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My Kalaw rarely smiles.
It's wonderfully expressive. It does its best to face the world with a blank face—and often succeeds—but sometimes it can't help the way it scowls, grimaces, frowns, snarls. I adore each time I am graced with seeing its true emotions etched into the lines of its beautiful face.
I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I even appreciate the way its face twists in pain. I've tended to its wounds and massaged its aching muscles more than once. It refuses to let even its trusted faction see when it gets hurt, but the privacy of its kubo provides a cover of safety for it to feel such things in their entirety. Its life and safety depend so much on suppressing every feeling, physical or otherwise, that it thinks will hinder its goals. It is an honor and a privilege to witness it vulnerable, that it considers me safe enough to fall apart in my bloodstained hands.
Still, I crave the vanishingly rare image of it smiling.
We are sitting in its kubo while it rants about its frustrating day. My arm is draped around it, my hand resting on the shoulder opposite to me. The tendons in its strong hands flex under the skin of its clenched fists. A cool breeze flows through the room, but its body is warm pressed against mine.
Its camisa is unbuttoned and open. I pretend not to stare at the exposed skin of its chest and stomach.
“That godforsaken— I already told him my sampan was at capacity. Any more weight and it would've sunk to the bottom of the fucking river. Never mind how hard it was to row while carrying that much shit already. They really do think we're no more than draft animals, don't they?”
Its fists start shaking. Its brow is furrowed and its lips pull back into a snarl. I squeeze its shoulder comfortingly to little effect.
Nettling it helps often enough when it's in one of these moods. The sharp irritation from my jeering distracts it from the wider problems it can't solve directly. Also, it can't help itself from retaliating. “I don't know, you are as thick-skulled as a carabao. Are you sure they don't mean you specifically?”
It was somewhat hunched over and staring at the floor, but it sits up and turns to glare at me. It's so cute when it's irritated, and I know that my satisfied smile irritates it even further.
It replies, “Fuck you too,” but there's no real venom in its words. It wants to say more, but now that it's facing me, an opportunity presents itself.
I use the arm around its shoulder to pull it closer to me and my free hand to hold it gently by the chin. I turn its face to me and press my lips to it, peppering kisses across its cheek, its mouth, its jawline. It relents with a sigh, melts into my touch, and I feel the tension leave its body. I love the way it feels under my fingers and lips. The bones and muscles and fat beneath its skin are shaped so beautifully. It describes itself as island-grown, but I consider it sculpted more than anything.
It's a mess when I pull away. Its brown skin is stained with the red I paint on my lips. I like that I've marked it like that.
More importantly, its handsome face is relaxed. It has a dreamy look in its eyes, and a gentle, appreciative smile on its lips. I stroke its cheek with my thumb and commit this precious sight to my memory forever.