This story is for Toast aka. Sinceslicedbread. It's a long time coming, I know! I hope you like it... It's going to be in three chapters.

You may recognise some of the characters from Poker Night although this story is not in PN's canon. For readers who don't read PN, Paddy is one of Brendan's childhood friends. Brianna is Paddy's wife and Pete's ex-girlfriend.

The year is 2015...

...

It's the weekend and after midnight in Brendan's flat.

The Irishman is home alone.

The flat is quiet. Quieter than Brendan likes it, not that he would ever admit it even under duress. He is normally dying to escape the place's frequent and regular racket-generating guests; a garrulous Lucas, excitable Leah, mouthy Chez, critical Amy and all knowing Pete. The home is also quiet because Stephen isn't there.

Right now Brendan wouldn't mind a little dose of noise in the form of the gobby Mancunian because while Stephen could be whiney, stubborn, rebellious, slow on the uptake and challenging at times he is also always intriguing, passionate, loyal, honest, fierce and fucking hot as hell.

It is what makes Brendan put up with Stephen's shit and sometimes even miss it not that he would ever admit to that either.

He pours himself a generous glass of whisky. He paces the living area, taking sips of the smooth amber liquid that track a warm soothing path down his throat. He occasionally stares at the phone in his hand resisting the urge to call him because Brendan is no desperado schoolboy with a crush. It's no big deal whether he sees Stephen now, later or whenever. Whatever. No big deal. Que sera sera and what not.

Thirty minutes later and with the hum of two glasses of liquor coursing through his veins his resolve dissolves and he keys a message into his phone.

'Come home.'

He sends the message then has a think and types a new message,

'NOW,'

Before sending that too.

Stephen replies almost straight away.

'I told u I am working at the club 2 cover 4 Chez. Plus I am not talking 2 u so stop texting me.'

Brendan smirks at that and emits a short sharp laugh. Right. Stephen is still angry at him. Not a problem. He will enjoy the making up... the make up sex specifically. The talking not so much.

He takes a shower to kill some time. Fifteen minutes later his skin and hair are vigorously rubbed dry with a towel that he then wraps around his waist. He runs down the stairs and puts some music on. He collapses back onto the sofa; legs crossed at the ankles, one hand behind his head. He wonders how he got himself to this point.

He tries to ignore that fact that he is clock watching for the return of some skinny little bloke that is almost too pretty for his own good with those pouty lips and lashes from here until tomorrow.

It is one-thirty when he hears the knock at the door. His face breaks out into a sly grin. Stephen couldn't stay away. He has cut his shift short.

Brendan is glad and not just because he gets to fuck him senseless all night tonight but because he has told the lad over and over again that he doesn't need to pick up extra shifts at the club to supplement the salary he gets as sous-chef at Bistro DiGiorgio in Chester's town centre.

-'I've got it covered, Stephen.' Brendan said.

-'I'm not letting you pay for my kid's stuff, Bren.' Stephen replied defiantly. 'I'm their dad and you've done enough.'

-Brendan countered. 'Then consider it a loan. Lack of sleep is not a good look on ye. Ages ye. No offense.'

-Stephen rubbed his eyes tired and quietly yet sarcastically said, 'Thanks.'

-'Welcome.' He said before sauntering off, cheeky grin in place.

Anyway, the gloating could wait until later. Told ye you couldn't stay away...

Brendan springs up onto his feet and strides to the door replacing his eager smile into a more seductive nonchalant gaze as the knocking gets louder and more impatient.

"Keep yer knickers on, young man. Or not." He sneers with a low voice then adds. "Forgot yer keys again? What did I tell ye about sleep...?"

He unlocks the latch and swings the door wide. Immediately his face turns into a frown. It's not Stephen. It's...

"Paddy?"

Brendan's childhood friend from Dublin stands before him shaking in the night autumn breeze with a rucksack by his side. He looks back at Brendan with a mixture of fear, trepidation and relief.

For a moment neither man makes a move as they observe each other; one wondering what has brought someone from his past to walk back into his life and the other regretting his decision to jump on a ferry and seek out the one man that he thought might understand what he was going through right now.

Wordlessly, Patrick throws himself into Brendan's arms, curling his arms around his naked torso and squeezing his back muscles as he pulls him closer.

It is when Brendan recognises his old friend's choked throat sounds and chest heaves as silent crying that he hugs him back.