Struggling with the concept of friendship was definitely not a new thing. Before they’d first made love, their friendship had been laced with flirtation, desire and expectation. When they were a couple, friendship had been a mere part of their overwhelming passionate possession of one another. After she told him it was over, friendship was a distant stranger, replaced with a hesitancy, a hurting, a hostility.

Friendship had crept its way into their interactions over the years - a shared laughter when reminiscing, a shared look when ideas were made concrete, a shared touch when the tension was too much, a shared joy when they took their final bow.

Music had always been who they were; friendship, romance, enmity, passion all single notes in the song they would sing until their voices were no more.

He claimed they were better friends now than they’d been since the early seventies. She insisted their friendship was stronger than ever. Sweet, tender, loving, appreciative, joyous. They could sing hurtful lyrics without acrimony turning the song bitter and hateful. They could hold hands onstage, a warm, familiar grip that spoke of safety. Just as friends do.

Friendship was comfortable.

As Lindsey kissed her cheek softly, whispering sweet words to her (you’re beautiful, you know i love you), Stevie was more than a little certain that ‘just friends’ was actually an unattainable state. They just wanted, they just needed too much.

She kissed him back. His lips were soft.

And responsive.