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Summary
Teammates, wingmen, Ice and Maverick, they’re all synonyms in Maverick’s head, the lines long since disappeared and mixed up, placed in the wrong boxes with the wrong labels. And now Maverick’s in Ice’s face, eerily similar to that day in the locker room, to that dreadful year, to jet wash and biting teeth and stupidity. And Ice wants to push Maverick away, to give way and make space. He doesn’t. Because it’s better him than someone else. Better than Maverick walking away with his fists clenched and teeth bared and going to Bradley demanding why.
Ice wants to grab Maverick by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Yes, Mitchell. It was fucking obvious that Bradley was getting restless. That he needed space for all the fear and anger to go. He doesn’t really know what to say, but he opens his mouth, getting ready to deliver something. Anything. Maverick beats him to it, quick and desperate. Just in the nick of time. In the last second. It’s all so irritating.
Or: Ice and Mav argue about everything and nothing. Ouroboros.