Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Jasmine Dragon was warm with laughter that evening, filled with the gentle clink of teacups and the low hum of conversation. Brock Beifong leaned back in his chair, his arm resting casually around his wife Ari’s shoulders, a soft grin playing at the edges of his mouth as he recounted the story.

“What’s worse than a bad client?” he asked their cousin. “A bad client in love.”

Toph smirked across the table. “Isn’t that redundant?”

Even Aang chuckled, though his eyes stayed curious. “What happened?”

Brock took a slow sip of his jasmine tea before launching in.

It had started innocently enough—an engaged couple found Brock’s photography portfolio online and reached out. They loved his nature work, his portraits. Ari’s name had come up too; she’d made a name for herself as a low-key but beloved DJ with a gift for blending traditional Earth Kingdom melodies with modern beats. The couple offered $600 total for both photography and DJ services. It was low, sure—but not insulting. And the couple had seemed kind, excited, young.

They signed a contract. Brock and Ari didn’t cut corners.

But the first check bounced. And then the second.

“They said it was a mix-up with their bank,” Ari said, her tone more weary than angry. “Said the best man had the funds. Then the maid of honor. Then a parent.”

“They played hot potato with responsibility,” Brock added. “And all the while, they kept reassuring us that payment would come through on the day of the wedding.”

Ari looked down into her tea. “I think I wanted to believe them.”

The day of the wedding arrived, and with it, chaos in a pressed suit. The venue was beautiful—mountains in the distance, hand-painted lanterns, laughter and wine flowing like water. But the couple? Nowhere near ready to pay.

More stalling. More excuses.

“I brought my gear,” Brock said, voice quiet now. “Set it up. Framed a few shots. But my gut told me this wasn’t going to change. So I pulled Ari aside and asked, ‘Are we doing this for free? Or are we walking?’”

They walked.

Politely. Quietly. But with a clear message: You don’t get to make art on a lie.

“And then what?” Aang asked.

“They blew up,” Ari said. “The bride sobbed like we’d ruined her life. The groom called us selfish. Their aunt tried to get us to stay for ‘exposure.’”

Toph spat onto the ground next to the table. “Should’ve DJ’d a breakup playlist and dropped the mic.”

Aang looked concerned. “You could’ve been sued.”

“Nope,” Brock said. “We had it all in writing. Payment was required up front. And I made sure the contract said services could be terminated on non-payment. Everything was above board.”

Ari leaned into his shoulder. “I don’t like leaving people hanging. But we’re not free entertainment.”

They sat with that for a beat.

“What happened to the wedding?” their cousin asked.

Brock smiled. “Someone's uncle took pictures on a cabbage phone. And I think they played music off a half-dead speaker from a market stall. I know because a friend of a friend sent us a video. The bride screamed at the end of the night. Like, actual screaming. They’ll remember that more than anything we could’ve captured.”

Toph threw her head back in a laugh, but Aang only nodded slowly.

“I’m glad you left,” he said. “That’s not easy. It’s easier to just… take it and walk away mad. But standing up for yourself without escalating? That’s strength too.”

“Yeah,” Brock said. “We didn’t do it to be noble. We did it because we’ve worked too hard to be treated like a line item you can erase.”

Ari smiled. “And because we believe in good art. And good people.”

Brock raised his teacup in quiet agreement.

The conversation drifted after that—to funny stories from their landscaping projects, to Ari’s new sound mix, to Toph trying to convince Aang to join a city-wide hot pepper contest.

But the story lingered. A soft reminder shared in the glow of tea lights: that art has value, honesty matters, and no matter how beautiful the venue, a lie will always find its way into the photos.