Steve Rogers is pretty confident with his choice. Boston University is, after all, one of the best schools he could ever ask to get into (he tries not to think about how much better NYU is for a while). There's always disappointment in the college process – there always will be, because not everybody can always go to where they would like to.
No matter how perfect where they want to go to would be for them.
But Boston is a nice place, Steve's been there once or twice, and even though he can't spend his weekends helping his mother around the house and visiting the MoMA, Boston has a few nice museums of its own – and to be quite honest (Steve is always honest, he tries not to lie to himself about anything, even this), it might be a good thing to leave New York for a while, go to a town where no one knows him.
That's not to say that everyone in New York knows who Steve is. He's not some kind of Tony Stark, who flirts with "New York herself, until all her residents have fallen into an addictive love they can't get out of" (Huffington Post's words, not his) – he's just Steve, the guy who used to be 5'4" and then became 6'2" almost over night and helps his neighbours (mostly little old ladies) take out the trash and move furniture. It'll be good to leave, he consuls, because who knows what kind of adventures will wait for him up in Massachusetts. There's more greenery (even Brooklyn is running out of trees these days, over taken by more skyscrapers and unnecessary buildings that only boast how highly they are built.) and less traffic, cleaner air and a clearer skies – perfect for a new start.
Steve's tired of the sun being blocked around here. It will be good to leave, he thinks again.
There isn't much else to do, now that he packed everything up (one box for clothing, one for dorm supplies, and two for books and art supplies), and they leave tomorrow. Leave is still a word new on his tongue, Steve spent his whole life in the same town, on the same street, in the same room, for the past twenty years.
A walk to say good-bye, at least for a short while (eight months, he'll be counting. Maybe NYU will accept a transfer student?), and clam the nerves.
Not that he's nervous. Just...jumpy. Most freshmen are only eighteen, after all. Steve likes to not draw attention to himself, but taking extra classes so he can maybe graduate early (on time) might prompt some questions from an eager roommate. Maybe.
It's not that he couldn't start school when he was eighteen, it was just that there were more important things to do first – there was a war, and he enlisted, and then he got shot (grazed, he tells the story as) and landed back Home with no college degree and too short of a military career to retire. Boston was the only place that seemed to want him now all was said and done.
The area hasn't changed much in the past two decades, aside from the lack of (living) things that grow. Here is the concrete where his mom and him moulded their handprints after it was first poured; there's the corner where he crashed his bike into a street vender that one time. It's the same place he spent his childhood playing with the other kids (one's off to UChicago, one to Stony Brook, two still in the forces (one army, one marines), and now one to ship to Boston), the same place he used to run around in circles until he was no longer wimpy but strong and able to defend himself when the kids (same ones he played with) turned on him and beat him up.
Which was, once in a while, sometimes, usually, his fault for mouthing off anyway. At least they could all forgive each other now that they were away from each other. Not friends, but something close enough to it. Steve was content.
He still is. Packed, ready, and not crying (most defiantly not crying) as he says good-bye to his mother and promises to call as often as he can (he maybe busy though; there are classes and clubs and a whole lot of other things that go on during college, half of which Steve isn't even aware of).
He took a train up, shipped the four boxes (that was expensive, but in hindsight worth it to not have to tug up four unnaturally heavy packages with him on a train. That would be one way to make an impression, and Steve was sure that it was also the wrong way) so they would be waiting at BU's campus for him. All he carried was a small bag (not a murse. a duffle bag, army-issued) that had a sketchbook (always. Steve and his sketchbook almost won "cutest couple" at his high school. They were only beat out by Bucky and Peggy, who, Steve had to admit, made a pretty dynamic pair. Peggy was going to CUNY this year, and Bucky was still overseas. He was the reason why Steve kept praying each night), his acceptance letter (even if it wasn't his first choice, he was excited to be going somewhere), and some food. Because, you know, he was 6'2" and got hungry a lot.
Boston is five hours away, four on a good day, and three if a New Yorker is driving, so Steve settles in for a long ride and takes out his sketchbook and sighs. She really is a thing of beauty (not to boast, but beauty outside and in). He focuses on another member of the travelling party, made up of a few college-looking students and business men (he was lucky to get in a car with no crying children this time), a dark-haired kid who's trying to grow a ridiculous beard but has a kind of half-smile as he is working diligently at a computer. Steve decides to draw him, because, hey, he's going to Boston University, and this is how he celebrates. Quietly, inconspicuous, and artfully.