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Lando stared, he always did. Oscar could feel his eyes on him, a steady presence especially when
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he wasn’t supposed to be looking; when he thought Oscar didn’t know that he was.
It’s just the two of them in the hotel gym, the air thick despite the a/c being turned up to the max. A large floor to ceiling mirror covers the expanse of one wall, and it’s through this that Oscar can feel the heat of Lando’s eyes. He doesn’t even have to check to confirm, knowing the tell tale thrill that runs along his spine; the same exhilaration he always gets at being watched.
He stretches lazily, lets his sweat-drenched shirt ride up ever so slightly, showing the smallest sliver of hard muscle, accentuated from all of the ab workouts he’s been punishing himself with in the past hour. He knows without looking that Lando’s eyes will flicker there, automatically catching the movement — that they’ll stick there until Oscar’s shirt slides down again, greedily drinking in the image of him.
Twisting to the side, he tangles his fingers together above his head, emitting a soft moan at the delicious stretch alongside his obliques. Despite the low volume of it, it still cuts through the air like a knife. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the muscles in Lando’s back tense beneath his t-shirt, sees the hand gripping a dumbbell, the fingers flexing and mottled yellow-white with the intensity of his grasp.
Oscar has to stifle the smirk that threatens his lips. He makes a show of retrieving his water bottle, taking slow steps over to where Lando’s situated. Trailing his finger across Lando’s shoulders, feeling the heat radiate from him.
“I’m beat,” he announces, meeting Lando’s eyes in the mirror finally and offering him a friendly smile. “I’ll catch you later maybe.”
When he leaves, it’s with the image burned into the back of his eyelids: of Lando’s flushed, damp face, his pupils blown wide and obliterating the blue green of his irises, the nervous bob of his adam’s apple.