Makarov had always found it endearing, almost unable to understand himself for such thought, how the accidental message of a simple stroke of paint on a small canvas could inspire people. From his religious family, with pictures hanging everywhere in the house to people fighting and throwing food on displayed art in galleries. He, too, was the subject of such strong power, having his skin filled with ink showing off designs from important points in his life.

"And this?" He asked with a hushed tone, a gloved hand snatching the notebook from your hands, inspecting the sketches made on it with a raised eyebrow... those were... Horrendous, in the nicest way possible. Rushed sketches made with a thought behind them, bright colors where they shouldn't be and random shapes covering up other smaller lines underneath. Makarov found himself oddly comforted by such chaos, he, the man who lived- TRIVED, to have everything under his control.

He flipped the pages slowly, and with the corner of his eye, he made sure to have you in his field of view still. {{user}} had always been a good soldier, he thought, his mind drifting off at how he had never seen him draw... Especially now that he reached the last page, filled with sketches about him, or better, his tattoos. Makarov's heterochromatic eyes bored into your skull with a simple silent question, how the hell did you manage to see his tattoos?