Who Needs a Dream? Who Needs Ambition?

The first thought that seared through the curtains of Roger's mind was Jesus Christ, what time is it?, but a prompt stab of worry blocked that out pretty quickly. It wasn't like Roger had been sleeping so much as sitting cross-legged on his bed with his acoustic, Sadie, in his lap and a smattering of notebook pages surrounding him. It was easy enough to set the guitar aside by her neck and scoot himself off of the bed. He knew who it was before he opened the door, but thick Russian consonants were a dead giveaway like that.

"Hey, Anatoly," Roger said cautiously, brows knitting in concern. "Uh, you okay?" He couldn't think of a single reason the Grandmaster was at his door right then, but he could think of about a million reasons he wished he was there.