[Anders tosses and turns when he eventually goes to bed, uncomfortable and restless in what is otherwise perfectly acceptable accommodations. He feels isolated and bereft, the bed too wide and too soft and too insecure. He doesn't understand the feeling—he closes his eyes and tries to think of nothing but his own exhaustion, and still nothing comes.
Eventually, he shrugs the blankets aside and swings his feet to the floor in a tired half-haze. He means to do anything else other than continue trying and failing to sleep; maybe it's the bed that's the problem, the pillows giving too easily after a year spent sleeping on cold stone. He stands, drawing the woolen top blanket of the bed with him, meaning to try the floor instead.
(That's what he tells himself, maybe.)
His feet end up carry him further than that, across the distance between their beds. The extra blanket slips out of his fingers, pooling with a rasp of cloth at his feet, and his hand slides beneath the warm edge of Fenris's instead.]
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Eventually, he shrugs the blankets aside and swings his feet to the floor in a tired half-haze. He means to do anything else other than continue trying and failing to sleep; maybe it's the bed that's the problem, the pillows giving too easily after a year spent sleeping on cold stone. He stands, drawing the woolen top blanket of the bed with him, meaning to try the floor instead.
(That's what he tells himself, maybe.)
His feet end up carry him further than that, across the distance between their beds. The extra blanket slips out of his fingers, pooling with a rasp of cloth at his feet, and his hand slides beneath the warm edge of Fenris's instead.]