Ok. Do I really know what this is? No. Has it been on a continuous loop inside my brain since watching Val Kilmer's documentary? Why yes, yes it has.
This is born really from a place of admiration for Val and his journey with throat cancer. Watching his documentary really wrecked me in a way that I don't think I'll probably ever forget. Coupled with how amazing Ice was in Top Gun: Maverick, even if it was the briefest scene, I absolutely knew I wanted to play around with a tormented, angsty Ice and give him some love. Because there simply just isn't enough Tom Kazansky fanfiction.
Some notes–it isn't my intention to explore the full scope of cancer and what bearing that has on an individual's life. I couldn't possibly, as someone who does not battle this disease, do that well. Or assume to even try to dance my way through it. So my intention isn't to minimize the scope of this disease and its affect on people's lives. Instead, my hope is to show how it doesn't HAVE to consume us. And, that really, love is what brings us through.
Secondly, I won't dive TOO much into the logistics involved with throat cancer and how debilitating that is to the everyday. I'll do my best to draw from research and incorporate that, but please know I am not a medical professional. A lot of what we see here is based on reading and what Val's documentary shows us life with this disease and its outcome is actually like.
All that out of the way, I hope you like the start to whatever this actually is. I'll be playing with it, seeing where it lands. Love you all and appreciate all the love you may throw at this!
There's little a man can do when he's handed his death sentence.
Written in hardly-legible cursive, which is then subsequently punched into one of seemingly endless computers that make up the world. That singular computer will digest that singular information, spin it endlessly in its trove of hardware and software as if it doesn't contain information that will, very literally, conclude the end of your life.
It will sit in the cold, unfeeling dungeon of cyberspace, existing as little more than just data. Attached to just another patient record. A record that is faceless, void of emotion, and by all sense of the word, unliving.
Until someone else assigns that record and its subsequent numbers a name. A date and location of birth—demographics that begin to paint the picture of someone who, subsequently, is very much alive and feeling.
A few keystrokes tell the cold and void machine now containing the end of your life to deposit everything that's been discussed on printed paper. Paper that an administrative professional, who has sense changed shifts since the arrival of this dreadful news, hands you with the softest, most sympathetic look a stranger could offer another face which adds to the sea of those she will see over the course of eight hours.
"We'll call you to confirm the appointment," is all she says, handing over the paperwork. "Oncology will leave a message if they can't reach you."
And that's it. Left to face the cold and rigid lines of the world beyond this haven, which has suddenly and unexpectedly become an Eden of safety and promise, the paper is little more than a detail in what has become the last chapter of his life.
At least, that's what he thinks. What he feels. And if not for feeling?
He may as well already be dead.
XxxX
"...we're looking at complete loss of speech, Tom. Tracheotomy is the only light we have at the end of this tunnel. Communication will be difficult, but not entirely impossible. You'll have to adapt—"
The memory of the words rings cold and sharp against the cavity of Admiral Tom Kazansky's chest as he tracks the numbers on the calendar hanging in front of him. It's been six months. Six months to the day since his diagnosis, since the beginning of the end of his living days.
He's not dead, of course. Not yet. Remission means something to the people on the other end of this disease, on the statistical side of cancer. Usually, the words "in remission" were a lifeline to the dying—a weapon against death standing at the door. Chased into the wings, thousands of people continued living with remission forever the adjective before their name.
But just because his body isn't dead doesn't mean a part of him is still living. Iceman still draws breath, his heart still beats a little stronger every day he wakes up and pulls himself out of bed. But a larger part of him–the blissfully ignorant parts—aren't the same. They flatlined the day his doctor had scheduled him for an appointment with oncology, when in reality, he'd simply come in for a wellness check.
The anniversary date, circled in vermilion marker, glares back at him. A spot on his record of life. He doesn't remember writing it, of course—Ice doesn't remember a lot of things these days. But, it's handwriting that can only belong to him. He doesn't remember writing it, no, but he knows his own handwriting.
SIX MONTHS is circled so boldly, so determinedly, that he can only feel distraught that the Tom who had sat down to mark this date half a year ago had been so doomsday. So apocalyptic. His six-months-ago self had been hopeless, drowning in anger and fear and confusion— marking out a date on a calendar had been poignant, important enough to warrant capital letters and the importance of a red Sharpie marker.
The corner of his mouth ticks up as he stares at the date.
Six months is a long damn time. He remembers the days that he could blink and half a year had already happened—but not anymore. Six months was unfathomable to those who watched the sands in their hourglass pass through the needle's eye. When he'd schedule this date, six months had felt fleeting. Like a drop in the bucket.
But the reality is this—six months is six months.
He shakes his head and pulls his eyes off the calendar, instead dropping them to the desk before him. Pristine, everything is as it should be, including a marker that is sure to be identical to the one he's already recognized for a good ten minutes on the calendar. Grabbing it, he snaps the cap off, discards it, and spins the marker through his fingers, its sharp, acidic scent as familiar as it probably had been six months ago.
Smirking, he takes the Sharpie and scrawls REMISSION through the bold, printed letters of May, which really don't deserve the wrath of his scrawl. Satisfied that this month this year will forever be marked with his victory, he recaps the marker and sticks it behind his ear. It looks good. Poignant.
It's all anyone who glances at the calendar will ever notice. Akimbo before the calendar, arms crossed over his chest, he smiles at the feeling lighting up every vein in his body. There's still a dull ache behind his ribs, this damn tube is still sensitive and raw at home in his throat, but there is something new—something he hasn't felt in a long damn time.
"Ice? You here?"
The voice calling to him from beyond the office is familiar—it's one of his students. Moving from the calendar to exit the office, he emerges from the small space and into the air of the studio, which is suddenly far more alive with the rush of lights and movement than it was when he'd slipped in here a few hours ago.
Kneading life into his hands, he approaches the young man unloading his backpack on one of the sculpture tables. Theo is one of the most gifted sculptors in the country, at least in his own opinion—he's been coming to the studio since he'd opened it. From Charlotte attending UCLA, Theo runs the floor when other matters demand his attention—other matters that pull him from his grotto, his place of healing.
Tom claps a hand on his shoulder, offering him a full smile. "Here early, aren't ya?" Theo teases him, offering his hand. Ice shakes it, like always, and shrugs a shoulder. "Figures. You're basically a vampire, you know that?"
His face twists into an amused wrinkle, prompting a grin from Theo. "Is there anything shipping out today?" There isn't, but, before he can offer a response Theo is backpedaling away from the table, thumbing over his shoulder, "I'm gonna make coffee. I'm dragging ass this morning, T."
Rolling his eyes, this kid doesn't even have an idea of what dragging ass actually means. There's little more privilege than spending your day tucked away in the confines of inspiration and peace, able to work for yourself and accomplish something as holy and serendipitous as art, and that's all Theo and others like him know.
Coming here, spending their days immersed in the lifeblood of culture and society—once, it had been nothing but a hope for him. A desire, a dream. One that was born after he started chasing sky and fulfilling his life's mission of flying for the United States. That had been manifested in his soul at birth, thanks to his father, but—-art. God, art. It had been in his veins, living against his heart, for thirty years.
It had only taken this damn disease—the end of his career—to recognize that heartbeat. And perhaps a small part of Tom Kazansky should be grateful that he's survived this, even without a voice. Because without this, art may never have found him. May never had revived him from the flatline his life had become.
Maybe he's a little grateful. Or stupid.
Either is a distinct possibility, these days.