How many times had he done this? Gone to where the river and lake meet and skated on the icy surface after it had frozen over? Practically since he was old enough to wear a pair of ice skates, hand in hand with his parents in his youth, skating exquisitely on his own before he was five. Nothing fancy - but skilled, and sure, and able to begin to do what he truly cared about, which was hockey. Honing those skills on a practical arena's ice were key, but the way different arenas in different climates and altitudes? It made sense to return here from time to time, and re-acclimate himself in his downtime.
And it was fun. A memory re-visited from time to time. That was why he was here now. Christmas break, which was only a couple of days before the season started again, where he had time with his family and could do something like this. The ice is thick, sturdy, and he barely notices when it thins, until it is too late.
The weather outside is frigid, below freezing, so he is wearing a thick coat, layers underneath, a scarf and hat that are lost the moment he sinks into the river, where the current is already pulling him away from the opening in the ice, even if he was able to regain his mind enough to swim. The water is so cold, and the clothes that had prevented him from feeling the bite of the wind are sodden within seconds, practically freezing him from the inside out.
His eyes, he strains to keep them open, struggling against the cold, the current, and now the hallucination before him. Because how could anyone be shirtless in this water? The words swim through the waves clearly, but not in a language he understands, which only adds to his theory, that he is breathing in more water than he is holding his breath. Which is making it harder to keep his eyes open, to fight the current, to prevent himself from trying to inhale under the water. Here? He should not be here?
It is only made worse by the hand on his face, unfamiliar, which makes him try to gasp, swallowing more of the water that is going to be the death of him. He cannot even see the breakage of the surface where he had fallen through beyond the impossible image of the blond man with curls speaking to him clearly, even in a language he cannot understand, calm and steady. And his mind is fading off, but he can then feel strong arms grabbing him, and while Shane is conscious enough to try and propel himself to the surface, he is not stronger than the waves, but whoever this is? He can.
This is not where he fell through, because he can, distantly, see people standing near the hole where he had slipped under the ice, as he half-hoists himself (or fully? is someone else there now?) back onto the surface. Freezing, coughing up water, though he isn't sure if it is from his lungs or his stomach or both. The wind bites into his body even harsher than before, with the water soaking his clothes, his skin, his hair. "Thanks." Though he isn't sure who he is speaking to, if someone else is still there.
