Wednesday, December 21st, 1988
Kyle picked up the dishes from the supper table as Mike pulled on his leather jacket and boots. Kyle heard the zip of the jacket and then felt Mike come behind him, wrapping his bear arms around. Mike softly nuzzled.
"So you're off for a week?" Mike asked.
Kyle nodded happily, nuzzling the furry paws.
"I'm going to be tidying up the place, a bit. James and Marcus are due over on Saturday. I think I'm going to make a lasagna of some sort, but I'm not sure. Lots of hours o'derves and munchies."
"Make those little cheese and celery thingies that you made at Thanksgiving. Those were good."
"Considering that's the only way I'm going to get any vegetables into you," Kyle said, petting Mike's tummy.
"Hey now, I just ate veggies," Mike protested.
"Mashed potatoes slathered in butter and cheese is not a vegetable."
"They grow in the ground, don't they? That makes them a vegetable. Next thing you'll tell me is something stupid, like Tomatoes are a fruit," he said.
Kyle turned around and nipped him on the shoulder playfully.
Mike growled at him in mock ferocity and chewed on Kyle's neck, making him squirm.
Kyle replied to this by tickling him, even able to make him back off despite the thick leathers. He playfully chased him around the table, and Mike dodged back and forth, easily.
Mike tackled Kyle to the floor, pinning him down, hands to wrists and stuck his face down to lick the younger man on the neck.
"Yuck!" Kyle cried.
Mike bit.
Kyle squealed happily, his feet kicking as the clock chimed half past five.
"Damn!" Mike said, releasing him.
"Duty calls, poppa bear." Kyle smirked at him.
"Oh I don't want to hear it, cub," Mike groaned.
Kyle reached out and pinched Mike's butt, a big hunk of flesh, goosing him.
"Hey! I'm supposed to be the poppa bear here!" He roared.
Kyle slithered behind him and pressed his hardness to the big man's jeans. He was hard, and put his cock right on the seam, and pulled at his hips.
"I feel like riding a bear," Kyle growled aggressively.
Mike shivered.
"When I get home, cub. We'll have the whole holiday season."
Kyle smiled and softly they kissed each other.
"I love you poppa," Kyle said.
"I love you cub," Mike replied.
Mike grabbed his keys, helmet and wallet and walked out to the attached garage.
Kyle ran water in the sink and heard the telltale VROOM of the Harley. He watched from the kitchen window as it's lights went up the rural road.
He set the dishes in to soak, made up a double pot of coffee and pulled up the phone book. He flipped through to the 'N' section and found the closest Nursery to their home in Washougal. It had taken them nearly four months to get the old farmhouse livable again, but thanks to their hard work, it had been well worth it.
Kyle had never imagined that he'd be living so far out in the country. He often walked the three acres, and saw deer and squirrel. He had to admit that he missed the hustle and bustle of the city. Being so far out was somewhat difficult, car wise, to drive back and forth to work. He'd recently had to have the carborator of his Ranger rebuilt.
Kyle punched buttons and found out that this particular nursery, Shorty's in Ridgefield, carried live trees. He asked when they would close and for directions.
Into his coffee people ceramic travel mug he poured the muddy brew, adding a dab of pure cream, and copious amounts of sugar. He sped north on I-205 winding the Ranger to seventy and ended up in the sleepy blanket community of Ridgefield.
The Yule night was crisp, and clear, and he passed several Christmas tree stands, before finding Shorty's.
He quickly found the live trees and plunked money for the largest one that had already been hardened to indoor temperatures and quickly loaded it into the back. It required a considerable amount of wrestling about.
From there he drove the back roads back to Washougal, not thinking that the tree could take the high freeway speeds. In Hazel Dell he stopped at Fred Meyer and picked up several sets of lights, bulbs and decorations.
Driving back quietly, he felt a certain source of sorrow. His mother had become upset with him when he said he would be out of town during haunnakah. She badgered him and dodged him so much he did not leave his cell phone on anymore, instead just listening to her babbling voice mails.
His father had been gruff, but more civil, admonishing him to merely do good works. It was somehow like his father knew something. He doubt he knew he was gay, but certainly that his youngest child was heading to a place far distant from Judaism.
Kyle had a Torah, and from time to time read from it and the bible, but he had no desire to go to temple. His yamuka was in a small, clear, shadowbox in his room. He had faith, but didn't feel the need to display it. He didn't feel the need to prance it around like a television evangelist.
Mike was an atheist, a dedicated one at that. Once and only once did they get into religion, and Mike had trod so roughly over Kyle's feelings that he cried openly. Mike apologized, they made up, and never did the topic come up again. If he saw Kyle reading his Torah he left him alone. It worked out well.
But a Christmas tree was a whole other matter. Kyle had been taught by Darla that the Christmas tree was actually a symbol of the pagan people. He was fascinated and enraptured.
He and Mike had discussed a tree, but Mike was noncommittal. 'You can get one, if you want. Don't make no difference to me one way or the other,' He had said. Kyle decided he wanted one, but also wanted to do it himself.
With a care, he backed his little pick up truck up to the kitchen door, and gingerly eased the tree out. He cooed over it like a pet and lifted it bodily.
Past the kitchen, onto a piece of plastic, he slid the tree into the living room. He reflected and moved couches not once but thrice, finally finding a pleasing mixture of shrubbery and leather-clad furniture. Feng Shui was not Kyle's strong point.
He had no idea how to string lights, decorate, but after watching several Christmas animated specials, and innumerable variations of, "A Christmas Carol" he felt he would be okay.
Back and forth he made trips from the Ranger to the living-room, making note to himself that he would defiantly have to mop the floors before poppa got home.
Unstringing long strands of lights, he did his best to drape the tree with it. He fussed, picked, re-arranged and after two hours managed to get three strings up to his liking. The bulbs and garland were similarly arrayed and then he hung strands of tinsel, one by one.
At two o'clock in the morning, well past his bedtime, Kyle finished.
He moved to the side, turned out the light and flipped the switch to illuminate the tree. It jumped to life with every possible color and hue, shining and glowing, lighting up the night.
Standing back to admire his handiwork he moved around the darkened room from every potential angle, and then he backed up even more.
He tripped over the Ottoman, hit his head on the hard oak coffee table and knocked himself cold.
He did not hear the roar of Mike's motorcycle.
He did not hear, nor feel Mike shaking him and calling his name.
He did not feel himself being lifted, stuffed bodily into the Ranger, nor the speedy ride to Southwest Washington Medical Center.
He did not feel being wisked through a Cat Scanner, and moved to a bed.
