Chapter Text
It annoys Tom to no end.
It gets on every single one of his nerves, like he's a whole burn injury exposed raw. No relief, no cold water to sooth it. Maverick's eyes on him feel like an insistent pressure over those sensitive nerves.
And the worst part is that it shows. He can't help the showing. Suppressing feelings and emotions works externally and it works when they're all dressed and covered. But in the close quarters of TOPGUN's locker room, Iceman can't avoid the eyes.
Those damning green eyes that seemed to track his every move with a challenge beyond words.
But Mitchell won't say anything, despite being so good at running his mouth every other moment, he won't say anything. He'll be a brat and smirk, mouth something off to Goose just outside of Ice's ear range and the eyes will be right back on him.
Which, of course, in return, makes the stems of his flower markings crawl over his shoulders and arms - and if Tom were any less careful over himself, he knows they'd be sprouting thorns in no time.
What a pain.
It annoys him even further that Maverick wears his heart on his sleeve, quite literally. That green stems and assorted flowers paint his skin ever so shamelessly, like a living garden, the other pilot's back is painted with golden California poppies, pink desert roses, red dahlias and all sorts of small white daisies. Maverick is unbothered by the markings because that's all they remained. Markings.
A public garden of human emotion.
Unlike everyone else, except for Tom, Maverick's flowers never sprouted.
Ever. Even when his arms, back and chest were covered in the drawings. And Tom, who'd so carefully keep himself to bare, thorny stems, hated it. So he had no idea what the other man's actual flowers were, they seemed to be all of them.
But as life and fate would have, Tom would eat those feelings and regret every single one of them. Standing right outside that same locker room, now in silence, he can't help the way his own skin crawls.
Stepping inside it's the smell that reaches Iceman first and it's so surprising he has to consciously keep himself from gasping. It's not one he's felt before, soft, fresh, almost like spring rain. Looking down, it's... blue petals littering all the way inside.
Like a heartbreaking breadcrumb trail leading in, those petals pave the way to a Maverick sitting inside, half dressed, G-suit at the waist, hands nervously carding around his neck and head, grabbing poor flower sprouts and crushing them mercilessly. His arms and shoulder, where they could be seen, a barren wasteland of markings. Nothing but unmarred skin. All of that garden now dead.
Maverick wouldn't cry but he didn't have to. Iceman swallows thickly, standing there nervously, realizing he shouldn't be watching this.
Yet he won't pry his eyes away. He can't.
Looking down at one of those ripped buds that apparently had barely escaped its creator's wrath and grief, he leans in to pick it up.
A myosotis. No. Tom had known that little flower by another name.
Forget-me-not.
He'd have expected Maverick's signature flower to be something vibrant and exceptional and annoying like him. Maybe dangerous even. A red rose. Maybe something poisonous. Not the little blue scorpion grass flower. It almost makes him want to laugh.
He doesn't. Stepping inside, instead, sitting silently besides Maverick, lips pressed together. There's no words for this kind of grief and his own brand of guilt. Tom catches Pete side eyeing him, wet, black hair spilling down over his bloodshot eyes.
"...what's the name?" The question comes from him and Ice doesn't understand at first.
He's surprised by Maverick's hand coming up, shakily and reaching behind his ear, plucking a single, lonely white flower.
Oh.
"Hellebore− Wait, Maverick... don't− don't touch it− it's−"
"Poisonous." Maverick says in quiet awe, holding the white flower ever so gently in his palm. He brings it up, up so close to his face, ever so gently smelling the flower. "...winter rose, right? Suits you."
Iceman realizes, right there and then, sitting side-by-side with Maverick, watching the crown of deeply blue myosotis crawl around his head and die, shedding petals everywhere that he's a goner.
And Pete Mitchell was holding his heart right there, carelessly, in the palm of his hand.