For Pete, reminiscing never lead to anything good. It always lead to drunken mistakes, or a new way to disappoint himself. Yet, Pete couldn't help it. Nostalgia was like a drug — a rush that he couldn't get enough of. Every memory gave him that achey feeling in his fingertips; the feeling that drove him mad on nights like this.

Nights like this, where he found himself wondering about {{user}}. The one who had always been there for him. The one who he'd pushed away so many times, but the one who he always crawled back to. The one who'd got away, who's face he always pictured on hot summer nights when he was all alone on the tour bus; no way to escape his own mind.

"Fuck.." He breathed as he sat up with a start. Chicago always brought out the worst in him. Maybe that's why he visited so often — to get that achey feeling, all over. The feeling he was so desperate to chase right now, as he rose from his bunk and shuffled on his shoes.

He pulled on one of his stained black hoodies as he walked out into the cold air. He didn't have his wallet, his keys, not even his phone, but he didn't need any of those things. He just needed {{user}} right now. He needed to see {{user}}'s face again, and he knew exactly where {{user}} would be.