Georgia Boys

00. prologue

prologue 

Frankly,  Quincy Denton did not understand shit about Silas Barnes. 

They'd known each other well enough. 

Kindergarten, they were shoved into the blue stools of this nice southern lady with a big smile and hair so high and blond. They knew each other then. Silas was not a speaker. He was the boy who stayed silent, eyes dark and abound with possibilities. 

Quincy was not quite loud, but neither was he silent. He would giggle sometimes to himself, a child that found something amusing in everything — the slow tick to the clock, the wide eyes of their kindergarten teacher behind her purple glasses. 

Oh, how Quincy Denton romanticized life. 

Now, Silas Barnes— on the other hand— was a question for the ages. 

The Barnes and the Dentons had been at war for decades. Their bakeries ran pastries right on opposite ends of the street. 

They were in a constant tug of war with customers. Each year, the local title of best baked good went to either bakery. They'd outdo each other. If the Barnes did a three layer cake one year, the Dentons would create a human-sized mousse creation the next. 

Some said there wasn't quite enough room on the street for the both of them. Except there was, wasn't there? 

Because their boys—Silas and Quincy— could be found dropping into the two different bakeries, running down the streets, running into each other. Quincy would be skating, Silas would be walking. 

When they'd collide, Quincy would laugh and Silas would stare. 

The town was alive. The Barnes and the Dentons both kept the town alive, kept its heart beating together, but neither party would ever admit it, despite the truth being a steady thrum behind their hearts. 

But this silent understanding is why Quincy and Silas weren't banned from either bakery.

Quincy's mother—all yellowbone with swirling curls— would lean across the counter from her son and allow her voice to drop to a conspiratorial whisper: "Now," she would say, "go to the Barnes and take a bite of their chocolate cobbler for me, would ya? We need intel on the competition."

Then she'd wink, and Quincy would salute—he'd definitely get the task done— and run over to the Barnes' bakery to grab a bite. 

He'd slide into the stool across from Mr. Barnes who would roll his eyes. "Whadya want, kiddo?" 

"Chocolate cobbler," Quincy would chirp in response. 

"Don't think you won't be paying full-price," Mr. Barnes would wave a finger. "If anything, I should charge you more just for being a Denton."

Quincy would clasp his hands together. "Yes, sir," and nod solemnly, despite the fact that they always sold to him at least half-off.

Mr. Barnes would call out Silas' name to assist him in the kitchen, and at that mention, Quincy would sit on both hands and stretch out his neck as long as it would allow to get a glimpse of Silas.

Problem was, Silas was elusive. 

When Silas did come around, Quincy would brighten up, then he'd censor his face and say something snarky, like: "look who finally showed up" or "you move like a snail in the kitchen." 

When they were seven, Silas would shoot him an icy look in response but say nothing. When there were thirteen, Silas would flip him off if his dad was glancing away. 

When they become seventeen, Silas is the one manning the front counter and he'll utter a low: "fuck off."

When they become seventeen, Quincy's mouth will curve into that crooked grin and he'll respond: "must've hit a sensitive spot." 

When they become seventeen, they begin their summer days the way they always do: running around town, swimming in the lake, laying down with their faces pressed against the grass, skin brown and golden underneath the sun. 

In the summers, they let some of the animosity give way to liberation. 

They become boys made of sun every time summer comes around. 

When they are seven, summer is spent drinking freshly-pressed orange juice in someone's back porch with their motley group of friends.  When they are thirteen, summer is spent lounging outside the local country club with the same friends, spread across the grass as they trade secrets. 

When they are seventeen, summer is spent sneaking into the country club in the dead of night, grabbing whiskey from the liquor cabinet and lounging on someone's front porch trading sips. 

Quincy and Silas are a mess between friends and enemies. Their respective friend groups are nearly synonymous, their town is small, so they happen to be stuck together, whether they like it or not.

When their summer being seventeen starts, they lounge outside the country club, trading that bottle of whiskey. Quincy does the talking, Silas does the silence. They wait for their friends to arrive. 

Sometimes they stare at each other. Silas is unyielding in his stare, and Quincy's is fleeting but consistent. 

When they are seventeen—two nights after junior year ends—they lay like this on the cool dewy grass. 

And in the moment, they resemble something close to peace. 

Everything is all fun and well until one of the country club security guards finds them. They scramble to their feet, drunk, dazed, frenzied, amused. They stumble and slip and run and weave around.

Boys who are made up of one town—well, they're hard to catch. They know the ins and out better than any other soul. 

For once, they laugh together, weaving around. They manage to escape the security, and Quincy throws an arm over Silas' shoulder, cackling: "did ya see them?"

Silas' smile is small. "Yes, I was there." Silas' smile is fleeting, unlike his stares.  Silas' smile drops. "We almost got in trouble."

"But we didn't!" Quincy says. It was Quincy's idea, obviously. Any kind of tomfoolery or debauchery is always Quincy's idea. He's a self-proclaimed degenerate.

"But we could have," Silas says. 

"Goddamn, Barnes," Quincy's words drip with frustration. "Live a little!"

"I live," Silas is pissed. 

"You barely exist," Quincy quips back. "If you just let fucking loose for once, we could have some real fun this summer."

Silas stalks away, waving the bottle in the air and Quincy's sure he's lost him. Then Silas pauses, back illustrated by the moonlight. "Bet," he mutters over his shoulder. A simple concession.

Bet. Quincy's grin grows wide. An agreement? A challenge? Whatever it is, it means that Silas will give tomfoolery and debauchery a shot this summer. "Alright," Quincy's on the verge of laughter, "alright, bet!"

When they are seventeen, their summer truly begins.

***
will be told in 1st person pov from now on ! i do in fact love 'em already