm around his waist and one of Ice’s arms still heavy on his shoulders, and wait for the elevator in silence.
When the doors slide open, Maverick ushers Ice inside and presses the button for the floor. Despite the empty car, Ice remains close to Maverick, leaning against him for support. His head drops to Maverick’s shoulder and he inhales deeply, eyes fluttering shut.
“Smell good,” Ice mumbles. Maverick blinks at his reflection in the golden doors. Ice does it again, going so far as to drag his nose across Maverick’s neck and Maverick has to bite his lip hard enough to hurt to contain the moan that threatens to spill free.
“How much did you have to drink?” Maverick asks with a strained laugh. Ice hums and mumbles something in reply but Maverick can feel his lips moving against his neck and whatever was said is completely lost to his brain being scrambled by the sensation.
Blessedly, the elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open. Ice straightens, arm still around Maverick’s shoulders, and all but drags him down the hall to their room. He pulls the key card from his pocket, opens the door, and practically shoves Maverick inside. The air is punched from his lungs when Ice shoves him against the closed door, looming over him, chest brushing his.
“Ice—what are—hey—“
“You drive me insane,” Ice growls. Maverick’s eyebrows shoot up, mouth dropping open in surprise.
What? “What?”
“Watching you dance with that woman,” Ice continues with a dark chuckle, “Christ, Mitchell, I was so close to doing something fucking stupid.”
“I—“
“And I don’t do stupid but hell if you don’t bring it out of me.”
“What—Ice, what are you talking about?” Maverick chokes out. “You—you’re drunk, you don’t know—“
“I’m not drunk,” Ice replies easily. “I’ve only had one drink.”
“But—but you—“
Ice grabs Maverick by the chin, two fingers pressing into his cheek and his thumb tight on his jaw. The words on Maverick’s tongue fade into the ether when Ice’s blue eyes drop to his mouth. Ice leans forward, close enough that Maverick can feel the heat of his breath against his lips when he asks, “Do you want this?”
Maverick feels that same rush of adrenaline that he gets in the cockpit, a blinding thrum of energy that courses through his veins. He’s never had anything come close to touching the thrill of being in the air, but here, in a fancy hotel room in Raleigh with Ice offering what he’s only ever dared to dream about, he thinks that even flying pales in comparison.
“God, yes,” Maverick whispers. “Please—“
Ice kisses him, hard, his head hitting the door with a sharp thunk that makes him gasp, mouth opening in invitation for Ice’s tongue to slip inside. Maverick is quick to reciprocate, licking into his mouth and swallowing his answering groan.
Ice’s nimble fingers are unbuttoning his jacket, shoving it open, and tugging the dress shirt underneath free from where it’s tucked in his pants. His hands, warm and steady, find the bare skin of Maverick’s flank.
“Fuck,” Ice groans against Maverick’s mouth and yeah, Maverick is inclined to agree because fuck, Ice is touching him.
Ice is touching him.
Ice is touching him.
It’s that last realization that has him reaching for Ice’s belt and pulling it free, dropping it to the floor with a clink. Ice unbuttons and removes his jacket while Maverick works on his fly until he can reach a hand into his pants, palming his cock through his briefs. Ice plants his hands on the door, caging Maverick between his arms, and lifts his head.
Maverick is greeted by the most sinful picture — Ice’s plush lips slick with spit, swollen and bitten red; perfectly styled hair ruined by Maverick’s own hands; a sweet pink flush that starts at the top of his cheeks and works its down his neck before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His eyelids flutter and he inhales sharply when Maverick presses his hand more firmly against him, his hips flexing to chase the pressure.
Maverick drops to his knees and curls his fingers into the waist of Ice’s pants and the elastic of his briefs, tugging both down his thighs. Ice’s cock bumps against his chin, thick and flushed, a bead of precum clinging to the slit. His tongue darts out to lick it away and Ice moans, loud and unapologetic.
Maverick glances up and finds Ice staring down at him, chest heaving, eyes a little wild. He holds his gaze as he opens his mouth and sinks down onto Ice’s cock, the heavy weight of him on his tongue making him groan. He gets as far as he can before pulling back and trying again, taking him further with each repetition. Ice cups his cheek, thumb tracing where Maverick’s lips are stretched wide around him, an expression of wonder on his face.
“Jesus, Mav,” Ice says, low and reverent. “Think you can take it all?”
Maverick groans, lifting off of Ice’s cock and taking a deep breath. “Yeah—god—y-yeah, I can do that.”
“Good boy,” Ice murmurs and fuck if that doesn’t make any remaining blood in his body rush to his dick, his thoughts reduced to nothing by Ice, Ice, Ice.
Maverick opens his mouth, sticks his tongue out and relaxes his jaw as Ice fists his cock at the base and feeds his length between Maverick’s lips, slow and steady, not stopping until he feels the resistance of Maverick’s throat. There’s still more to take and Maverick has never been one to back down from a challenge so he breathes through his nose and takes him deeper, until his nose brushes the wiry blonde hair at the base of his cock. He swallows and Ice curses, drawing his hips back suddenly, leaving him gasping for air.
Ice pulls him to his feet and kisses him harshly, teeth nipping his bottom lip and tongue curling deep into his mouth. The kiss loses all semblance of finesse as they both try to finish undressing — Ice stepping out of his shoes and trying to kick off his pants while trying to undo Maverick’s belt and Maverick attempting to unbutton Ice’s shirt.
With a frustrated noise, Ice steps back and makes quick work of the rest of his clothing while Maverick tries to follow suit, graceless in his excitement. Finally, they’re both blessedly naked, their uniforms scattered on the floor. Ice’s gaze trails over Maverick’s body, lingering on his cock, and he tries not to squirm under the attention.
“Bed,” Ice says, turning and walking further into the room. Maverick is too mesmerized by Ice’s ass to register that Ice has given a command, not a suggestion. Ice looks over his shoulder at him and raises an eyebrow, the expression kicking Maverick’s brain back online enough to trail after him.
“How—uh—how did you want to do this?” He asks. “Because I was kind of hoping you could fuck me.”
Ice huffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’s what I was hoping for, too.”
Maverick gets on the bed — the one he slept in last night — and lies back against the fluffy pillows. Ice grabs his duffle from the floor and unzips it, digging through its contents. Maverick doesn’t notice what he has until Ice is on his knees between Maverick’s spread legs and he drops something onto the mattress beside him.
Lube. Ice just pulled lube out of his bag.
“Wait,” Maverick says. Ice freezes, hand going still on Maverick’s thigh. “You brought lube?”
“Yes,” Ice replies slowly. “Why?”
“Do you usually pack lube for a weekend trip to your friend’s wedding?”
A pink flush blooms across Ice’s cheeks as he mumbles, “No.”
“Ice…did—did you plan this?”
“I wouldn’t say planned,” Ice argues. “I would say I was optimistic.”
“Right. Sure. We can go with that.”
“Can we get back to the task at hand?”
“Task at hand? Really?”
Ice laughs, the tension easing from his shoulders and his face lighting up with it. He leans forward and kisses him, slow and sweet. The gentleness takes Maverick’s breath away even more than the harsh and hurried kisses they shared earlier.
“You’re such an asshole, Mitchell,” Ice says, lips on Maverick’s jaw. “It’s a miracle I want to fuck you.”
“But you do want to fuck me,” Maverick replies. Ice, whose mouth has trailed lower, sinks his teeth into Maverick’s peck hard enough to make him gasp before soothing the sting with a wet pass of his tongue.
“I’m trying to, if you would shut the fuck up.”
Another smart response dies on Maverick’s tongue as Ice wraps his lips around one of his nipples. Maverick arches into the sensation, the warm, wet heat of Ice’s mouth making his cock twitch. He gives the same attention to the other side before moving down, down, down, nipping at the jut of Maverick’s hip bone and very much not paying any mind to where Maverick wants him most, his dick leaking a steady stream of precum that smears against his belly.
“Ice—fuck—come on,” Maverick says between gasps. Ice ignores him, of course, maintaining his slow and steady exploration of Maverick’s body with his mouth.
Maverick resigns himself to the torture, lets his head drop back against the pillows and his eyes shut, focusing on the hot press of Ice’s hands on his waist, the slick glide of his tongue against his skin.
Ice lifts away and Maverick lets out a frustrated whine, opening his eyes to watch as Ice grabs the bottle of lube and pours a generous amount on his fingers. Maverick opens his legs wider and Ice grins down at him, sliding one thick finger inside with slow, steady pressure. Maverick damn near sighs with the relief of Ice finally giving him something more than a teasing touch.
Once he starts shifting his hips, chasing after Ice’s hand with each pull from his body, Ice adds another finger. The stretch is sharper but Maverick loves it, loves the slight sting that gives way to the dull ache of wanting more, more, more. Ice’s other hand is on his hip now, pinning him to the mattress and making him take only what Ice is willing to give, which frustrates him and turns him on in equal measure.
Maverick turns into a mess when Ice finds his prostate, babbling Ice’s name like it’s the only word he knows. His cock is aching to be touched, leaking in earnest against his belly, flushed a dark red.
“Ice—Tom—please, I need—“
“I know what you need,” Ice says and Maverick shivers just from his tone.
“Then give it to me, come on,” he begs, whining when Ice pulls his fingers out and leaves him feeling empty, “Need you to fill me up, baby, please—“
“Christ, Pete,” Ice groans, slicking up his own flushed cock with more lube. “Who knew you could ask so nicely?”
Maverick feels hot all over, chest flushed and sweat pricking at his brow. He can’t even come up with a response to Ice’s teasing, that’s how desperate he is for the man above him.
Ice lifts one of Maverick’s legs, pressing it up towards his chest with a hand on the back of his thigh, just beneath his knee. He positions the head of his cock at Maverick’s hole and presses in, in, in, a slick slide of heat and pressure and perfection that has Maverick seeing stars.
“Jesus,” Ice sighs when his hips meet Maverick’s, “You feel so fucking good.”
“Would feel better if you moved,” Maverick manages to reply, though his voice cracks and comes out far more breathy and fucked out than he expected. Ice just smiles at him, that toothy grin that’s driven him crazy since he first met the guy, and slowly, slowly, slowly withdraws until just the tip remains to keep Maverick stretched open before snapping his hips forward in a sharp thrust that jostles Maverick, sending him an inch up the mattress.
“Fuck!”
It’s the last coherent word out of Maverick’s mouth as Ice begins to pound into him in earnest. Maverick can’t look away from the sight of Ice, perfect and golden and haloed in the warm light, his hair a mess and his chest flushed and the determined glint in his eye. He reaches for him, gets a hand around the back of his neck and tugs him in for a kiss that’s more spit and tongue and breath than anything else. Ice’s rhythm falters with the sudden change in angle but now he’s deeper, grazing Maverick’s prostate with each stroke.
Maverick gets his mouth on Ice’s neck, licking the salty sweat from his skin and relishing in the frantic beat of his pulse beneath his tongue. Ice reaches between their bodies and gets a hand around Maverick’s cock, stroking him with a tight grip. He flicks his thumb over the head on the upstroke and that’s it, Maverick’s done. He comes all over Ice’s fist with a broken gasp that Ice swallows with another dirty kiss.
Ice comes shortly after with a groan of Maverick’s name, going still above him as his cock pulses. He collapses on top of Maverick, the heavy weight of him knocking the breath from Maverick’s lungs, but he doesn’t push him away. Instead, he wraps his arms around his back and holds him close while they both catch their breath.
Eventually, once their breathing has evened out and the sweat on their skin has cooled and Ice’s soft cock slips free of Maverick’s body, they pull apart. Ice kisses him, gentle and sure, and Maverick kisses him back.
“Shower,” Ice suggests, rolling over and getting to his feet. Maverick is a little more sluggish, thighs aching and ass tender, but he joins Ice beneath the warm spray where they kiss and touch and laugh until the water grows too cold to enjoy any longer.
Then they’re in bed — Ice’s, since Maverick’s is a mess — and Maverick’s head is on Ice’s chest. A thought occurs to him and he sits up, looking down at Ice.
“Did Slider only invite me to the wedding because of you?” He asks.
“No, you guys are friends,” Ice replies, but Maverick clocks the way he won’t meet his eyes.
“We’re not that close, Ice. You know that.”
“It was Mary Elizabeth’s idea.”
Maverick’s brow furrows. “What?”
“I couldn’t bring you as a plus one so she told Slider to send you your own invitation.”
“You—you would have asked me as your date?”
Ice looks at him with an expression of exasperated fondness. “Pete, if I could shout about how much I love you from the roof tops, I would.”
“You love me?” He asks incredulously.
“God help me, I do,” Ice says. “I thought that was obvious.”
And maybe it would have been obvious, if Maverick had stopped to see the signs. Like how Ice would call him late at night, his time, because Maverick would just be getting home. Or that Ice would sign his letters Yours, Tom instead of just his name. Or even back in ‘86, when their attention never really strayed far from each other.
“I love you, too,” Maverick tells him. “Just so we’re clear.”
“I know.” Ice grins, smug as hell, and Maverick knocks his shoulder with his fist. “This won’t be easy. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” Maverick sighs, resting his head on Ice’s chest once more. “But we’ve made it this far.”
“And we’ve got the room for an extra night.”
Maverick grins and lets himself drift off to sleep, warm and sated and happy.
The year is 2015 and a now retired Ron “Slider” Kerner is sorting through the mail. Among the bills and an advertisement for AARP that he pointedly ignores is an envelope addressed to The Kerner Family. He opens it and pulls out the single piece of cardstock tucked neatly inside.
Admiral Thomas Kazansky and Captain Peter Michael Mitchel request the honor of your presence—
“I’ll be damned,” he laughs. “Honey! Get down here!”
Mary Elizabeth appears on the stairs, laundry basket on her hip. “Where’s the fire?”
He hands her the invitation and watches her smile grow.