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Between clouds the sun is a bloated bauble, leaking gold over the Shopping District's rooftops and filtering through leaves to splay in dramatic, sweeping brushstrokes against the ground. Golden hour creeps along the grass with mincing footsteps; rough estimation informs him that Grian has the better part of twenty minutes before the horizon swallows every last dreg of light.
In hindsight, a wiser course of action would have been transporting this concrete powder fifteen minutes earlier. By his own admission, however, Grian has never claimed to be wise– and he's paying for it now, with rays so intense he has to squint just to make out the Entity's silhouette. Between that and the sweat rolling into his eyes, it's a miracle he's made it this far without tripping.
Grian glances down to aim a fierce scowl at the shulker box balanced in his arms. "You're a lot of trouble for this high a demand, you know," he says, one foot probing along the cobbled path in front of him. A loose stone here could spell disaster; he doesn't fancy spending his remaining daylight picking up spilled powder. "I'm not even sure why I decided to stock you, actually– goodness knows my life would be easier if I didn't."
Easier, but less profitable– concrete powder is in high demand. Worth it for the diamonds, he reiterates to himself, pressing forward with blind steps. This is the last box he needs to empty, and then he can return to his drafts, put a quill to those ideas scratching at the idle back of his brain. If he can just wring out a few sketches in advance–
A cascade of burbling laughter pierces that thought before he can fully immerse himself in it. Grian swings his head up and around with a sharp, wild snap; ahead of him are two amorphous figures, their features masked by the dying sun. Sight's a moot point, though, when it's Scar's bright voice that sparkles through the air right after– far enough that it remains indistinct, but unmistakable in its exact cadence.
Grian's lips curve at the corners of their own accord, an echo to Scar's hiccuping giggles. Whoever he's with must have cracked an incredible joke– or a mediocre one Scar finds personally funny. That's the beauty of that laugh: Scar wields it with the theatrical precision of a tactical weapon, bulldozing through any semblance of unease and rounding out the corners of a conversation. It's the sort of talent that charms you, erases any tension lingering around your shoulders– and from experience, it's impossible to resist responding in kind. Grian has long since memorized that laugh, tucking it between the chambers of his heart until it winds, soft and feathered, around his ribs.
A few more steps is all it takes for the Entity to rise into position, blotting out what remains of the fading light. Grian stumbles to a halt, blinking back ghost-spots as his eyes adjust. At least now he can give in to the hummingbird curiosity caught within his chest; cursory investigation reveals False, the set of her shoulders casual, relaxed. Something blue and shining tumbles, over and over, between her fingers. A token for TCG? He hasn't gotten the chance to sneak a peek yet.
Grian opens his mouth, tongue poised to call out to her, when his eyes slide over to land on the source of that familiar, soap-bubble voice he'd heard seconds prior.
Framed in gold, Scar glows. Liquid honey strokes the curve of his cheek, gilding the flash of his teeth in a blinding grin as he waves one hand in the nebulous direction of TCG. Whatever they're talking about, it's got Scar animated– he bounces on his toes, the handle of his cane glinting with each subtle motion. Trapped under his arm is that ridiculous construction helmet he's taken to wearing while shaping his theme park; strands of smooth, dark hair fall in gentle wisps around his face where they haven't been pressed flat, escaping the serviceable bun gathered at the nape of his neck. The stark contrast drags Grian's eyes up to the cut of his cheekbones. Silvery scars take on an aureate sheen where they slash over his jaw, lip, and nose, and every inch of him– the buckles on his outfit, the enchanted ripple of his elytra, the diamond refractions of his tools– scintillates.
Struck dumb, Grian can only stare, wide-eyed as his heart leaps uninvited into his dried out throat. From the distance of fifteen blocks, Grian traces the easy tilt of Scar's lips, how his entire body leans forward into the humor of whatever lies in False's low voice. Without his consent, a rich, syrupy ache blossoms underneath his sternum– the raw, tender bite of a fresh tattoo, digging hooks into his skin to stretch him far too thin over the swell of his own heart. Deep in his mind's eye, Grian tilts forward, lungs aching, into the event horizon that is Scar's smile.
For one suspended moment, only the silk impression of Grian's lips sliding against Scar's remains. An amber simulacrum of tongue to chapped cupid's bow, the faint sting of teeth against his bottom lip. Grian's hands fumbling to sink, desperate and grasping, into Scar's soft hair–
Grian drops the shulker.
It lands with an unceremonious crash on Grian's left foot, splitting open to spill stacks upon stacks of cyan concrete powder. In a display of herculean self-restraint, Grian holds in the instinctual, ear-rending shriek that threatens to rise from the back of his throat as lightning bolts all the way up to his ankle; instead, he gulps it back, and molds it into a polite, strangled yelp that doesn't carry outside the immediate radius of the blocks around him.
A beat. Grian sucks in a long, deliberate breath between his teeth. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale again. Then, with the careful, practiced movements of a man far too used to comical injuries, he extracts his foot, wincing at the firework-bloom of bruised nerves that burst with the motion. Pure luck that he's wearing his good boots; nothing's broken– not even the shulker, whose top spins in lazy, spiteful circles on the ground, rattling absently.
Heat suffuses his face in one concentrated wave. Grian shoots a furtive peek back up at where Scar and False are standing, only to come face to face with empty space. A glimmer of movement tickles at his periphery; Grian whips his head around just in time for Scar's retreating back, muscles bunching beneath rolled-up sleeves, to disappear within the depths of TCG.
Grian stares at the door for a long, indeterminable time. "What on earth did you do to me?" he demands of his concrete powder, swinging to cast a glare that's one part bewildered, one part accusing to the shulker box splayed at his feet.
As expected, the busted shulker doesn't answer. Grian surveys the carnage of cyan between cracks in the path once more, heart beating a rapid tattoo in his throat. "Right," he says at last, "you are absolutely not worth this right now. I'm not– I'll come back and clean you up later." His lips pull back in a righteous grimace. "You’re not even remotely worth the diamonds."
And with that, Grian turns on his smarting heel, pulls a rocket from his belt, and flares his wings into the mellowed sky. If he continues to replay the mirage of that hungry, starving kiss all the way back to his base, well–
That's his business.