Grieve. He hates that word. Visibly. It gets a wince out of him, the way his eyes narrow, the way his head turns as if he can get away from it. Not Steve, though, who's currently holding on to him. Tony knows why. He's not sure if he wants to fight it yet. Very rock and a hard place. The desire to drink and Steve not wanting him to. He's not sure who would win. Right now it's Steve, but only slightly. And while he sits, he does so a little more angled away than he had been previously.
Walling himself off from all the thoughts about grief coming from Steve. So he sits, legs folded, both hands cupping his empty glass, aimed towards Steve, but looking down. That is until Steve gives him that tight little smile and he feels like, as usual, he's doing everything wrong. He can't stop, either.
"I grieved enough back then," this is a lie so momentous and ugly he feels bad saying it. But the reason he says is it because he wants so badly for it to be the truth. "And I know your memory's not that bad, perfect like the rest of you. Whatever the rest of it is, I can't do it right now." As he'd already said.
He's not sure if he gives in to this decades old wound that it'll help him. If anything he thinks it'll make his pursuit of the ultimate truth and making someone pay for that harder to achieve. He doesn't look at crossing over the threshold of grief to acceptance as something that will give him clarity. Just something burdensome that will only cause more mess.
"And... one more drink won't make me throw up. I haven't had a few in a while, but I'm still pretty practiced." This, though, is desperation. The last dying breaths trying to spark flame to the alcoholic he used to be. He can't help it. The need for a drink is almost overwhelming, no matter what it looks like. There used to be a time when it might as well have been that a glass had been glued to his hand. Like father like son. He should've just taken a few sips out of the bottle while Steve was gone. He doesn't see it as victory that he didn't, that he was strong enough to refrain at that point. Right now it's a hinderance. A mistake.
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Walling himself off from all the thoughts about grief coming from Steve. So he sits, legs folded, both hands cupping his empty glass, aimed towards Steve, but looking down. That is until Steve gives him that tight little smile and he feels like, as usual, he's doing everything wrong. He can't stop, either.
"I grieved enough back then," this is a lie so momentous and ugly he feels bad saying it. But the reason he says is it because he wants so badly for it to be the truth. "And I know your memory's not that bad, perfect like the rest of you. Whatever the rest of it is, I can't do it right now." As he'd already said.
He's not sure if he gives in to this decades old wound that it'll help him. If anything he thinks it'll make his pursuit of the ultimate truth and making someone pay for that harder to achieve. He doesn't look at crossing over the threshold of grief to acceptance as something that will give him clarity. Just something burdensome that will only cause more mess.
"And... one more drink won't make me throw up. I haven't had a few in a while, but I'm still pretty practiced." This, though, is desperation. The last dying breaths trying to spark flame to the alcoholic he used to be. He can't help it. The need for a drink is almost overwhelming, no matter what it looks like. There used to be a time when it might as well have been that a glass had been glued to his hand. Like father like son. He should've just taken a few sips out of the bottle while Steve was gone. He doesn't see it as victory that he didn't, that he was strong enough to refrain at that point. Right now it's a hinderance. A mistake.