Chapter Text
August "Frostbite" Mitchell-Kazansky.
Twenty-five years old, holding the golden plaque with his full name engraved on it. His fathers stand amidst the crowd–his Pa, Iceman, and his Dad, Maverick–chanting his second name. His callsign.
Frostbite.
A callsign born from a reckless stunt during high-altitude navigation training. As usual, August was running late for the training exercise. He got his gloves wet while drinking water in a hurry to get to his cockpit and decided to fly with them damp anyway.
Somehow, his brain didn’t think about how he’d be going to high altitudes; high altitudes meant lower temperatures. His mistake led to superficial frostbite, earning him a callsign that would stick with him forever—one that would become a symbol of his reckless streak. It had been serious enough to leave its mark on his fingertips, serving as a reminder of who he was and where he belonged—the sky.
August liked it, the mark, nonetheless. It felt like a little nod to both of his fathers–it tied to his Pa’s callsign being ice-related, but it also hinted at his Dad’s recklessness.
August Mitchell-Kazansky.
Truly a mix of his fathers. Auggie’s got his Dad’s height, yet he carried his 5’10” self as if he were 6’0” (he blamed it on the Kazansky confidence™). His dirty blond hair and green eyes—Maverick’s eyes—matched the sharp edge of Iceman’s facial structure.
Despite all his similarities to Maverick, people always saw Iceman in him. August had the same posture, the same arrogance. He was a hybrid, hence why he was a Mitchell-Kazansky.
August’s fiery personality, on the other hand, was what made everyone (including every Admiral within a 100-mile radius) know that he was his Dad’s son. Maverick’s recklessness was passed down to Frostbite. His Pa used to call Maverick and him firecrackers; he still does.
August stood still for a moment, glancing at his reflection in the window in front of him to double-check that he looked presentable enough to stand on stage and hold his trophy. He looked the part—like a prodigy. His eyes, green like his Dad’s, stared back at his own in the glass. August straightened his uniform and took a deep breath before walking up onto the stage for the ceremony.
He stood there, head held up high, with everyone’s eyes on him and him alone. The 2016 TOP GUN winner. Not every pilot gets to win TOP GUN. Hell, some pilots never even get invited to North Island. August knew he had made it to where he was through his own skill, not through his parents’ connections (contrary to popular belief). August was not, and never will be, a nepo baby.
His being the son of two Naval Aviation legends came with rumours that he was treated with special perks compared to his peers, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Admirals, Instructors, and people of high rank always expected so much of him–they were hard on him because they saw his potential. A mixture of the legendary Iceman and Maverick was a weapon the Navy would not miss out on.
August shook Iceman’s hand; it came naturally to him. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d received an award from his Pa. As he held the trophy, August couldn’t help but wonder—would this moment ever feel like enough? Would he always be chasing the next win, the next badge, just to hear his fathers say they were proud? Or was this his moment, right here, right now?
Frostbite felt high on the praise he received left and right. High on the feeling of everyone’s eyes on him. He loved being the center of attention, as self-centered as that sounded. He loved standing on that stage as Iceman’s steady hands pinned the badge onto his Navy dress whites. Auggie saw the pride in his Papa's eyes.
It made him feel at peace knowing that his fathers were proud of him. He’d lived up to their legacies–but this was only the first step for August. He wanted to be even better than them; he wanted his name to be remembered throughout Navy history as the pilot who lived up to everyone’s expectations and more. He reveled in the fact that, now, his name would be on a plaque on the same wall as his Pa’s.
All Auggie really wanted was to make his fathers proud.
The applause faded as they stepped off stage, the weight of the trophy in August’s hand. The weight of the trophy was almost too much to carry—its physical heft only matched by the emotional weight August couldn’t fully grasp. The golden badge burned on August’s chest, still warm from the moment it was pinned on by his Pa.
Footsteps could be heard making their way towards August, urging him to turn and spot the approaching figure, the egotistical second-place winner. August saw the jealousy that simmered in his rival's eyes, if that's what you can even call their relationship. He was easy to surpass. It brought a shit-eating grin onto August's face. The victory meant he earned the right to be cocky.
"TOP GUN winner, eh? You sure you earned that fair and square, Mitchell-Kazansky?" Lucky asked, his tone accusatory. The last name slipped out of the taller man's mouth as if it were venomous. August had expected, at least a hint, of suspicion from his classmates. Doesn't matter, though; Aug won, and there was nothing anyone could've done about it.
“You're bullshitting. I was ten points ahead of you. You can't cheat the point system," August murmured with a mocking glare. "You being a sore loser has nothing to do with me."
Lucky narrowed his eyes, arms folding in front of his chest. His eyes ran up and down August's frame, judgingly, stopping to stare at his trophy longer than necessary. "Questioning your nepotism doesn't make me a sore loser, Frostbite."
"Sounds to me like you're just jealous.”
"Oh, fuck off," he grumbled in response, pushing past August's shoulder and storming off like a toddler who had been denied ice cream before dinner. August rolled his eyes at his rival's immaturity, wondering very faintly how he even made it to TOP GUN with that kind of attitude.
The next thing he knew, he was pulled into his Dad’s embrace, his face pressed against the familiar and comforting warmth of Maverick’s chest. The sound of his heartbeat was oddly grounding.
"What a childish asshole." Pete pulled away, his hand brushing over his son’s hair, and there was no hiding the growing tears in his eyes. August chuckled in response, his smile matching the one on his Dad's face. The kind that came when a father realized his child had exceeded expectations, but this moment was about more than just the plaque. It was about the hard work and effort that August had put in to be the best pilot he could be—his unyielding determination.
"That’s my boy," Pete whispered. His voice cracked, thick with emotion. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but August could hear the raw pride in the way his Dad trembled. "God, I’m so proud of you, Augs."
August swallowed hard. His throat tightened, but he held back, unable to show the true impact that such simple words had on him. Instead, he just looked at his father, trying to make sense of all the unspoken feelings crashing through him. The validation. The pride. The love. All of it was there.
“Thank you,” August whispered, the words heavy and full of meaning. His voice was shaky. It all felt like a blur, not fully clicking in his head.
Another set of arms wrapped around both men, undoubtedly August’s Pa. Tom's embrace was instantly comforting, like the anchor he always was. His Pa let out a quavering sigh, the kind of sigh that spoke of relief and tenderness.
Tom kissed his son’s forehead, his lips lingering for just a moment before he pulled back. Despite how small that gesture was, it meant the world to August. “Plaque looks better with your name on it than it did mine,” Ice chuckled, his voice filled with tender pride.
There were so many more things that August's Pa had wanted to say, but words couldn’t explain the feelings that held his heart captive. Pride was too simple a term, and love didn’t quite capture the depth. They didn’t need to say anything else, because the truth was clear.
"I doubt it," August chirped, holding up the plaque for both of his parents to see.
His Dad took it in his hands and held it up. "I think it would've looked best with my name on it. Such a shame that your Pa won. I definitely deserved it more," he hummed, his tone humorous but carrying a hint of guilt. He would've won if Goose hadn't died.
Iceman sensed the beginning of a spiral in his husband's eyes and pulled him in for a side hug, a silent act of comfort. That's what Tom did best.
The air shifted from its brief heaviness back to the lightheartedness of August's win. Maverick handed the plaque back to his son. "Y'know what would be a great way to celebrate your win?" he asked with a cheeky grin on his face.
"Don't give me that look, P," Ice huffed in mock-exasperation. The look on his husband's face was a dead giveaway that he was planning something that was either illegal or borderline illegal.
Maverick’s smile grew wider. "It's the only one I got." He shrugged. "And it's nothing bad this time, babe. I promise." His words made August snort in disbelief.
"What I was going to say, before I was, oh so rudely, interrupted," he muttered, glaring at Ice, "was that we could go back home after the ceremony and crack open our photo album to show him your winning ceremony.”
Both blonds nodded simultaneously. The resemblance between them was uncanny. Mav chuckled fondly and kissed the foreheads of his two favourite people.
The rest of the event went by quite repetitively; some random admiral or captain who knew either, or both, of his fathers would walk up to the three and congratulate August—maybe even throw in a generic joke about August's similarities to his dads.
Things only became more interesting when August’s favourite of the ‘86 flyboys, his Uncle Slider, tackled August to the ground. Even at his old age, he couldn’t help but bully his best friend’s son. “Look at you! All proper,” he teased, ruffling August’s hair, “following after your amazing Uncle’s footsteps, huh?”
“Uncle Ronnie! I didn’t know you’d be here,” August managed to choke out in between his contagious laughter. He’d grown up with the ‘86 flyboys being his uncles, but he particularly leaned towards Slider because of his deeper friendship with his Pa. His second favourite uncle was probably Cougar.
Slider barked out a laugh as he stood up and pulled August in for a playful headlock. “Icicle, I wouldn’t miss your win for the world.”
Ice grinned at the sight of his former RIO and son’s shenanigans. “Quit trying to kill my son, will you?” he asked, nudging Slider’s side with his elbow. “I still need him around.”
“Your Pa saved your ass again. Next time you won’t be so lucky, Mini Mav.” Slider reluctantly let go of his nephew with a mock-annoyed sigh.
“Mini Mav,” Pete echoed with a questioning raise of his eyebrows and a smile on his face.
Slider shrugged. “Is that not what he is? He looks just like ya, shortstack,” he reasoned, earning a shove from Maverick.
* * *
By the end of the unbearably long ceremony, Slider had already gone back to his hotel room. The other three had already made a beeline for the car that Maverick had parked in the parking lot. Mav climbed into the driver's seat, his husband beside him in the passenger seat. August was the last one in, practically diving into the backseat. That's how it's always been.
It was instinct, at this point, for August to connect his phone to the car's speakers and blast some of his "horrible music", in his Pa's words. Regardless of how much Ice tried to deny it, sometimes he was caught humming a song from August’s playlist under his breath.
Unexpectedly, August’s phone buzzed.
Hangman 🤡
Hangman 🤡: hey i hope im bothering u
Hangman 🤡: congrats on winning top gun
Me: aww u were keeping an eye on this years winners
Me: how sweet of u
Hangman 🤡: haha
Hangman 🤡: very funny frosty
Me: thanks
Hangman 🤡: its not a crime to care about whether or not my squadmate wins
Me: i knew u cared
Hangman 🤡: fuck off
“What’s got you smiling at your phone like a madman?” Ice teased, snapping August out of his little trance. He was looking back at his son with a smirk that screamed “I know exactly what’s happening”.
Maverick let out a snort, looking at August through the rear-view mirror. “More like who.” Pete would never miss out on the opportunity to mess with his son for any reason. It was his love language, in a way.
August fought back an eye-roll. “Just a friend.”
Maverick chuckled. “Sure,” he murmured.
“That’s what they all say,” August’s Pa added with a smile that mirrored that of his husband.
Iceman and Maverick have seen this before, it happened to them years ago. The two lovers used to hide their pining behind the label of ‘wingmen’ until it became painfully obvious that they couldn’t hide their feelings from each other anymore.
Then came the dilemma where they’d have to hide their love for each other from the world (except for a select few—Slider, Hollywood and Wolfman). That was arguably the hardest part of their lives, and it had stretched out up until DADT’s repeal in 2011 making it almost thirty years of them hiding their love.
Maverick glanced to his right and shared a look with his lover, one that took Ice back thirty years to the day he first met the smug brunet. They’d listened to August’s long rants about the “cocky blond pilot” that was in August’s squadron. Ice imagined that’s what he sounded like to Slider whenever he could complain about Mav.
In simple terms, they saw themselves in August and his unnamed squadmate.
Hangman 🤡
Me: okay sorry
Me: on a real note, thank u
Hangman 🤡: do u plan on coming back to the vigilantes?
Hangman 🤡: yk, since winners get to be posted wherever they want
Me: probably
Me: coyote would come for my ass otherwise
Hangman 🤡: so will i
Hangman 🤡: cant have u running away from me
Me: that gives me an even bigger sentiment to escape
Hangman 🤡: u talk as if i torture u
Me: hearing u talk is torture
Me: esp w that fuckass accent of urs
Hangman 🤡: u wound me frostbite
Me: that was the point :) glad u got the memo
* * *
August crawled onto the couch, a mug of hot cocoa in his hands, while his dads took a seat on his left. His Dad had a photo album in his lap and his Pa held a plate with cookies, of Maverick’s making, on them. They had to be Maverick’s, Ice couldn't cook for shit.
“Look at those bleached tips. I miss our youth,” Mav reminisced as he cracked open the album and ran his fingers over a polaroid of his lover and his RIO. The picture featured a sunkissed Ice and Slider posing with a Volleyball in Ice’s hands—the picture was undoubtedly taken on the day the flyboys went to the beach.
“Oh, God. Don’t remind me. I looked awful, how was I convinced they looked good?”
August giggled in response. “Don’t worry, Pa. Everyone did crazy things before they got all wrinkly,” he joked, getting a pillow thrown at his head in retaliation by his Pa.
The son gasped in response and grabbed the nearest pillow, swinging it at his Pa. Before either of the blonds could react, they were faced with two pillows hitting them square in the face simultaneously; thrown by Maverick.
Giggles and maniacal laughter filled the living room as the three started a childish pillow fight. They ended up spilling the mugs of hot cocoa all over the carpet, but none of them really seemed to care. The carpet could always be cleaned or replaced, but they could return to this moment again.
August had emerged victorious, though that was expected of the youngest of the three. His fathers sat on the floor, panting and clutching their stomachs in laughter. Their son, on the other hand, was dancing around in joy.
"Are you so petty to the point that you're celebrating beating two old men in a pillow fight?" Ice asked, unable to hide his beaming smile.
Maverick threw a pillow at his husband, a fake scowl on his face. "Who are you calling old?"
"Us. I'm calling us old, Mav."
"I am not old. Speak for yourself, Thomas," Pete warned teasingly, aiming an empty plastic water bottle at Tom. August barked out a laugh at the sound of his Dad full-naming his Pa. "What's so funny, August?"
August choked on a laugh at his Dad's threatening tone. "Nothing. Sorry."
* * *
They all ended up passed out in the living room, scattered around. Maverick was sprawled out on the couch; Ice sat on the floor, leaning back against the couch: August was lying down on the loveseat with his legs draped over one of the armrests.
The living room was illuminated by the warm lighting of the floor lamp that sat in the corner, painting a soft hue over the family.
It was only the beginning for August Mitchell-Kazansky.
He had celebrated the first notable moment of his career. There were still many more to come. August's world would be flipped upside-down within the next three mere years. But for now, he was content with where he was.
Everything felt right.
They were proud of him.
This is the story of a pilot fueled by legacy and pride, by expectations and goals, but also haunted by grief—and the question of a love he may not have fully acknowledged yet.