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Between the two of them, Ice is the master tactician. He's always the one three steps ahead in political chess, he's the one who planned out his career year by year and got four stars by doing so.
And it's not that he's gotten lazy, per se, but ever since he retired he's been real fond of turning his brain off and doing—well, nothing. So when Maverick asked him if he wanted to finally go somewhere for a belated-honeymoon-slash-anniversary trip, Ice just told him to use the AMEX and that he wants to go someplace warm, knock yourself out.
So that's how he finds himself in a lounge at LAX, glass of champagne on the small table in front of him and squinting at his phone through his reading glasses. Out of all the major US airlines, this one is his least favorite. The app is so clunky.
"Mav," he says.
"Yes, dear?" Mav says innocently. Ice glares at him over his glasses.
"We're going to Greece."
"Yes," says Maverick. "We are."
Ice holds up his phone, the words YOUR TRIP TO STOCKHOLM front and center on the screen. Maverick just looks at him, and Ice raises an eyebrow.
"We are going to Greece," Maverick says, grabbing another glass of champagne from one of the lounge staff who walks by, "but we're making a pit stop first."
"A pit stop?" Ice asks.
"There's something I really want to see before it's too late." Maverick's brow pinches, "That came out wrong—I'm not trying to be morbid. I heard this place was gonna close down and it's a bucket list item. It's just one night, and then we'll get to Mykonos, and we'll spend a week on the beach drinking as many frozen drinks as you want. And," Maverick drains the rest of his glass, "we're in business class the whole way. I know how cranky you get with long flights. Only the best for you, Admiral."
Ice just sighs. This is what he gets for giving Maverick free reign.
Their first flight is a 767 to JFK, just under six hours. Ice knows he should stay awake and plan to sleep for most of the eight hour trip to Sweden (Sweden!), so he settles into his seat and starts inspecting the in-flight entertainment. Their seats are the two that sit in the middle of the aisle, and usually one of them would throw a fit about not getting a window seat, but the layout of this plane would mean getting a window seat would keep them from sitting next to eachother. They've become a little codependent since retirement.
Maverick looks like a kid in a candy store. "Ice, they gave us slippers," he says excitedly, shaking the plastic-wrapped slippers around. Ice just watches as Maverick toes off his shoes, immediately putting the slippers on and wiggling his toes around. A stewardess comes around offering champagne and juice. Maverick happily takes both, and then the offered over-ear headphones.
Ice raises an eyebrow. "You're gonna have to slow down on the champagne, Mav. It's barely seven." He takes an offered glass of orange juice, thanking the stewardess as she walks by. The seat is decently comfortable. Wide and cushy enough to not tweak his back. He can stretch his legs all the way in front of himself. He may take the offer to have the seat converted to a bed, but he may fall asleep like that. Choices…
Maverick scoffs. "'Slow down on the champagne.' I'm on vacation, Kazansky. Look—we have a divider, I can block you out for the whole flight." Maverick pokes the button between their seats and the wall rises with a quiet mechanical whir.
Ice just rolls his eyes and digs out his own headphones from his bag, firmly tapping the screen in front of him to find the bluetooth controls. Maverick lowers the divider between them again. "We should watch a movie."
"We have enough time for a lot of movies," says Ice. "Look, they have Indiana Jones."
"I'm not watching Indiana Jones," says Maverick. Their screens switch to the safety presentation and Ice just shrugs, handing his empty glass to the stewardess when she comes by.
The interior of this plane is rather dated, in Ice's opinion. He doesn't want to know how much these tickets cost, but Maverick seems to be enjoying himself. This is his first time not flying economy or on a military transport, and Ice just smiles and watches as Maverick makes a show of unpacking the amenity kit and fluffing the pillow included with their seats.
"I can't believe they're calling this lotion," Maverick gripes, holding up the small bottle in his hand. "You could get one and a half pumps out of this thing."
"One and a half pumps?" Ice smirks.
"Oh, don't you start," Maverick grumbles. "I miss when that was all it took."
"No, you don't," says Ice.
"No, I don't." Maverick agrees. "Oh, look, they gave us toothbrushes."
It doesn't take long for their plane to taxi and take off. Ice not-so-discretely looks across the aisle and out the window, watching their plane rise through the clouds. And then the guy in the window seat pulls the shade down, so that ends pretty quick.
The lights are dimmed just a little, and purple and blue mood lighting lights up the ceiling. The stewardesses come by with warm towels and a small bowl of warm nuts for each business class passenger, and Ice readily takes both as he continues to scroll on the in-flight entertainment. Maverick is mumbling to himself, examining the warm towel and copying Ice when he wipes his hands down with it. "What movie are we watching?"
"I'm looking," says Ice. "What are you in the mood for? I see a lot of dramas. And superheroes."
"If you put on some romcom I'm falling asleep." Maverick throws back a handful of his warmed nuts, "Oh these are good. Are you eating yours? I'll take them if you aren't."
"Leave my nuts alone." Maverick snorts. "Oh, you'll like this one. The White House gets blown up and Gerard Butler is front and center."
"I do like Gerard Butler," Maverick agrees. "What's it called? Let me find it."
They watch two full movies on the flight, taking a break in between to eat the meal provided. It's nothing special, some strange egg and potato dish with some yogurt. Ice does fall asleep at some point, though not for very long, and it's when they watch their second movie where Maverick reaches between them and grips Ice's hand with his own, fingers dancing back and forth along Ice's knuckles.
They land just after three, and Maverick beelines for the lounge. "We have a few hours," he says, "I wanna see if the food is any good."
"It better be good, for how much the airline charges," Ice mumbles. He has a paperback in his hand that he started that morning, and it's getting good. He follows Maverick through the terminal, eyes shifting between Maverick's back and the book in his hand.
"Ice—Ice, this one has a restaurant. We're eating there."
"How is that any better than the buffet?" Maverick pouts at him. "Okay, fine. Whatever you want."
They get seated, and Ice reluctantly puts his book away. He's tired and sore and stiff, and really not looking forward to an additional eight hours in a plane. Lie-flat seat or not. "Whatever is in Sweden better be worth it, Mav. I want my daiquiri."
"And you'll get your daiquiri," Maverick rips into the bread sitting in the basket on the table, taking a piece off and shoving it straight into his mouth. Like a fucking animal. "Trust me, sweetheart, you'll love it."
"And what is 'it?'" They're interrupted by their waiter, and they both order their meals. Ice goes with the beef while Maverick opts for the chicken.
"It's a surprise. Trust me, it's worth it. Just one night, and then we'll fly to Athens. Our flight to Mykonos is gonna suck, by the way. Small little plane. We're gonna have to recheck our bags."
"Oh, joy." Their food arrives. Ice makes quick work of cutting off half and placing it on Maverick's plate, Maverick doing the same with his chicken. "Do we need to rent a car in Sweden? Where are we going?"
"We don't need a car. Public transport does exist in Europe, y'know? We can drop our bags off at the hotel and explore the city, there's a few places I was looking at to eat." He takes a bite of his food. "See—this is good. You need to stop doubting me."
Ice hums. The food is pretty decent.
They finish their meal and go back to the main lounge. Ice picks a couch by the window, getting a good view of the city skyline and the tarmac below. Maverick disappears for a few minutes, coming back with a plate of snacks (How are you still hungry? / I'm not! But I gotta try everything) and chattering about the place he booked in Greece.
"It's all-inclusive," says Maverick, chewing on a cookie, "the restaurants look pretty good, but we could also go into town if we wanted. The pool is huge, and there's a swim up bar, and they'll bring your drinks to you on the beach. You'll love it."
Ice hooks his foot around Maverick's ankle. "I believe you. There's a reason I let you plan this."
"Which was still strange, by the way," he holds out a cookie towards Ice, who shakes his head. Maverick shrugs and shoves it in his mouth. "Seeing you so unbothered and just going along with this. It's unnerving. You've only bitched at me twice today. I was expecting retirement to make you neurotic."
"Oh, give it a few more months. We'll both be climbing up the walls." He puts his reading glasses back on and cracks open his book. Maverick leaves and comes back again, plastering himself against Ice's side and doing something on his phone.
Three months ago, this wasn't something they could do. They've been married for years, in their own way, exchanging vows and rings in the privacy of their own home. They only made it official on the paperwork after their DD214s went through and all the ceremonies were over and done with. When Don't Ask got repealed, they stopped hiding as much, but they weren't open.
Ice won't deny that he feels weird about it—being out in public, like this, with another man hanging off of him. The most they've ever done over the last thirty years is stand next to each other at some Navy function, or hooking their feet around the other's ankle at a fancy restaurant after telling their waiter they were business partners or something. So many years of hiding in plain sight, and now they're going on vacation together. Because they're retired, and they can.
Thunder cracks outside, and they both look out the window to the sudden dark skies, lightning miles away but creeping closer. Damn late-Summer storms.
"Shit," says Maverick, "think we'll be delayed?"
"What time do we board?" Ice asks. "If it's just a pop-up, it shouldn't be too long."
Maverick taps a few times on his phone. "We board in an hour. Rain is supposed to stop in thirty."
"We should be fine then," Ice murmurs. "Sucks for those poor bastards, though." He tips his head towards the window, gesturing to the growing line of planes sitting on the taxiways that are waiting out the storm. "Hell, we might be delayed because they're delayed."
"Well, I'll keep an eye on it. They should tell us if we get delayed or not. How's your book?"
"Good. Almost done."
"Thought that was supposed to be your beach read?"
"Well, you pushed back my beach vacation," Ice says dryly. "I'll pick something else up on the way to the gate."
Their flight is only pushed back by twenty minutes, but they decide to gather their things anyway once the lounge starts getting crowded. It's loud, and there's enough eyes that land on them that they both get a little anxious about it, so they start meandering towards their gate. Ice stops at one of the small bookstores, standing in front of the wall of New York Times Bestsellers.
"Anything catch your eye?" Maverick asks.
Ice hums. "Not really." He turns to a shelf of thrillers, idly picking up a few and reading the backs of them. Maverick fidgets next to him, knowing better than to comment on Ice's perusing. Ice picks out one, and then wanders to another fiction section, taking an equal amount of time to read the backs of any book that looks mildly interesting.
He ends up buying two new books, and he gently puts them in his bag and tells Maverick to steer them to their gate.
The storm seems to have moved on, although there is still a light drizzle. The sun shines through the clouds, painting the airfield in a beautiful red-gold light and producing a rainbow over the New York skyline. Planes are moving again on the tarmac.
The gate agent announces pre-boarding, and they both stand to the side while they wait. Maverick starts cursing at his phone. "Ice, my app won't work."
"What?"
"It's not loading—it has our boarding passes. You have the app, right? Is yours working?"
"Okay, calm down," says Ice, pulling out his phone and unhooking his reading glasses from his shirt. "You have your passport, right? You better, actually. Get it out, let me deal with this."
His app is working perfectly fine, and he pulls up both of their boarding passes and gets his passport out of his pocket. He double checks that Mav has his, and then they both step up to the gate agent when they announce their boarding group.
This plane is much nicer—that's the first thing he notices. A better interior, overall, and the mood lighting is a pink-purple mix that contrasts nicely with the red evening light coming in through the windows. The stewardess makes a big show out of welcoming them on board, which is a little strange, and they each get a glass of champagne as they get seated.
"I've lost count of all the champagne I've had," Maverick mumbles, shoving his bag into the storage compartment in their seat.
"Probably too much," Ice replies. "Listen—I'm tired. Probably gonna fall asleep the second we take off. Do you think you can sleep? You can have my dinner, if I fall asleep before they bring it out. Tell them I told you that, they might let you have it."
"I probably shouldn't eat more anyway," says Maverick. "They probably won't turn the beds down until dinner service is over. You gotta stay awake, Ice. If you fall asleep still sitting up you'll be bitching and moaning about it for the next three days."
He has a point, but Ice huffs anyway. "Pick out a movie."
Other passengers take their time getting seated, and then there's a further delay because another storm cell comes through, and then there's a whole line of planes in front of them on the taxiway. Ice sleeps through all of this, startling himself awake when the engines go full-power during takeoff. "How long did I sleep?"
"About forty-five minutes. This is a really nice blanket, by the way. Where did you put yours?"
Ice's brow furrows at the non sequitur, but digs up the plastic wrapped blanket from the compartment he threw it in. "Right here. Why? Did you want it?"
"No," says Maverick, in that tone that suggests he's trying to be casual. "Are you not cold?"
"I'm fine," says Ice. "Why are you looking at me like that."
"No reason. Eat your almonds," he gestures to the bag of almonds that must've been dropped off at his seat when he was dozing. "I just think it's a nice blanket."
What?
The cat nap was enough to keep him awake for the dinner service. It's some kind of pasta dish, and he picks at it and watches their plane inch across the map he pulled up on his screen. The "time to destination" reads a miserable seven and a half hours. The dinner came with a mini cheesecake as desert, and he quietly eats it and pulls out the book he's been working on. He can probably finish it tonight, if he stays awake.
The cabin lights dim and the stewardess comes by to take their dinner. Ice turns on the reading light in his seat, just behind his shoulder. He reclines just enough to ease the tension on his neck. Maverick is leaning into him just a bit over the wide arms of their chairs, focused on the movie he put on for himself. When Ice glances at the screen, he can see a few men in space.
It's maybe thirty minutes after dinner service ends when Maverick turns to him and says, "You should really break out that blanket."
Ice blinks. "What is your deal with the blanket?"
"I think you should get it out."
"What—Mav, I'm fine. I'll have them get the bed set up when I finish this book. Twenty minutes, max."
"And you can do that, but that's not what I asked."
Ice turns to look at him. Maverick isn't paying any attention to his movie, instead staring intensely at Ice. "Jesus, Mav, what the hell is wrong with you?"
Maverick looks up the aisle, and then behind them, before turning back to Ice. "I want to get my hands on you. But I don't think either of us want a public indecency charge," he whispers.
Ice can feel his brain stop and then come back online. "What?"
"What, you've never messed around on a flight before?" Ice just stares at him. "You haven't? You're a pilot, for fuck's sake!"
"Not anymore, and it's not like you can get up to much in a Tomcat. Have you?"
"Yes!" He says it a little too loud, and they both cringe, glancing around to see if anyone noticed. "I can't believe you haven't." He reaches into Ice's seat and pulls out the blanket, ripping the packaging off and tossing it somewhere in his own seat. He spreads the blanket across Ice's lap.
"I cannot believe you," Ice hisses, simultaneously enraged and turned on and terrified, "look, you got me all wound up like this—fucking ridiculous. Gonna take ages for me to get it up, asshole."
"Well if you got the blanket out when I told you the first time I could've been way more covert about it," Maverick retorts, and then promptly sticks his hand under the blanket and grips Ice's dick through his pants. Perfect fucking aim. Then he returns his attention to his movie. Jackass.
Ice turns the brightness on his reading light down and lowers the book closer to his lap. He can't really see the words like this, but he'd rather cover up what Maverick is doing.
Maverick has a loose grip on him. His pants are loose, comfortable for long travel days like this. Maverick poked fun at him the first time he wore them, calling them tracksuit pants. Ice firmly denied this at the time.
Maverick gets his hand on his balls and squeezes.
"Jesus—Mav."
"What?" He doesn't even look at Ice, still focused on his own screen. "Dunno what you were so worried about, sweetheart," he whispers, squeezing Ice's shaft through his pants.
And Mav has a point, because Ice is half-hard and getting harder. Their sex life has slowed in recent years, between Ice's cancer treatment and them both getting older. Ice considers himself lucky if he can even get hard whenever he and Mav mess around. Their sex life has shifted from "fast and rough" to something slower and more intimate. He got anxious about it, at first, because for those first few years Maverick still had the stamina of a thirty year old. But time caught up with him, too, and they're both on even playing fields now.
This right here, Mav stroking him through his pants on a commercial airliner, is probably the most outlandish thing they've done since 2015.
Maverick removes his hand. Ice bites back a whine, and Maverick's hand goes to the drawstring on Ice's pants. He pulls it loose, and then sticks his hand (cold!) past his waistband and into his boxers.
Ice does not jump. But he almost does. Maverick has a firm grip on his dick, and Ice slaps the reading light off—nothing to see here!—and makes intense eye contact with the map he left up on his screen. They're passing over Halifax.
"Mitchell." Ice hisses.
Maverick's screen is showing some guy in a space suit inspecting dirt. Maverick seems enraptured, not at all paying attention to Ice, who's squirming in his own seat. Maverick's hand is hot around Ice's cock, gripping it tightly, his thumb playing with the head. Arousal pools deep in Ice's gut, and he can feel sweat prickling the back of his neck, making him shiver from the artificial air blowing through the vents above him.
He feels a little dizzy with it—when was the last time he got this hard this quick? Years, probably. He didn't know he could still do that. Embarrassingly, he doesn't think he'll last very long either. Maybe it's a blessing; less of a chance of getting caught.
Maverick's hand is firm with his strokes, thumbing the underside of the head on every downstroke, smearing his precome down the shaft and slicking the way. Ice is strict with his breathing, side eyeing nearby passengers. Most are asleep, or at least have their privacy dividers up. Ice belatedly realizes that he has one that faces the aisle. Idiot.
He finds the button and presses it, the divider comes up slowly, and he turns back to his screen. They're just passing the coast of Nova Scotia now.
Maverick leans over, placing a chaste kiss on Ice's neck. "You look beautiful, sweetheart. Are you close? C'mon, Tom, let go."
His heart is in his throat and the heat pooling in his gut has nowhere to go. Ice bites his lip, thrusting up into Maverick's hand once, twice, before spilling into his underwear.
He thinks he hears Maverick chuckle, leaving small kisses over what skin he can reach. He pulls his hand away, and Ice grimaces as Maverick pulls the wet wipe out from his amenity kit, wiping Ice's come off his hand.
"I cannot believe we just did that," Ice mumbles, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as come dries in his underwear and on his dick. He gripped his book so hard that the pages and back cover are permanently creased. Maverick chuckles, crumbling up the dirty wet wipe and placing it in the discarded plastic wrap from his blanket.
Ice pushes the blanket off and unbuckles his seat belt. "I'm gonna get cleaned up," he mutters. "I'm gonna have them set my seat up, do you want them to do yours?"
"Yeah, sure," Maverick whispers, turning back to his screen.
The lav is blessedly empty, and he blinks at the bright light that greets him. His reflection is a little rough. His cheeks are red and his hair is wild. He didn't bother putting product in it when they left the house that morning, and he's let it get a little long since he retired. He grabs some toilet paper, and cringes as he drops his pants down, wiping himself off and chucking the soiled paper in the toilet. He takes another strip of toilet paper and scoops out the come in his underwear. Jesus.
He washes his hands and splashes his face. He's suddenly very tired, and he sighs as he runs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it. Only marginally successful, he leaves the lav and flags down the first stewardess he sees, and asks her to make his and Maverick's beds.
He and Maverick stand a little awkwardly in the aisle while the stewardesses work. It doesn't take them long, and soon both their seats have disappeared under a mattress topper and thin comforter. "Make sure you buckle your seatbelt above the blankets," one of the women reminds them, and they both nod as she leaves.
Ice groans when he lays down. The seat is not quite long enough for him to stretch out all the way, but it's enough for him to curl up on his side, which is really all he needs. Maverick makes himself comfortable, pulling his headphones back on and unpausing his movie. "You should really try to sleep, Mav," Ice says, blindly groping for his sleep mask.
"I will when this is finished," Maverick replies, gesturing to his screen. He reaches over and gets a hand in Ice's hair, gently combing his fingers through it, fingers massaging his scalp.
Ice falls asleep like that.
He wakes up to the lights in the cabin coming on—a dark blue that slowly transitions to a dull yellow. He blinks and stretches out his neck, reaching out to the arm rests to pull himself up. Maverick is asleep next to him, curled up in a ball in his seat, blankets pulled tight around himself up to his chin, mouth wide and drooling. Ice finds his phone and takes a picture.
He taps the screen in his seat to turn it back on, quickly navigating back to the map. Just under two hours until they land. He twists himself around in either direction to crack his back, biting back a yawn. Maverick stirs next to him, and then rubs his face. "Are we landing?"
"Not for a bit," Ice croaks. "They're gonna serve breakfast here soon, probably."
Maverick groans and twists his body around to stretch. "There's a place in Stockholm I found. Cute little coffee shop. Bet it will be better than whatever they're about to give us here."
"I don't doubt that," says Ice. He finds his paperback in the blankets, pages still crinkled. He really was almost done with it.
Maverick pokes around on his screen, picking a new movie to entertain himself with. Ice finishes his book, humming to himself as he puts it in his bag and debating whether he should start one of his new books. He decides on a movie, picking one that describes itself as a dark comedy.
Their breakfast is a warmed pastry with yogurt and a choice of coffee or juice. Ice picks the coffee, knowing he'll need it to have the patience to get through customs. The stewardess comes by not long after to collect their trays and remove the bedding from their seats, and soon they're descending into Stockholm.
The landing is quick and smooth, and soon they're parking at the gate. Maverick jumps up the second the seatbelt light clicks off, grabbing his backpack from the overhead bin and digging through it to locate his passport.
They're off the plane quickly, following the signs to passport control and listening to the tired airport workers who make a living on yelling at tourists. They scan their passports at the kiosks, and they both blink as they're released into baggage claim.
"That was it?" Maverick asks.
"I guess so," Ice shrugs. "Which carousel did they say we're at? Maybe our bags are out."
They find and grab their bags, and Ice let's Maverick lead the way through the rest of the airport. "We gotta get on the shuttle. We can drop our bags off at the hotel."
"Are we staying in the city?" Ice asks.
"Not quite," Maverick smirks at him. "You'll see."
Ice narrows his eyes, suspicious. A bus pulls up to the curb, and he follows Maverick inside. There isn't much to see out the windows, just the architecture of the airport's terminals. If he squints, he can see the city in the distance.
The bus slows to a stop, and Maverick grabs his bag and makes for the exit. Ice is quick to follow, peeking over Maverick's shoulder at his phone. Then Maverick stops, suddenly, and Ice almost walks into him.
And then he looks up.
"What the fuck is this."
"Our hotel for the night," Maverick beams at him.
Ice wonders if he's still asleep. Because— "That's a fucking airplane."
"Yep! Isn't it gorgeous?"
What it is is a Boeing 747 with peeling paint and big ugly letters on it. There's a large set of stairs to get up, and Ice can already feel his knees aching just looking at them. "Maverick. We just slept in a plane."
"I booked us a suite. The suite. Ice, baby, c'mon—you're telling me you've never wanted to sleep in one of these?"
"It's never crossed my mind, no," Ice says dryly.
"Well, look at it this way," says Maverick. "We get a private suite to ourselves—way up top. I booked us the cockpit, and we're right here at the airport. Don't gotta go far for our flight tomorrow," he looks a little shy, suddenly, "we can do whatever you want in the city today. This is what I came to see."
Ice thinks he may have misheard him. "You dragged me to Stockholm so you could sleep in the cockpit of a seven-four-seven."
"Yes."
He blinks. They stare at each other. Then: "Shit—alright. Whatever. Grab these bags, will you?"
He takes great joy in watching Maverick hobble up the stares with both suitcases. Neither of them packed heavy, and both bags are small, but it's enough to make Ice chuckle. Payback, he thinks. For the hand job. And the delay to his beach vacation.
Maverick is saying something to the man behind the desk and signing some papers when Ice gets to the top of the stares, a little out of breath. Maverick turns to him, holding a key. "We could check out the place now, if we wanted. Or we can head into the city."
"If I look at that bed I'll fall asleep," Ice looks around at the decor, pictures of the plane in its airline days posted on the wall. "This is a fuckin' tourist attraction if I've ever seen one. Is there anything to see here? Or is it just the room."
"Come with me," Maverick grips Ice's hand, pulling him down the hallway that used to be the cabin. There's doors on either side of them, which Ice realizes are rooms, and then they're at a door leading outside. Maverick pushes it open and walks out, holding it open for Ice as he ducks through.
And then they're on the wing.
"Holy shit," says Ice, holding onto the railings that were installed. The wind is pretty strong. Maverick is walking towards the wing tip, peering over the railing and the twenty foot drop.
"Ice, this is pretty cool. Come look at this."
Ice makes his way over, holding onto the railings the whole way. He reaches Maverick, who takes his hand again, and then points out in front of them, "What a view."
It really is a nice view: the Sun rises over Stockholm, the light reflecting off the water and sweeping over the historical buildings that make up the skyline.
They go back inside and back to the front desk. The clerk confirms that their bags will be brought to their room, and Maverick drags Ice back outside and down the steps. "We can take a bus from here into the city."
Stockholm is pretty. Ice has never been previously, and he takes his time looking around the historic buildings and reading the signs on every monument they walk by. Maverick directs them to a coffee shop that's apparently famous for its cinnamon rolls, which they take to-go and wander to a park with cherry blossoms. They eat their cinnamon rolls in contented silence, watching locals and tourists alike as they go by. Maverick rests his head on Ice's shoulder.
Ice makes a point to go into every museum he can find and read every sign in every exhibit. Maverick doesn't seem to mind, wandering away from Ice to look at something before circling back. He'll discretely hook their pinkies together, bump their shoulders, and then separate and walk in a different direction at whatever caught his eye. He even gets brave a few times and pecks Ice on the cheek.
Eventually, though, Ice realizes he's tired, and they get on a bus back to the 747 on the hill, stopping for dinner on the way back. Ice grumbles about all the stairs he has to climb to get to the upper deck, but he's silenced when Maverick opens the door to the cockpit.
It's not a particularly large space—it's still a cockpit, but the bed is large enough to fit them both and is covered in rose petals.
"Happy anniversary," Maverick says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking embarrassed. "I didn't think they were gonna do that."
"Did you tell them?" Ice asks, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He drops their food on the nearest flat surface.
"The guy asked what the occasion was," Maverick shrugs. Their bags were left at the foot of the bed, and Maverick shoves them into the closet. Ice takes a look around; the cockpit is mostly intact, to his surprise. There's curtains installed on the windows. Ice realizes that if he climbs over the mattress and sits at the head of it, he'd be sitting where the pilots used to sit. The bed has no headboard. The throttle and yokes are still where they're supposed to be, but half of the instrument panel is ripped out. The switches that would be at the top of the cockpit have been replaced with a TV—which…is an odd place to put a TV. But it's a nice touch, he supposes.
He turns around and is immediately accosted by Maverick, who presses their lips together in a firm but gentle kiss. Maverick's hands are on his jaw, in his hair. Ice is lightheaded, and he nudges Maverick around until he's against the bed, encouraging him to lie back.
Maverick goes down and drags Ice down with him. They're breathing heavily into the other's mouth, hands roaming under clothes and pulling at buttons and zippers. Ice gets Maverick's jeans unbuttoned and pulls them down to his ankles, and Maverick groans as he gets his hands on Ice's ass under his pants.
"Y'know, one of the things I looked forward to when I was booking all this," says Maverick in between kisses, "was the honeymoon sex."
"Oh, really," says Ice, leaving a wet kiss at the base of Maverick's throat, "what were you thinking?"
"Well, right now I'm thinking it would be funny to have sex in the cockpit of an airplane," Maverick gets his hands under Ice's shirt, raking his nails up and down Ice's navel, tangling his fingers in the dense hair there, "but—baby, the things I'm gonna do to you in Greece. Half the reason I bothered checking the bag was so I could bring the lube."
Ice laughs. "The new bottle? That's ambitious." He pulls away, and Maverick pouts. Ice placates him by dropping to his knees in between Maverick's spread legs. Maverick sits up, eyes soft when Ice gets his face in his crotch, nosing at the cock hidden behind the underwear.
It's objectively a little gross, they're both overdue for showers, but Ice can't get enough. Maverick's natural scent has always been like a drug to him. Ice breathes him in and mouths at Maverick's cock through the fabric. He can feel arousal stirring in his gut, but unlike last night, he doesn't feel anything else. His cock stays soft in his pants. That's okay, he thinks. He'd rather focus on Mav right now.
Ice reaches up and pulls Maverick's briefs down. His cock is still soft, and Maverick moans when Ice breathes on it, giving small kitten licks to the shaft before getting his mouth on the head.
Maverick's hand is in Ice's hair, and he pulls gently to get Ice further on his cock. Ice goes with it easily. "God, sweetheart," Maverick groans, "you look fucking gorgeous like this."
Ice moans, feeling his head get fuzzy at the gentle pressure of Maverick's hand on his head. He rests his head on Maverick's thigh, peering up at him through his lashes and feeling Maverick's cock slowly fill in his mouth.
This was a favorite activity of theirs, years ago. Maverick always joked that Ice needed something in his mouth, and Ice would sink to his knees and let Maverick get hard while sitting on his tongue, before sucking his soul out through his dick.
Ice thinks that he could maybe do that tonight, but he is tired, and Maverick looks beat as well. He's content to just kneel here, keeping Maverick in his mouth for a while. Maybe Maverick will get hard, maybe he won't. Maybe Ice will get hard. Maybe he won't. It doesn't matter all that much anymore.
He's not sure how long he stays down there, drifting off while Maverick prattles on about something, fingers combing through Ice's hair and scratching lightly at his scalp. He yanks a little on Ice's hair to get his attention, and he jolts back to awareness, Maverick's dick feeling fuller in his mouth.
He pulls off and clears his throat, before going back in and leaving a trail of kisses and small bites around his groin and inner thighs. Maverick pulls him up and he goes easily, laying down next to Maverick and gathering him in his arms. They kiss lazily for a while, and Maverick gets his hands on Ice's pants and shove them down along with his underwear, leaving them both in their shirts and socks.
Ice gets a hand on Mav's cock and gives him a stroke. Mav thrusts into his hand, and reaches down to Ice's cock, still soft against his thigh. "I don't think anything's happening tonight," Ice mutters.
"Do you want my hands off?" Maverick asks. His hand is gentle, rolling Ice's balls in his fingers.
Ice would ordinarily say no, he likes when Maverick touches him, but the bone-deep exhaustion is starting to manifest itself as pain. His skin suddenly feels tight, and he sighs when he nods. Maverick's hand leaves him instantly, and Ice grimaces when he has to let go of Maverick. It's like the second he said something, all the pain and fatigue hit at once.
"Sorry," Ice grumbles, shaking his hand out.
"You're fine," Maverick reassures. "We can go to bed."
"No—get yourself off."
"Are you sure?" Maverick asks, already reaching down to cup himself, "It may take a while."
"That's okay," he leans in, placing a kiss on the tip of Mav's nose, "I want to watch."
Maverick groans. "Talk me through it?" He asks huskily.
Ice licks his lips. He's definitely out of practice, but he'll give it a try, just because Mav asked. "Just keep touching yourself—focus on the head, I know how much you like that." Maverick moans, and Ice watches his cock twitch in his hand. "You know, I was also thinking about what we'd get up to in Greece."
"Oh, yeah?" Maverick pants, "Like what?"
"Keep stroking yourself, get a hand on your balls." Maverick obeys. "We'll have that big bed to ourselves, for one. And that private pool outside our room. I was thinking about waking you up with my mouth on your cock, or with my fingers. I could open you up early in the morning—how many times do you think I could fuck you in a single day? We got some high numbers back in the day, but I think we could still give a good performance."
Maverick moans, one hand twisting up on his shaft while the other tugs at his balls. "There's a reason I brought the lube," he says.
"I'll fuck you into the mattress each morning, and maybe if I don't feel like it I'll finger you until you come," Ice whispers. "And you can fuck me in the pool, after. That's another thing I haven't done."
"What, having sex in a pool?"
"Can't say I've done it."
"Oh, we'll change that," he pants. "'M close."
"Good. Make yourself come, Mav. What do you need?"
"Jus' you," his hand speeds up, and he blinks hard, "keep talking."
"I love you," Ice breathes, "When we get back home we'll go fly the Mustang. It's been a while since we brought her out. You remember when you sucked me off when we were rebuilding the fuel tanks? God that was—what, two-thousand four? I used to think about that night when I was overseas. All the other guys had pictures of their wives or their skin mags, and I had that memory of you on your knees for me under our airplane. Kept me going for months, Mav. You're so fucking gorgeous like that."
"Ice—" Maverick jerks and comes into his hand with a groan. They both lay there for a moment, catching their breaths. Ice rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, the oddly placed TV directly above him.
Maverick laughs, pulling off his shirt and wiping his hand off on it, before tossing it onto the floor. "This makes three."
"What?" Ice asks, staring at his reflection in the blank TV screen.
"If we're counting all the times with the Mustang, this is the third plane we've had sex in-slash-near."
Ice thinks for a moment. "Four," he says. He sits up to take his own shirt off. God, he needs to shower.
"Four?"
"You don't remember?" He reaches for the light switch and the room goes dark. "We jacked each other off right next to that A.-Four in eighty-nine. In Miramar."
Maverick is silent for a second. "Oh shit," he says. "I did forget about that." They maneuver themselves under the comforter, rose petals fluttering onto the floor. Ice pulls Maverick into his arms. He's still feeling a little gross, but sleeping away from Maverick will make him feel worse.
"I didn't know you still thought about that night with the Mustang," Mav says into the pillow. Ice is curled tightly around him, breathing in the scent of Maverick's skin and sweat.
"It was a good memory," he says, and places a light kiss into the nape of Mav's neck.
If Mav says something else, Ice doesn't hear it. He falls asleep pretty quick.