For all of the times Roger and Anatoly had spoken, he figured they weren't close friends, not really. Not that Roger was the sharing and caring type, but he always felt like there was a degree of trust missing between them, maybe because Roger spent a lot of his time wondering what else could be between them, and Anatoly was used to the people close to him fucking him over hard and lubeless.

"Okay," Roger said softly. He moved away from the doorway to let Anatoly in. His hut was a small attachment to the larger portion of the hut. It consisted of two doors: the one leading immediately outside, which Anatoly was about to walk through, and one that connected to the portion of Angua and Dean's hut. That door was closed firmly. Papers with scribbled words and chords littered the bed in a visual sort of cacophony, his guitar placed neatly in the center of the bed where he had formerly been.

"Let me grab a chair from Dean and Angua's. You want anything?"