Bolin stares down at the charred remains of what might have once been a fish. He sighs, flops his head into his palm, and dramatically groans. Korra peeks out from the Air Temple's kitchen, into Tenzin's dining room, and narrows her eyes.
"Eat it."
"Noooo. It looks yucky," he whines, pushing the pristine white china bowl away from himself with an immature huff. He can't even pick at the (slightly burnt) rice underneath the unappetizing main dish. Clutching the wool blanket tighter around his shivering form, Bolin curses the mild pounding against his skull, his high fever, and the inability to speak without sounding like the stuffy aristocrats in Republic City.
Korra comes shuffling back from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her water tribe pants before returning them to a familiar position on her hips.
"Bolin. You need to eat something," she demands, marching towards him and picking the bowl up from the table. Her friend replies by flopping backward onto the floor, curling into a fetal position. He shakes his head against the mat on the ground.
Korra blows a strand of hair from her face. "Why?" she asks, swings her hips around, and heads back into the kitchen for bland crackers.
Bolin lifts his head.
"Because I'm afraid your cooking will make me sicker than this flu," he mutters childishly.
Korra's head pops out of the doorframe again, eyes flaring dangerously.
"What was that?"
"Er-I…Nothing, Korra. Nothing."