Work Text:
“You know, if you let me help, it'll be easier,” Ice said calmly and matter-of-factly, walking around Maverik, clearly trying not to touch him.
Usually, Ice never missed an opportunity to run his fingertips over Mave's wings, sending waves of something very good through his body, even when they were in class. It wasn't anything outrageous; life in a society of other winged people always involved accidental touches, but... The difference between a simple friendly touch and Ice's touch was obvious. Even during their training at Top Gun, Maverick couldn't help but feel it, and a year later, he was still basking in his partner's “accidental” attention.
Maverick tried to ignore how his wings reflexively spread when Ice entered the room, and he restrained himself the whole time because, truth be told, he was waiting for the moment when Tom would touch his wings with a smug smile.
Kazansky had never been shy about his tendency to invade other people's personal space, so it was only a matter of time before his shelves appeared in Mave's closet, where, of course, could not be messed up, and on the floor of the shower — a pile of hair and feather care cans, because Ice was a smug jerk, and he himself was sprawled on the couch with a book, waiting for Mave after another unscheduled flight.
He didn't really understand why Iceman had suddenly decided to settle permanently in his house — the Navy allocated separate accommodation equipped for the needs of winged people, which did not make ordinary people very happy, as they were forced to live in standard houses — it was harder for the two of them to coexist without bumping noses, especially since Kazansky's wings were much larger than his own, but Mav would be lying if he said he didn't like waking up surrounded by someone else's warmth. He thought that Ice would never want to live with him under the same roof, but here they were: living together, studying together, flying together.
Maverick never asked Ice anything, because they were... yes, they were friends. They fucked. Tom regularly asked him to clean his wings, which said something, considering that in society, cleaning wings was considered something intimate, but Mav was terribly afraid of ruining it if they suddenly talked. For some reason, he was sure that sooner or later, Ice would get tired and everything would go back to normal.
“Just a try.” A new experience, Mav decided to himself and continued to enjoy what this cohabitation brought him: sex, gentle touches, breakfasts, and dinners. However, he never forgot that everything was temporary and that one day none of this would be there. There was nothing wrong with that. Nothing can last forever, right?
For this reason, Maverik never allowed Ice to take care of him. He would explode every time someone else's fingers briefly adjusted his dislocated wing, as if asking for more, for something that Pete was afraid to give. Tom had offered to clean his feathers more than once, but Mav stubbornly did it himself, spending hours wriggling around in the bathroom, or, in extreme cases, turning to professionals. Sometimes after flights, Goose would force him to sit on a bench and get to work, and Mitchell would catch Tom giving him some strange looks.
They didn't talk about that either.
Of course, Pete wanted—hell, he really wanted Tom to take care of him. He could almost imagine how it would be: alone, Ice was very gentle, and surely that gentleness would only increase when it came to his wings. Kazansky still followed the rules, and he probably knew how to care for wings, but it was one thing to dream about it and quite another to allow him more than careful touches and strokes when Maverick's wings didn't need care.
“Mav,” Ice repeated more insistently, “The medical center is closed right now. Are you willing to wait until Monday?” In response, Mitchell shrugged irritably, his wings drooping as if they understood they would not receive help.
Oh, he was in absolute disarray.
After washing off the dirt as best he could, he tossed and turned all night, accompanied by the disapproving grunts of Ice, who eventually folded his wings and moved to the edge of the bed. Oh, damn, Saturday was just awful. Maverick realized with anger that he couldn't help himself in this case, irritably giving up on trying to fix anything and shrugging his shoulders more often than usual, trying to get rid of the unpleasant sensations.
Ice, of course, noticed this, but said nothing. “Don't ask, don't tell” — a gentleman's agreement that applied to all areas of their lives. He didn't say anything until evening. Everything had its limits, and it was a miracle that Pete hadn't broken down. All he could think about was how to feel better. He had to get through another day. Mav clenched his fists.
“Pete,” he flinched at the sound of his name. Mav hoped that Ice would just leave him alone and go about his business, but he was damn stubborn. “This can't go on. I won't sleep with you if you don't let me fix you up.”
“You have a home, Ice,” Maverick hissed. He didn't want to argue with Ice, but he was so tired of these stupid wings that the angry reminder slipped out.
He was afraid that Tom would really leave him alone, but instead he felt Ice confidently take his hand and lead him into the living room, ignoring his loud, wordless protest.
“Why don't you want me to help you with your wings?” he gently pushed Mav onto the floor.
“None of your business,” Mav replied, but he sat down with his back to the sofa anyway, unable to resist the natural desire to feel good. The wings straightened themselves, causing Ice to smirk as he sat down behind him.
“In any case, it's no longer your choice. You could hurt yourself, so just sit quietly for half an hour, okay?”
Mav's first instinct when he felt the confident hands tracing the contours of his wings was to run. He couldn't suppress the tremor in his body, aware of his vulnerable position and admitting that he truly wanted this.
But in life, things don't always turn out the way you want them to, Mav reminded himself and tried to stand up.
He was prevented from doing so by firm hands on his shoulders, close—too close—to the base of his wings.
“Easy,” Ice said softly but firmly next to his ear, “It's okay, Pete.”
The words enveloped him like Ice's wings enveloped him at night, giving him feelings unlike any other. Warmth. Safety. Home.
He had nowhere to run. Ice would have caught him inside the house before Maverick could get outside, but he didn't want to fight. His body relaxed under Ice's touch, as it always did, and Mav had to let him take care of him. He wasn't weak, but he allowed himself this. He just had to think of it as another privilege of their strange relationship.
Ice — “Ice cold. No mistakes,” who would have thought — hummed quietly to himself as he tidied up his wings. Tom was careful, every movement he made was correct, and if his touches weren't always appropriate and aimed only at preening... no one could blame him for that. Pete already felt relief from the first touch, but with each feather falling into place, it became more difficult to hold back his satisfied moans.
The medics worked impersonally, almost carelessly, considering the importance of the moment for the winged people. Goose was hasty, occasionally pulling out feathers just for fun (however, when Mav had to clean Goose's wings, he responded in kind), and Ice... It was gentle.
Mav felt satisfaction, the kind you feel when someone close to you preens your wings, and he wanted to do the same for Ice more often. Maybe it would never happen again, but damn it, Mav was going to remember this moment: Ice's quiet song and the feeling of someone else's hands on his wings.
“What song is that?” Mav muttered sleepily, struggling to form the words. He was sinking deeper and deeper into sleep, almost forgetting what it felt like to be cared for.
“My grandmother used to sing it. To be honest, I don't remember the name or the meaning,” Ice ran his hands over Mav's wings, which definitely looked much better now.
Now his touch was definitely not meant to preening; Tom was just running his fingers over his wings in a steady rhythm, and Pete wasn't going to stop him. Finally, all the discomfort was gone. Only a day had passed, and he had already forgotten what it was like to live without having to shrug his shoulders.
Mave mumbled something in response, but his head was getting heavier and heavier, and Tom, apparently, had no intention of stopping. Let him.
“You have beautiful wings, Pete,” he heard, as if through a layer of water.
Beautiful. No one had ever said such words to him before.