"Fuck," he mutters, more to himself than -- well, himself. Miles presses back against his chair, shutting his eyes. He tries to keep it from building in his chest, but he feels powerless to stop it. Lost himself completely...God. At least that hadn't happened to Miles, this Miles. No, it'd been more a problem with coexisting and existing without context all at once... He draws his legs up on the chair, sipping at the maple mead and hissing at the burn all the way down.

"How'd -- " he starts, then stops, shaking his head. He doesn't think he can ask his older self just how he'd lost himself so badly. He thinks he already knows. Miles's finger numbly traces the edge of his cup. He looks at the other Miles's face, looking away from him, and then he turns his gaze toward the fire, too.

"Have you found him yet?"