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He observed the way precise lines were drawn on the paper, curving and straight ones, thick and thin ones, how they all contributed into making an image of him – of Ivan. It was perfect, Ivan couldn’t think of any other word to describe it other than… just perfect. His eyes, his hair, that little snaggletooth he had – was this how Till saw him?
He couldn’t stop the smile that spread on his face.
or
Till draws Ivan once, when they were still in Anakt Garden. Ivan, being Ivan, treasures it until the day he dies.