#eyesolate

[endergummi]

hear me out.

rebrand

Lonelyeyes

to

Eyesolation

[salswisteria]

Eyesolation/lonelyeyes my beloved

the eyes when they r lonely send tweet or whatever

[oceansreducedtoshallowcreeks]

I think Peter and Elias’s ship name should be eyesolation but that’s Me

[behld]

@eyesolate, martin.      i’d live on the moon probably except i think I’d miss the moonlight.      *

jonathan sims is not in the habit of saying the first thing that appears fully formed in his mind,      and he is suddenly thankful for the thought that comes before his words,      preventing him from saying his first instinct:      i think i’d miss you.      sickening-sweet and utterly embarrassing and      ...      not even relevant,      given that they’re discussing absolute impossibilities,      looking at the stars with several feet of space between them like that short distance dissolves the romantic cliche of the moment.

it’s just that they’re so clear here without the light pollution london brings.      and jon had mentioned that he’d known the constellations by heart as a child,      had mused idly on whether or not he still remembered them      —      he could Know them,      he’s sure,      but that ruins the challenge of it,      so instead he’s focusing very hard on locking beholding out and pointing at andromeda and perseus as he spots them.      he tries to tell himself he is not thinking at all of how close martin is      —      how blessedly unlonely this feels,      this intimacy,      despite all between them remaining unspoken.

he takes a moment to lock away all embarrassing thoughts that threaten to spill out before he speaks.            ‘      for a time,      when i was a child,      my biggest dream was to be an astronaut.      a very short time,      mind,      since i was insufferable about changing interests every week or so,      much to the dismay of my grandmother,      but      ...      something about seeing the earth from elsewhere seemed impossibly beautiful.      ’            he tears his gaze from the sky for a moment,      looks at martin.      bathed in moonlight martin,      impossibly handsome martin.      his tongue ties itself in knots for a moment,      and when jon speaks again it’s quieter,      voice stuck somewhere in the stars above.            ‘      the moonlight would be a loss,      though.      ’

[portraiyal]

       sasha had never been one to spend too much time decorating her old flat, despite living there and only there since she had left home. there were trinkets she had gathered from corners in charity shops where things like them tended to go to die and she always had a fondness for finding a good quilt. but it was different now. she found herself looking forward to little trips where she could look at dish towels or knobs for her dresser drawers. it was a nice distraction from whatever spooky mystery the work day had for them.

        ‘ what do you think about corgi themed throw pillows for the couch? ‘ she glanced back towards tim, holding up a pillow with a very pleased corgi surrounded by flowers. ‘ i mean, i don’t want to give mr. peanut a big head, but these would go really well with the coasters we picked up. ‘

@eyesolate / starter call.

[arcvist]

@eyesolate​, continued.

eyes closed , martin breathes slow and deep , steady despite the distant howl of outside horrors.   he guesses jon already knows , in that awful reflexive way of knowing , the answer to the question , despite his lacklustre attempts to feign sleep and put the other man’s mid at ease  –  a night , perhaps jon might think , of whatever brief peaceful slumber martin could manage with the world as it is.   just once without his every nightmare – of thick , swathing fog and the cloying smell of rot and smoke , and the feeling of insects beneath his skin squirming and itching – being broadcast straight into jon’s mind like some godawful guilt trip from the universe.

“  well , you’d know if i wasn’t , wouldn’t you.  ”   a slow sigh and martin rolls onto his side ,  offering his response not unkindly into the cool space between their bodies. he can’t see in the darkness if jon is looking at him , can only barely make out the long silhouette of him in the dull flashes of lightning or beholding which make up the skies now ,  still managing to penetrate the otherwise blacked out room.  their going to bed together is more habit than necessity by now , just some semblance of keeping time , keeping routine , keeping each other grounded.

martin’s hand instinctively searches for jon’s , laces his cool slender fingers with his own , warmer from beneath the woollen blanket ,   “  everything ok ?  ”

jon’d hoped martin was peacefully and dreamlessly asleep the same way he hopes that all of their friends in london are safe and that this changed world will be proven a horrible dream in the morning      :      with full brutal knowledge of the foolishness behind it.      hope isn’t kind nowadays.      he’s not prone to the easy denial martin falls into,      cannot imagine the ruins being put back together by any hands,      particularly not the ones who’d caused the destruction in the first place.

the village below is far enough that it had been a chore to walk there,      when walking anywhere was still an option,      but not far enough to elude his everpresent sight.      tonight he’s watched a hunter attacking.      the few remaining people stand their ground but their petty knives and guns are hopeless in the face of such sharp teeth,      gnawing and tearing and gnashing and      —      jon thinks of daisy and wonders if she,      somewhere in london,      is doing the same.      clawing her name into the bones of the city.      it isn’t the first time such destruction has forced its way behind his eyes,      but it’s the first in a long while that this particular comparison has come to him.      enough to make him dislike being alone with his thoughts.

‘      define okay,      ’            he says.      there’s no immediate danger to the two of them      —      in the ruins of their world,      this is what passes for okay,      so he nods in the dark,      hoping the sound of it will suffice if martin cannot see him.      shifts closer in,      nestling his cheek against their joint hands.            ‘      i’m fine,      just      ...      thinking.      watching.      ’            no need to worry martin with what,      exactly,      he has seen.      it isn’t as if they can help those people;      by now,      nobody can.            ‘      i suppose that’s all i’m ever doing nowadays,      isn’t it?      ’

[violints]

@eyesolate​      :        i’ve learned to like it here. it’s quiet. i can be alone.      *

there’s a faint hum in the air      :      far - off wind,      or static,      or simply the absence of sound,      which in itself must be a noise,      right?      vanya’s always been good at picking up things like that.      music where there is none.      the life of a musician,      right,      she’d laughed once,      after she had pointed out the melody in a then - almost - girlfriend’s voice      &      been met with a blank stare in return,      as if there was nothing musical to comment on at all.      as if a voice was ever only a voice.

speaking of voices      :      it is nice to hear one.      nice in that far - off way things are here,      nice in the way she is trying to cling to with both hands      —      please,      don’t stop being nice,      because if she can’t even think a thing is nice anymore then she is truly gone,      isn’t she?      as a child she’d dreamt about being a ghost,      wandering through the halls unseen and unheard,      and now she wonders if she is still dreaming.      martin’s existence seems to confirm she is not.      and it is because of him      —      because there is another person here,      because she can hear a voice and think it is nice to do so,      because she is still gripping her violin in her hand with a strength she’d forgotten she possessed      —      that she is able to stop drowning in the nothingness for just a moment of clarity.

‘      do you really?      ’            like it here,      she means.      she can’t imagine liking it here,      even if the concept of liking anything didn’t feel so distant.      (      she lists things she likes in her mind in an attempt to bring it closer.      she likes music,      the kind of classical music that sounds angry,      the kind of modern music that sounds calm.      she likes the way the sun comes through her window and turns the buildings across the street golden,      and she likes coffee with cinnamon on top.      )            

‘      i’m,      uh      —      i’m sorry,      for intruding on your alone time,      i guess      —      i just      —      i don’t      —      i don’t know if it’s a good idea,      to be alone here.      ’            it might be deadly.      she thinks the words and suddenly is sure it will be,      and there’s an ice - cold fear that strikes her,      and she curls in on herself a bit further and speaks in a whisper,      like she is afraid the fog will hear her and tear them apart and leave them each truly and fully alone again.      she’s afraid the world won’t come back this time.            ‘      i’ll be quiet,      if that’s what you want,      but      —      can i stay with you?      just until the fog goes away.      ’

[littlepatchalchemist]

Fanfiction idea: The Lighthouse, but I rewrite it as lonelyeyes.

[cina-full-moon-xanadium]

“Eyesolation” shut UP

[b1oodpink]

A Series on the Male Gaze pt2

“EYEsolation”

[starwarsepisodeiv]

lonelyeyes is cute yeah but big missed chance on eyesolation

[wordoftheclown]

Mr. The Clown I'm a big fan, but why do you have VHS porn?

should you take a step into this eyesolated area i would be more than happy to xplain.

[behld]

@eyesolate​, tim.      what are we?

in an ideal world,      this conversation would have happened at any other time:      weeks ago,      maybe,      the last time they’d pushed their desks to the side to dance around the office after everyone else had gone home,      research foregone in favor of something that is both so much simpler and infinitely more complicated.      jon has never been the best at identifying his own feelings,      but tim has made a home in jon’s heart.      cleared out a space for himself,      hummed distant waltzes that stick to jon’s ribs and feel an awful lot like love-love-love.

this is not an ideal world.      last week,      jon had been called into elias’ office.      offered a promotion      —      one he isn’t sure he wants,      isn’t sure he’s qualified for,      but is in no position to even think about refusing      —      and told to choose assistants to move down to the archives with him.      and jon had thought,      immediately,      of tim.      had asked tim,      in that glanceaway way of his that does nothing to hide how he is trying and failing to not look like he cares about the answer,      if tim would follow him there.

the consequence of that      —      that jon would be tim’s boss,      and it would be entirely inappropriate to keep doing      ...      whatever it is that they’re doing      —      didn’t bother to rear its head until that night,      the thought springing fully formed into jon’s mind and refusing to disappear no matter how he willed it away.      alright then,      he’d thought.      they aren’t dating.      it isn’t as if jon has to break up with tim,      he just has to      ...      put some distance there.

so they’ve moved their pens and staplers and exhausted selves down to the institute’s basement.      so jon’s holed himself in his office,      given himself the shield of a closed door with an archivist nameplate on it.      he has work to be doing.      it’s the work that makes him shut everyone out,      he says,      not the people behind the door      —                 jon isn’t hiding,      he just      ...      doesn’t want to have this conversation.      not now.      not when every answer he could give is a wrong one.

now tim’s standing in jon’s office like it’s casual.      like he’s asking a normal question,      here’s your papers,      boss,      like jon hasn’t been avoiding him for the entire week they’ve been down here,      but jon sees something flicker behind tim’s expression.      what are we?      jon wants an easy response.      jon wants to leave this office      —      he is laughably out of his depth here,      has nothing remotely near an archivist’s training      —      and go back to soft dances and sweet kisses and the feeling of tim’s arms around him.      jon wants      ...      but that doesn’t matter,      does it?

‘      tim,      ’            jon says,      and he hates the way he sounds;      he has schooled his voice into something prickly and reprimanding in the hopes it will disguise his floundering,      but tim doesn’t deserve that.      even so.      jon doesn’t change anything.      can’t allow himself that vulnerability,      that softening.            ‘      we both know that it would be entirely inappropriate to pursue a      —      ’            relationship,      he nearly says,      but that’s presumptuous.      who is he to say that that’s even the path they were headed down?      he replaces it quickly:            ‘      anything,      now that i’m your boss.      ’

jon keeps his desk between them.      it is not as much of a shield as he wants it to be.            ‘      i      —      i’m sorry.      ’            he tacks an apology on quietly,      like it’s an afterthought.      he cannot assume that this matters to tim,      and maybe it’s easier to convince himself that it doesn’t,      that this won’t wrench out two hearts.      if he distances himself enough,      he can convince himself it doesn’t matter      —      maybe,      maybe,      maybe.            ‘      i need to get back to work.      if that’s all.      ’

[arcvist]

yesterday,      jon’d ventured into the village alone,      leaving martin napping on the couch as he stocked back up on tea.      the shop clerk,      a nice old woman who’s name martin would know but jon only capital-k Knows and that isn’t the same at all,      had asked how’s your husband doing,      and jon had stumbled over his words,      stumbled his way back to the safehouse with a careful longing wrapped tight in his ribcage.

now,      sitting on the safehouse sofa across from martin,      he thinks about that.      thinks of domesticity,      of staying here      :      replacing the moth-eaten curtains with new ones,      filling the cabinets with novelty teacups they’d collect whenever they traveled,      keeping the mismatched kitchen chairs for the charm of it rather than a lack of time to buy new ones.      it’s almost guiltily he thinks of these things      —      back in london,      daisy is still missing,      basira still cleaning up the aftermath,      melanie still adjusting to newfound blindness and so many still dead,      but here it’s quiet.            ‘      the future is an eye i don’t dare look into,      ’            jon says      —      the irony there is hardly lost on him.            ‘      and i know it’s hardly realistic,      but.      i keep finding myself thinking of staying here.      growing old here with you.      ’            jon’s staring into his just-emptied tea mug as he says it,      like a yearning for a future is the most shameful confession he could make,      his voice softened with it.            ‘      it’d be nice.      ’

@eyesolate,      sc.      /      dear no 24601, sophie collins.

[eyesolate]

vestieg -> eyesolate

[magicartanddesign]

EYESOLATION ,by maxipencilz