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It’s odd, staring at this version of himself. The black hair alone makes quite the difference, but when he wears it down like he is now, he barely looks like the humanoid typhoon at all; if it weren’t for the fact that Vash has never seen someone with eyes quite their colour, or the mole on his cheek, Vash wouldn’t think they were the same person at all.
He’s a little shorter, too, not that either of them can fairly be called short. It means there’s enough space for Vash to slot his chin over his head, and the other version of himself seems to like this—maybe? It’s hard to get a read on what he’s thinking and feeling at any given moment. Which Vash supposes is only natural; he’s received the same feedback from people back home. Turnabout’s fair play and all that.
The news of a second Vash the Stampede doesn’t spread far, namely because this Vash seems fairly interested in keeping it under wraps. Actually, he seems to want to keep a whole lot under wraps, ducking his shoulders whenever he’s recognised, laughing bashfully once he’s drawn into a conversation; it’s a level of discomfort that Vash personally couldn’t imagine feeling safe enough to vocalise, but maybe this older version of himself just hit his limit with the whole front thing. He could hardly be blamed for that. It’s tiresome to keep up a small all the time, even if Vash has a multitude of reasons to continue doing it.
Still, he keeps to himself, and he keeps Vash himself even more of a secret, only introducing him to a man called Frank Marlon, who lets out a scoff through his nose and merely states that he’s ‘seeing double and had better go to bed’ before pouring himself another drink. Vash can see why his alternate self likes the guy so much. He’s steady but quiet, cynical but reliable in the way that Vash always finds himself most drawn to from people.
It’s nice, though, when Marlon eventually does make good on his remark and go to bed. Namely because it gives Vash the opportunity for a much more thorough examination of what’s different about this other version of himself.
“You’re,” Vash—the other Vash, this is going to be difficult, isn’t it—lets out a breath and tosses his head back when Vash’s knee moves between his legs. “Assertive. I didn’t expect that.”
“I don’t get that very much,” Vash admits. Maybe it’s different when you’re staring at another version of yourself. No… he doesn’t think that’s it. This version of him is older, more tired, more confident. In a way, Vash would’ve expected to feel cowed by him. But while so withdrawn and distant in a way Vash couldn’t fathom being, this man is simultaneously so difficult to figure out. So smiley, so unaffected. Like he just floats above it all with a passive, slightly exhausted smile.
It’s enough to make a guy assertive, as he put it.
“You know, when I—” The black-haired Vash’s voice shakes slightly. It’s odd, because he’s squeezing his eye shut when Vash bites down on his neck, but he still seems so coolheaded, like this isn’t really getting to him. “When I thought about, my prospects… I mean, I’m not going to lie to you, I didn’t have a lot of hope.”
“Because of the scars?” Vash hasn’t checked that they’re still there; they haven’t gotten quite so far yet. This version of Vash has a difficult uniform, with a wealth of buttons and straps that will take a while to remove. Vash only assumes that there are scars, though, because it’s him. And the little disgruntled smile he gets in response to the question proves that they’re there.
“For a while, yeah. But these days…”
His hand falls to his pocket. He’s got a different prosthetic, with the hand designed in a way that Vash wouldn’t have been able to tell it wasn’t flesh and blood without looking closely. The arm itself however is black, lined with buttons and attachments, so it’s not so different from Vash’s own teal fibreglass attachment. The other Vash’s long fingers wind around the beaded chain of a necklace—actually, it seems to be a rosary, by the ornate cross hanging off the end. Vash feels his eyebrows shoot up at the sight of it swinging, staring for a moment before he returns his attention to the other man’s face.
“You converted?” Vash asks, unable to draw any other conclusions from this piece of information.
It earns him a laugh, low. Their voices are a little different. It shouldn’t make him so angry to hear that his counterpart’s voice is a little deeper, but it does, on a—blindly irrational level. Then again, there isn’t much about this situation that Vash would characterise as rational.
“No. I met somebody. I thought we might have a chance, and then…” His eyes scrunch at the edges. They’re another subject of interest, more green than blue, subtly different than the pair Vash sees staring back at him every day in the mirror. “Well, what always happens happened, I guess. I forgot that was my luck. Didn’t think I’d be rebounding with myself though.”
Vash grumbles and ducks in close again. In the absence of his large duster, the other Vash is left in a leather top that exposes both the long column of his neck and his small waist. Vash holds onto one while he bites down on the other, encouraging a sigh from the man against him.
“Don’t call me a rebound,” Vash mumbles. “You have your left hand for that.”
“Mm,” it’s halfway between a moan and a laugh, “actually, I don’t usually use the prosthetic. It’s kind of unforgiving.”
God, the implications of that. Vash slides his hand down to squeeze the other man’s hip and draws him closer, adjusting to slot their lips together again. He feels the flutter of the other Vash’s lashes against his cheekbones when they close, mouth parting as it had the first time Vash kissed him, like he’s perfectly comfortable just allowing Vash to… take.
That’s the other thing about him, maybe. He’s so… easy. Vash had snapped at him when they first met—not like him, but he was under a degree of stress about the whole situation, to be fair—and this odd, black-haired version of himself had only smiled. He’d made a comment about missing the energy, and it had felt so… condescending in a way that nobody should be able to make Vash feel. He’s never met anyone older than him, save for his brother, and frankly, trying to decide who is older between a pair of twins is a fool’s business. Besides, he’s pretty sure Knives just says that stuff to get one over him.
It’s weird, because Vash knows his own tendency is to let insults run like water off his back, but it only makes him more frustrated how pliant the man is, how easy it would be to just—take from him. Like staring at a mirror that’s just a little bit too honest, too accurate; it’s uncomfortable.
Or, well. In this situation, Vash is actually having sex with the mirror, but metaphors aren’t always useful taken to their logical extreme.
“Would you try something with me?” Vash asks into another kiss, his hand working its way beneath the other Vash’s waistband. “A… I guess you could call it a thought experiment?”
“Mm?” The green eyes in front of his own blink back open. They’re already so hazy. (God, he’s so easy.) “That sounds a little complex, but sure, I’ll bite.”
Vash hooks his thumb over his other self’s belt loop and yanks his pants down to his thighs, just enough to expose him. He hasn’t looked down here yet, but he knows their bodies are the same here as well, because they’d talked about it—very briefly—before getting down to business. If Vash wanted to, he could excite this other version of Vash and then take him down to the throat, but he somehow doubts this version of himself would be comfortable with an act that’s so one sided.
Not that Vash wouldn’t enjoy it, but he supposes that goes without saying. The more important thing is that they’re both doing something that they want to be doing, which is why—
“I’ll do what you want me to,” Vash says quietly, “if you tell me what that is.”
“Ah,” the other Vash’s hips twitch, pressing the slightest bit into the heel of Vash’s palm. He lets out a breathy chuckle. “That’s cold. Wouldn’t you rather just take what you wanted?”
Vash raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That is what I want.”
“Oh man, I’m annoying.” It’s said through a laugh, and well, Vash can’t really agree. He wonders if it’s arrogant to find himself so attractive. Not that they look exactly the same, but their faces certainly are. He does put a degree of work into his appearance, but taking pride in your presentation is a little different from actively wanting to witness yourself in the throes of pleasure. When Vash slides his fingers through the black strands, he watches himself tip his head back, then forward, as if encouraging him to pull.
He finds himself smiling. “Come on. It can’t be that hard to ask.”
“Now I know you’re making fun of me,” the man sighs. “Okay, fine. What I want is for you to get something out of this.”
“Ugh.” Vash releases his hair and pushes at his shoulders, backing him into the bed. The other Vash makes a great show of stumbling backwards and falling into the mattress, even though Vash knows that’s nowhere near enough to trip him up. It shouldn’t be endearing, because it’s the same old clown routine they’re both always putting on, but the squeak the other Vash lets out on impact with the covers is kind of cute.
He shifts, pulls one of his knees in towards his chest, as far as his tight pants will allow him to stretch. He admits, “I wouldn’t mind a little more of that.”
“You want me to be rough with you?” Vash scoffs. He makes his way onto the bed, leaning arms planted on the mattress on either side of the man’s head. The other Vash tilts his face back, gazing up at him with big doe eyes. His lashes have gone black too, and they’re incredibly long, though fine enough that bits of sparkling aquamarine peek through. He looks shy, but it must be at least partially an act. The man has been alive even longer than Vash and his own brother, after all.
God if it doesn’t make Vash want to bite him though, and that’s not a feeling he’s entirely used to. Since it’s himself, though, and since he was just asked for it, he leans down and obliges, nipping at the man’s lower lip. It earns him a pleased sigh and hands on his sides, fingers creeping beneath his own belt.
“I didn’t really say you could touch me,” Vash mutters, though he allows his jacket to be pushed off regardless, his shirt to be untucked. “Do you want me to take charge here or not?”
“I’m curious about you,” the other man admits. He props himself on one elbow, using his other hand to slide his own leather pants the rest of the way off. “I didn’t look like you, when I was your age. It makes me want to see you.”
A bit of warmth hits Vash’s face before it occurs to him to be embarrassed by how affected he is by a compliment delivered from his own lips. He’s sure that he’s going to be hard soon; it would just take a bit of encouragement from here. That’s not so much his priority right now, but the embarrassment does leave him frustrated again, and it seems the other version of himself gets something of a kick out of that, so he refocuses.
“You can see me,” Vash responds, shucking off his turtleneck. It’s much easier to disrobe than it is to attend to the other man’s armour. Luckily, the other Vash seems happy enough to handle it, undoing the clasps on his armour and letting it fall to the floor along with his briefs. (Which are… very similar in appearance to Vash’s own, go figure, so Vash makes sure they end up in different piles. Not that it would be the worst thing in the world to trade, but you know, you can never be too careful.)
He gives himself a moment for—well, he’d call it thorough study, but he thinks this skews a bit closer to appreciation, the way his eyes rake over the other man’s curves. He’s slimmer overall, with less of a dip at the waist. They’re probably about the same width around the hips, so Vash would guess his own personal workout routine focuses more on upper body strength. It’s served him pretty well in the past is why, but it seems this guy’s scraping by just fine without it, so that’s food for thought.
Food for thought… for later. There’s something much more pressing to attend to; namely the other Vash’s crotch, where he’s already glistening, a bit pink from when Vash was pushing his knee there.
He swallows. They really aren’t that different down here, but even so.
“What, uh… language do you like?” Vash asks.
“You’re an attentive partner. I’ve never been asked that before.”
Vash sighs and rolls his eyes. “You have to stop complimenting me about that.”
There’s a flash of white teeth as the other Vash digs his canine into his lower lip. “Sorry.” He doesn’t sound very sorry though, eyes sparkling. “Whatever you want. That thang. The Minipede.”
“The—” Vash splutters. “Okay. I’m going to fuck your Minipede, Vash.”
The other Vash lets out a stream of giggles, dropping onto his back and pulling one of his knees towards his chest. It stretches far— and sure, Vash himself is equally as flexible, but it’s something else to see it from this perspective, the way it shifts his folds, the slick shining between his exposed thighs—and Vash realises his throat has gone dry. Actually, he realises his mouth has fallen open, hence the dryness. With some effort, he swallows, then has to swallow again.
“Oh,” the other Vash lights up, “your Minipe—”
“Penis is fine!” Vash snaps, grabbing the underside of his thigh and ducking closer. He earns himself a squeak for that, ridiculous when he wasn’t even being that rough, but when he pulls the other Vash closer and ducks in for a kiss, he can’t help that his heart is racing. It’s a spectacularly unique kind of arousal, that should maybe be dampened by how humiliating the whole endeavour is… but frankly, Vash is starting to worry that that might be a thing for him. Among the worst things that could’ve happened to him at this part of his life.
His Minipede certainly has taken interest in the current proceedings, though. Vash doesn’t have to do much coaxing for it to finish switching from a clitoris to a cock. It’s something he sort of keeps under wraps with other partners—he’ll jack off in private if he’s with someone who wants him to take the reins—but it’s clearly of little interest to the other Vash, who seems more distracted by the kiss. His head drops back against the pillow when he’s freed.
“You’re good at that.”
“I’ve never heard any complaints,” Vash admits. “Are you—ready? Should I…”
“Are you worried about hurting me?” An arm slides around Vash’s shoulders. It’s embarrassing how reassuring the simple touch is; Vash can’t help but lean into the fingers that slide through his undercut. “You know I don’t break easy.”
That isn’t Vash’s concern though. There are so many other ways to be hurt. Even if not physical—
Vash wrinkles his nose. He’s going to have to do a lot of introspection after this, isn’t he?
“Not what I asked you,” Vash finally says. The other Vash lets out another breathless giggle.
“You’re right. I’m ready.” That hand presses against the nape of Vash’s neck, touches their lips together. “And I want this, so please keep going.”
Fuck. It’s barely a sexually charged statement at all, but his voice is so soft, and this close, there’s no mistaking his sincerity. Vash presses in, first with his lips, then to guide himself inside, his other hand shifting to hold onto the other Vash’s waist. They’re both quite wet (side effect of the transforming Mini—no he can’t call it that—situation) and it makes the glide easy, indulgent. The other Vash is warm inside too, and Vash would hardly call himself vocal during sex, but he groans as he bottoms out, eyes shutting.
It’s nothing compared to the sigh his partner lets out, head tipping back. As if Vash even did anything particularly crazy. He really is remarkably flexible, knee to his shoulder and back arched. It’d be quite the sight if Vash wasn’t somewhat distracted. As-is, he experimentally rotates his hips, then slides his hand over to thumb over the other Vash’s clit.
“Oh,” is the immediate response, “that’s nice.”
“You want me to—?”
“Yes, please.”
Vash finds himself smiling. “Good. Keep telling me, just like that.”
As he’d expected, the praise makes the other Vash tighten around him. It takes a moment for Vash to collect himself enough to start up a proper rhythm, but he’s sure to focus more on the movements of his hand, aware that this isn’t always the most reliable way to finish. (At least, it isn’t for him. Different strokes and all that.) The other Vash certainly doesn’t seem to have any complaints, eyes screwed shut now. It’s almost a shame to miss out on the hue, but he makes up for it with the rest of him, face darkened with a splotchy flush, black hair plastered against his forehead.
Vash wonders if it might be worth trying mirror sex sometime. This is clearly doing something for him. Or maybe it really is this version of himself that he’s into; the sweet way he smiles, so distant yet simultaneously sincere. How distant he feels while being little more than a few feet away from Vash. How affected he is now, all on account of something that Vash is doing—like that immense burden on his shoulders could be lifted, just for a moment.
“Your—” Vash leans over and breathes out, “lover, did you ever get a chance to—?”
“With him?” The other Vash swallows tremulously. He shakes his head. “Never—we—didn’t have the time. I thought I’d have more time.”
“I’m sorry,” Vash whispers. “I always think I’ll have more time.” Always, no matter what. He’d thought so with Rem, and he’s thought so with every human he’s dared to get attached to over the last 150 years—no matter what he does. “I’m sorry you lost him.”
“I—you don’t have to be,” though it’s said in a thick voice, eyes scrunched at the edges against rapidly appearing moisture, “because I’m—glad—I knew him. And I hope you do too—someday.”
Vash ducks his head and closes his eyes. He hasn’t even met this person—but it hurts anyway, like a punch to the gut. He knows the exact amount of effort it takes to love after losing, to continue to care even when life has proven it to be so hard. It’s always been worth it, but Vash had never considered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end. He’s taken the lead here, but it simultaneously feels like he’s being guided through this, like this other Vash is light years ahead of him rather than a mere three and a half.
“I—” Vash swallows heavily, “I really, really want to make you finish.”
“Oh, I really wouldn’t be worrying about that.”
It’s messy; Vash’s own mess ends up inside the other man (not his preference, but he doesn’t have the coherency to pull out) and the other Vash’s load is shot across his naval, leaving his chest heaving and trembling with residual quakes. Vash pulls out quickly after to prevent oversensitivity, but he’s also doing quick maths in his head, trying to remember everything Knives has rambled to him about Plant biology to figure out if this is going to backfire on them.
Occupational hazard of fucking yourself: “Vash, it’s fine.”
“I don’t think it is,” Vash splutters. “I mean, what if—will it have birth defects? You know how the old human royals used to have squishy noses and eyes too close together and—”
The other Vash’s lips are softer than his. There’s pretty much no hiding from it now. Makes for a decent distraction from logistical panic, though.
“I really don’t think that’s in the cards for me,” the other Vash says dryly, “so you can relax. I would’ve said if I didn’t want that.”
It’s only reassuring because Vash can read his own expressions well enough to be able to tell that he’s not being bullshitted. Even this inscrutable Vash has an I’m being nice to you right now voice. Letting out a heaving sigh, Vash flops onto the bed on his side, and doesn’t complain when the other’s arms wind up curled around him. He smells good, inexplicably, like flowers and the faintest whiff of cigarette smoke.
“We should clean up,” Vash admits.
“Later.” There’s a faint chuckle from beside him. “You’re so high strung.”
“Nobody tells me that. You just think that, because you’re all…” Vash wiggles his hand around. “Mellow.”
“You might try it.” There’s a smile in the other Vash’s voice. “Makes living easier.”
“I’m sure it does, old man.”
“Ow, hey!”
Vash snickers, and apologises, but he’s not sorry. He’s waited his whole goddamn life to say that to someone, as a matter of fact. He does end up settling in though, content to cuddle for a while before cleanup if that’s really what his alternate self wants. Besides, he’s still feeling emotionally wrought, and not to mention boneless from finishing, so the rest is appreciated.
“...You think I’ll disappear overnight?” Vash asks after a beat.
“Mm… it’s possible.” The other Vash’s hand smooths through his hair. “If that is the case, then thanks for hanging out. Appreciated the company. And if not…”
Vash waits. The hand in his hair pauses, a finger drawing a small circle against his scalp.
“...Maybe Marlon would be interested in a—”
“Don’t!” Vash exclaims as the other Vash’s body is wracked with giggles. “Don’t even go there.” It’s too dangerous. They’ll never stop if they’re going down that road.
…Ah, hell. He was kind of a looker though, Frank Marlon. Would it really be so bad just to ask, if it is the case that Vash hasn’t vanished by morning?