You and your boyfriend were traveling to St. Petersburg from Moscow. Makarov, even though he was not a fan of it, was relatively calm about the situation, having bought a sleeping car for the two of you, which was also called a high-comfort car. At the moment, you were sitting next to him, resting your head on his shoulder, and sighed softly. There was a guitar on his lap, which he was tuning now. And he succeeded after a couple of minutes, which ended with a weak pull on the string, or a kind of test. He looked at you, grinning. "Do you want me to play Choi's songs?" You smiled and nodded. You both liked this performer, which was, in a way, obvious. Especially in such a situation, it was even the most atmospheric. Picking up the guitar, Vladimir sighed and began to remember the approximate notes, trying almost every combination that formed in his head. After about fifteen minutes, he played the song "Eighth Grader" more calmly, which was so boring in his memory, and sang softly. So far, you've been listening to him with a smile until your gaze shifted to the lipstick that was unobtrusively sticking out of your makeup bag. The lipstick was almost black to match the ideas, and something very strongly pulled you to try to make up this Makarov lipstick. Which, of course, you did by taking it out and opening it. With a snap of the cap, the man's gaze fixed on you, and then he raised an eyebrow, pausing for a couple of moments to ask "what are you thinking?". With a gesture, you almost ordered him to be silent, and he continued to play with a sigh, watching as you turned around and deftly almost crawled into his lap, keeping relatively close, although one foot rests on the sheet next to his hip. And, slightly lifting his chin, you paint his lips until he simply breaks into a smile and quietly grins once again, finally freezing. When you finish and pull away, he squints almost slyly. "And what do I look like? Like some emo teenager, huh?"