Open arms.
The first day of Top Gun begins like any other: the best of the best—swagger and sweat in human form—squeezed into a room with too much testosterone and not nearly enough humility.
Maverick sits in the front row, twirling his pen, pretending he’s not vibrating with the kind of energy that makes commanders sigh and therapists rich. Goose lounges beside him, grinning like a cat that got the cream.
Then he walks in.
Lt. Tom “Iceman” Kazansky. Blond. Perfect. Sharp enough to slice through steel with one look. His flight suit fits too well, his smirk is borderline criminal, and when he takes his seat at mid-left, he looks straight ahead—then winks at Maverick.
It’s not a blink.
It’s intentional.
Slow. Confident.
A calculated missile strike.
Maverick’s ears flush pink. Goose nearly falls out of his chair trying not to laugh.
“Jesus, Mav,” Goose whispers, “you just got winked at by the Iceman.”
Maverick mutters, “Yeah, well, I’m not interested.”
(He absolutely is.)
.
That night, the O Club buzzes with laughter, booze, and bravado. Pilots drink, dance, and boast. Charlie’s in the corner—sharp, stunning, clearly interested in one Lt. Pete Mitchell.
But Maverick’s eyes aren’t on her.
They’re on Iceman—leaning against the bar, white summer shirt stretched across muscle, platinum dog tags catching the light. Slider’s beside him, chatting up some ensign, but Ice’s gaze keeps drifting back to Maverick.
Then the music shifts.
Goose smirks. “You gonna do it?”
He sees that wild spark ignite in Maverick’s eyes and thinks, Oh boy.
“I’m absolutely gonna do it,” Maverick says.
He strides to the microphone, determination in every step. The first few piano notes of Journey’s “Open Arms” hum through the bar. The crowd quiets.
Maverick sings softly, eyes locked on Iceman: “So now I come to you… with open arms…”
Goose shakes his head in disbelief. “Subtle, Mav. Really subtle.” But being the loyal co-pilot he is, he orders another round and braces for impact.
Maverick keeps going, voice low and velvety: “Nothing to hide, believe what I say…”
His gaze never wavers. Green eyes, open and raw, holding no disguise.
Iceman freezes mid-sip. Slider’s jaw drops. What in homoerotic hell is he witnessing? And why does Ice look enchanted?
Then—Ice smiles. That slow, knowing, devastating smile that says, Yeah. I know that’s for me.
Charlie, bless her heart, claps enthusiastically, convinced the performance was for her. Maverick gives her a polite grin, but when he glances back—
Iceman mouths, Beautiful voice, flyboy.
Maverick blushes. Goose nearly chokes on his beer.
(And that, right there, should’ve been the first clue that Ice was as gone for Maverick Mitchell as Maverick was for him. Because Maverick can’t sing for shit.)
(Either Iceman’s a liar—or he’s tone-deaf.)
(Goose thinks it’s love. It has to be.)
.
The next few weeks are chaos.
Between lectures, hops, and near-midair collisions, Maverick and Iceman are locked in a duel that’s half dogfight, half courtship.
They trade barbs like love letters:
“Your ego’s writing checks your body can’t cash.”
“Yeah? Then maybe you should come collect, Ice.”
Goose, Slider, and the rest of the class can only watch helplessly as every debrief turns into a flirt war. Hollywood starts a betting pool. Wolfman keeps score. Sundown just wants to graduate in peace.
During one hop, Iceman gets on Maverick’s tail.
“You can run, Mitchell, but you can’t hide.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ice. I like when you chase.”
Goose groans, “Oh my GOD, I’m gonna eject myself.”
(Slider’s right there with him, because—damn.)
Then Wolfman suggests a volleyball match—something about “bonding.” But as the game progresses, it becomes painfully clear that two of the players have… other motives.
What starts as friendly competition becomes The Thirst Game.
It’s ninety-five degrees. Sun. Sweat. Dog tags. Abs.
Maverick serves. Iceman’s shirtless. Every move is an Olympic event in repressed desire.
Goose leans toward Slider. “They’re not playing volleyball—they’re flirting with athletic props.”
“Man,” Slider mutters, “if they make eye contact one more time, I’m calling HR.”
Maverick spikes the ball, wins the point, flashes that wicked grin. Iceman jogs over, chest gleaming, smirk lethal.
“Nice form,” he says.
Maverick shrugs. “You should see my other positions.”
His gaze burns. Iceman swallows hard, fists clenching, cheeks flushed from more than just the heat.
Goose yells, “I DID NOT HEAR THAT!”
.
Then comes Hop 31. The flat spin. The panic. The canopy. The ocean.
Fear grips his chest. The plane spirals out of control. Maverick’s heartbeat screams don’t let go, don’t lose him.
They eject—impact, water, chaos.
Maverick surfaces, gasping, hauls Goose into the raft. Goose coughs, grimacing, but alive.
“You owe me one hell of a steak dinner, Mav,” he croaks.
(Maverick would buy him every steak in the world if it meant he was safe.)
Back at base, Iceman finds Maverick in the locker room. No words. Just a look—soft, worried, real.
“He’s fine,” Maverick says quietly. “I’m fine.”
Iceman steps closer, hand brushing his shoulder. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Yeah,” Maverick murmurs, “me too.”
For once, there’s no banter. Just breath.
.
Iceman wins Top Gun. Maverick claps, smiling despite the ache in his chest.
After the ceremony, Ice finds him outside, alone by his bike.
“You did good up there,” Maverick says softly.
“So did you,” Iceman replies. “You’re still dangerous.”
“Only to you,” Maverick grins.
Weeks have passed, and Maverick finally accepts it—the fire in his veins, the urge to close the distance, the way Ice’s lips look like sin and salvation—it’s not one-sided.
A beat.
A breath.
They lean in. Noses brush. The air hums.
Then Slider yells, “ICEMAN, PHOTO!”
They jerk apart like guilty schoolboys.
“See you around?” Ice asks.
“Count on it,” Maverick says.
(And oh, did he.)
.
When the new orders arrive, they’re deployed to the USS Enterprise for the most dangerous rescue mission of their careers.
MiGs. Missiles. Chaos.
But through it all—they’ve got each other’s backs.
Iceman’s wing gets hit. Maverick dives to save him. Together, they take down enemy after enemy until the sky is theirs again.
When they land, the deck erupts in cheers.
Iceman grabs Maverick, shaking his head, voice cracking: “You can be my wingman anytime.”
His eyes are bright—raw—with something Maverick doesn’t dare name but desperately hopes is real.
Maverick grins. “Bullshit. You can be mine.”
Because I already am yours.
They hug—long, tight, too long for just brothers-in-arms.
Goose mutters to Slider, “They’re absolutely gonna make out after this.”
Slider sighs. “I’m begging the Navy to ban hugging.”
(Goose was right… ish.)
.
That night, in the quiet hum of the carrier, Maverick and Iceman finally drop the act.
Maverick drags Ice into his room—no resistance from the blond—and the moment the door clicks shut, their eyes lock. Their breaths are ragged, their gazes fierce and unwavering.
Iceman moves first. He cups Maverick’s face in his hands, lowering his head until their lips meet in a scorching kiss—one heavy with weeks of pent-up desire, the desperate need to know Maverick is really there, alive, his. The kiss is laced with lust, yes, but beneath it thrums something deeper, something neither of them dares to name.
Maverick lets out a soft moan, rising onto his toes as he loops his arms around Ice’s neck. He presses himself fully against Ice’s chest, his lips parting with a quiet, breathy groan. Iceman seizes the moment, sliding his tongue into Maverick’s mouth and savoring the unmistakable taste of Pete “Maverick” Mitchell.
There’s laughter, whispered confessions, and the soft clink of dog tags. Maverick rides Iceman with abandon, trying to hold back the sounds that the rubbing of Iceman’s cock against his prostate brings out of him, Iceman grips Maverick’s ass tightly, steady and sure, leaving traces of strength and want in their wake, and thrusts hard and fast, each thrust purposeful and precise. Each movement is deliberate, a wordless conversation between breath and heartbeat, power and surrender. The world narrows to the rhythm of them — wild, unguarded, and alive.
When they come, it’s with Iceman biting into Maverick’s shoulder to stifle his own growl, white-hot pleasure humming through every nerve. Maverick follows, undone by the sharp sting of Ice’s teeth — the final push that sends him over the edge. His nails rake down Iceman’s shoulders, leaving red crescents that Ice secretly wishes would never fade.
Iceman pulls Maverick—still straddling him—closer against his chest, kissing him softly. His fingers trace and tease where his shaft stretches Maverick open, sending shivers of overstimulation and pleasure through him. Maverick trembles, pressing into Ice’s touch and capturing his mouth in a kiss that’s equal parts sweet and filthy—just as Goose and Slider walk in.
“MAV—OH MY GOD!” Goose shrieks, slamming the door shut so fast the hinges protest. His face drains of color, and even his mustache seems to droop in grief. What kind of sins am I paying for?
Slider, meanwhile, has both hands slapped dramatically over his eyes, looking skyward as if pleading with the heavens for mercy. “I’M BLIND! I’M ACTUALLY BLIND!” he bellows. “I’m gonna need therapy for this—no, exorcism!”
Maverick just groans from the tangle of sheets and limbs, yanking the blanket up to cover both himself and Ice. “You could’ve knocked,” he mutters, voice muffled.
Goose shoots him a look full of pure annoyance. “This is my room too, Mav, did you forget? We share a room, for God’s sake!”
He’s already winding up for another round of righteous fury when his eyes land on the bed. His bed. The exact moment realization dawns, his expression shifts from irritation to absolute horror.
“Wait—hold on. And in my bed?!” Goose throws his hands in the air like he’s been personally victimized by the universe. “Oh, this is betrayal of the highest order! There are Geneva Conventions against this kind of thing!”
Slider, lounging against the doorframe, snorts. “Damn right,” he says, shaking his head with mock solemnity. “Goose, buddy, I feel your pain. First they take your peace and quiet, now your bed. What’s next? Your dignity?”
“I already lost that when I agreed to room with him!” Goose fires back.
Maverick just smirks from where he’s still in Iceman’s lap, unbothered naked and infuriatingly smug. “Hey, you weren’t using it.”
Slider’s eyes narrow behind his hands. “You two better not even think about having sex in my bed,” he warns, pointing dramatically, eyes closed. “Because if I find so much as a suspicious wrinkle on those sheets, I’m burning the whole mattress. I don’t care how much Navy property it is.”
Goose glares between them. “Unbelievable. My bed, of all places. I hope the guilt keeps you up at night.”
Maverick grins. “Oh, don’t worry, Goose—it will.”
Iceman smirks — because beneath that frosty composure and picture-perfect precision, there’s a mischievous little shit. “Next time,” he drawls, utterly unbothered, “lock the hatch, babe.”
Goose lets out a strangled noise. “NEXT TIME?!” he squawks, clutching his heart like he’s about to faint. “There’s gonna be a next time?!”
That’s the moment Ice begins to move again, his arousal stirring back to life—still caught in the molten heat of Maverick’s body. The motion draws a hiss of pleasure from Maverick, who rolls his hips in a slow, answering rhythm.
From nearby comes Goose’s scandalized squawk. “Jesus fucking Christ! Have you two completely forgotten what decency is?” he blurts, hands flying up to cover his eyes. “This is a shared space!”
Slider looks like a man seconds away from ejecting. “Yeah, uh… I’m out,” he mutters, already halfway to the door. “You two can—uh—debrief on your own.” He gropes his way toward the wall, still ‘blind.’ “I can’t believe my last good memory of this day is that,” he groans. “I need bleach—for my eyes and my soul.”
Goose grabs him by the elbow. “C’mon, Slider. Let’s go scrub our brains with jet fuel.”
“Copy that,” Slider mutters. “Preferably the flammable kind.”
They stumble off, muttering curses and prayers in equal measure.
Inside, the chaos softens. Maverick sighs and turns toward Ice, cheeks pink, hair a disaster.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he grumbles.
Ice wraps an arm around him, pulling him in close, eyes crinkling with quiet amusement. “Maybe,” he says, voice low. “But I’m not letting you go, you reckless idiot.”
Maverick blinks up at him, something unspoken flickering between them — all the near misses, the dives, the trust. He leans in until their foreheads touch, a soft smile ghosting across his lips.
“My wingman,” he murmurs.
Ice presses a kiss to his temple. “Always.”
From outside, Goose’s voice echoes through the corridor: “AND IF I EVER SEE SO MUCH AS A SHIRTLESS SHOULDER AGAIN, I’M CALLING COMMAND!”
Maverick snickers into Ice’s chest. “Guess we’ll need a new lock.”
Ice chuckles. “Or a soundproof door.”
Goose and Slider’s horrified wailing fades into the distance — and in their wake, the carrier fills with the quiet hum of laughter, love, and the distant promise of chaos to come.
(Later, Goose and Slider regale Hollywood, Wolfman, Sundown, Chipper, and Cougar with a wildly exaggerated retelling of the infamous “IceMav Walk-In” during their next leave together. The price of their silence? An all-you-can-eat buffet, courtesy of a very red-faced Maverick and an entirely unbothered Iceman. Years later, karma comes full circle when Goose walks into an eerily familiar scene—only this time, it’s his son, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, with a very naked Jake “Hangman” Seresin straddling his lap in the Bradshaw family living room… the same couch Goose watches his favorite soap operas on. Goose blames Mav and Ice.)
(Bradley and Jake buy him a new couch)
