Subcutanean is a queer horror novel that reconfigures itself for each new reader. Each time a copy is ordered, a different variation of the story is assembled, from a library of hundreds of hand-authored alternatives, both to minor details and major plot points. The book was a Lambda Literary Awards finalist in 2020. More details about how the book works technically can be found here.
In this excerpt from (one possible version of) the novel, narrator Ryan is hiding from a ’90s college party with his best friend Niko, whom he’s secretly in love with.
I was staring idly at a dark-haired girl and a bearded jock flirting on the couch across the room, words swallowed up by the thumping of the stereo. Thinking about the music echoing down all those empty halls. “I can’t even imagine getting married.”
“Yeah, neither can the government.”
“Not just that, asshole.” I side-kicked him, then frowned, trying to figure out what I wanted to say, how deep I wanted to go. Fuck it. I let the tequila talk. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to spend the rest of their life with me. Or that I could believe someone would say yes, if I wanted to with them.”
I closed my mouth, feeling stupid, but he was nodding. “Yeah, I dig you. Thinking you could be that for someone. Believing in yourself that much.” He was frowning. “I can’t believe in anything they fucking want me to be.
He tilted his head back, eyes closed. “Well, you ever make it there, you got a best man lined up at least.” He opened one skeptical eye. “Or are there two best men? How would all that even work?”
“I don’t know.” I closed my eyes, too. Dear LiveJournal. Figure out how all that even works.
We listened to the music for a minute, surrounded by people who naturally knew how to Saturday night, without training. It was kind of nice being near them, at least.
Niko said, very quiet: “You think there’s something wrong with me?”
I opened my eyes, looked at him. His were still closed. The flashing Christmas lights were lost in his black curls, more swallowed up than reflected by them.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Stupid question.”
“You’ll make it,” I said, more because I wanted him to believe it than because I’d given it any real thought.
I’d rarely seen his face at rest like this, without its usual mask of social engagement—he liked to play gracious host, loud-mouthed philosopher—and the strong curves of his prominent jaw, his sharp nose, seemed fragile in the shifting light. Sharp, but delicate. Able to be shattered.
“Not fucking likely.” His brow furrowed, but then his face relaxed. He downed the rest of the shot, clinked his empty glass against mine, and leaned into me, just a little. “Nice to have someone around to humor me, though. Keep doing that, yeah?”
“No problemo,” I said, leaning into him, too.
We stayed like that for a few minutes.
Then some friends of his tromped down the stairs and he leapt up, pulling a sparkling smile and manic laugh out from somewhere, pouring drinks and giving high fives, and dragged me with him into the noise, and one of his friends talked me into getting trounced at foosball, and everyone kept drinking. And the moment between us faded into ephemera and lost any possible significance.
Even to me.