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In Ryan's worst nightmares, the world is the same as it's always been.
The city still rings with bustling folks and honking cars and sirens that fade in and out of earshot. Everything in their apartment is exactly the way they left it on that night they received the party invitation. Instruments remain hanging on the walls, beds stand slightly unmade, a box of cold pizza sits on the kitchen counter.
Everything is as it should be.
It's Ryan who doesn't belong.
Ever since he and Jack returned home after escaping Project Luminance once and for all, Ryan hasn't known a moment of peace. They're no longer sprinting for their lives through the concrete halls of a research facility, but a splinter of adrenaline stays wedged in his heart. They're no longer the bound captives of some secret organization, but his hands sometimes tremble, and he doesn't know why. They're no longer separated by parallel universes, searching for family that only they know exist, but in his mind, he's more alone than ever before.
He's not totally alone, though—he has Jack. Always had, and always will.
But with the way things have been going recently, Ryan might as well be a ghost in his own house.
Ryan knows that he made a mistake, the biggest of his life. There's no way he'll ever forget it—there's no point reminding him—but every little thing does just that. Despite the weight of his actions, he tries to go about his day as usual, but he swears the walls are staring holes into his skull. He tries to avoid going outside; everyone's eyes are on him, too—even the strangers on the street who have never heard of him or his brothers' music before (or have no interest to). He thinks—no, knows that someone is always watching him, even when he's alone.
The only person who won't look at him is Jack.
Jack is the only person alive who truly knows the weight of what Ryan went through—what they both went through. After Ryan's final standoff with the General, the brothers were left to pick up the pieces of their old life and try to turn it into something, anything. They no longer feel welcome in the world they once knew, despite months of therapy to help them try to make sense of the past year.
After Adam's death, being in the same room as Jack is like walking barefoot on glass.
There's a scene in Ryan's nightmares that he remembers the most. Prior to that, he would've already spoken to Jack—or rather, tried to get him to talk, too. In the waking world, Ryan doesn't know what he said. All the same, it doesn't matter; Jack wouldn't have replied, and Ryan would cringe internally at the dead silence. He probably said something stupid.
Ryan turns to Jack. His brother's back is always turned on him, doing whatever else—slicing tomatoes, washing dishes, mindlessly scrolling on his phone. Ryan stares for a moment. He steps closer, tilting his head slightly to get a look at his brother's face. Jack's eyes remain focused on what's in front of him.
"Jack?" Ryan's voice comes soft, uncertain. He repeats himself a bit more loudly; maybe Jack didn't hear him.
"Jack."
Ryan gently shakes him, but he doesn't react. When Ryan tries to look at his brother from the front, Jack moves on to some other task. He gets a drink from the fridge, he starts tidying the living room, he prepares to take out the garbage—anything to turn away from Ryan.
"Jack, please."
Ryan reaches out to grab Jack's shoulder or his arm, but he shakes him off every time. His pursuit of productive distraction is unstoppable.
"Jack, look at me!"
Something terrible settles in Ryan's stomach. His throat tightens. He's following Jack around the apartment now. He shakes him harder, but his little brother staves him off just as well, if not better. When did Jack get so strong?
Ryan's pleas grow more and more urgent, desperate, pathetic. His voice bounces off the still walls of their home. He's begging for Jack to look at him, to say something, to give him some acknowledgement that he's not losing his mind. Please tell me you don't hate me please please please
On some occasions, he gives up chasing. His knees give out, and he can't bear to look at Jack from down here. He doesn't deserve to, but he continues begging nonetheless. His words gradually melt into incoherent phrases. He doesn't care; he needs to keep going. He needs to continue pleading for forgiveness, and maybe, just maybe, Jack will finally meet his eyes. He doesn't even need to say anything, he just needs to look at me please I'm sorry just please look at me why won't you look—
Ryan wakes up before there's even a chance of that happening.
In the waking world, Jack is no stranger to him. He talks and eats and goes on walks with him, like a good brother should. The same shadow of gloom that lives in the silence of their apartment presides over their every interaction, but Ryan is grateful that they even interact at all.