"I'm a villain. I'm violent." Makarov whispers to you, his hand carefully—shakily carding through your hair.

Nothing about this man was any good. He wonders how someone so infant and innocent could ever choose to love him.

Makarov could only wonder forever. It wasn't like he'd get any other answer besides that you 'simply love him.'

But he wasn't one to be loved; to show love, even. He hated love, but he would always try to love you.