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It was hell.
Wanda had gone crazy. And then the Avengers disassembled… and Clint - oh god, Clint was dead.
Tony felt deflated, defeated.
And no one had believed him when he had told his fellow Avengers, his friends, that he hadn't been drinking.
…
Sometimes it was so hard to stay sober.
God, he wanted a drink.
It was so petty, but for him alcohol wasn't C-2H-6-O.
Alcohol meant approval.
Approval from his father, approval from high society, approval from peers who weren't normally fond of young geeks...
To Tony, it had never been about getting drunk, it had never been about the taste and flavor. It was just about acceptance. At least, that's how it had been at first.
Alcohol was comfort. It was a hug. It was a friend that would not leave or turn away.
Alcohol was patient. It waited and waited, and would always be there.
That was both its blessing and its curse.