Sometimes, Tony really did just want the glamorous life the magazines painted him into, even if it meant throwdowns with John Mayer behind La Terza. He looked like an asshole either way, he might as well not work so hard at it. He at least felt fairly certain that John Mayer wouldn't leave him huddled on a train with twenty other stowaways and their goats and the looming future of recharging his heart again.
Fuck, he was happy to leave that feeling behind.
At least the kid was faintly useful, looking pale and pathetic enough in the corner that Tony left him for Tony to indicate when he wandered through their boxcar comrades asking in his best basic signing ("Do you speak-- oh, okay, never mind, no, don't, don't keep talking, it's not helping either of us.") for something to drink to share. It netted him a dented, plastic water bottle and some bread folded in a teatowel, which he handed off when he slouched down next to him, knees up and face pressed into his hand.