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Ice didn't mean to do what he just did.
Ice didn't intend to pour his heart out on a paintbrush and a blank canvas. Ice didn't want to lock eyes with a certain pilot and have that beautiful gaze fixated in his mind like a photograph. And most of all, Ice did not plan to paint that very pilot’s gaze on the paper white canvas.
But there it was, serene and perfect. Pete “Maverick” Mitchell’s painted portrait stared back at Ice with unblinking, artificial eyes.
It all started when Ice was very young, around ten or eleven. His grandmother, a quiet, frail woman that barely spoke a lick of english, gifted Ice a beautiful, hand-carved wooden box for Christmas. It was decorated with small flowers and smelled like old cigars and sandpaper. Ice had been quite confused about the gift as he held it in his arms, but Ice’s grandmother pointed to the lid as a gesture for him to open it. Ice opened the box carefully; inside it was his first-ever paintbrush set, fully equipped with hand-crafted brushes, a palette, and 5 small cups of paint.
Ice stared at the gift in awe as his grandmother leaned over to Ice’s mother, whispering something faintly in polish to her. Ice’s mother turned to him with a bittersweet smile.
“That was your grandfather's,” She said to Ice, her hand grasping his shoulder. “Grandma wanted you to have it, as a memory of Grandpa.”
Ice nodded, giving a smile of gratitude to his grandmother. He didn't know much about his Grandfather—he died way before Ice was born, in the 40’s—but from the way his mother talked about him, Ice knew he must've been a good man.
“Dziękuję,” Ice murmured in Polish, hoping his pronunciation of “thank you” was decent enough for his grandmother to understand. Ice went to his room to store the box next to his schoolbooks on his desk.
And for the next few days, young Tom Kazansky didn't think about the box; he was focused on playing with his brand new action figures he got from his parents on Christmas Day.
However, the next day, Ice’s mother had bought him a canvas. Her mother placed it down in front of him and encouraged him to paint, likely reminiscent of her father’s artistry. Ice, at first, was quite reluctant to try something new.
“What would I paint?” Ice asked, frustrated.
“You can paint whatever you like,” His mother responded with a gentle tone. “That’s the beauty of art. Paint whatever is on your mind right now.”
Ice thought about it for a moment, and then finally dipped one of the brushes in paint.
He decided to paint his mother. When Ice revealed the portrait to his mother a couple hours later, the hunch she had was finally confirmed: Tom Kazansky, her son, was an astounding painter. Just like Grandpa Kazansky.
Soon enough, Ice was painting almost all the time. After painting his mother, he began to paint other things. Passerbys on the street, his friends, the trees around his house, the planes at the airshow he visited during a field trip—Ice found himself painting anything and everything. He enjoyed it much more than he liked to let on; painting gave him something to clear his mind, a form of escape whenever times would get rough.
However, painting never became a source of income for Iceman. While he loved it and wanted to make something out of it, Ice’s father did not. His father was a military man, one of no tolerance for emotion, expression, and art. It was only by Ice’s mother pleading with him that Ice’s father did not take painting away from him completely. Instead, his father sternly reminded Ice that he would never get anywhere with art, and used Ice’s love of flying to force him into the navy before Ice could really make something out of his talent. So it remained just hobby; but Ice didn't mind now. Iceman loved the navy and he loved flying. He was ice-cold, no mistakes; the prodigy of the air. Art was just something personal for Iceman; it stayed as a quiet form of escapism, like it had always been. In fact, no one in Ice’s naval squadron knew of Ice’s little hobby—minus Slider of course. Ice’s RIO knew everything.
But now, everything had changed. Iceman had poured his heart out, not expecting the result to be a portrait very man he despised—or, well, wanted to despise. Iceman knew something else was brewing—and he would've never confronted himself if it weren't for this damn painting.
He took a step back, studying the canvas. Maverick’s features were a little too accurate for Iceman’s liking. Somehow, Ice had perfectly memorized every detail of the pilot’s face. That scared Ice—usually, he would need some type of reference for a portrait. But he had painted Maverick from memory, and it looked perfect.
Ice ran his fingers through his hair in a panic, groaning. His plight was cut short, however, as the door to his room swung open.
Ice jumped at the sound, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, Slider. Do you ever knock?”
“This is my room too, dumbass. ‘The hell would I knock on my own door?” Slider jabbed back, slamming the door closed as he strode in.
Slider’s eyes widened, and Ice immediately knew what his RIO was staring at. His heart dropped. The canvas.
“Yo, you're painting? Let me see!” Slider, unknowingly, began to walk over to glance at Ice’s artwork.
“Wait! You can't, don't—” Ice protested, trying to stop him, but it was too late; Slider had caught a glimpse of the painting. All Iceman could do was helplessly watch his RIO’s face twist in confusion.
“Holy shit, is that Maverick?” Slider exclaimed, glancing at the painting and then at Ice.
Iceman could only nod briskly with his breath caught in his throat.
“Damn, how much did he pay you to draw him?” Slider joked, completely unaware of the situation. “No way you would've painted him for free.”
Iceman shook his head slowly, his face getting hot.
“Slider.” Ice struggled to say something. “This…I…we have a problem.”
Slider’s expression morphed from one of lighthearted disbelief to one of concern, and eventually, realization.
“I see.”
Iceman nodded, acknowledging his RIO’s thoughts. He swallowed nervously as the air grew very heavy.
“Slider…I don't…I don't know what came over me.”
Slider looked down, his head deep in thought. A long silence stretched between them. Finally, Slider met Ice’s gaze with such a serious stare that it gave Iceman chills.
“I think you know what this means, Ice.” He said, crossing his arms.
Those words hit Iceman like a truck barreling at him with full speed. It was what Ice knew he needed to hear, but it was also what Ice did not want to hear at all.
Ice was forced to accept the fact that he didn't paint Maverick on accident. He tried to convince himself that he did, but it wasn't true. Both Ice and Slider knew that. Iceman wanted to paint Maverick. Iceman always painted whatever was on his mind, and this time, it was Maverick.
In fact…Maverick had been on Ice’s mind a lot. Iceman hated to admit it. In fact, if it wasn't for this painting, he would've taken it to the grave. He was ice-cold, after all. He never expressed emotion—unless he was given a paintbrush and paint.
“I don't get it,” Iceman said, huffing in anger. “I hate him. I despise him and his recklessness. His cocky personality. I need to despise him…I have to.”
Iceman ran his hands through his hair again. “So why the hell would I want to paint him?”
Ice sat down on his bunk, rubbing his eyes. Tears almost formed at the corner of his eyes from utter fury.When Iceman looked back up, Slider was still staring at him. Slider’s gaze had softened.
“You know the answer to that, Tom.” Slider sighed. “Do I really need to spell it out for you?”
Iceman sighed, shutting his eyes. “I…”
To Iceman’s dismay, Slider continued. “I’ve only seen you paint portraits by memory twice before.”
Iceman shook his head, realizing what Slider was trying to imply. “No. It's not that. Anything but that.”
The only two people he painted portraits of by memory were the past two people—the only people—Iceman fell in love with. One was a naval cadet when Ice and Slider were in the academy; Ice never even figured out his name. Another was a fellow pilot years ago, callsign “Owl”. Owl already had a wife, so there was no chance for Ice to even try. Ice burned both of those portraits soon after they were made, and then swore that he would never fall in love with another man again.
Iceman stuttered over his words, trying to get a coherent sentence strung together. “It—it can’t be. I can't, Slider…”
As he murmured those words, Maverick’s portrait caught Iceman’s eye again. Memories of his and Maverick’s banter flashed through Iceman’s mind as he stared at his perfect rendition of Maverick. In Ice’s mind, Maverick gave Ice a smug grin, getting a little too close to Ice as a sign that he wouldn't back down.
Oh, Iceman thought.
Oh.
Until now, Iceman never realized that memory gave him butterflies.
“I've seen the way you look at him, Ice.” Slider responded after a long silence. “I’m not stupid. You may be ‘ice-cold’, but you can't keep up that demeanor for long, can you?”
Iceman couldn't respond. It was all too much; the painting, the memories, everything was pointing to one conclusion.
“Shit!” Iceman put his head in his hands.
Slider’s voice came out from somewhere in front of Ice, barely a whisper.
“You love him, don't you?”
If it were any other person, Iceman would've slapped them in the face for even suggesting that. Iceman never admitted defeat—that was one thing he was too proud to do. But Slider was his RIO. They've been inseparable since they were kids. So only around Slider would Tom “Ice-cold” Kazansky tell him the truth.
Iceman gave Slider a barely visible nod.
There was a long pause, until Slider broke it, shaking his head with a smile. “Now Goose owes me 50 bucks.”
Iceman snapped his head up. “What?”
Slider laughed. “Nothing.”
“Slider, this isn't funny,” Iceman retorted. He groaned and collapsed on his bunk, being so discombobulated from the realization that he had fell in love again. “What the actual fuck do I do? How the hell do I know that Maverick even likes men, let alone me?”
Slider chuckled, walking over and patting Iceman on the shoulder. “Ice, you don't have to worry about that. You don't know how many times Goose has told me of the shit Maverick does with men. He’s as queer as they come.”
Iceman looked over at his RIO, a tiny bit of hope flaring in his chest despite the raging emotions of frustration and anxiety. “Well, still. Have you seen him? He hates me. Hell, for the longest time, I was convinced hated him. There's no way I could even try to get that man out on a date.”
Slider shrugged his shoulders. “Ice, you never know unless you try.”
Iceman rolled his eyes. “Slider, that is the shittiest advice you've ever given me.”
“But it’s true!” Slider protested. He pointed to the painting, giving Iceman a wink. “Show him the painting. He’s obsessed with himself. I know it’ll woo him over.”
Iceman glared at his RIO. If looks could kill, Slider would've been dead on the ground. “Ron, it is not that fucking easy.”
Slider shook his head. Suddenly, the room got all quiet, as Slider avoided Iceman’s gaze. “I know you, Ice. You only paint what you love. And I know that you're just going to bottle this up, forget about it, and be absolutely fucking miserable now.
“You already made that goddamn painting,” Slider argued, finally facing his best friend again. “You and I both know there's no turning back now. Not this time.”
Ice looked away from his RIO’s gaze, sighing.
Slider's voice became a hushed whisper. “I refuse to let you miss this chance to finally be happy, Tom.”
Iceman closed his eyes. As much as he hated to admit it, Slider was right.
He needed to do something. And burning the painting and acting like nothing ever happened has never worked out for him. And he—
The door barging open yet again interrupted Ice’s thoughts. Slider turned, and Ice looked at the door.
“Speak of the devil,” Slider breathed.
Iceman watched in horror as the very man he had painted appeared right before him. Peter “Maverick” Mitchell—who looked just as perfect as the portrait depicted him—strolled on in, with Goose in tow, so painfully unaware of what had just happened right beforehand.
“Hey Slider, Ice.” Maverick nodded to both of them.
Iceman couldn't articulate any words to respond; after all, this was the man that Ice had just realized he had fallen in love with.
“Mav, you gotta be more polite,” Goose scolded, as Maverick rolled his eyes.
Iceman watched, and he felt like he got struck in the chest with every single movement Maverick made—this realization of love had changed Ice. Shit, everything Maverick did now was hot.
Goose turned to Slider and Iceman. “Sorry for barging in on you two. Merlin wanted us to fetch you all; we're having a game night at the O-Club—”
But Goose was interrupted by an all-too-curious Maverick.
“Is that an Easel? And paint brushes?” Maverick’s eyes widened, and the oblivious bastard began to walk over. “Holy shit, do you two paint?!”
Iceman, standing up from his bed, tensed up, terrified of what was to come.
“Aaaand that’s our cue to leave,” Slider said, dashing away, grabbing a confused Goose by the shoulder and slamming the door before Iceman could react.
“Ron, you—!” Iceman fumed, but it was too late. The door had shut, Slider had left, and Iceman was alone with his very muse.
Iceman whipped his head around to see Maverick—who was painfully obvious to both Goose and Slider leaving—walking across the room.
There was nothing else Tom Kazansky could do besides watch with terror as Peter Mitchell turned to see the painting.
Maverick paused, scrutinizing the painting intensely. Iceman couldn't help but stare; both in fear and in admiration (as he had to admit, Maverick was beautiful with a serious expression on his face.)
After a second—it felt like an hour for Iceman—Maverick looked up to meet Ice’s gaze, his eyes wide in shock.
“This…this is me…”
Iceman couldn't get a word out of his mouth, so he nodded briskly.
“Did you…did you paint this?” Maverick asked, glancing from the painting to Iceman to the painting again.
Iceman couldn't do anything but nod yet again. Words had left him a long time ago.
Maverick continued to stare, looking from the painting to Iceman. “Ice…” He laughed nervously. “This…”
Maverick's eyes searched the painting again, and then searched Iceman’s eyes. “…This is beautiful.”
Iceman felt like he had been run over by a train. Here he was standing in front of the man that was his rival and muse, and here was his rival saying he thought that Ice’s painting was beautiful.
Maverick looked at Iceman, as if he was waiting for him to say something. And Iceman couldn't hold it in anymore. His ice-cold demeanor was melting, and there was only one way Iceman could possibly explain the painting to Maverick. Ice was done with hiding; he had to explain everything.
“I’m in love with you,” Iceman blurted out.
Shit. Iceman’s eyes widened in light of what he just said. I did not mean for it to come out like that.
There was a moment of silence as the two processed what Ice confessed. Iceman watched as Maverick's face twisted into shock, his face going from pale to red to pink.
“What?!”
“I-” Iceman closed his eyes, trying to make sense of his thoughts. He could feel the intense gaze of Maverick on him.
“I never realized I loved you until I made this painting. Fuck, if it weren't for that painting I would've bottled it up.” Iceman sighed. He opened his eyes, but looked to the floor, too nervous to look Maverick in the eye.
A small pause ensued as Iceman took a shaky breath, and then he continued. “But yeah. I've been painting for years. It's a hobby of mine. And I’m gay. And in love with you. If you don't like me that’s fine, I wouldn't expect you to love m—”
“Shut up, Ice.”
Iceman froze, finally meeting Maverick’s gaze. Iceman’s heart dropped as Maverick walked towards him.
“Stop talking and let me kiss you already.”
Iceman’s eyes widened again, but before he could react, Maverick’s mouth was on his.
Iceman had to take a second to realize Maverick was kissing him— kissing him with such a fierce passion that Iceman couldn't doubt Maverick’s love for him anymore. Iceman’s hand grabbed the small of Maverick’s neck, and Ice kissed him back as hard as he could.
Feet shuffled as Iceman took the lead, and Maverick was now against the wall with Iceman kissing him so earnestly. Out came the bottled up passion he had for Maverick; Iceman wanted nothing but to just be enveloped with his wingman—his scent, his kiss, everything.
The pair broke for air, and Maverick shot Iceman a grin. “You don't know how long I’ve been waiting for this.”
Iceman rolled his eyes. “Can't believe I had to confess first with a painting.” He joked. “Coward.”
Maverick pulled Iceman closer by the collar, still with a grin on his face. “Less talking. More kissing.”
Iceman couldn't help but oblige. He pulled in with a smile and tasted Maverick again, their lips brushing with each other in a passionate dance. It was now obvious that Iceman and Maverick wanted each other for so long. The anger Iceman had before with their rivalry had all but vanished, turning into love—and lust.
Iceman’s hands roamed as the pair continued to kiss, tracing Maverick’s upper body—from his neck, to the muscles of his shoulders and back, to his chest, and finally resting on Maverick’s hips. Iceman wanted to feel all of Maverick; he was so achingly curious. Maverick’s body felt so perfect under Iceman’s hands, even with the fabric of a shirt, and he loved it.
Iceman felt Maverick shiver from the touch, leaning in forcefully to deepen the kiss as he wrapped his arms around Ice’s shoulders. Iceman knew now that Maverick was just as needy as him.
They broke apart again, gasping for air, and Maverick groaned. “I hate that you're so perfect. Perfect pilot, perfect artist, perfect kisser…”
Iceman smiled, his stomach twisting with butterflies. Maverick looked disheveled already—messy hair, ragged breathing, flushed cheeks—he looked astoundingly hot. “You aren't so bad of a kisser yourself.”
“Keep kissing me then, please,” Maverick whined, closing his eyes. Iceman, of course, couldn't hold himself back anyway.
Iceman kissed him again, pecking Maverick’s face and jawline. Iceman heard Maverick sigh as he kissed him, and Ice grinned. Maverick was so alluring, in every way possible. All the sounds Maverick made were nothing short of enchanting.
Iceman felt the warmth of hands on his stomach—Maverick’s hands had left Iceman’s shoulders and were creeping under his shirt, rubbing circles on his skin. Iceman was so enthralled by the feeling of Maverick's hands on his skin; he kissed Maverick harder, pulling him in as if Iceman wanted to fuse their bodies together.
Iceman’s heart was full of ecstasy, his body tingling with warmth. He couldn't believe it. His artistry had finally helped him in ways he couldn't imagine. And now Iceman was finally indulging in the fantasies he had always wanted.
“Holy fuck— Get a room!”
A voice reverberated through Iceman’s ears. He and Maverick snapped apart, with Iceman almost stumbling backwards—but the steady hands of Maverick caught Ice before he could fall.
Iceman’s face flushed red, and he glanced at Maverick, who’s face was equally as red as Ice’s. The pair quickly let go of each other and faced the voice, beside themselves with embarrassment.
Slider and Goose were standing in the doorway. Slider's mouth was twisted into massive grin, and Goose’s expression was all but shock.
A very, very, awkward silence ensued.
Slider bumped Goose’s shoulder after a moment. “Told you they'd confess to each other.”
“Slider, I'm going to strangle you,” Ice snapped.
“Awww, look at you,” Slider jeered lightheartedly. “Ice-cold Kazansky is blushing.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, Tom, you are.”
“Fuck you.”
“I mean,” Maverick locked eyes with Iceman, “You do look cute, blushing like that.”
Ice froze, trying not to collapse from that compliment. Ice turned his head away from Maverick— now he truly felt his face getting hot.
“You…. I’m going to strangle you too, Maverick.”
“Good, I'm into that.”
“What?”
Maverick let out a laugh, his smile infectious. Iceman, while absolutely flustered, he couldn't help smile too, staring at his beautiful wingman. Maverick looked so adorable when he was happy.
“Alright!” Slider clapped, interrupting the two, “Ice is absolutely in love with you, Maverick. When's the wedding?”
Maverick shook his head in embarrassment. Iceman shot Slider a glare. If looks could kill, Slider would have died twice now.
Goose chimed in, finally recovering from the shock. “I’ll be the wedding planner.”
Iceman buried his face in his hands for a moment while the others shared a laugh, until he felt a jostle from someone.
It was Maverick. He grinned, giving a flirty look towards Ice. “How about you take me out on a date first? What'd ya say, Kazansky? Wanna know how dangerous I really am?”
Iceman gave Maverick a smirk in response, his cool demeanor coming back to him. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I would like to know. 7 pm, tomorrow, meet me on the tarmac. You better not be late.”
Maverick, acting parallel to Iceman’s memory, got a little too close to Iceman as a sign that he wouldn't back down. “Oh, I’ll be there.”
Iceman simpered. He already knew what he wanted to do with Maverick for the first date; ideas and possibilities were flying in his head.
“Okay lovebirds,” Slider interjected. “Lets address the elephant in the room: what do we do with the painting?”
Iceman’s smile almost vanished. Shit. I forgot about that.
“Do you mind if I keep it, Ice?” Maverick glanced at Ice with sincerity in his eyes. “I wanna hold onto it. It may be a picture of me, but it will remind me of you everytime I look at it.”
Ice scoffed in amusement, trying but failing to hide his happiness after realizing Maverick wanted to keep the painting.
“Yeah.” Iceman beamed. “How can I say no? You're the muse, after all.”
Maverick leaned in, putting his mouth by Iceman’s ear, with a whisper that sent shivers down Ice’s spine. “I’m honored to keep a painting made by my new boyfriend.”
Iceman couldn't hide his joy. His eyes glimmered with delight. He whispered back: “If I get more inspiration… I’ll paint you again.”
Iceman could feel Maverick’s smile next to him.
“I can't wait.”