it's about the yearning

Full disclosure, I’ve been anti generative ai in fandom and all other spaces for a while now. I knew people were using it, but I’m kind of appalled how widespread it is and how “good” AI has become between the last time I looked and now. (Good meaning that sometimes it takes me a while to catch on, sometimes I never catch on, but the fic itself is still not what I would consider good if it’s entirely written by ai.) I usually stay out of fandom discourse that makes me unhappy because fandom is my strict happy place, but AI just makes me really mad, and since the JohnDoe AI report dropped last night, I had to try to sort my feelings and get it out of my system. Something that letting AI write for you can never do for you btw. (All of this applies to AI generated art as well, but since I am a writer and not an artist, I’m writing from a writer’s pov, but I think the same applies to AI generated art as well.)

I think for me, both as a writer and a reader, the question of ai use for fanfic comes down to three different questions: environmental, philosophical, and ethical. (I don’t know if those are great terms for it, but it’s what came to mind and I’m not going to brainstorm with fucking Claude or chatgpt about it. If someone has ideas for better categories, lemme know!)

Environmental is the question if using ai is worth it, considering its incredibly harmful impact on our environment like the energy consumption of it, the water waste and the pollution of data centers, the enrichment of soulless tech bros who are building up the ai bubble without any kind of sustainability or accountability and just want to make money before the bubble bursts by farming any and all of our output to collect our data. Like AI in itself can be incredibly helpful, i.e. in medicine, but generative AI is not created to benefit humans. They might claim they’re creating chatbots as research helpers and co-editors and friends (how can something that neither thinks nor feels be a friend???), but there doesn’t seem to be a single benign thought behind creating generative ai. It’s collecting data and the sycophantic nature is actively harming people’s ability to navigate rl interactions and especially conflicts, never mind the horrific and extreme examples of encouraging suicide. They’ve also repeatedly said there’s not enough money being made with generative AI, so they’re pushing it harder for people and companies everywhere to use even if the benefits are limited. So no, I don’t think whatever story or picture or essay you could get out of AI is worth it for fucking our planet or our society.

All of these issues obviously pertain to all generative ai use, whereas the philosophical question for me is fandom specific. What does it mean to create fanfiction?

"If I cannot be saved without repenting

Of what I used to commit, there is no hope for me.

The joys of what we did are still so sweet

That after delight beyond measure, even remembering brings relief."

The next season, the grief had time to settle and time hasn't healed anything. Shane and Ilya play the worst season of the their careers.

The first time they play each other is a repeat of the post Rose Landry game. The second time is a little better, they both get a goal each and it feels almost a little like it used to. So much so that Ilya texts Shane, just two simple words. Come over. 

Shane can't believe the audacity. (or maybe he actually can) 

We're not doing that anymore, he texts back. 

I know, Ilya writes. Come over. 

No. Shane gets a cab anyway. 

When Ilya opens the door he's smirking. “You came.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says and then flings himself at Ilya, gets his hands into his curls. 

Ilya reaches for Shane, there's a moment where they fight for control and then Shane gives and Ilya can fit his mouth against his neck, make him moan, and Shane drops to his knees right there, Ilya grappling for balance against the wall as Shane gives him the greediest, sloppiest, most perfect blowjob known to man. Ilya comes so hard he almost misses how Shane jerks himself off and comes as soon as Ilya's finished. They stand there, kneel there, panting for a moment, no thoughts just bliss, then Ilya pulls Shane up, goes to seek out his mouth, all plush and red and spitslick now but Shane stumbles back, doing up his pants and says “shit, what are we doing” and turns on his heels and flees out of Ilya's house and Ilya thinks fuck, of course again, and fuck, we didn't even kiss. 

The Raiders’ dream of defending the cup goes up in smoke. The Metros don't do much better and in the end the Raiders don't even make the playoffs and the Metros barely manage the wild card spot and get swept in the first round by fucking Buffalo of all teams. 

Shane and Ilya still meet at the MLH awards. Shane is nominated for the sportsmanship award, and despite the Raiders overall poor showing their rookie is nominated for the Calder and Ilya is being a good dutiful captain. 

They both seek out the roof, Ilya for a cigarette and Shane for peace and quiet. 

“This can't happen again,” Shane says. 

“What, you nagging about my smoking?”

“No. That neither of us is nominated for any of the trophies.” 

“You're nominated for nicest player.”

“You know that's not what I mean.”

And Shane looks at Ilya, really looks at him. “If we're giving this up, then it has to be worth it. What we had, it could be good. So good.” 

“If we were not who we are.” Ilya says bitterly. 

Shane nods. “So it's only worth it if we're the best of who we can be. Together at the top. Dominating the league. Building an unquestionably legacy. Future Hall of Famers.”

“And then?” Ilya asks. 

“Then we are beyond reproach. The greatest who ever played the game.”

“And then?” Ilya asks again.

“Then we can do whatever the fuck we want,” Shane says, calmly, evenly. 

He doesn't say what that is. He doesn't need to. All of these years, all of the risks, and they cannot stay away from each other.

Ilya nods. “Together at the top.”

Shane holds out a hand, just like he did all those years ago in Saskatchewan. 

“May the better man win.”

Ilya grips his hand tight. “I will beat you.” 

Shane grins. “That's not gonna happen.”

Letting go of Shane's hand is physically painful. 

“1410,” Ilya says. “For old time’s sake.”

Shane looks at him very seriously. “For old time’s sake.” 

They don't return to the party. It’s not even midnight. 

They have ten hours and they don't sleep for a minute. They gorge themselves on each other's bodies, they kiss and fuck and kiss. They hold each other and touch each other. They talk and they're quiet, they laugh and at one point in the darkness they cry. 

And in the morning they leave, flying back to their respective cities. 

(During the summer, Scott Hunter announces his retirement. He is grateful for hockey and for the Admirals, but he needs to focus on his personal life.)

At the beginning of the next season, Hollander and Rozanov return to the ice with a vengeance. Record breaking seasons, top of the division, top of the conference. They meet in the conference finals and over seven hard fought games, the Metros take the victory. It's Shane who lifts the cup that year. Who gets playoff MVP. 

At the MLH awards, Shane gets the Rocket and Ilya gets the Art Ross and Ilya is season MVP. Hollander and Rozanov are back, dominating the league like never before.

“1410,” Shane says to Ilya in passing. 

Ilya was so annoyed when he tried to book that specific room and it was already gone, he should have known. 

The next year, the Raiders take back the top spot. 

And round and round it goes. There are years when neither the Metros nor the Raiders win the cup of course. Hockey is a team sport and not even someone like Shane Hollander or Ilya Rozanov can win a cup by themselves. 

But they meet at the awards every year because they're nominated every year. Between them, there isn't a year where neither of them wins a trophy. 

Hollander and Rozanov, together at the top. 

The rivalry is as strong as ever. The tone of it changes though. They are less cutting, more complimentary in interviews. By unspoken agreement they start saying words like mutual respect, friends off the ice, challenging each other to be better. The media says they've matured. The league calls it sportsmanship. 

Ilya and Shane don't call it anything. But once a year, in Las Vegas, in room 1410, they spend a night truly together at the top.

And once they retire, the same number of cups to their name, the faces of their franchises, their numbers hanging in the rafters in Montreal and Boston, Ilya leading Shane in career goals but Shane beating Ilya in overall points, unrivaled trophy rooms, the league defining players for two decades, once that is all over, they meet at the MLH awards for one last time. 

“1410,” Ilya says who beat Shane to the reservation that year. One last victory.

In the morning, Shane hands him a piece of paper. An address. 

“I have a cottage,” he says, “where I spend my summers.”

Ilya does not admit how often he's watched the documentary about it.

“Come whenever you want.”