Roadtrip Oneshots

Rylyn, Restless Leg Syndrome

Brooklyn

I can't remember when it started, the unquenchable urge to move my leg. All I knew was that it was annoying. Rye always told me that he didn't mind it, and that if it was something I needed to do then I should do it. He never judged anyone, or anything, which I loved him for.
But it was just... embarrassing.
What could be more embarrassing than having to move my leg because I felt I needed to? And I couldn't even control it either.

Some people in my life had freaked out over it, which hadn't helped matters at all, and it was only with the boys (and most importantly Rye) that I began to even feel remotely comfortable with it. They'd asked questions when they noticed, but they'd been among the very few people who'd accepted that fact right away with no problem, and no more questions asked.
Least of all my boyfriend, who had held me closer to his body on that particular night... Not that I'd minded of course.

Now, back to the present day...

***

If I'm being particularly honest, I hadn't been feeling the greatest today.
Stress. Hate. The constant thoughts.
They all mounted up, and it seemed to only get worse and worse as of late.
I think Rye had picked up on it, because I'd caught him glancing at me with worried eyes more often than not recently.
But I just thought he was wasting his time... I wasn't normal anyway, was I? What with my leg being irritating, and according to the hate I'm... I can't even bring myself to repeat those words I'd read only seconds before.

I sighed, switching my phone off and sliding it across my bed, wanting to get it as far away from me as possible. I never wanted to look at hate, and if I did see if I'd ignore it, we all do, and I never really believed it... but I've started to notice how more and more people are saying the same thing.
It was getting hard not to notice it.

I sat up on my bed, resting my head in my hands. What if I was normal? What if my leg didn't randomly jerk around because I couldn't help it? Would those people like me then?
But most of all... why did I even care what people thought about me?
But I'd decided then. I'd decided that I'd try to stop my leg from moving all the time. I'd try to suppress the feeling, and maybe things would get better then.
I hoped anyway.

***

A Tuesday night. Me and Rye cuddling on his bed, watching a movie on his laptop. For the first time that day I was at peace, and comfortable, and somehow mentally stable. I guess that was what Rye did to me... he was all around good for me.

Every few minutes he'd press kisses all over my face, before softly whispering in my ear: "I love you."
And I'd look up from my position on his chest with a smile, staring right into his eyes as I did so, blushing at the sparkle I saw in them.
"I love you too." I'd whisper back, before leaning up to press my lips firmly against his.

And that's where we were currently.

I nestled my head onto his chest, smiling softly when he shifted, tightening his arms around me. No words were said after that, just the two of us cuddling on Rye's bed.
And then I felt it.
It began as an itch that worked it's way from the base of my foot, so I tangled my legs with Rye's under his covers. He chuckled softly.

"You have cold feet." He murmered. I laughed in response, curling my toes up.

I didn't think anything of it.

But then it turned unpleasant, an oddly sardonic crawling sensation slowly working its way from my ankle, all the way up to my calves... getting so much worse when it hit my thighs. I had tensed then, knowing what my leg wanted to do, but I adamantly refused. I'd promised myself earlier I wouldn't... and this would stop the hate surely? I let out a shaky breath, curling into Rye some more, in an attempt to draw more comfort from him.