Archive of Our Own

dissonance

dissonance: (especially, music) a clashing or unresolved musical interval or chord

"What the hell is this?"

Toph doesn't realize immediately that she's this. She's been idly double checking the spacing of her kit, setting out a beat that echoes cavernously in the empty hall, minding her own damn business. But then that voice announces itself and Aang and Zuko mute their guitars with a twin twanging slap of their palms and Toph realizes, a second too late, she should stop playing.

Her hand shoots out to kill the hi-hat and she hears the solid thud of Aang's bass against its amp as he stands.

"Sokka!" he says. It sounds like he's offering a grin that fails to warm the room.

Right. Sokka. Toph's brain conjures a friendlier tone for the voice. This isn't their first time meeting, but it is the coldest reception she's received thus far.

"You remember Toph," Aang continues. "Ty Lee's party, right? She played with the Temptresses? She's filling in for tonight!"

The air on the low stage turns prickly around them. Sokka strides briskly from the back stage door, where he was standing frozen, to the amps; there's the sharp click of him plugging in.

"No one said Teo'd be gone," he grumbles, already starting to tune. And, even lower, "And that the fill-in would be a girl."

Toph bristles before she can stop herself. It's not as if she asked to be here. In fact, it's his band mate who begged her to come, and to whom she acquiesced due to their long-standing friendship. She could be playing a better gig, with a better band, at this very moment, and get more than warm beers for it.

The urge to make a snide comment is strong, but she keeps her voice flat and cool. "A hell of a drummer and a hell of a girl, if my record and my tits are anything to go by."

Zuko snorts, the laugh slicing through the reverb of Sokka's guitar, and the strings cut abruptly.

"Are we seriously playing with a girl?"

(There's a wave of disappointment under the stab of anger in her chest. She'd had such decent memories of him, too: they grew up in the same town, played their way down the roster of the same five dinky dance halls, she even stayed up all night to listen to their first show when they shipped here to try their hand at the bigger leagues. All that and she never realized he's a raging misogynist.)

If there's one thing Toph's used to, though, it's dealing with assholes who doubt her abilities. It would be so easy to meet his anger with her own, but she lets her eyebrows dip in mock concern instead.

"Don't tell me you're intimidated by a girl, Sokka. I can't be that much better than you."

"I'm not—you're—" His fingers slip on a tuner and the string slides sharp. "We're a boy band, with boys, we don't do…" In his pointed silence she can only imagine he's somehow indicating her.

"So you are intimidated," she says, folding her arms under her chest and hoisting them upward. "By my talent and my tits."

"See, this—" His voices tangles and she fights a smirk at his struggle, knowing she got to him. "This is why you don't invite girls into the band, it's never just playing, there's always drama—"

"And who's the one who started it?" she shoots back. "It's only been two minutes, you can't have forgotten already."

"I'm not starting anything, I'm just wondering where the hell our actual drummer's gone."

Toph has learned to read a silence like it's its own language, and this one is saying volumes. She doesn't know the story, didn't bother to ask why they needed a sub, but the tension stinking up the stage reeks of something more than a drummer out with a nasty hangover.

"What?" Sokka barks, when the silence has dragged on too long.

"You heard him." Aang speaks reluctantly. "Teo's done."

"Whatever." A repetitive riff sounds too melodic for the irritation in his voice. "Give him a couple days, he'll change his mind."

"Sokka," says Zuko. "He left. He took a ship back this morning."

"What?" The reverberating strings cut off. "And you didn't try to stop him?"

"There was no point. He wanted to leave."

"You know he was never really… committed," adds Aang. "It was his choice."

Shitting hell¹, and Sokka thinks girls cause drama.

From across the room, someone is taking chairs off tables; a low chuckle of laughter floats, muffled, from the kitchen. Toph taps her sticks lightly against the rim of the snare and decides to nip this in the bud before it can really blossom.

"You ladies ever gonna check equipment or are we playing fast and loose?"

That seems to remind them that she's here, and it's Sokka who answers.

"I don't know what Aang told you, but we don't need you." His agitation is obvious in the way he adjusts the strap over his shoulder and shuffles his fingers up and down the frets, a minor scale falling out. "We'll manage fine on our own."

"No, no—we need you!" jumps in Aang. "Sokka," he hisses, "I'm not drumming with a microphone between my knees again—"²

"So don't. I'll play drums—"

"You can't play drums, who'll take all your solos?"

"Okay, so Zuko plays drums—"

"Don't sign me up," interrupts Zuko. "Why not use the girl who can actually play—"

"The girl has a name, you know." Toph can tolerate a certain level of band in-fighting, for entertainment purposes, but not when it concerns her value as a player. She stands behind her kit. "And she's not interested in waiting around for you to decide if she's cool enough for your boys' club."

"Toph, hold on—"

The sound of shuffling feet meets her ears, Three Stooges-style, as Zuko and Sokka grunt; she can only assume Aang's grabbed them by the scruffs of their necks to huddle together, an impromptu band meeting. Their low, tense voices filter over, depositing snatches of an argument that make her roll her eyes.

"Oh, and by the way," she adds in their direction. "Doors are opening in ten, so if you're planning on getting your shit together, now would be the time."

The whispered fight picks up in tempo and volume. Toph twirls a drumstick in her hand, already bored of their bullshit. Girl though she may be, none of this is her fault or her problem. (Maybe, she realizes, he touched on a nerve with that comment.)

Sokka exhales a loud huff and stomps back to his amp. It's obvious he's lost the vote, and Toph's guess is confirmed when Aang chirps, "Have a seat, Beifong! Tonight you're an Elemental!"

"Great," she deadpans, flopping back onto her throne. "Now grab me a beer and a prellie.³ I'm gonna need both to get through the night with you assholes."

—

It's actually alarmingly easy to get through the night—all six hours of it—once the uppers hit and they work through the initial kinks.

Aang's stage presence is infectious, flirtatious and bright and backed by his melodic bass-playing. His cheekiness is enough to draw out even Zuko—a few hits of a blunt probably helped too—as they sing cheek-to-cheek in a single microphone.

And Sokka, God help him, is as good as Toph remembers, agile and intentional without sounding like he's trying too hard. An honest-to-God good guitar player on this island of clubs and bars where bands are a dime a dozen.

It takes no effort to slide into their rhythm and match their style; she's not known as the Bandit for stealing hearts, just her uncanny ability to slip into any group with an unmatched stealth. It's not hard, either. The thing is, and she can't admit it yet, but they're good. Toph's listened to more than enough groups over her time on Ember Island, can tell who can work an audience and riff on a song past the twenty-minute mark, and it takes her only a handful of songs to clock the Elementals as having the spark of something special. It's more than technical skill, or a good set-list, or even charm or good looks; it's chemistry, plain and simple, infusing their voices and filling the spaces between songs and drawing the crowd onto the dance floor.

It's fun.

Sokka may have been an asshole to start, but some booze and some nudging from Aang have loosened him up, and God help her but playing with this troupe of idiots is fun.

It's always good to play, but it's not always fun. The list of groups she's moonlighted with is long and varied, each with its own style and dynamics, and some she fit into better than others. Ember Island has no shortage of fresh bands hoping to hone their skills and make it big, and every one of them needs a substitute every once in a while. With the Elementals, though—well, when you have the chemistry and the skill, that's when the real fun starts.

The hours pass in long stretches and sudden, quick blinks. Laughter punctuates the transitions between songs. People shout requests, and Aang jokes with them, and Zuko makes fun of their bad taste in songs, and even Sokka offers a few awful puns that Toph punctuates with a snare and cymbal. Fresh mugs of beer keep appearing by her left foot and by the time they finish their last half-hour song and spill off the stage, she's loose and flushed and riding a high nothing can touch: the euphoria of music.

They fumble, the four of them, into the back alley, the sounds of the crowd inside cut off abruptly by the slamming door so that their laughter is all that rings in the narrow space. The rich scent of smoke does well enough to mask yesterday's garbage as Zuko exhales a plume into the cold air; Toph holds out a hand expectantly and he huffs softly before passing her a fresh cigarette.

Next to her Aang laughs and throws an arm around her shoulders and squeezes. "Amazing," he effuses, bathing her in his beery breath.⁴ "You were gorgeous. When you did that—"

He pulls away to imitate, with his whole body, a particular roll she likes to throw in on Together Tonight, and she grins around an exhale of smoke.

"If you liked that, you should hear me when I've really warmed up."

"Six hours wasn't enough for you?" Zuko grumbles.

She flashes him a grin in return. "Amateur hour."

He huffs a laugh and knocks a knuckle against her head. "You were great, Beifong."

Aang giggles again, more Three Stooges shuffling as he pulls Zuko and Sokka in close. "We haven't been that turned on in ages. God, you're so good, Toph. Sokka"—she hears his teeth knock together as Aang jostles him—"don't you think so?"

Or maybe that was just the sound of his jaw welding together: all he gives Aang in return is a flat hum.

"Piss off," says Aang, indignant. "Tell her how good she was. Tell her she should play with us again tomorrow."

That seems to unstick his tongue. "Let's not be hasty. She's good—" At her expression, he amends, "You're good, I never said otherwise, alright? But you're still…"

"Sokka…" Aang begins, but Toph cuts him off with a bark of laughter as the warmth of the evening evaporates into the sharp nighttime air.

"You're really that concerned about what's in my pants, are you."

"No—"

"Don't worry, you won't have the opportunity to find out."

He squawks. "I don't—"

"Well," she interjects, dropping the remains of her cigarette into the dirt, "it's been a hoot, you two. I'm sure I'll see you around. And Sokka?" She angles herself toward him, arranges her face into a mask of cool indifference. "Fuck you."

With that damper on what had been an alright evening, Toph slips back inside the club.

—

She sleeps in late that next day.

Toph rents a bed in an all-girls boarding house, a cramped little three-bedroom place with an ever-revolving roster of girl groups cutting their teeth on real audiences. The landlady and matron of the house is a curmudgeonly woman, always with a complaint at hand and a scowl in her voice, but still surprisingly permissive and discreet, and it's she who barges into Toph's room and brings her rudely to consciousness.

"Girl," she says—she addresses them all this way, too many faces to keep track of—and Toph can only assume she's the girl in question. "There are some boys downstairs. For you."

Toph groans and rubs at her face before rolling out of bed. She knows a fair amount of boys on Ember Island, between the constantly shifting bands she's played with, but none so friendly that she lets them know where she stays. Except, of course, the ones who insisted on walking her home last night.

Pulling on her dressing gown, Toph forgoes her cane and lets the familiarity of the house guide her, the scent of a fresh pot of tea drawing her toward the kitchen.

"Toph!" says a voice, bright, and just as she suspected—Aang, and if there's Aang, there's Zuko.

"Boys," she greets, and shuffles to the cupboard for a teacup. Brew in hand, she gestures at the pot before folding onto the free chair. Steam curls, hot and fragrant, over her face as she sips.

"We just wanted to thank you again," Aang explains, fussing around at the stove. "You really saved us from a shit night. You know how it is without a drummer—though…" He chuckles. "I guess you wouldn't."

Toph hums, takes another slurp of her tea. "And I suppose you dropped in this morning solely to thank me and not for, I don't know, any ulterior motive?"

"Well…" Aang's voice is warm and layered as he slides into a chair and sets a cup in front of Zuko. They're having some kind of silent conversation—Toph can hear it in the weighty pause—that ends when Zuko coughs.

"Toph," he says, a formality in his voice that makes her eyebrows jump. "What are you doing tonight?"

A smile curls Toph's mouth. "Why, Zuko," she murmurs, leaning forward to cup her chin in her palm. "You're not about to invite me out for a drink, are you?"

"For God's sake, woman." She can feel the embarrassment rolling off him in waves and can't help but laugh. "You know what I'm asking."

"Go on." She's still chuckling. "Ask anyway."

"Toph, you have to play with us tonight." Aang's leaned all the way over Zuko to grip at her arm. "We don't have a backup and you're so talented and you fit with the group so well and it's going to be a fucking disaster without you so we need you to say yes."

She takes a languorous sip of her tea to hide her smile. There's no question what her answer will be, but she won't say no to the bit of ego-stroking that comes with someone begging for her talents.

Lowering her cup, she prods, "Anything from you, Zuko?"

"Please, oh please," he deadpans. "Save our lowly band with your unfathomable talent and shining wit."

"Well, with a request like that, who can say no?"

"So you'll do it?" Aang asks, delighted.

"Yeah, I've got nothing better to do. And you're not half bad to play with."

"Yes!" Aang cheers, and manhandles Zuko enough that he knocks back and forth between them. "And…"

"And?"

"And how long, if we're already here asking, would you be willing to stick with us?"

Toph's eyebrows rise at the implication. "You know I don't do full time."

"No, no—" He's still stretched over Zuko to talk to her. "Not a member, though I wouldn't… but just to fill in for a while, until we can find someone to join. A few weeks, at the most."

Toph leans back in her chair to fold her arms. "Bum a ciggy?" she demands absently, holding out a hand until a lit cigarette is pressed to her fingers.

As a rule, Toph doesn't do anything long term. The Ember Island scene is built around the idea of short gigs—six weeks, maybe eight, if the group is popular and returning for a follow-up stint—and being part of a band means traveling with that band, as they trek from Ember Island back to wherever they call home on the prayer that they've improved enough to get their Big Break. It's easy to blame her preference for remaining unattached on wanting to stay on Ember Island, or just as easily on bands not being talented enough, or not getting enough gigs, or having too much infighting. She can give a hundred excuses, but buried quietly beneath them all is a seed of fear: she grew up lonely, confined to her family's sprawling, isolated home, and that loneliness is all she knows how to maintain. You can't be rejected from a group if you never stick to one long enough to ruin it.

"I see the rhythm section's been twittering," she mutters. "What about your third? How's he feel about this?"

"He's… fine with it."

Aang's hesitance speaks volumes.

"If it's a no from him, it's a no from me. I'm not in the habit of forcing myself on people who don't want me around."

"Sokka can fuck off," bites Zuko. "He knows it's a good idea, he's just too far up his own ass to admit it."

"Don't expect me to help with that."

"Zuko's exaggerating," corrects Aang.

"Am I?"

"Yes! I mean, Sokka doesn't love the idea, but he knows we need a drummer and we won't get better than Toph Beifong, the Bandit, so he's willing to stick it out for a few weeks."

"Mm, love it when people are willing to 'stick it out' for little ol' me," Toph intones, tipping ashes into her empty teacup.

"Don't mind Sokka," Aang tells her, like it's as good as done. "He'll come around. He's grumpy about everything at first; it's part of his charm. I bet by the time we find a permanent drummer, he'll be begging you to stay!"

Toph hums flatly, pulling a final drag from her cigarette. It's one thing for them to want her—enthusiastically—in their band for an extended amount of time. It's another thing entirely for her to want to do it.

And, the strange thing is, she does want to do it.

God forbid she say it, but she likes the boys next to her. She likes the way they treat her like a friend. She likes the ease and fun of playing with them. And Aang's enthusiastic praise doesn't hurt either.

Toph heaves out a sigh. "Just for a few weeks."

"Yes!" Aang's chair screeches back as he jumps to his feet. "You are brilliant! You won't regret this, I promise!"

Toph thinks of Sokka, thinks of it's never just playing, it's always drama.

She hopes that Aang is right.

—

That night goes, if anything, even better than the night before.

Last night was trial by fire, but now she's got a sense of how they play, their stage presence, what she can get away with, and they have a better idea of how Toph can keep up with anyone or anything. It's exhilarating.

It helps that Sokka has gone from outright hostile to mostly tolerant.

When Toph arrived at the club earlier that evening, it was, on the hot-cold scale of receptions, downright balmy compared to the blizzard of the night before.

Aang and Zuko were strumming something in tandem, Aang's light laughter filling the hall, but they paused when she announced her arrival: "It's your lucky day, boys! Your savior has arrived!"

"Our hero," intoned Zuko, while Aang whooped.

"Oh Bandit, my Bandit!" he sang, jumping off the stage to greet her as she navigated the tables, her cane tapping ahead of her. "It's going to be a stellar night, I can feel it!"

"Damn right," she answered, waving off his hand and hoisting herself onto the stage. "Any night I play is stellar."

Her cane bounced between amps as she made her way to the drum kit upstage. It was only when she was settled in her seat and Aang and Zuko had gone back to their melody that she heard a throat clear from nearby.

"Toph," came Sokka's voice; she'd never heard her name said so stiffly. "Thanks for filling in tonight."

She pulled the hi-hat closer and gave it a test roll. "Anything for you, Meathead."

Toph could practically hear his spine stiffen. "Meathead?" he repeated.

"Just a fun little nickname, between band mates." The floor tom was too far away; she shifted it closer. "You don't like it? We can try something else."

"No, that's—I don't, I don't need a nickname—"

"Don't worry about it," she insisted, checking the cymbal spacing. "It's my specialty. I'll even let you have the first one on the house."

"…Again, I really don't need a nickname." In a lower tone, one he probably thought she wouldn't hear: "And it's not even a nickname, it's an insult."

Toph barked out a laugh. "You get the nickname you earn, Meathead. You want a more flattering one? Then don't be a meathead."

She heard his low grumble and a few plucks on his guitar and assumed the conversation won.

Toph was being a bit of a dick and she knew it, but what the fuck did she care? His band mates might have cajoled him into being less hostile, but no amount of pleasantries could hide the fact that Sokka didn't want her there. She didn't have to play nice with someone who didn't appreciate that she was going out of her way to make his life easier.

"So if you give me a nickname…"

She paused her checks at his words. There was a nonchalance to them that sounded rehearsed; it couldn't quite cover up the challenge he was posing. She cocked an ear in his direction.

"Does that mean I get to give you a nickname?"

Her eyebrows flickered up. Here was something she hadn't anticipated. She had imagined the next few weeks as an endurance test in misogynistic bullshit, but… maybe Meathead could play.

A hint of a grin touched her lips; she'd always liked a challenge. "You can try."

If he had one at the ready, Toph didn't get to find out. Aang strummed a C-chord and announced, "Let's run through the first number!"

It certainly didn't feel like she and Sokka had smoothed things out between them—his boys' club attitude still itched under her skin—but they had found a tentative truce for the evening.

And that truce pays off, because their playing is, as Aang predicted, stellar. Toph has played in a lot of bands, has filled a lot of empty drum kits, but she has to admit—sweat dripping down her temples, palms stinging, ears ringing—that they're the best. Maybe she's caught up in the music, or the antics, or the chemistry, but they're good together.

The audience thinks so too, and when their set is over, Toph hears the call of a feminine voice and Aang's responding laughter and then a warm hand is tugging her from behind the kit.

"C'mon," says Zuko, his voice coming out too loud and hoarse after the hours of deafening music. "Time to meet our maniacal fans."

He's not kidding: Toph is wedged in a corner booth between Zuko and Sokka, Aang pressed on Zuko's other side, and she can't hear herself think for the chattering of voices around them. There are girls everywhere, congratulating them, complimenting them, offering them drinks and smokes, and despite the sea of people, Toph feels extraordinarily like an island. She hates crowds; she hates being crowded.

A sudden cold touch on her hand startles her.

"Beer," says Sokka, his head tipped close to hers to be heard over the laughter coming from the other side of the booth. "Compliments of… one of these fine patrons."

"Cheers. Love a patron." It's the first cold beer she's had tonight and it feels heavenly on the way down.

He clears his throat, his tone coming out gruff. "You, er… tonight was—it went well. You played well. You've—I've always known you're good, but you're… you're good."

Toph cups her chin in her hand, elbow on the table. "You really think so?" she asks, letting the words roll sweet off her tongue. "Even though I'm just a girl?"

"Ugh, God, that's not…"

"Not what?"

"I never meant—"

But what he never meant, Toph doesn't get to hear; at that moment a voice cuts through, bright—"Sokka!"—and the row of Elementals are knocked together like bowling pins.

Sokka pushes closer to make room in the booth until his hip and thigh are pressed against Toph's, his scent in her nose, sweat and soap and boy. She pulls her elbow in closer and sucks down another gulp of beer.

"Introduce me to your drummer, would you?"

"What, you don't want to talk to me?"

Toph's never heard his voice like that before, warm and teasing, so different from their conversations.

"I've heard more than enough of your voice, ta," says the girl. "I want to meet another female drummer!"

Sokka grunts and elbows Toph to get her attention. "Toph, this is Suki. She's drummer for the Warriors. Suki, Toph—known as the Bandit, but we just call her an invasive species."

"Oh, he thinks he's funny." Toph plants a hand on Sokka's chest to shove him back in the booth and extends her free hand toward Suki. "Nice to meet someone else with backbone. The Warriors—that's an all-girl group, right? Must be a dream. I find that boys cause so much drama, you know?"

"Oh, come off it, don't be like that."

"Like what, Meathead? I'm just being honest."

"No, you're being pedantic."

"There's a million dollar word. Meathead thinks he's smart, too, huh?"

"Would you quit it with that name—"

"Dipshit?" she offers instead.

"Gatecrasher," he shoots back.

"Prick."

"Smartass."

"Asshole."

"Jesus," whistles Suki. "It's a wonder you two can get on stage together!"

"I'm nothing if not a professional," grumbles Sokka, his arms crossing as he tries to sink into the booth.

Suki laughs. "Professionally difficult, I'd say. Don't worry, Toph—he's not actually as bad as he makes himself out to be."

"So people keep telling me."

"He's intimidated by strong women—it's a condition."

"I am not—"

"Shut up, Meathead," says Suki cheerily. "And get the hell out of the way so I can sit by the Bandit. I want to know how she did that bit in Dance with Me Tonight—that was brilliant!"

—

Toph shows up to the club late afternoon the next day, drumsticks in the back pocket of her slacks. It's her first official rehearsal with the Elementals.

The evening—early morning—finished on a better note once Suki budged Sokka out of the booth and took his place. Her group was fresh off the ship to Ember Island, and she wanted to talk drumming and breaking out and making it as a female group in an industry swarming with men. It was a breath of fresh air.

Suki suggested they walk home together, and as they'd said their goodbyes, Aang threw an arm around Toph's shoulders.

"We'll see you tomorrow for rehearsal, yeah? After tea—five?"

"Rehearsal?" she echoed.

"It's where you rehearse. You know, practice the music."

This was Zuko; Toph threw up a middle finger in his direction.

"Yeah! If you're sticking with us for a while, you ought to practice with us."

"God help me," she groaned. "Five it is."

And five it is now, at rehearsal. Being a notorious fill-in act doesn't lend itself to getting to know groups, let alone joining their practices, yet here she is.

There's a bubble of excitement in her chest that puts a little speed in her step as she follows the plucking of unplugged guitar and bass through the maze of tables. Rehearsal means running the same song multiple times, which means figuring out what works best, which means trying new things. If there's one thing Toph loves doing, it's experimenting.

Her cane catches on the base of the stage and she pulls herself up in one practiced motion. She's expecting the same exuberant greeting she got yesterday, but the only thing she catches is Zuko humming something quietly, a song she's never heard.

"Drummer's here," she announces, pushing aside some cords with her cane. "Twinkletoes? Spitfire?"

Whatever melody they're teasing out doesn't pause; in fact, neither of them answer—it's Sokka.

"Sorry, they're—they get caught up sometimes, don't notice other people."

Toph stops by his amp. "Caught up doing what?"

"Writing. Songwriting." There's a brief pause where he inhales a drag of a cigarette; he doesn't sound thrilled at the prospect. "They come up with all our originals."

"And we… what? Just let them? We're supposed to be rehearsing together."

Sokka huffs a short laugh. "Ideally. When they get into it, though, there's no getting them out of it."

Toph listens for a moment: Aang's adopted an exaggerated accent that Zuko, to her shock, imitates. They throw nonsense lyrics back and forth as they strum.

"It sounds like they're just fucking around."

"Ah," intones Sokka, and she smells the smoke he's exhaled on the sigh. "But it's that fucking around that will produce another brilliant song."

He's put out about the whole thing, she can tell, an undercurrent of annoyance and unhappy acceptance that make his words feel more jealous than playful. Toph can understand why—he's at rehearsal, but he hasn't had a reason to pick up his guitar.

"Then what the hell are we supposed to do?" she asks.

Shifting fabric indicates a shrug. "I usually practice on my own. Or go grab some proper dinner."

Toph taps her cane against the toe of her boot. Neither option sounds great. She certainly wouldn't have bothered to come if she knew she'd just be sitting around waiting.

"Do you want to?"

Sokka's words pull her focus back. "Do what, Meathead?"

He sighs. "Really? This is really going to be a thing?"

"What can I say? The nicknames, they just come to me." She lets a smirk slide onto her face. "I think meathead suits you, Meathead."

"Ugh, look, I—" There's a pause, filled by electric guitar and bass; Zuko and Aang have plugged in, the melody unfolding between them having grown stronger. Sokka lowers his voice. "I know you're pissed with me. I shouldn't have said anything, alright?"

Toph fights to keep her expression neutral. She thought pigs would fly before Sokka offered even this half-assed apology.

"It's not that I think girls can't be drummers. Hell, you—you're one of the best drummers I've ever heard, male or female or whatever. Your fills are—something else, and the way you utilize empty space? You really… you know your shit."

"Yeah. I do." She folds her arms, her cane tucked behind her, and fixes him with a flat expression. "But you've still been a bitch about me the whole time."

"I know. God—" He laughs. "Can you believe I've been trying not to be? I swear."

"You've done a shit job."

"I know. I just… I'm being an utter prick. You're right—meathead fits."

He laughs at himself, low and sardonic, and it's this last admission that takes some of the bite out of her frustration with him. There's something to being an ass and owning up to it.

She tips her chin up at him, not absolving him but acknowledging his words. "You know I'm this good, but you're still set on the boy's club."

Laughter drifts over between guitar chords. The juxtaposition is stark between Aang and Zuko: intimate, warm, collaborative, in a universe of their own; and Toph and Sokka: tense and tentative and only just taking a step toward civility.

"It's nothing against you," he says. "No girls is just… easier."

"That feels pretty personal, me being a girl and all."

"How many mixed groups are there?" he's quick to point out. "It works better separated. That's how it's done."

"Maybe because no one's bothered to try anything different."

"Look, I'm—this is me apologizing, okay? I've been a bastard about it but it's—this is still temporary. It works because it's temporary."

"Fine by me," she answers. She tightens her arms across her chest.

Sokka sighs, a long, weary exhale. "I don't want it to be, y'know, tense in the group. Can I… make it up to you? Dinner?"

"Dinner?" she repeats, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, dinner. I'm actually starving, and the kids'll be at it forever, and I owe you. Have you been to that noodle shop two blocks down?"

He does owe her, doesn't he?

She contemplates him a moment longer, just to make him sweat.

"Yeah, alright," she finally agrees. "I could go for some noodles."

—

The walk to the noodle shop is silent. Toph only knows to stop when Sokka clears his throat and mumbles, "It's here. The shop, it's—this is the one."

Has he always been this awkward and she just never knew? He seemed so composed on stage, when she heard him playing back home, but talking to him in person years later is revealing the warp of the wood under the veneer. It is, unfortunately, somewhat endearing, in the same way one might find a child banging on a drum kit endearing, in a painful if charming way.

They slide into seats at a little table pressed against the wall and Toph folds her cane and tucks it away. It's only when the waitress has given them menus that they speak again.

"So what's good here?" she asks, sliding her menu to the edge of the table.

"Any of their classic Fire Nation dishes are good, though—ah, shit, I'm sorry…"

It's dawned on him, like it eventually does for everyone, that she can't read the menu herself.

"Do you… I could read the options? God, that was really rude, I didn't think—"

"Any shrimp dishes?" she interrupts. "I like spicy."

"Er… yeah, they've got a few… let me check…"

They place their orders with the waitress, an old woman who can't be bothered with the awkwardness and embarrassment radiating off Sokka. Lucky her; it's making Toph itch.

"You're dying to ask," she finally says, annoyed into prompting him by the way he fidgets with his napkin. "So ask."

There's one last moment of anticipatory silence before he can't hold himself back and the dam bursts.

"Cataracts, right?" he begins. "How do you manage to play so damn well?"

She draws in a quick breath; that wasn't what she anticipated. The questions people ask—those brave enough to ask, anyway—are usually about how it happened (she was born with them), what she can see (vague shapes, movement), and how she manages (that's the cane). Embarrassment tends to hold people back from digging in to the nitty-gritty.

"Practice," she answers, letting her mouth curl up into the hint of a smirk. "Listening to a lot of music. Imitating what I hear. Experimenting."

"Sure, but—how'd you learn?"

"Same as every drummer—two sticks on every available service until my parents caved and got me a kit."

"Smartass," he grumbles. "You know what I mean."

She laughs, the first real laugh he's pulled out of her—even if it is at his expense.

"I'm just taking the piss, Meathead. It's all muscle memory. Same way your fingers know where the frets are. Set the kit up right and I know exactly how far apart every piece is."

Sokka hums, and in that little vibration Toph can hear something she can't quite identify.

"What?" she demands.

"Nothing, just… that's cool. I mean—I remember seeing you back at home, and now around the Island, and I've always thought, she seems—you seem cool."

Christ, he's awful, isn't he?

Toph leans her chin into her cupped hand, tamping down every response his words have elicited. "Well?" she asks. "What's the verdict?"

He jostles the table as he mimics her pose; their faces are unexpectedly close.

"Smug," he decides. "A smartass. Blunt to the point of rudeness. You don't let anyone give you shit." He's silent for a few long seconds, mulling this assessment over. "Unfortunately very cool."

"Unfortunately? Sounds pretty great to me."

Sokka sucks in a breath and leans back. "It's…" He trails off, letting the word hang. Then he starts up again, pivoting hard: "Think they'll have noticed that we left? Sometimes I swear they forget other people exist!"

He never finishes that thought.

—

Aang and Zuko do notice their absence, in that when they arrive back at the club, Aang calls out, "Finally! We thought you'd never show!" And Toph and Sokka share a brief moment of comradery at Aang's expense, snorting at his obliviousness.

They get an hour or two of rehearsal in, most of which is spent on the new song that Aang and Zuko seemingly—if she hadn't heard the origins of herself—pulled out of thin air. Toph's never been on this side of a song before; she's had plenty of experience taking a song and making it her own, but not in the creative process, and there's a thrill to the expanse of the possibilities. It's a push and pull as she and Aang fuss over the beat—he's not forthcoming enough, his descriptions too vague, and she wants to throw her drumsticks at him more than once—but Zuko's rhythm guitar helps guide her, and eventually things settle into place. Sokka's guitar is the uniting piece, a quick study in the melody he plucks from Zuko's chords and Aang's vocals. Sokka is, Toph can assess clinically, very good at what he does.

And just like that, they have a new song for that night's performance.

It's hard to believe this is only their third night playing together. In some ways, it feels like they've been performing together forever. Maybe that's just Toph's perception, but on their breaks, when Zuko claps her on the shoulder and Aang whoops and lifts her off her feet, she thinks she might not be the only one feeling it.

The third night blends into the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth, until Toph loses count in the growing familiarity of the Elementals. She's never been part of a group before, not long-term, not properly, and it's strange in ways she hadn't anticipated: namely, all the members of the Elementals are friends.

That's not to say groups can't be friends; band members are plenty friendly, playing together for countless hours over unending nights, but from what she's seen, they tend to be co-workers before anything. But Aang and Zuko, they're attached at the hip, and Sokka fits in the spaces effortlessly with a joke and demands to actually eat, and somehow, they've roped her in, too.

It's the way they include her in every conversation; the way Aang brings her a beer without asking; the way Zuko's started carrying her favorite brand of cigarettes. It's the way that, when Aang and Zuko have disappeared into their own little universe, jokes and bits of lyrics that she can't understand, Sokka is there to commiserate with her as the outsiders.

"They've always been like this," he tells her one day, plucking idly at his guitar. He's brought an acoustic today, the sound warmer and more intimate. Toph twists slowly back and forth, seated behind her kit.

"How long have they been playing together?"

"Years. Seven or eight, maybe? They picked me up a little while later, and we're—we're all good friends, you know, but they've always been—" He stops picking and she concludes there must be some sort of gesture to indicate their level of closeness.

Toph has her suspicions. None of them have said anything, though, and so she doesn't either.

"They get good music out of it," she offers instead. Her snare's dampened with a tea towel stolen from the kitchen, and she starts up a lazy beat for him. "I've filled in with enough boy groups to appreciate what they've got going on."

"What's that mean?"

"Pretty face like mine," she says, flashing him a dry smile, "what do you think?"

"Ah." He makes an awkward sound in the back of his throat, a choked off laugh. She doesn't know what to make of that.

"Yeah, the boys, they're… they're proper gentlemen, you know? Wouldn't want to make their guest drummer uncomfortable."

"I notice you didn't include yourself in there, Meathead. You wouldn't consider yourself a gentleman?"

"Smartass," he shoots back immediately. "No, I—" He chuckles, low and deprecating. "I have a general rule not to, you know, mix business and pleasure. Besides, I figured I make one pass at you and that would be the last pass I ever make."

Toph laughs hard enough to break her beat; he's got her pegged in one. "You wouldn't be wrong, after the reception you gave me."

There's a pause, one with weight behind it, and then he starts up his melody again.

"And if I hadn't been such a bastard?" he asks.

If she hadn't already stopped playing, that would have killed her rhythm. Thoughtfully, intentionally, she picks up the beat again. "Guess we'll never know."

It's an honest enough answer. Who knows how their relationship would be if it hadn't started off the way it had?

Toph isn't one to dwell on the past. They are where they are now, can't change how they got here. And here, all things considered, isn't so bad.

Three weeks have passed since she started playing with the Elementals. The tension that colored those first few days with Sokka has mostly faded, replaced with a civility that feels like it could be true friendship, if they let it. He's easy to rile up, and gives nearly as good as he takes, and when they're not insulting each other, they're banded together against the force that is Aang and Zuko. It would be very easy to be good friends.

There's a part of her, though, that can't let go of that first interaction—his horror and disgust at seeing a girl at the drum kit—not without a proper explanation. He hedged around it with his incompetent apology, but Toph has a keen sense of when people are lying to her, the vocal tells that give it away, and she knows there's more to it than he's said. Toph isn't the only one holding back.

Sokka may be worlds more amicable than he was on that first night, but she can feel the way he's curbing himself with every word they exchange. It's as if under the joking they've fallen into is the reminder that all of this is temporary. He can joke, and accept her position in the group, because he knows it won't last for much longer. The time limit on her tenure with the Elementals ticks like a countdown between them.

Why be genuine with each other when this all has an expiration date?

This is why, Toph reminds herself, she isn't part of a band.

—

The Ember Island club routine is relentless. Toph isn't used to it.

The Elementals are contracted to play at the Onyx Coast for six weeks, seven days a week, six hours a night. They were two weeks in when Toph was pulled on board; now three weeks have passed. She is simultaneously exhausted and high on a heady mix of preludin and, of all the fucking things, friendship.

It's been three weeks and not a day goes by without Aang, Zuko, and Sokka. Toph, who has always been a loner, who has never had much more than acquaintances throughout the years, suddenly has these boys living in her back pocket. When they aren't performing, they're rehearsing. When they aren't rehearsing, they're visiting other clubs. When they aren't visiting other clubs, they're exploring the streets of Ember Island together.

Ten years post-war, Ember Island is a pleasure city in every sense of the word, the streets overflowing with every sort of vice a person could harbor. True to Sokka's word, though, the boys are gentlemen, and if they indulge their baser urges, it's not while she's present. Instead, they visit all the shops, and the carts that serve shaved ice, and the matinee theater performances, and the over-crowded beaches.

Toph has never been to the beach before. Thus far, the experience has not provided anything favorable: it's hot, the sand burning her feet, and loud, with screaming teens, and crowded, with people everywhere. When someone—an old man—barks at her in a heavy Fire Nation accent for catching his towel with her cane, Aang takes up her hand and grips it tight so she can't easily shake him off.

"I'm loving this already," she grumbles, tripping to keep up with Aang in the loose sand. Someone runs by them and showers Toph's legs with grit.

"Just wait until you're in the water," Aang enthuses, weaving between people and dragging her along. "We should play shoulder wars—Zuko and Sokka wouldn't stand a chance against us!"

"I'll stick to solid ground, thanks."

"We'll see about that!"

His tone is not promising, so she gives his hand a yank hard enough to make him stumble. Pursing back a grin, she asks, "Where are our bag boys, anyway?"

Sokka's voice is muffled as he answers: "Just doing all the work, don't mind me!"

"It's not that bad," Zuko says.

"You're not carrying anything!"

"This looks like a good spot," declares Aang, and drops her hand.

A stiff breeze whips the dress around Toph's thighs and threatens to take the straw hat off her head as she digs her toes down to where the cool sand is hidden. She had to borrow her entire outfit from a girl at the house; Toph's wardrobe is mostly blouses and slacks, a skirt for dressier occasions, and not a swimming suit in sight.⁵ It feels both out of place and oddly lovely to wear a sun dress.

Behind her, Sokka drops their things unceremoniously into the sand and groans. "Everyone's taking their own things back," he announces. "I'm forsaking my role as pack mule."

"Then what'll you do in the band?" wonders Zuko drily.

There's a brief scuffle that kicks up sand around Toph's legs and ends with Zuko's bark of triumph.

"Enough complaining. Who wants to race out to the buoy?"

Aang's voice is already moving toward the water when he issues his challenge and Zuko exhales a low, fond chuckle after him. "Guess that's me."

The beach is crowded and full of laughter and chatter around them—her and Sokka, the remaining two—but in this claimed little pocket of space forms a bubble of quiet.

It's not awkward, by any means, but it doesn't sit as comfortably as it might have with Aang or Zuko there. Which is something of a mystery, because they've gone out for tea a handful of times together, when the boys got wrapped up in a song, or messed around with their own two-person arrangement. They know how to be alone together. Still, there's a thread of tension, one she's not sure will ever be gone.

Toph dutifully ignores this thought and instead finds a towel from their pile to shake out; grains of sand pepper her arms. She can hear Sokka shuffling around nearby.

"Not up for a race?" she asks, stretching out onto her back, the sun hot above her, the sand hot through the towel below her. She drops her hat over her face.

"Hmm? No, not yet. Sun cream first. My sister will kill me if I burn. Actually…"

A cool patch passes over her as he stands.

"You should put some on, too. With skin like that, you'll crisp up in no time. You're pale as a ghost."

He's not wrong; she can already feel the heat seeping into any exposed skin, but she doesn't need to give him the satisfaction of hearing her agree.

Instead, a smirk appears on her face under the hat. "Don't stare too long, Meathead. You might give me the wrong impression."

"I'm not—" he starts indignantly. "It's not staring, it's a look of concern. And how—how could you even tell?"

She laughs. "You just told me."

"Ugh." He drops onto his own towel next to her, the crack of the sun cream cap cutting through his sigh. "Smartass."

"Smartass?" she repeats. "That's what you've settled on?"

"I think it suits you. It's not like Meathead is any cleverer."

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Aang's shrieks from the water; closer at hand, a pair of girls giggle, their laughter fading in and out as they walk past.

"I was keeping it simple for you, Meathead."

He clucks his tongue, sun cream splattering in his palm with a wet squirt. "Do I ever get to graduate to something better?"

"Better than Meathead? Mm, no, I think it's grown on you. You know, like a fungus."

"Brilliant. Not only am I Meathead, but I'm covered in fungus?" The air whistles as he waves his arms about. "Cheers, thanks, appreciate the diagnosis!"

She tries valiantly not to laugh under her hat. "It's terminal, I'm afraid. Once the fungus has set in, the nickname's stuck. Even if you try to get rid of it, it's got those roots, you know—"

"Mycelium," he supplies.

"Bless you—and by then it's too late. You are Meathead, now and forever more."

"My life is full of misfortune," he opines. "What's one thing more, I suppose."

"Tromping around Ember Island by day, booze and band by night—a tragedy if I've ever heard one."

Sokka sniffs. "A temporary relief. Trip's almost over."

A silence settles between them as they both contemplate this reminder. The sharp scent of the sun cream wafts her way on the breeze.

"One more week," he says suddenly. "Til we're done at the Onyx Coast."

"Mm."

"Then back home."

She hums again.

"It's been… good," he settles on. "I'll miss playing here." When she doesn't respond, he prompts, "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Will you miss this?"

Will she miss this? It's a loaded question, heavy under the weight of countless hours playing and countless more spent traipsing across the Island. She very much gets the impression that this conversation is more than it seems, and that beneath the scorching sun they are hovering on a precipice she doesn't recall being led to, her answer a tipping point she didn't ask to make.

Toph adjusts the hat over her face, lifting the brim to let a gust of fresh air in. "Why," she asks, guiding the conversation toward safer ground, "does it sound like you're fishing for a compliment?"

"That depends. Will you give me one?"

"That depends. Do you want the truth or an ego boost?"

"Smartass."

The bottle of sun cream hits her in the stomach and she exhales sharply in surprise.

"Lather up," he commands.

She clicks her tongue but sits up and pushes her hat back to do it anyway. The cream feels refreshingly cool against her overheated skin.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"I daresay you'll ask it anyway."

She hears the shift of sand and then his voice is tipped closer. "How come you've never found a band? Why only fill in?"

"Never found a group I've liked enough," she answers. It's as close to the truth as she's willing to give him.

"You seem to like this one well enough."

The sun cream is hard to rub in and she focuses her attention on the slope of her shoulders, ignoring his comment. She does like this group well enough—that's the problem. She's not a member. It has been made perfectly clear she will never be. And even if, for some inexplicable reason, they did offer her the position, she's not sure what her answer would be.

Sokka reads into her silence, his grin evident: "You do! You like us! You think we're the best band ever."

"Now you're just putting words in my mouth."

"You're not refuting me," he sing-songs.

"Only because I've put up with a lot worse."

"You have to admit, we're good," he says, "and we've absolutely gotten better." (He's very chatty once he gets going, she's found.) "As a group, y'know? Since the beginning of this stint. Just playing together so much. I don't want to lose that, y'know?"⁶ His towel puffs sand in her direction when he flops down, gluing to her sticky skin. He throws out, casual, "We'll have to come back."

He keeps saying we like it means something.

"Aren't you—don't you have any thoughts?"

"You seem to have enough for the both of us."

"Toph."

It's the use of her proper name that makes her dredge up a proper answer.

"What do you want me to say? It's been fun. Consistent. It's taught me a thing or two."

"Fun?" he latches onto. "With me?"

"Okay, now you're really fishing for a compliment."

"Just testing the waters," he says blithely. "I've had fun with you."

"With me? A girl in the boys' club?"

"You'll never let that go, will you?"

She scrubs cream onto her face. "Not while you're still alive to apologize for it."

"Toph, please forgive me," he moans, his voice shifting closer as he rolls to face her. A beseeching hand lands on her bare knee to shake her whole leg. "I've learned from my grievous error. I repent my foolish ways! You've shown me the true light—ack, cream, sun cream in my mouth—"

She pulls away the hand she had planted in his face to push him away.

He's still spluttering and groaning as he flops back onto his towel. "That seemed wholly uncalled for," he sniffs.

Toph caps the sun cream and tosses it in his direction—it makes a satisfying slap on his bare skin and draws an even more satisfactory oomph from him.

"The number one thing I've learned from this past month?" she says, leaning back on her hands and tipping her face toward the sun. "How to deal with you."

His tone is considerably warmer when he answers: "There could be worse things, though, right?"

"Worse than you? Let me think…"

She pretends to contemplate this, because there really isn't much to contemplate: she could spout off, without a moment's thought, a dozen things worse to do than spend time with this man, and then a dozen more.

The silence drags and he breathes out a short laugh. "Smartass."

"Sorry, I'm just… I'm drawing a blank—"

"Fuck off," he laughs, and a grin tugs at Toph's lips.

They lie in the sun together.

—

By the time their last night at the Onyx Coast rolls around, the sunburn has faded from Aang and Zuko and their complaints have been replaced with a buzzing, nervous energy that can't help but infect Toph, too.

Their last show. Their last performance together.

Toph is not overly sentimental, but that doesn't mean she doesn't want to remember how she feels, cramped in the back alley with the three boys who have taken over her life for the past month. It's been a hell of a ride—for her drumming, for her future goals—and she doesn't want to forget the thrill of it all. It wasn't meant to be something; somehow, it became more than she ever anticipated.

"Glasses, glasses," says Zuko, passing out the tiny cups amongst the four of them. Liquid sloshes as he pours them shots. They clink their glasses together and down the cheap, burning drink.

Aang whoops and throws his arms around them, pulling them close, knocking Toph's temple into someone's chin. He smells like cheap cologne and yesterday's shirt and it is, unfortunately, both familiar and somewhat endearing.

"One last night to prove ourselves, lads!" he cheers. "Let's show 'em what we've got!"

There's a great deal of jostling and shoving from the boys that Toph cuts short by pulling open the door and welcoming the sounds of the crowd inside. They have a show to put on.

It's a hell of a show, too, in her opinion.

Sokka wasn't wrong when he said they've gotten better over the past few weeks. It's not just their playing, though that's certainly improved, but the chemistry, the presentation. She already thought they were good the first night they played together, but now that she's not playing catch-up, their synchronicity has reached a whole new level. Despite any mistakes, or jokes that don't land, or Sokka tripping over his guitar cord, they feel untouchable. They're too high on their own success to be pulled down.

Toph is a relatively careful drinker, between living on Ember Island and needing her wits to keep a steady beat, but every break during their six-hour set—and they have a fair amount of breaks, ten minutes at the top of the hour—finds them being plied not with the usual beers, but proper drinks. It seems their regulars are in to give them a proper send-off; they can't say no. By the time they're riffing on their final number—a long, drawn-out rendition of Long Tall Suki⁷ that has Aang wailing into the microphone and Sokka improvising several dramatic solos—Toph has sweat dripping down her face and a head that seems to only just be tethered to her body. Any one of them, really, could be blamed for why the song won't die.

When at last they cut off the final chord, the crowd roaring in front of them, Toph has to place a steadying hand on the snare to catch her breath. A grin splits her face. She can hear Aang and Zuko laughing, the feedback from their guitars as they prop them on the amps and cut the power, the thud of their feet as they land on the main floor. Sokka is calling her name.

She's stepping out from behind the kit, drumsticks still in hand, when he collides with her, and she's not sure if he tripped or she did, but she's just far enough gone that her balance vacates her body and it's only Sokka's arms around her waist that prevent her from landing flat on her ass. The world gives a treacherous tilt under her feet and Sokka laughs into her hair, tilting with her. He smells like booze.

"Jesus," he breathes, halfway between amusement and concern. "You okay?"

Toph isn't sure if she's leaning on him or he's leaning on her or they're supporting each other, but his hands are still pressed against her waist and her drumsticks are trapped, uncomfortable, between them. The moment stretches long, a cascade of sensations condensed into one sharp inhale, and she notices them all: the warmth and leanness of his body against hers, the scent of his skin, the heat that floods through her at the contact. They've never really touched before. She's never really thought about wanting to until this moment.

It's probably the alcohol—not what makes her feel it, but what makes her acknowledge it.

And he still hasn't let go.

She scoffs and tilts the drumsticks to push him away. "Too many drinks, Meathead? Run into me, fine, but if you take out my kit I'll kick your ass."

"Me—? I could ask the same thing of you. You're the one who tripped into me."

"False. I have impeccable balance." She ignores the way her body wants to follow its forward momentum as she reaches to exchange her drumsticks for her cane. "Where the hell—"

"Here." He reaches for her cane where it's rolled away. "What a way to go out, right? Hell of a last performance. You were—I mean, you're always amazing, but tonight you were just—" This is punctuated with a sound she can only assume is complimentary.

"What can I say? I'm good." She holds her hand out. "Cane."

"Humble, too," he says, though there's no judgment in his tone, only teasing. He presses the cane into her waiting palm, a cool contrast to the warmth of his fingertips.

Her hand closes around it. "I know my worth."

And then he says the words Toph never thought she'd hear, straightforward and honest: "I'm glad we added you to the group."

Emotion spikes her chest, enough that it takes her half a beat longer than it should to respond. When the words do come out, they've lost the edge that's always spoken of her underlying irritation. "Even though I'm a girl?"

"Because you're you, smartass," he answers. "You're a great drummer and you fit in really well with us and… yeah, I suppose, you're a girl, and that's…"

"That's what?"

He breathes out a soft huff of laughter. "It doesn't matter because you're brilliant, right? Let's… let's go sit with Aang and Zuko, yeah? And—since nothing can bring me down tonight, I'll even let you have free rein to make fun of me as much as you'd like."

She snorts. "As if you have a say in the matter."

"I won't complain, then."

Toph considers this, cane tapping on her boot. It's an enticing offer.

"C'mon, then, Meathead," she decides. "Just for that, you can buy me a drink."

—

After six grueling weeks, the Elementals' time on Ember Island is over.

Toph is on the cusp of a monumental headache, held at bay only by a few paracetamol washed down by a disgustingly strong pot of tea. The alcohol flowed perhaps a bit too freely last night, and the sleep she got this morning was short-lived and abruptly cut off so that she could be here.

Here being the Ember Island port.

Aang, Zuko, and Sokka are leaving.

She knew it was coming; it has always been the plan. She joined the Elementals all those weeks ago on the very condition that it was a temporary gig, and now the clock has run out. They finished their time at the Onyx Coast. Home is calling.

The ship to the Earth Kingdom is docked; she can hear the lap of water on the side of the ship, the deckhands calling to each other as their feet cross the wooden deck. Small clusters of people pass her as she waits. The sun is scorching from its position directly above her and Toph feels a little sick and she can't say why.

"Toph!"

The delicate patter of his feet reach her only seconds before Aang sets his bags down and pulls Toph into a too-warm, too-wobbly hug. He burrows his chin into the top of her head.

"Twinkletoes," she grunts, returning the hug with a few half-hearted pats on his back.

"You are the best," he sing-songs, swaying her along with him. "We couldn't have done it without you, truly."

"You're telling me."

"Ah, I told myself I'd keep it together." He draws her close into another hug and drops a firm press of lips to her temple. "Take care of yourself," he murmurs.

From behind them, Sokka clucks and reminds Toph of her house mother. "You're acting as if we're sailing off to war. We're just going home."

"And it's not as if we'll be far," Aang adds cheerily. "I think Toph and I have a spiritual connection."

"I'll show you spiritual connection—"

Aang's head is trapped under her arm when Sokka tuts again. "We should get on board. Ship's sailing out soon."

So he doesn't want a drawn-out, emotional goodbye; that's fine with her. The sooner this is over, the better. She let herself get too attached.

"Alright, alright." Toph releases Aang and turns to offer Zuko her hand. "Spitfire."

"Beifong."

When his palm meets hers, it's the centering she needs to aim a fist at his shoulder and draw a bark of surprise from him—a proper send-off for someone who managed to weasel his way into Toph's good graces with his dry humor and steady rhythm. She might just miss him.

And Sokka.

The goodbye she's most been dreading. Even now, he brings up an uncomfortable mess of emotions in her. They had a shitty start, and a tentative middle, and now an ending that, after today, she doesn't plan on examining too closely. Not much of a point.

Better to bite the bullet and part ways now.

Toph squares her shoulders to him. "Meathead," she says, keeping her voice steady.

The air dies between them. Whatever warmth there was to this goodbye evaporates, leaving behind an oppressive weight that presses at the faint ache in her temples and turns the nausea in her stomach.

"Why," he says slowly, "does it sound like you're saying goodbye? It's not as if… we're—we're all going to the same place, on the same ship."

Toph's breath stalls in her lungs. Meathead. Sokka. Stupid boy.

"Sokka," begins Aang.

"No—hold on—Toph." He shifts toward her, his guitar case thudding against his hip. "Where's your bag?"

She huffs out a laugh, humorless in the face of his misunderstanding. "You didn't think I was going with, did you?"

"I didn't—why wouldn't I—"

"Why would you?" Zuko counters. "You're the one who didn't want her to join in the first place."

"That's not—relevant," Sokka returns sharply. He sounds upset in a way that both takes Toph off guard with its vehemence and baffles her with its existence. Did he really think she was leaving Ember Island? Does he really want her to?

"At the beach," he continues. "We talked about it. Leaving. Coming back again."

"No, we talked about you coming back." She waves a hand. "All three of you. The Elementals."

"Yeah, the Elementals. All of us. All four of us."

A wave of cold understanding passes amongst them. This is a colossal fuck-up of a misunderstanding if there's ever been one. How have they all managed to be on such different pages?

Toph is the first to recover. "All four of us?" she repeats, voice flat. "News to me."

Aang takes half a step between them. "It sounds like we're not all quite, er, on the same page…"

"What the hell, Sokka?" A laugh that's more frustration than humor punctuates Zuko's words. "You spent weeks bitching about having her sub, and now you want it to be permanent?"

"Come off it—we talked about it the other night!"

"All I seem to recall is you singing Toph's praises—"

"As if you weren't agreeing!"

"That hardly counts as confirmation."

"We said how good it was to have her in the band—"

"Yeah, temporarily."

"Enough," Toph barks. This morning's paracetamol can hardly touch the growing pressure in her forehead. "Argue all you want, boys, but you're forgetting something rather important."

"What?" they demand together.

"You've never asked me."

An exhale escapes Sokka. "I suppose. What… what do you think?"

Toph wouldn't have to think about her answer, except they started off on the wrong foot and they've never fully righted it. Nothing will come of this until he finally gives her a straight answer—and then they can move forward, whatever that looks like. She needs to know what she's getting into, because… joining a band, that's commitment, and Toph isn't one to back out of a promise. She needs to be sure. She needs honesty. She needs to know, more than anything, that she can trust them.

"I think for all your talk," says Toph, directing her words toward Sokka, "you cause a hell of a lot of drama."

"Jesus Christ, Toph, don't—"

"You're the one who started it, not me, and you still haven't had the gumption to tell me why, so you don't get to act as if I'm making ridiculous demands." Her cane raps against her hip and knee as she crosses her arms. "I'm not joining a band if someone's lying to me or hiding things from me."

She intuits more than hears Sokka's nearly silent exhale. "…You'd join if I tell you?"

"I'd think about it."

"And us?" interjects Zuko. "Do we get a say in whatever-the-fuck nonsense you two have going on?"

Aang's palm hits Zuko's chest with a flat smack. "We'd love to have you, Toph, you know that. Wouldn't we?"

Zuko sighs, weary. "We would."

The situation is so stupidly comical that she almost laughs. "The only way you idiots could have made this a worse proposal is if you'd brought me a written contract."

"I'll draw something up," Aang tells her, and narrowly avoids the swing of her cane with a laugh. "What do you think?"

Toph keeps her expression unimpressed and directs her pointed question to Sokka: "Well?"

"It's not—" He huffs, shuffles, sets his case down and accidentally kicks it. "It's actually…"

"My God, son, out with it," Zuko drawls.

"Do you mind?" Sokka bites. "In fact, can you—both of you—leave?"

"Fine by me." Zuko's eye roll is audible. "No, Aang—let's go."

Aang's voice follows Zuko's decisive footsteps as he drags him away. "We'll just be over here! Find us when you've sorted it out!"

A weighty silence grows to fill the space between them. Toph can still hear Zuko and Aang as they gossip together, their mumbled conversation fading into the background noise of the docks, and the passing chatter of people as they head toward the ship, and the nearly inaudible rasp of Sokka running a hand over his hair. A bead of sweat escapes from between her shoulder blades and traces down her spine.

The tension in the air is stretched taut as a guitar string, and she gives it a single pluck: "Go on."

His breath comes and goes in a long, controlled stream, like he's steeling himself for some inevitable hardship. Toph isn't delicate, or particularly gracious, but she doesn't think she's that difficult to talk to.

"Look," he blurts, that same inevitability in his tone. "I know what I said, when I first saw you, but this has never been about… having a girl in the group, y'know?"

"You'll understand my confusion, considering that's exactly what you said."

"I know, I know, but it's not—that I think girls can't play, or shouldn't be in bands, or… it's never been about how good you are."

"So let's get this straight," she says, and ticks off on her fingers. "It's not about my sex, or my playing, or my inherent worth in a group…"

"I never said—"

"I know it's not my sparkling personality."

"It's you," Sokka bursts out, and in the space of his ragged inhale, Toph feels a knot tighten around her chest. Her fingers are cold, her palms damp with sweat.

"I saw you," he forces out, the words catching in his throat. "When I walked in, and it wasn't because you're a girl—but it was, because you're a girl and you're you."

That strikes somewhere in her chest, a sinking confirmation of her deepest fear. She wills her face smooth and unbothered. "If you didn't like me, you could've just said."

"But that—" He laughs, though nothing is funny. "That's the thing, Toph. I like you way too much."

Her breath stalls in her lungs.

"What did I tell you? I don't—I don't like mixing business and pleasure, and this—" She can hear the whoosh of his hand traveling between them. "This has been… I wouldn't say the greatest torture of my life, but it's been… it's been pretty fucking up there, you know?"

It feels like her throat is sandpaper when she forces out the words. "Didn't know liking me could be so bad—"

He barks a desperate laugh, and his feet shuffle, and somehow there are still people laughing as they pass them and water splashing against the ship that's meant to take him away. "It's—this is why, y'know? When Aang said you were filling in… I'd always had this—this massive crush on you, seeing you at the Cavern Club⁸ and the Taiga, and Ty Lee's damn birthday party, and then we were supposed to play together? Six hours a day for weeks?"

"Must've been torture."

"You have no—" He cuts himself off abruptly, and through his hands mutters, muffled, "God, I'm sorry. This was never meant to, y'know, impose my"—she can hear the way his nose wrinkles in his voice—"feelings on you. I just… didn't want to put myself through that when I didn't stand a chance."

"Mm. Well," she says, brisk, "you muscled through, though, didn't you? Good job on that, very brave."

"See, this is why—" He breathes out a sigh, frustrated. "I wasn't going to tell you. You're pissed with me, and things are awkward, and now you'll never want to be in the group…"

"You're full of ideas today, aren't you?" Arms crossing, Toph taps her cane against her boot, considering. "You want me in now, though. What's changed?"

"Well. I think… I got to know you."

"That took care of those pesky feelings, did it?"

"No—no." His brief huff of laughter makes it sound as if he's offended that she would imply it. "You're a great drummer, and you fit in well with the group, and… we get along, yeah? I reckon it's a fair trade-off. I can deal with some unrequited… you know. If not, I promise to suffer in silence. On my father's honor."

She snorts and grips her cane tighter, feeling the slick of sweat coating her palm. "You're not the type to suffer in silence."

"I will!" Sokka insists. "Listen, alright—I didn't want you in the band because I'm a dickhead, sure, but I want you in now because you make us better. It… it feels right, doesn't it?"

Sure, it feels right, but that's the least of her concerns right now. That short but emphatic no—no, I'm not over you—is still ringing in her head.

"So, what, I join the band and I'm just supposed to suffer your affections?"

"Suffer—" That's prompted true indignation. "It hasn't been so bad, has it, suffering my affections this past month? God, I'm not—am I horrible? Am I so obnoxious?"

He's been neither, or she's been so stuck on that first horrid meeting that it's colored her perception of every interaction since and she hasn't been able to see this supposed affection for what it is.

"You are horrible," she tells him, "and you're certainly obnoxious. Unfortunately I've gotten used to both."

He breathes out an amused sigh. "And is that… is that a fair trade-off? I won't ever—I do have manners, and you can hit me with your cane if I ever cross a line, and I won't ever… expect anything of you, y'know? But I would—we all would, Aang and Zuko, too—we'd like to play with you. You've made us better; you've made me better, and I… I don't want to lose that.

"So. Er. That's me, I suppose. What do you think?"

Awareness of the world around them slowly trickles back in: the heat drawing a sheen of sweat to her forehead and at the small of her back; the salty, fishy brine of the ocean brought in on a cool breeze; the milling and low rumble of a waiting crowd. Toph is suddenly reminded of where they stand; not just at the edge of a crowd, but on the precipice of the future.

She lets a lazy smile tug up the corner of her mouth. "This is your problem, Meathead," she murmurs, closing the gap between them a step. Her cane bumps his shoe and she leans her weight lightly against the support. "You talk and talk and talk, and out come all these assumptions of what you think I should think or want or feel."

They're close enough that she can smell the cheap scent the boys seem to use interchangeably; she can hear the click of his throat as he swallows.

"Correct me?" he offers.

Toph is realizing, as her lips pull up, that she very much wants to.

"You assume I don't want in. You assume I'm intimidated by your big, scary feelings. You assume," she says, and leans forward on her cane, closing the distance between them, until she hears the faint hitch of his breath, "I don't want you to cross a line."

Toph swears she can feel a sudden flush radiating off him, swears she can hear the uptick in his heart beat, the ragged pull of his breath. Her grin becomes something bordering on wicked and she leans back, letting the cool wind fill the sudden space between them.

"One thing at a time, though, yeah?" she says lightly, and turns toward the ship. "First let's go tell the band mates they've got their drummer."

—

six months later

The crowd is murmuring gently through the layers of stage curtains. The Flame-Club is nicer than the Onyx Coast, more upscale, with a proper backstage. In the sliver of space between the velvet curtain and the brick wall it's cool, and dark, and muffled; and Toph notices none of it.

She's otherwise occupied.

Sokka has her pressed against the wall.

His mouth is panting hot and open on her neck, his leg is threaded solidly between hers, and a low moan escapes her as he grips her hips to pull her tighter against him. She should care about being too loud, but she simply can't find it within herself to give a fuck.

"We should," he murmurs, trailing kisses up her throat, "we should go…" He catches her mouth for a brief kiss that she deepens, slipping her tongue past his lips and drawing a groan from deep in his chest. "Toph," he whines, withdrawing his leg, "we're—we're on in five, I can't go out there like this."

"Don't worry," she breathes, before her mouth turns up and she spins him against the wall. Her fingers fumble for only a moment with the button on his leather jeans before she's unceremoniously shoving her hand down the front of his pants. "I only need two."

He's hot and heavy ans full in her palm, and she manages to get off a few quick pumps before his knees buckle and the wall has to catch him.

"Jesus Christ, woman, you can't—"

She twists her wrist that way he likes and smirks at his stifled moan. "Is that a challenge?"

His hands scrabble at her waist ineffectually. "Toph…"

She can hear Aang and Zuko doing last-minute checks through the layers of curtain and pushes up to catch Sokka's mouth with hers.

"Here's what I think," she murmurs against his lips, giving him a squeeze on the upward stroke. "We have seven, eight minutes before they come looking for us. That gives us two options. One: we end this here."

She withdraws her hand; Sokka's voice is a rasp at the loss of her touch.

"Or two…" She hooks a finger into the loop of his trousers and tugs. "We head to the storage closet and start this concert on a good note."

Sokka balks for one long second before grabbing Toph's hand and pulling her along. "You're such a smartass," he says, voice strained and infinitely warm. "Have I ever mentioned how glad I am that you're in the band?"

Toph grins, wide and unrestrained, the evening unfurling hot and loud and endlessly promising before her. "You could stand to mention it more."

The End.