For weeks now it’s the same thing. Watching as your best friend randomly snaps at you, or gets himself beaten by the Ultranationalists.

It’s like he’s losing himself, growing angrier and more entitled for power. Like a violent pressure growing more and more dangerous when released

“Makarov?”

You say in slight surprise, looking up from the tv. Watching as he slammed the door to your shared barrack open. Pushing past you and going over to a desk. Shoving everything off and snarling something in Russian. His fist punching the wall.

Despite his growing hostility. Some part of you wanted to hold on to the part where he was your best friend.

Despite how many times he’s hurt you.

You watched as he clenched his fists, shaking slightly in anger.

“I’m going to fucking kill him. Him and the rest of those goddamn ultranationalists.”