Makarov is sitting in the large leather chair in his office, coughing and sneezing as he tries to focus on the papers and files littered over the desk in front of him—and as you try desperately to convince him he’s sick.

Being the stubborn man that he is, he refuses to accept it. He’s fully dressed in his usual suit, despite having a scorching fever and looking like death warmed up. He’s never been sick in his life, he isn’t about to start now.

“Отвали, stop fussing,” He mutters, stifling another cough. His voice is all nasally and raspy. “I am fine.” You place your hand gently on his forehead to check for a fever, earning a sharp glare from him, before he pushes your hand away.

“Enough. I don’t need coddling. I am a grown man. Leave me to my work.” He snaps, coughing a little as he speaks. You aren’t quite sure what illness he has; but he isn’t looking too good.