Climbing. It was in his blood and in his bones. There was something about Wren that was oddly attracted to surfaces that had their nooks and crannies, surfaces that presented a challenge that any sane man would pass up. On the rocks, it didn’t matter what his limitations were. The physicality of it made him simply feel alive and well, feel like he could take on anything and everything he wanted to. Wren wanted it all, plain and simple. He wasn’t sorry about that, and it made him feel so… so damn alive. Not that he usually felt dead, just that it was a good feeling. It was a feeling that meant he was a real and valid member of the ecosystem.

The Crags. He’d looked upon them as a small boy, and it was odd to look upon them now as a man. Not a real man, probably, if he knew what a real man was. No, but he’s no longer a child either. There’s something comforting to remind him that he’s grown out of being an awkward youth. Those years had been weird, and he’d disliked them a lot. Maybe that’s why he’d gone away. Maybe he’d gone away for another reason. Hell, maybe one day he’d be able to communicate that to someone so they could validate his damned feelings. Wren pretended he didn’t need that bit, though.

He didn’t need to pretend as he flung himself up the rocky face. Steps that alternated between easy and so difficult his muscles burned. That sounded about right. Burned and burned, deep down in his spine and his hips and his shoulders, muscles he hadn’t engaged in such a long time. That was the problem, after all. When you don’t use it, you lose it… and yet it was like riding a bike. The process was the easiest thing he’d ever fought his way through, but he was panting by the time he got to the spot he’d wanted. A ledge that would have been twenty feet up, a view like no other. How he loved summer.