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When he was eight, he believed that the fireworks were for him. When he turned nine, he found out that wasn't true. He'd asked his mother if they could reschedule the fireworks for when Bucky came back from visiting his grandma, and she gave him a funny look. That was when he found out that there were fireworks every fourth of July, for long before he'd been born and long after he was gone. The pyrotechnics were not personalized for Steven Grant Rogers. He alone was not the reason that the sky lit up with sparkling trails of fire.
He knew that the fourth was a holiday too. He'd known that since he was four. But he'd still held on to that idea that the fireworks, his favorite part, were something that had been set up just for him. That he was, in some strange way, important enough to shine over all of New York.
He was sad, for a while. It hurts one's ego to find out that you are not really a bright white star, but instead a nine year old boy, like everyone else.
Bucky laughed when Steve told him.
"Just 'cause other people think it's for them, that doesn't mean it ain't for you."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Sure it does. Everyone else in the world can think whatever they want. But just between us, you and me, we know they're yours, alright? Every time I see that show for the rest of my life, I'm gonna think of you."
Steve smiled. Maybe that was all that really mattered. That one person thought he was a star worth remembering.