Poppa's Cub Ch. 07

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.

He did not hear his mother screeching and yelling, nor her crying, and sobbing.

He did not not feel the passage of time.

Softly, he responded to the soft, warm drops of tears as they struck his face.

Without opening his eyes, he said, "poppa."

Mike loomed over him, his eyes reddened.

"I'm here, cub." He said softly, with a raspy voice.

"Where?" He croaked.

"You're in the hospitol. You're mother's out in the waiting room, they had to sedate her. Your father's in the chapel."

"Wha...wha did you say?" He asked, the twinge of fear of being outed in his voice.

"I told them you rented a room from me," he said, kneeling. "Your mother was thankful I found you."

Kyle smiled, "smart poppa."

Mike pulled up a stool and softly kissed his hand, covering it with his leather-clad body.

"Cub," Mike said.

"Yes poppa?" Kyle said. He was able to open his unswollen eye.

"You make a beautiful tree, boy."

"Thanks, poppa." Kyle smiled.

His mother burst through the door, sobbing despite the sedation. She tottered, saw he was awake and began to babble incoherently before collapsing. Mike eased her onto the other bed.

Within minutes Kyle's father, the Rabbi came in.

He sized up Mike.

"We cannot thank you enough, you have saved our son's life."

"Good renters are hard to find." Mike said dryly.

The Rabbi laughed a hearty laugh.

His eyes affixed on Kyle's hand. It had snaked through and was trying to reach Mike, trying to touch him.

He became cold, and stared hard at his son.

Kyle looked at him definatly with one eye, but the hand fell.

The Rabbi came up the other side and spoke a blessing in hebrew. Kyle almost subconsciously finished at he spoke, and they both said, 'Sloam' together. He did not point out to Kyle the obvious lie that he would be out of the area during the season.

Mike slipped out the door and down the hall. He fed yet another dollar into the machine and drank his eighth cup of the pasty, chemical coffee.

The Rabbi had moved quietly after him, and as Mike looked at the poker hand printed on the cup, he spoke:

"Who are you," his voice said coldly.

Mike did not allow him to shock him and sipped at the hot muck.

"I told you, I'm the landlord," Mike said.

The Rabbi clearly did not believe him.

"My son was wearing leather boots, like a nazi."

"I don't examine his footwear. He pays his rent, he's clean, he has few visitors."

"Does he have a girlfriend?"

"Not to my knowledge," Mike said. He looked straight into Rabbi Leibowitz's eyes.

"Perhaps then, you might be able to explain the marks on his neck."

"I don't ask questions. It's not my business," Mike said.

The Rabbi prodded, "why isin't it?"

Mike growled softly, "he's a consenting adult. What he does, and who he does with does not concern me, so long as it's with an adult."

The Rabbi looked at him coldly, "you say he has few visitors. Who are they?"

Mike shrugged.

"They watch television, play video games. Things that young people do," he said.

The Rabbi looked at him.

Mike was wearing his motorcycle jacket, his boots and jeans. His face was still puffy from crying, his eyes were lined with the redness.

"What kind of a landlord cries for his tenant?"

"The kind who cares about all of humanity," Mike said. "Yours are not the only oppressed people."

Rabbi Leibowitz was silent.

"My son does not talk to me," The Rabbi confided.

"I clashed with my father many times. I understand," Mike said.

"I like to think of myself as broad minded. Tolerant."

"Perhaps this is something you should be taking up with Kyle."

"My son, as I said, does not talk to me."

"Tolerance, I have found is a subjective phrase, not an empherical one."

The Rabbi took a few moments to digest this as a doctor interruped them.

"Rabbi, Mr. O'Conner, I've just examined Kyle. I'd like to keep him overnight, then he can go home. Strickt bedrest for a week."

"I'll takehim home tomorrow." Mike said.

The Rabbi breathed deeply. His stomach was tied in a knot. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked at Mike and asked:

"Is he happy?"

"Without question," Mike replied. "He has his faith, his friends, his loves. What more does a man need?"

The Rabbi nodded softly.

He put on his glasses, and then and only then spied the small pins on Mike's lapel.

One was two flags, crossing each other, one with a mixture of white, yellow and tan and had a paw print on it, and the other was black and blue and had a red heart in it. Next to it was a small pink triangle.

"One of those I know. The other I do not," he said, his eyes affixed to them.

"Is it important? We were all hunted," Mike replied. "Just not all of us survived."

"It is important to remember. We must forgive because it is good for our souls, but never forget."

"Not all discrimination came from the Nazis," Mike said. "As long as there are any oppressed peoples, then all people are oppressed, this happens even to this day."

The Rabbi looked coldly at Mike.

"Some things are unnatural. They are against the word of god."

"Is that a reason to gas them? Is that a reason to put them on the trains? Or would you rather stone them to death? Perhaps a drowning would be more polite. A simple injection. Times change, Rabbi."

Kyle's father became silent and said quietly:

"Some things cannot change."

Mike nodded, almost in agreeance and replied:

"I understand, Rabbi. Not everyone can be tolerant," he turned, and dropped the coffee dregs into the trash bin and walked away from the Rabbi.

Mike found Kyle chatting with a pretty nurse. His mother had been taken to a family waiting area and was made comfortable.

The nurse took his vital signs checked the wound with it's few stitches and left them.

Kyle eyed him.

"So where did you and father go?"

"We talked." Mike said.

Kyle's face became ashen.

"I'm sure he has an inkling, but I would never out you. I can take you home tomorrow, according to the doctor," He said.

They both heard the door open, and Kyle's father stood there.

"I would like some time with my son, Mr. O'Conner."

Kyle's unswollen eye pleaded with him not to leave. Mike stood and said, "I'll be outside."

The Rabbi closed the blinds that faced out into the hall, and Mike went into a waiting room down on the corner. He flumped out in a chair, stuck his legs out, pulled his hat out from his jacket and tipped it low enough to mostly cover his eyes.

Mentally, he went inside himself. He programmed himself to listen for the sound of Kyle's father, and the whiny pitched noise of Kyle's mother. He told himself he'd wake when they spoke near him.

With that, he put himself to sleep, easily.

Thus, when they silently passed out another exit, he pushing her in wheelchair, he did not waken.

After two hours he snorted, and looked at the clock.

He stood with a shock, ran his fingers through his black shock of hair, tucked his hat back into his jacket and went back to Kyle's room.

Kyle was sleeping softly. His eyes were puffy and red from crying.

Mike softly stroked one of his hands.

"I'm here, cub," he said softly.

Kyle smiled, and pursed his lips.

Mike leaned down and kissed him.

Kyle slurred his speech softly, fighting the drugs.

"He was hard on me, but I wouldn't tell him anything poppa. I made you proud."

"You always have, cub. I take you home tomorrow."

Kyle smiled his winning smile, and fell asleep.

Mike watched him breathe for a while, and instructed a nurse to call when he could pick Kyle up.

When he returned home, he looked at the tree. It was beautiful.

He went into the bedroom.

He looked at the empty bed that he and Kyle shared.

He softly stripped off his clothes and took Kyle's pillow into his hands. He smelled it, the younger man's clean, strong scent bringing him erect.

He could not bring himself to sleep in the bed, alone.

He padded naked into the living room and collapsed on the couch after angrily dragging the coffee table into the garage.

Kyle's pillow aroused him and Mike spoke aloud to his penis:

"So you miss him too, huh?"

The cock wavered at him.

"Yeah, yeah, so do I."

The cock wavered again, and Mike softly stroked at himself. In his mind, he could feel Kyle's tender mouth, his skillful tongue running up and down his glans, the hot breath against his balls. He envisioned Kyle's dreamy eyes on that cock, sucking it hungrily. The scene in Mike's mind changed to Kyle's tight white ass, how it gripped his dick, how it was like a dozen mouths sucking on him at once. He imagined Kyle's moanings and with his other hand, softly twisted a nipple as Kyle often did.

His cum sprayed long, and drenched him from pecs to navel.

He opened his eyes and looked down.

"Not quite the same, is it?"

By reply, his penis flopped to a flacid state and lolled to one side, softly oozing semen.

"I didn't think so either." Mike replied. He hugged Kyle's pillow, turned to one side and fell asleep.