Trepidation washes over Miles's face at that response. It's ominous as hell on its own, and coming from himself...suddenly Miles wishes he didn't know himself so well. Maple mead sounds like a sound choice, but he's not sure it'd go so well with the lead in his stomach. No -- no, to hell with the cryptic waiting bullshit. He can't believe he's pulling that one on himself, or that he's -- having it pulled on him -- dammit --

"No -- wait," Miles says breathlessly, if only because it feels like his chest is laced too tight to breathe. He doesn't take the other Miles's hand yet, his own palms oddly sweaty despite the cold. His eyes don't leave the other man's face, his own face still paler than usual. "I'll go with you, I think I'll need a drink either way, but just -- just tell me -- do I die? Did you die?"