A/N: Thanks so much, guys. Sorry about this filler chapter, I know it's not my best.
sweetheart.
Let's not be narrow, nasty, and negative. ~T.S. Eliot
He hates it all: the barely noticeable rocking of the train along the tracks, the dizziness-inducing blur of scenery, the flauntingly pretty decorations. But he'd admit the food is good.
He stuffs himself to the very brim, juicy meat and crunchy vegetables and brightly-colored fruits he's never before seen in his life.
Maysilee Donner is the only one using her fork.
He wants to make a scathing comment, but finds his mouth is too full.
Later, he's stuck with a nearly bursting stomach and pleasantly buzzing head from the wine. He staggers into his suite, annoyed at the perfection of it all. So, slightly drunkenly, he leaves his dirty shoes on the flawless white carpet, strews pillows, rumples the blankets, knocks over a few seemingly worthless things, and stands back to survey his work.
It's a complete and utter mess, so he's happy. Or rather, happier.
He finds a slightly squashed toffee in his pocket, which he pops into his mouth, momentarily forgetting the fragile condition of his stomach.
He barely makes it to the bathroom, but he does, slamming the toilet lid up right in time as his dinner makes its unwelcome reappearance. The gold-plated toilet is probably worth more money than he's ever seen in his entire life, he notes with bitterness and the sickeningly sour taste of vomit.
And he wishes he'd thrown up on the carpet instead.