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“Russia’s too cold Papa.” White pulls, little heels digging into the dirt as he’s ungracefully dragged to the car. He looks back, pleading for his mama to help, for P’, but she’s holding him back and White can’t see her face well through his tears. He couldn’t see Black’s well either, but he knows him, knows how angry he is, how his brow is pitched in frustration and his lips are just about to wobble, frowning hard. His eyes were probably filling with tears, but P’ refused to cry in front of anyone, not even their parents.
“It’s not up for debate White, now stop fussing and get in.” He’s mad, shouting and cursing as he barely gets White buckled in, quickly making his way to the driver’s side. The young boy watches as his entire world is left behind in a cloud of dust and stream of tears. Years later, White would struggle to truly remember this, the memory washed over in a yellow haze and cut too short, snip bits that were quickly eroding. Now, he cried and cried. It’s a wonder a child could hold so many tears. His father tries to calm him down, but it quickly turns to yelling and it only makes him cry harder.
A few hours later, White is nothing but a sniffling and snotty mess, and they’ve finally arrived at the airport. His face is hot and his limbs feel like jelly, he rocks as he slips out of the car, his father carrying their bags and forcing White to hold his hand. He debates on biting him, but he lacks the energy for it. He remembers the airport the least. All he sees are dense crowds, the smell of oil and pavement, and the loud crowd and announcements that hurt his head. He does remember boarding, how the hallway felt like it was closing in on him, how his father was dragging him so hard his wrist hurt.
The steps up were daunting and he wanted to puke and cry again, but father kept pulling, and through all his stumbling they made it onto the plane. He remembers the nice lady who greeted him, who gently picked him up and smelled a lot like his mother, which sent him into another crying fit. She consoles him as she leads her father to first class, only the best for him and his son. He doesn’t remember her voice, but he knows she talked to him, rubbing his back and he can see her mouth moving, her face sympathetic and exaggerated.
She buckles him in after he calms and that’s when White releases that despite being seated right next to eachother, he couldn’t see his papa. He tries to cry again, but he’s too tired. His head was pounding now and all he wanted to do was sleep and wake up in his room with P’. Unfortunately, he does not wake up in his old room with P’. White doesn’t remember the plane ride at all. He remembers getting on it at first, vaguely remembers their long layover, but he doesn’t remember getting back on or the ride afterward. He does remember first landing in Russia.
It was so cold they had to buy jackets from the airport and he remembers shivering harshly as he’s crowded into a taxi. Russia was pretty at night, beautiful lights that shine like a little sun, how strange it smelled compared to Bangkok. The taxi was stuffy, but the warmth was welcomed. He remembers all the strange buildings, how full of wonder he felt despite the emptiness of his soul, how hurt he was and his wrist still twinged. It was a beautiful thing, landing in a new country, gazing upon unseen wonders despite it just being everyday buildings. The newness, that childish wonder, the excitement that almost made him forget, White remembers that.
White tries to forget walking into their new penthouse, how lonely and cold it felt. It felt like a fraud, no toys or books scattered about. No muddy shoes or worn couch cushions. No clink of dishes or the soft lull of a tv playing as he chased Black around. His father shows him to his new room, an empty space with dark walls and a simple bed and desk. It’s a single, which feels wrong because White’s supposed to sleep on the top bunk.
He helps him change into pajamas, they brush their teeth together, and for the last time, he tucks White in. He doesn’t kiss his forehead like mama, nor does he hold his hand like Black would do before bed, he simply bids him a goodnight and a promise that it’ll get easier. And with that, he left, forcing White into complete isolating darkness as he tries his hardest not to cry, to be tough like P’. He doesn’t last long, crying and hiccuping well into the night. It only stops when he eventually cries himself to sleep.