Did you really convince little Steve Rogers that the fireworks on the fourth of July were for his birthday?
that was the handiwork of one mrs sara rogers, who used to take her little asthmatic arrhythmic tiny baby son on the roof to watch the fireworks on his birthday. (mostly so that they didnt have to be in the apartment with steves dad, who had shellshock which he medicated with waaaay too much alcohol, and he was always worse on the fourth, since it sounded like there were explosions going off everywhere. steves dad died when he was three, and my ma said once that mrs rogers might have missed him, but she didnt miss the bruises he left.)
as it happened, that was how i first met steve–on the roof of the building when i was four and he was turning three. i actually remember it, which is pretty incredible considering how old i was and how swiss-cheese my brain is. but there was mrs sara, with her tiny little baby on her hip. i’d never seen anybody so fair-skinned and blonde as mrs sara and stevie, and the lights off the fireworks painted them all sorts of colors. most of the other little kids were crying and had to be brought inside because the noise scared them, but not baby stevie–he was reaching his little bitty baby hands up, trying to grab the sparkly fireworks. probably the noise didnt bother him because he was partially deaf, but mrs sara always insisted that it was just that he had more courage than could fit inside him.
generally, she also mentioned that all that courage had taken up the space where his common sense was supposed to be.
when steve was three, he said his favorite color was america–by which he meant red, white, and blue, because that was the colors for his birthday, and everyone always celebrated with him.
even after mrs sara died, us barneses kept up the fireworks story, and i passed it on to the howlies eventually.
i dont know how old steve was when he figured out that the whole city wasnt just throwing him a huge birthday celebration, but im sure that if you asked him, he’d still insist the fireworks were for him.
whatever PR schmuck decided to name him captain america probably had no idea how accurate a name it was.
Concept: Mickey and Emil have been friends basically since they both began skating. They’re really close, and when I say close I mean HELLA. Sleepovers, friendship bracelet exchange when they were 12 (Emil still wears his outside of skating, and while Mickey will never admit it he still keeps his in his wallet of all places), the whole deal. Sara is also part of their friend group, but she’s definitely not as close to Emil as Mickey is.
And then puberty hits and Mickey suddenly becomes very aware of Emil and his closeness to Sara. In reality, nothing’s really changed, but he’s begun to get a weird tight feeling in his chest whenever he sees Emil smiling and laughing with Sara. He begins to be a lot more protective over Sara because that’s what it’s gotta be, right? Sara is getting prettier each year, and as her big brother he has a responsibility to keep men from taking advantage of her. Even if it’s Emil, who he’s known for years. Anyways, there’s nothing else this feeling can be, right? Right. Nothing more than protectiveness.
Yuuri is an electrician / repairman and... oh look.... Victor keeps breaking things... why isn't his lamp working anymore?? His oven, too?
10:00 am. Tuesday, March 14th.
“Katsuki Electrical, Yuuri speaking.”
“Yuuri! It’s Victor!”
Yuuri pinches the bridge of his nose. “Victor. How can I help you this time?”
“What do you mean, this time?”
Yuuri is required to keep track of the house calls he receives, and he doesn’t even need to check his chart to know that this is probably the fourth time Victor Nikiforov of 124 St. Petersburg Lane has called him within the past two weeks. “Absolutely nothing,” replies Yuuri hastily.
“Well, my oven’s not working,” continues Victor, his tone much brighter than it should be for a man whose oven isn’t working. “It’s not heating up.”
“What brand?” asks Yuuri, already half expecting the answer.
People honestly have to stop installing JJ appliances in their homes. He receives at least a call a week about one malfunctioning.
“So do you need me to come over there and check it out?”
Yuuri sighs. The first time Victor had called, it had been his kitchen lights flickering incessantly. That had been a more normal request. But then it had been his living room lamp malfunctioning, his microwave not heating up his food–
Because Victor had apparently never changed a lightbulb, nor had he seemed to realize that a microwave needed to be plugged in to work.
The main problem isn’t that Victor is making him come over to his house to fix these bordering-on-ridiculous problems, because Victor still pays him and tips him excessively. No, the problem is that Victor Nikiforov is making him come over to his house, period. Because Victor is terribly attractive, and Yuuri needs to keep it professional, but every time he goes, his neurons snap, and the impulses that should be running toward his brain are instead running wild. And Victor is not subtle.
Yuuri goes to fix the oven anyway.
Victor Nikiforov is not an idiot. Yuuri knows this because of the bits and pieces that he’s gathered over the past two weeks. Victor likes books, and teaches Russian literature at the local college. Victor knows more about Anton Tchekhov than Yuuri knows about correctly wiring an entire kitchen. Victor knows more about the history of Eastern European art than Yuuri knows about, well, anything. Which is why suspicion has been tickling the back of his neck for a while now.
Yuuri rises up, having fixed the oven (which was actually truly not working), and Victor is standing behind him with a cup of tea.
Victor also knows how to make good tea, with just the right amount of sugar. It smells inviting, like an embrace, and as he takes a sip, the satisfying heat pops and crackles down his throat.
Yuuri thanks him, and Victor nods with a smile.
“I really have to thank you for all the help you’ve given me,” says Victor.
“Oh,” replies Yuuri, and as he looks up, Victor’s eyes are gazing straight into his own, lustrous and warm. “It was nothing.”
“It is something,” says Victor, and he opens his mouth again, a faint smile lining his lips and his cheeks dusted with a pink flush. “Are you busy tomorrow?”
“Got a laundry machine for me to fix?”
“I’ve got something else, if you’ll take it,” says Victor, biting his lip. “Dinner with me?”