Holding Silence

Summary: 10 years ago, orphan Ryoma was taken in and adopted by grand slam tennis pro Tezuka Kunimitsu. 10 years later, Ryoma is fifteen years old, and he realizes that he's inexplicably in love with his adoptive father. With no way out, no way back, and no future, how long can he keep up the facade of a trophy son before he breaks?

Warning: Non-explicit adult themes (for now), age gap, sexiness ( C;)

Chapter I

Ryoma tread downstairs and stepped into the living room, seeing a familiar scene; his foster father was sitting on the brown leather sofa with a newspaper spread in front of his face. He was absorbed in the grey paper, and Ryoma almost didn't want to call attention to himself.

But he always did, in the end. He was a brat, he was selfish, and a small part of him craved that innocent, platonic affection. "Kuni-san," he said softly. He didn't want to disturb his foster parent, but he always did.

"Hm?" A languid page flip, languid attention, crossing of legs, brown eyes downcast, reading.

"I'm going to take a bath," he announced, touching the bath towel wrapped around his neck briefly.

Tezuka Kunimitsu, his adoptive father, nodded behind the newspaper. Ryoma's cat-like eyes flickered to the back cover, which displayed a photo of the current finals winner of the French Open, the caption underneath in bold print: "Hard Court Champion Atobe Keigo bringing home his third French Open trophy."

His gaze lingered on the photo of the brazen, arrogant champion for a few seconds before he turned around and headed upstairs for the bathroom, wordlessly. He entered the pristine, teal tiled bathroom and stripped himself, throwing his sweat-soaked black tee, tennis shorts, and tennis ball boxers in the clothes basket. Then, he climbed into the heated bath water.

Soap bubbles fizzled and floated past his face, the hot water caressing his exhausted body. He watched the bubbles sway in the foggy bathroom, thoughts on the tennis grand slams eventually making their way to forbidden territory – his young, adoptive father.

He frowned slightly, and then he closed his eyes, clearing his head. He leaned back into the bathtub and steadily dozed off in the warm waters, consequently neglecting the sound of the twisting doorknob as an intruder stepped in.

He blinked slowly, sleep heavily weighing down his tired eyelids. He had a feeling he had overextended his lounge in the bath. Everything was hazy, coupled with the fog and the heat in the vicinity. He yawned slowly, stretching his body.

Suddenly, he felt long, muscled legs touch his own, shorter limbs, and he quickly woke up, all traces of sleep vanishing. Across from him, on the other end of the cramped bathtub, was his father, seemingly unperturbed by this situation. He was reading a tennis monthly newspaper, his oval glasses fogged by the steam from the hot water.

Ryoma yelped, retracting his legs, where they were intimately brushing against the older man's, and a healthy blush traveled from his face all the way down to his feet, bright like a ripe tomato. "W-w-why are you in here!" he said uncharacteristically loudly and anxiously, voice wavering.

Tezuka barely glanced at him, glasses glinting sharply. "Ryoma, I believe we haven't bonded as father and son in the bath for a long time, and that's why - "

"Don't do that so suddenly!" Ryoma shouted, and he stood up abruptly, grabbing the bath towel off the hanger and wrapping it quickly around himself. He was blushing furiously. "For the record, don't do it ever again, because I'm fifteen already!" He ran out of there, slammed the door shut, and went to his room.

Bam!

Alone in the bathtub, Tezuka stared at the abused door blankly, glasses still fogged.

"..."

He was a little hurt. Ryoma never had a problem bathing together before. In fact, he loved bath time with Tezuka, where he got to play with squeaking ducks and rubber tennis balls in the water.

Now that he thought about it, the last time they bathed together was four years ago, and then Ryoma turned twelve, and that was when he started refusing bath time with Tezuka.

The grand slam tennis player quietly returned to the newspaper, at a loss due to his son's bath time rejection.

Ryoma collapsed on his bed, pressing his face into his pillow, heart racing madly.

"Stop it," he whispered. I don't want this.

His pulse kept beating, rapidly, fluctuating unsteadily.

He remembered the feel of his muscular legs, hard and compact, against his own.

He flushed. Eyes screwed shut. He shook his head.

I don't want this.

His pruney fingers slipped underneath the white bath towel, feeling his own heated, aroused skin.

"K-Kuni-san..."

I have to stop.

"Ah...ah..." he muffled himself with the pillow, sweat and bath water trickling down his red face.

A small noise, another creature in the room, he heard it, but he didn't – couldn't stop.

"Mmf...agh..."

He was almost –

"Meow!"

A furry weight landed on his back, and he jumped, his excitement evaporated. He sat up on the bed, face and body flushed from his earlier activity. A brown face with wide blue eyes stared up at him, furry tail flipping left and right slowly. The Himalayan cat settled on his lap, and Ryoma's gaze softened.

"Karupin, you..." he muttered with a small pout, petting the cat's soft head.

The feline leaned into his touch, purring with satisfaction.

Cute, cute, little devil.

Ryoma sighed, lying down on his back and holding Karupin in his arms.

How long could he keep this up?

Will this phase ever go away?

What if...

What if he found out...?

What would he do then?

Rori's Corner: I don't know why. Age gaps are the best.