They're darker than amber, like liquor still trapped in its bottle, the liquid sloshing back and forth but never really escaping. Like it had never seen the light of day, never had rays penetrate the surface to illuminate what was within. They're not clear, but glazed over in a dark mask that shelter's him from everything around. They're not weak. He envies that. Because although his are the same shade of brown, they appear almost transparent to him, and to everyone else. He knows he seems frail and too bleeding delicate.
When he sees the other man's eyes he thinks of strength, of dark wood – rigid and resilient. So well built. Something that doesn't bend, something that'll never break. He knows that the other man had built himself to never collapse. He wishes he was too.
He's seen those eyes go black, with fury, with exhaustion, with an infinite despair that he knows will never truly leave him, it is so embedded into his soul. He wishes he could lead them to the light, remove the stained glass that conceals his core, and release the essence that has since been incarcerated into the depths of nothing.
Because he knows that he's good at breaking people.