Two farm boys collide at university

[jayson_steyn]

The evening air in the flat carries a newfound lightness as Jo and Piet step through the door, the weight of the day’s tense negotiations at the Stellenbosch Country Club lifting with each step. The hum of campus life filters faintly through the cracked window, but inside, it’s just them, two farm boys who’ve just secured a lifeline for their partnership and the De Wet farm. The signed proposal for Frans, Grandpa De Wet’s reluctant but agreed-upon advisory role, and the promise of biweekly visits feel like a victory hard-won. Jo kicks off his boots with a flourish, his lanky frame shedding the stiffness of the meeting, while Piet tosses his faded blue cap onto the couch, his stocky shoulders relaxing as he exhales a deep, relieved sigh. The flat, once a battleground of stress, now buzzes with a quiet triumph, the scattered papers and unwashed dishes a testament to their grind, but no longer a burden.

Jo’s green eyes spark with a familiar mischief as he heads to the fridge, pulling out two cold beers with a grin that’s back to its lopsided glory. “Bru, we bloody did it,” he says, handing Piet a can, the metal clinking as they tap them together. The first sip washes away the last of the tension, and they collapse onto the couch, legs sprawling, the rugby ball forgotten on the floor. Piet’s brown eyes crinkle with a rare, full smile, his scarred hands resting on his knees as he leans back. “Ja, Jo, we’re back in it—uni, farm, us. Feels like breathing again.” The relief is palpable, a sense of normalcy creeping in, visions of rugby practice, wine shed sessions with Rachel and JP, water polo with the lads, even quiet rock nerd meetups flicker in their minds, exciting them with the promise of balance.

The beer flows easy, the conversation turning to lighter things, Jo recounting a tackle he’ll nail next practice, Piet musing about a new engine tweak for the farm’s tractor. Laughter fills the room, loose and genuine, and the space between them shrinks as they shift closer, shoulders brushing. The celebratory mood ignites something deeper, a spark that’s been simmering since their kiss at the Country Club. Jo sets his beer down, turning to Piet with a hungry glint in his eyes, and Piet meets it, his breath hitching as the air thickens with intent. “To us, hey?” Jo murmurs, leaning in, and their lips crash together in a kiss that’s all heat and celebration, messy, urgent, tongues tangling as they taste beer and relief. Piet’s scarred hand cups Jo’s neck, pulling him closer, while Jo’s lanky arms wrap around Piet’s stocky frame, their bodies pressing tight.

The kiss deepens, a hungry edge to it, and they stumble toward the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way, Jo’s tee hits the floor, Piet’s jeans snag on his boots, laughter breaking through as they trip over each other. Naked now, they tumble onto the bed, the mattress creaking under their weight. Jo’s lanky body stretches out, his straight, pink-tipped cock already hard against his stomach, while Piet’s stockier frame settles beside him, his thicker cock jutting proudly, precum beading at the tip. The sight of each other, raw, familiar, and electric, fuels their need, and they shift into a 69 position without a word, a practiced move born of months together.

Jo’s head dips first, his lips wrapping around Piet’s cock, taking the blunt, thick shaft deep into his mouth. His tongue swirls over the tip, tasting the salty precum, his hands gripping Piet’s hips as he bobs, sloppy and eager. Piet groans, the vibration humming through Jo’ as he returns the favor, his lips stretching around Jo’s curved cock. He sucks hard, tongue tracing the pink head, hands cupping Jo’s balls, rolling them gently. The room fills with wet, rhythmic sounds, slurps, gasps, the occasional grunt, as they work each other, heads moving in sync. Jo’s throat tightens around Piet, taking him to the base, while Piet’s mouth slides down Jo’s shaft, gagging slightly but pushing through, their arousal building fast. Precum leaks freely, mixing with saliva, their cocks throbbing as they edge closer, but they pull back, wanting more.

Breathing hard, they shift again, Jo flipping around to face Piet’s ass, his green eyes dark with desire. “My turn, bru,” he murmurs, spreading Piet’s cheeks, revealing the tight, puckered hole. He dives in, tongue lapping at the rim, warm and wet, circling slowly before pressing inside. Piet moans loud, his stocky frame tensing, hands gripping the sheets as Jo eats him out with a hungry rhythm, licking, sucking, tongue probing deep, his face buried in Piet’s crack. The sensation drives Piet wild, his cock leaking onto the bed, and he returns the favor, pulling Jo’s hips back to bury his face in Jo’s ass. His tongue works Jo’s hole, rough and insistent, tasting the musk, rimming with broad strokes before spearing inside. They groan into each other, ass-eating a mutual feast, the wet sounds and their heavy breaths filling the room, pushing them to the brink.

The need to fuck overtakes them, and they break apart, panting. Jo grabs the lube from the nightstand, slicking his fingers and working Piet open, two fingers sliding in, curling, stretching, while Piet rocks back, moaning. Then Jo coats his cock, the straight length glistening, and positions himself behind Piet, who’s on all fours, stocky frame quivering with anticipation. With a slow push, Jo enters, the head popping past the ring, stretching Piet wide. Piet grunts, adjusting, then pushes back, taking Jo’s full length deep inside. Jo starts slow, thrusting with long, deliberate strokes, his hands gripping Piet’s hips, the sound of skin slapping skin building.

Piet’s moans grow louder, and he shifts, flipping Jo onto his back. Now it’s his turn, lube in hand, he preps Jo’s ass, fingers sliding in, watching Jo’s green eyes flutter with pleasure. Piet’s thicker cock presses against Jo’s hole, and with a steady push, he enters, stretching Jo wide. Jo gasps, legs wrapping around Piet’s waist, pulling him deeper. Piet fucks with a steady rhythm, hips rolling, his hands pinning Jo’s shoulders, the bed creaking under the force. They switch again, Jo back on top, pounding Piet missionary-style, then Piet taking Jo from behind, doggy-style, each position a dance of dominance and surrender.

The intensity peaks as they settle into a final flip-flop—Jo on his back, Piet straddling, riding Jo’s cock with wild abandon, while Jo thrusts up, meeting each drop. Piet’s hand strokes his own cock, the tip swollen, and Jo’s fingers dig into Piet’s hips, both teetering on the edge. With a shared groan, they cum. Jo first, his cock pulsing inside Piet, cum flooding deep, while Piet’s load shoots across the bed, thick ropes splattering the sheets, their bodies shuddering in unison. They collapse, tangled and slick, breathing hard, the celebratory sex a seal on their renewed bond, the flat echoing with their satisfied sighs as they drift into a contented sleep.

 

[Hal_Manc]

Jo stormed out into the night, the dorm door’s slam still ringing in his ears as rain pelted his shirt. He stumbled through the quad, anger and guilt churning while his green eyes burned wild under the dim streetlights. His feet carried him straight to Henk’s room, not even a flicker of Spencer crossing his mind, no blue-eyed temptation pulling him elsewhere. Instinct drove him to the one mate who’d understand without questions. Henk’s door loomed on the third floor, its peeling paint a familiar sight, and Jo pounded it hard, knuckles stinging, breath ragged from the run and the fight. Henk swung it open, his broad frame filling the gap, rugby shorts sagging, grinning wide until he saw Jo’s face. He stepped aside with a quick, “Crash here, oke, Ruan’s on some field trip, bed’s free.”

Jo flopped onto the spare bed, springs creaking under his weight as he ran hands through his damp blonde mop, freckled chest heaving. He spilled it all, the full truth pouring out like the rain outside. “Piet lost it, boet, saw me with Spencer at the braai, went berserk, called me out, said I’m sneaking, playing games, replacing him, threw Matt and Byron in my face, everything,” he said, voice shaking, eyes darting to Henk’s steady gaze. “And yeah, I’ve been meeting Spencer after rugby, behind his back, not much, just chats, touches, but fok, Piet’s right to rage, I’m screwing it up.” Henk sat heavily on his own bed, nodding slowly. “You’re in deep kak, bru. Can’t have Piet and play with Spencer, gotta pick. I won’t tell him yet, crash here as long as you need or till Ruan’s back Thursday, but sort your shit boet.” Jo sighed, sinking into the sheets, Henk’s loyalty a lifeline as the night swallowed his chaos.

Piet barely moved after Jo left, sinking onto his bed where the room’s silence pressed in, sheets still mussed from their last tangle. He stared at the door, expecting Jo’s laugh, his “Fok, bru, sorry” to break the void. Minutes bled into hours, 10 turning to 20, then 60, with no Jo, no sound, just the rain’s drone and his own ragged breath. Panic crept in, tightening his chest. Where’d he go? Spencer’s dorm? The quad? Thoughts spiraled as he paced, boots scuffing the floor, checking the window where rain streaked the glass, revealing no freckled shadow. By 3 a.m., he was dialing, Jo’s phone off, voicemail mocking him; by 4, he was shaking, fists clenched. The sun rose gray through the blinds, dread peaking as dawn broke without Jo, no return, no sign, leaving Piet a sleepless wreck, eyes red-rimmed, heart pounding.

He dragged himself upright, shower steam failing to wash away the panic as shorts and a tee clung damp to his skin. He shuffled to his 8 a.m. lecture, a zombie among bustling students, notes blurring, mind fixed on Jo. Meanwhile, Jo, knowing Piet’s timetable like his own and certain he’d never skip Viticulture, slipped back to their room at 9, the dorm quiet with Piet’s absence offering a safe window. He packed fast, stuffing a duffel with shirts, briefs, a toothbrush, unconsciously leaving clues: bed sheets rumpled fresh, a damp towel slung over the chair, a half-empty water bottle tipped on the desk, traces screaming he’d been there. He bolted back to Henk’s, bag slung, guilt gnawing, green eyes avoiding the door he’d slammed.

Piet trudged back post-lecture at 11 a.m., the room dim, stopping cold as he saw it: the towel, the bottle, the bed, Jo had been here. “Fok,” he breathed, fear spiking as his mind raced to the worst—*He’s gone, Spencer’s got him*. He collapsed onto his bed, phone out, calling Jo nonstop, each ring hitting voicemail—“Fok, Jo, where are you?”—his voice breaking, panic surging, tears streaking his sunburnt face as he dialed again, no answer, dread a vise around his chest.

By Tuesday afternoon, the gang sensed trouble, Piet a wreck with hollow eyes, barely eating, shuffling through lectures like a ghost, Jo missing since the braai, his loud laughs and Braai Master swagger eerily absent. Sarah cornered Henk in the quad, asking, “What’s up with them? Piet’s a mess, no Jo?” Henk shrugged, replying, “Dunno, bru, give ‘em time,” his lips tight, keeping Jo’s secret locked. Rumors swirled through the dorm—rugby boys whispering, “Jo’s shacked up with that water polo Joburg oke”; rock nerds muttering, “Piet’s lost it, fight went bad”; Matt and Byron smirking, “Jo’s at it again, new toy.” Piet overheard, rage and fear twisting as he finally cracked, finding Henk by the canteen. “Bru, he’s gone, Spencer, hey? Tell me!” he demanded, voice raw, hands shaking.

Henk sighed, pulling him aside where crate benches creaked under their weight. “Give him space, Piet, he’ll come back when he’s ready. He’s not gone for good, just sorting kak,” he said, his steady gaze holding as Piet’s brown eyes pleaded. Henk offered no betrayal yet, and Piet nodded slowly, whispering, “Fok, hope so,” clinging to the lifeline, fear still gnawing at his core.

By Thursday, Henk had had enough, Jo lounging on Ruan’s bed with green eyes restless, dodging the inevitable. “Bru, you’re a man, go face him,” Henk said, his voice firm as he shoved Jo’s bag at him. “Can’t hide here forever, Ruan’s back tomorrow anyway.” Jo sighed, running hands through his mop, muttering, “Fok, ja, you’re right,” slinging the duffel over his shoulder, heart pounding as he trudged back to their room. The dorm door loomed, his stomach twisting with every step.

He stepped inside, Piet on his bed with books open but unread, brown eyes snapping up, wide and red-rimmed. Silence hung thick as Jo dropped his bag, saying, “Bru, I’m back.” Piet stood slowly, his voice low and shaking, asking, “Where the fok were you? Spencer?” Jo exhaled, sitting heavily on his own bed. “No, not Spencer, Henk’s, just Henk’s. Needed space after, fok, I’ve been a kak mate.” He looked up, green meeting brown in a raw, unguarded stare. “I’ve been meeting him, Spencer, after rugby, behind your back. Not much, talk, touches, but it’s there, and I’m sorry, bru, I’m so fokkin sorry.”

Piet’s face crumpled, upset surging through him. “Fok, Jo, why? You’re my brother, thought we had this!” His voice broke, fists clenching as he continued, “You sneak, you flirt right in my face, makes me feel like kak, like I’m nothing!” Jo’s eyes glistened, remorse flooding out. “I know, I’m a prick, got caught up, Spencer’s a game, but you, you’re everything, bru, I swear, I’ll stop, no more, just us.” Promises spilled from him, earnest and trembling. “I’ll fix it, Piet, I need you, not him, fok, I’ll prove it.”

Piet sank beside him, tears brimming as he said, “Fokkin hurts, Jo, thought I lost you.” His voice softened, forgiveness threading through the ache, his hand finding Jo’s shoulder, squeezing tight. “Don’t do it again, swear it.” Jo nodded, freckled face wet with regret. “I swear, boet, only you,” he replied, leaning in, their foreheads touching, the bond hanging by a thread—fragile, frayed, but clinging. Silence settled, heavy with repair, the fight’s echo fading as they sat, broken but together.

Piet stayed quiet, brown eyes tracing Jo’s face, forgiveness a thin lifeline holding them steady. Jo’s remorse thickened the air, his promises a balm on the wound they’d torn open. They didn’t move, shoulders pressed close, breathing slow as the room’s dim light softened the edges, their closeness a tether stretched thin but unbroken, teetering as term two loomed ahead.

Okay.

After getting up to date with one of your other stories on this forum, I started reading this after all my friends went to bed at 2am, (I’m staying in cabin Sherwood Forest with them for a week, all men) to eventually maybe release after edging for so long and go to sleep…

Your writing is so incredible and captivating; an emotional roller coaster.

It’s now 7am and I’ve read up to here, and you actually successfully made my eyes water with this chapter. I’m going to continue reading until I pass out, or eventually don’t even go to sleep, but I just couldn’t pass this chapter without letting you know that you almost made me cry.

Thank you.

 

[michaelnola]

The evening air in the flat carries a newfound lightness as Jo and Piet step through the door, the weight of the day’s tense negotiations at the Stellenbosch Country Club lifting with each step. The hum of campus life filters faintly through the cracked window, but inside, it’s just them, two farm boys who’ve just secured a lifeline for their partnership and the De Wet farm. The signed proposal for Frans, Grandpa De Wet’s reluctant but agreed-upon advisory role, and the promise of biweekly visits feel like a victory hard-won. Jo kicks off his boots with a flourish, his lanky frame shedding the stiffness of the meeting, while Piet tosses his faded blue cap onto the couch, his stocky shoulders relaxing as he exhales a deep, relieved sigh. The flat, once a battleground of stress, now buzzes with a quiet triumph, the scattered papers and unwashed dishes a testament to their grind, but no longer a burden.

Jo’s green eyes spark with a familiar mischief as he heads to the fridge, pulling out two cold beers with a grin that’s back to its lopsided glory. “Bru, we bloody did it,” he says, handing Piet a can, the metal clinking as they tap them together. The first sip washes away the last of the tension, and they collapse onto the couch, legs sprawling, the rugby ball forgotten on the floor. Piet’s brown eyes crinkle with a rare, full smile, his scarred hands resting on his knees as he leans back. “Ja, Jo, we’re back in it—uni, farm, us. Feels like breathing again.” The relief is palpable, a sense of normalcy creeping in, visions of rugby practice, wine shed sessions with Rachel and JP, water polo with the lads, even quiet rock nerd meetups flicker in their minds, exciting them with the promise of balance.

The beer flows easy, the conversation turning to lighter things, Jo recounting a tackle he’ll nail next practice, Piet musing about a new engine tweak for the farm’s tractor. Laughter fills the room, loose and genuine, and the space between them shrinks as they shift closer, shoulders brushing. The celebratory mood ignites something deeper, a spark that’s been simmering since their kiss at the Country Club. Jo sets his beer down, turning to Piet with a hungry glint in his eyes, and Piet meets it, his breath hitching as the air thickens with intent. “To us, hey?” Jo murmurs, leaning in, and their lips crash together in a kiss that’s all heat and celebration, messy, urgent, tongues tangling as they taste beer and relief. Piet’s scarred hand cups Jo’s neck, pulling him closer, while Jo’s lanky arms wrap around Piet’s stocky frame, their bodies pressing tight.

The kiss deepens, a hungry edge to it, and they stumble toward the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way, Jo’s tee hits the floor, Piet’s jeans snag on his boots, laughter breaking through as they trip over each other. Naked now, they tumble onto the bed, the mattress creaking under their weight. Jo’s lanky body stretches out, his straight, pink-tipped cock already hard against his stomach, while Piet’s stockier frame settles beside him, his thicker cock jutting proudly, precum beading at the tip. The sight of each other, raw, familiar, and electric, fuels their need, and they shift into a 69 position without a word, a practiced move born of months together.

Jo’s head dips first, his lips wrapping around Piet’s cock, taking the blunt, thick shaft deep into his mouth. His tongue swirls over the tip, tasting the salty precum, his hands gripping Piet’s hips as he bobs, sloppy and eager. Piet groans, the vibration humming through Jo’ as he returns the favor, his lips stretching around Jo’s curved cock. He sucks hard, tongue tracing the pink head, hands cupping Jo’s balls, rolling them gently. The room fills with wet, rhythmic sounds, slurps, gasps, the occasional grunt, as they work each other, heads moving in sync. Jo’s throat tightens around Piet, taking him to the base, while Piet’s mouth slides down Jo’s shaft, gagging slightly but pushing through, their arousal building fast. Precum leaks freely, mixing with saliva, their cocks throbbing as they edge closer, but they pull back, wanting more.

Breathing hard, they shift again, Jo flipping around to face Piet’s ass, his green eyes dark with desire. “My turn, bru,” he murmurs, spreading Piet’s cheeks, revealing the tight, puckered hole. He dives in, tongue lapping at the rim, warm and wet, circling slowly before pressing inside. Piet moans loud, his stocky frame tensing, hands gripping the sheets as Jo eats him out with a hungry rhythm, licking, sucking, tongue probing deep, his face buried in Piet’s crack. The sensation drives Piet wild, his cock leaking onto the bed, and he returns the favor, pulling Jo’s hips back to bury his face in Jo’s ass. His tongue works Jo’s hole, rough and insistent, tasting the musk, rimming with broad strokes before spearing inside. They groan into each other, ass-eating a mutual feast, the wet sounds and their heavy breaths filling the room, pushing them to the brink.

The need to fuck overtakes them, and they break apart, panting. Jo grabs the lube from the nightstand, slicking his fingers and working Piet open, two fingers sliding in, curling, stretching, while Piet rocks back, moaning. Then Jo coats his cock, the straight length glistening, and positions himself behind Piet, who’s on all fours, stocky frame quivering with anticipation. With a slow push, Jo enters, the head popping past the ring, stretching Piet wide. Piet grunts, adjusting, then pushes back, taking Jo’s full length deep inside. Jo starts slow, thrusting with long, deliberate strokes, his hands gripping Piet’s hips, the sound of skin slapping skin building.

Piet’s moans grow louder, and he shifts, flipping Jo onto his back. Now it’s his turn, lube in hand, he preps Jo’s ass, fingers sliding in, watching Jo’s green eyes flutter with pleasure. Piet’s thicker cock presses against Jo’s hole, and with a steady push, he enters, stretching Jo wide. Jo gasps, legs wrapping around Piet’s waist, pulling him deeper. Piet fucks with a steady rhythm, hips rolling, his hands pinning Jo’s shoulders, the bed creaking under the force. They switch again, Jo back on top, pounding Piet missionary-style, then Piet taking Jo from behind, doggy-style, each position a dance of dominance and surrender.

The intensity peaks as they settle into a final flip-flop—Jo on his back, Piet straddling, riding Jo’s cock with wild abandon, while Jo thrusts up, meeting each drop. Piet’s hand strokes his own cock, the tip swollen, and Jo’s fingers dig into Piet’s hips, both teetering on the edge. With a shared groan, they cum. Jo first, his cock pulsing inside Piet, cum flooding deep, while Piet’s load shoots across the bed, thick ropes splattering the sheets, their bodies shuddering in unison. They collapse, tangled and slick, breathing hard, the celebratory sex a seal on their renewed bond, the flat echoing with their satisfied sighs as they drift into a contented sleep.

Awesome addition to read and start my day. Thanks and I say again, Jayson, you are an excellent master of words. And think all of your readers would agree that we all look forward to any stories you want to share or that book you decide to write and we can purchase. THANKS

 

[Hal_Manc]

Okay.

After getting up to date with one of your other stories on this forum, I started reading this after all my friends went to bed at 2am, (I’m staying in cabin Sherwood Forest with them for a week, all men) to eventually maybe release after edging for so long and go to sleep…

Your writing is so incredible and captivating; an emotional roller coaster.

It’s now 7am and I’ve read up to here, and you actually successfully made my eyes water with this chapter. I’m going to continue reading until I pass out, or eventually don’t even go to sleep, but I just couldn’t pass this chapter without letting you know that you almost made me cry.

Thank you.

And now I’m up to date…

I’ll be honest, I thought the roller coaster of emotions couldn’t get any more intense than how I was feeling after reading this chapter, but Jayson outdid any expectation I had, building real dread and a deep weight in my stomach; I couldn’t get comfortable until I continued reading and got through it, and I’m so happy on how things are at, but I feel like it’s getting close to the end.

The largest time skip of 2 months happened and now I know things are going to pick up speed. Either we’re going to be following these guys until the end of their lives, or the story will end eventually (hopefully a happy ending), but I’d be absolutely looking forward to seeing more work by Jayson when that time comes.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

And now I’m up to date…

I’ll be honest, I thought the roller coaster of emotions couldn’t get any more intense than how I was feeling after reading this chapter, but Jayson outdid any expectation I had, building real dread and a deep weight in my stomach; I couldn’t get comfortable until I continued reading and got through it, and I’m so happy on how things are at, but I feel like it’s getting close to the end.

The largest time skip of 2 months happened and now I know things are going to pick up speed. Either we’re going to be following these guys until the end of their lives, or the story will end eventually (hopefully a happy ending), but I’d be absolutely looking forward to seeing more work by Jayson when that time comes.

Have you checked out Jayson's other stories? I recommend his quasi-memoir, "Curious straight friend."

 

[michaelnola]

Have you checked out Jayson's other stories? I recommend his quasi-memoir, "Curious straight friend."

It is also awesome reading...

 

[Hal_Manc]

Have you checked out Jayson's other stories? I recommend his quasi-memoir, "Curious straight friend."

I read that one first, which lead me to here, for more stories from Jayson.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Three months have passed since Frans took the reins as farm manager at the De Wet farm, and his impact has been nothing short of transformative. The lanky, sharp-eyed younger brother of Kobus has exceeded every expectation, bringing a blend of grit, ingenuity, and farm-bred instinct to the role. Under his steady hand, the farm is thriving targets are not just being met but surpassed. The wheat fields, once teetering on the edge of drought-ravaged ruin, now ripple gold under the spring sun, yields projected to hit 25% above the contract’s quota thanks to Frans’s meticulous irrigation adjustments and timely fertilizer applications and Piets constant budget adjustments. The vineyards, spared from the pest outbreak that nearly derailed the first harvest, are lush with plump grapes, their rows a testament to Frans’s and Jos proactive pest management and soil testing. The sheep, too, are flourishing, wool thicker, numbers up, and a recent lambing season bolstered by his quick response to that earlier illness scare, ensuring every ewe was nursed back to health with vet support he coordinated on the fly.

Frans’s weekly reports, crisp, detailed, sent every Sunday night, keep Jo and Piet in the loop without drowning them in details. His knack for troubleshooting (a broken tractor fixed in a day, a flooded paddock drained before dawn) and his quiet charisma with the farmhands have turned the De Wet operation into a well-oiled machine. Grandpa De Wet, in his advisory role, has mellowed into a proud overseer, his raspy voice less commanding but still sharp, offering Frans pointers over coffee at the farmhouse table, pointers Frans takes with a nod and turns into action. The arrangement has freed Jo and Piet to reclaim their lives in Stellenbosch, the 130-kilometer distance no longer a chokehold.

Back at uni, the boys are hitting their stride. Piet hasn’t missed a single agricultural economics lecture, his scarred hands scribbling notes with renewed focus, his grades climbing back to solid A’s. Water polo’s back on the roster too, he’s in the pool twice a week, his stocky frame cutting through the water, the team’s quiet anchor. Jo’s excelling at rugby, his lanky legs a blur on the field, dodging tackles and nailing kicks, earning him a spot as a starter again. His coach slaps his back after practice, grinning, “You’re back, van der Merwe, farm didn’t break you.” Wednesday nights at the wine shed with Rachel, JP and Doug are a sacred escape, laughter, cork-popping, and Jo’s wild theories about grape varietals filling the air, the group tighter than ever. Every third Saturday, Jo’s braai-master braais light up the quad, smoke curling into the night as Henk, Sarah, the rugby lads, and Piet’s rock nerds crowd, meat sizzling just the way Jo preaches, perfectly seasoned, never rushed. The flat’s alive again, a hub of noise and warmth, the chaos of unwashed dishes replaced by a rhythm they can sustain.

Jacques has taken notice. On a recent call, his gruff voice carried rare praise: “Boys, Frans is gold. That pest trap system you rigged for the vines? We’re rolling it out at van der Merwe farms. Keep it up.” He’s even adopted their arbitration clause idea for a new lease deal, a quiet nod to their growing influence. For Jo and Piet, it’s validation, their partnership isn’t just holding; it’s shaping something bigger.

But then, almost six months to the day since Grandpa De Wet revealed his cancer, the fragile peace shatters. It’s early Thursday morning, the flat still dark, when Piet’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. He fumbles for it, bleary-eyed, and sees “Ma” on the screen. His gut drops before he even answers. Her voice is soft, trembling: “Pieter, he’s gone. Grandpa passed in his sleep last night, peaceful, thank God. Come home, my boy.” The line goes quiet, and Piet’s world tilts. He sits up, stocky frame rigid, brown eyes wide and unseeing, the phone slipping from his scarred hand. The grief hits like a freight train, raw and unrelenting, dragging up every ache from losing his dad years ago, the same farm, the same soil, now another pillar gone. He chokes out a sob, “Fok, Jo, he’s dead,” and buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Jo’s awake in an instant, green eyes snapping open, his lanky body shifting to Piet’s side. He wraps an arm around Piet, pulling him close, freckled hand gripping his shoulder. “I’m here, Piet. We’ll get through it,” he murmurs, voice steady but thick with his own shock. He tries to console him, hugging Piet, whispering about Grandpa’s peace, how he’d be proud, but words feel useless against the tide of Piet’s pain. There’s no fixing this, only moving. “We’re going now,” Jo says, decisive, already swinging his legs off the bed. They throw on clothes, Piet’s jeans and a faded tee, Jo’s shorts and a hoody, grabbing wallets, phones, the Land Rover keys. Piet’s a ghost, movements mechanical, while Jo takes charge, shoving essentials into a bag. They lock the flat, drop the key with Henk next door (“Family emergency, bru, hold it ‘til we’re back”), and hit the road, not knowing how long they’ll be gone.

Jo drives, hands tight on the wheel, the Land Rover humming toward the DeWet farm. He calls Jacques, voice clipped: “Dad, Grandpa De Wet’s gone. Passed last night. We’re heading to the farm.” Jacques cuts in, “Ja, Piets ma told me. Mom and I are on our way too. See you there.” The call ends, and the silence in the car is heavy, broken only by Piet’s ragged breathing as he stares out the window, vineyards blurring past. Jo glances over, worry creasing his face, but he keeps driving, the farm pulling them like a magnet.

They reach the De Wet farm by mid-morning, dust kicking up as the Land Rover rolls to a stop outside the farmhouse. The air feels still, too quiet, the wheat fields swaying in mute witness. Piet’s mom meets them at the door, her face pale, eyes red-rimmed but steady. She pulls Piet into a fierce hug, her small frame trembling against his stocky one. “He went easy, Pieter. In his bed, like he wanted.” Jo hovers behind, green eyes soft, giving them space. Inside, the house is a shrine of memory, Grandpa’s cane propped by the chair, his boots still mud-caked by the door, a half-finished cup of tea on the table. Jacques and Carol arrive soon after, Jacques’s broad frame filling the room, Carol’s quiet presence, soothing, as she helps Piet’s mom with coffee.

The reality settles slow and brutal. Grandpa De Wet’s death triggers the contract’s ownership clause, effective immediately, the farm transfers to Jo and Piet, his mom retaining the house as agreed. Jacques confirms it over the kitchen table, papers spread out, his voice matter-of-fact: “It’s yours now, boys. Grandpa’s passing seals it, full ownership, De Wet farm, under your names. Frans stays on, lease payments continue. You’ve got the reins.” He slides the title deed across, freshly notarized, their signatures from months ago now binding them to the land.

Piet stares at it, brown eyes glistening, scarred hands trembling as he touches the paper. It’s real, his dad’s legacy, Grandpa’s fight, now his and Jo’s to carry. The weight crushes him, grief and pride warring in his chest. “Jo, it’s ours,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Dad, Grandpa, they’re gone, and it’s us now.” He feels unmoored, the farm a lifeline and a burden, every memory of fixing fences with his dad, every gruff lesson from Grandpa, flooding back. He’s terrified he’ll fail them, that he’s not enough without their guidance.

Jo’s green eyes meet Piet’s, steady despite the ache in his own gut. He grips Piet’s shoulder, freckled hand firm. “Ja, Piet, it’s ours. And we’ve got it, you and me, like always. They’d be proud, hey?” His voice cracks slightly, he’s lost a mentor too, Grandpa De Wet’s raspy wisdom a quiet thread in his own growth, but he buries it to hold Piet up. The reality bites: this isn’t just a farm, it’s their life now, no safety net, no turning back. Jo feels the shift, less the cocky farm boy, more the partner who has to step up, for Piet, for them.

They sit with it, the kitchen a cocoon of mourning and resolve. Piet’s mom weeps softly, Carol’s arm around her, while Jacques watches the boys, his stern face softening with something like respect. The transfer’s done, but the emotions linger, Piet wrestling ghosts, Jo anchoring them both. They’ll stay a few days, plan the funeral, lean on Frans to keep the farm running. The land’s theirs now, a legacy sealed in loss, and as they step outside to breathe the farm air, shoulders brushing, they know it’s just the beginning.

 

[michaelnola]

Three months have passed since Frans took the reins as farm manager at the De Wet farm, and his impact has been nothing short of transformative. The lanky, sharp-eyed younger brother of Kobus has exceeded every expectation, bringing a blend of grit, ingenuity, and farm-bred instinct to the role. Under his steady hand, the farm is thriving targets are not just being met but surpassed. The wheat fields, once teetering on the edge of drought-ravaged ruin, now ripple gold under the spring sun, yields projected to hit 25% above the contract’s quota thanks to Frans’s meticulous irrigation adjustments and timely fertilizer applications and Piets constant budget adjustments. The vineyards, spared from the pest outbreak that nearly derailed the first harvest, are lush with plump grapes, their rows a testament to Frans’s and Jos proactive pest management and soil testing. The sheep, too, are flourishing, wool thicker, numbers up, and a recent lambing season bolstered by his quick response to that earlier illness scare, ensuring every ewe was nursed back to health with vet support he coordinated on the fly.

Frans’s weekly reports, crisp, detailed, sent every Sunday night, keep Jo and Piet in the loop without drowning them in details. His knack for troubleshooting (a broken tractor fixed in a day, a flooded paddock drained before dawn) and his quiet charisma with the farmhands have turned the De Wet operation into a well-oiled machine. Grandpa De Wet, in his advisory role, has mellowed into a proud overseer, his raspy voice less commanding but still sharp, offering Frans pointers over coffee at the farmhouse table, pointers Frans takes with a nod and turns into action. The arrangement has freed Jo and Piet to reclaim their lives in Stellenbosch, the 130-kilometer distance no longer a chokehold.

Back at uni, the boys are hitting their stride. Piet hasn’t missed a single agricultural economics lecture, his scarred hands scribbling notes with renewed focus, his grades climbing back to solid A’s. Water polo’s back on the roster too, he’s in the pool twice a week, his stocky frame cutting through the water, the team’s quiet anchor. Jo’s excelling at rugby, his lanky legs a blur on the field, dodging tackles and nailing kicks, earning him a spot as a starter again. His coach slaps his back after practice, grinning, “You’re back, van der Merwe, farm didn’t break you.” Wednesday nights at the wine shed with Rachel, JP and Doug are a sacred escape, laughter, cork-popping, and Jo’s wild theories about grape varietals filling the air, the group tighter than ever. Every third Saturday, Jo’s braai-master braais light up the quad, smoke curling into the night as Henk, Sarah, the rugby lads, and Piet’s rock nerds crowd, meat sizzling just the way Jo preaches, perfectly seasoned, never rushed. The flat’s alive again, a hub of noise and warmth, the chaos of unwashed dishes replaced by a rhythm they can sustain.

Jacques has taken notice. On a recent call, his gruff voice carried rare praise: “Boys, Frans is gold. That pest trap system you rigged for the vines? We’re rolling it out at van der Merwe farms. Keep it up.” He’s even adopted their arbitration clause idea for a new lease deal, a quiet nod to their growing influence. For Jo and Piet, it’s validation, their partnership isn’t just holding; it’s shaping something bigger.

But then, almost six months to the day since Grandpa De Wet revealed his cancer, the fragile peace shatters. It’s early Thursday morning, the flat still dark, when Piet’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. He fumbles for it, bleary-eyed, and sees “Ma” on the screen. His gut drops before he even answers. Her voice is soft, trembling: “Pieter, he’s gone. Grandpa passed in his sleep last night, peaceful, thank God. Come home, my boy.” The line goes quiet, and Piet’s world tilts. He sits up, stocky frame rigid, brown eyes wide and unseeing, the phone slipping from his scarred hand. The grief hits like a freight train, raw and unrelenting, dragging up every ache from losing his dad years ago, the same farm, the same soil, now another pillar gone. He chokes out a sob, “Fok, Jo, he’s dead,” and buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Jo’s awake in an instant, green eyes snapping open, his lanky body shifting to Piet’s side. He wraps an arm around Piet, pulling him close, freckled hand gripping his shoulder. “I’m here, Piet. We’ll get through it,” he murmurs, voice steady but thick with his own shock. He tries to console him, hugging Piet, whispering about Grandpa’s peace, how he’d be proud, but words feel useless against the tide of Piet’s pain. There’s no fixing this, only moving. “We’re going now,” Jo says, decisive, already swinging his legs off the bed. They throw on clothes, Piet’s jeans and a faded tee, Jo’s shorts and a hoody, grabbing wallets, phones, the Land Rover keys. Piet’s a ghost, movements mechanical, while Jo takes charge, shoving essentials into a bag. They lock the flat, drop the key with Henk next door (“Family emergency, bru, hold it ‘til we’re back”), and hit the road, not knowing how long they’ll be gone.

Jo drives, hands tight on the wheel, the Land Rover humming toward the DeWet farm. He calls Jacques, voice clipped: “Dad, Grandpa De Wet’s gone. Passed last night. We’re heading to the farm.” Jacques cuts in, “Ja, Piets ma told me. Mom and I are on our way too. See you there.” The call ends, and the silence in the car is heavy, broken only by Piet’s ragged breathing as he stares out the window, vineyards blurring past. Jo glances over, worry creasing his face, but he keeps driving, the farm pulling them like a magnet.

They reach the De Wet farm by mid-morning, dust kicking up as the Land Rover rolls to a stop outside the farmhouse. The air feels still, too quiet, the wheat fields swaying in mute witness. Piet’s mom meets them at the door, her face pale, eyes red-rimmed but steady. She pulls Piet into a fierce hug, her small frame trembling against his stocky one. “He went easy, Pieter. In his bed, like he wanted.” Jo hovers behind, green eyes soft, giving them space. Inside, the house is a shrine of memory, Grandpa’s cane propped by the chair, his boots still mud-caked by the door, a half-finished cup of tea on the table. Jacques and Carol arrive soon after, Jacques’s broad frame filling the room, Carol’s quiet presence, soothing, as she helps Piet’s mom with coffee.

The reality settles slow and brutal. Grandpa De Wet’s death triggers the contract’s ownership clause, effective immediately, the farm transfers to Jo and Piet, his mom retaining the house as agreed. Jacques confirms it over the kitchen table, papers spread out, his voice matter-of-fact: “It’s yours now, boys. Grandpa’s passing seals it, full ownership, De Wet farm, under your names. Frans stays on, lease payments continue. You’ve got the reins.” He slides the title deed across, freshly notarized, their signatures from months ago now binding them to the land.

Piet stares at it, brown eyes glistening, scarred hands trembling as he touches the paper. It’s real, his dad’s legacy, Grandpa’s fight, now his and Jo’s to carry. The weight crushes him, grief and pride warring in his chest. “Jo, it’s ours,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Dad, Grandpa, they’re gone, and it’s us now.” He feels unmoored, the farm a lifeline and a burden, every memory of fixing fences with his dad, every gruff lesson from Grandpa, flooding back. He’s terrified he’ll fail them, that he’s not enough without their guidance.

Jo’s green eyes meet Piet’s, steady despite the ache in his own gut. He grips Piet’s shoulder, freckled hand firm. “Ja, Piet, it’s ours. And we’ve got it, you and me, like always. They’d be proud, hey?” His voice cracks slightly, he’s lost a mentor too, Grandpa De Wet’s raspy wisdom a quiet thread in his own growth, but he buries it to hold Piet up. The reality bites: this isn’t just a farm, it’s their life now, no safety net, no turning back. Jo feels the shift, less the cocky farm boy, more the partner who has to step up, for Piet, for them.

They sit with it, the kitchen a cocoon of mourning and resolve. Piet’s mom weeps softly, Carol’s arm around her, while Jacques watches the boys, his stern face softening with something like respect. The transfer’s done, but the emotions linger, Piet wrestling ghosts, Jo anchoring them both. They’ll stay a few days, plan the funeral, lean on Frans to keep the farm running. The land’s theirs now, a legacy sealed in loss, and as they step outside to breathe the farm air, shoulders brushing, they know it’s just the beginning.

Sad but awesome at the same time--had to read it 3 times since I could barely make it the first time kinda blurry eyes..EXCELLENT

 

[jayson_steyn]

The three days following Grandpa De Wet’s death unfold in a quiet, somber rhythm at the De Wet farm, the weight of loss tempered by the steady presence of family and the land itself. Thursday morning dawns gray, the sky heavy with clouds that mirror the mood inside the farmhouse. Piet and his mom, Anna, sit at the kitchen table, surrounded by the remnants of breakfast—half-eaten mielie bread and cooling coffee. The room smells of woodsmoke and grief, Grandpa’s empty chair a silent void between them. Anna’s hands, weathered from years of farm life, tremble slightly as she flips through a worn notebook, jotting down funeral details with a pencil Piet sharpened for her. Piet, his stocky frame slouched, brown eyes red-rimmed but focused, takes the lead with a gentleness he’s learned from Jo.

“Ma, what about the church? Reverend Botha knew Grandpa best,” Piet says, voice low but steady, scarred hand resting on hers to still the shaking. Anna nods, wiping her eyes. “Ja, Pieter, he’d want that. And the hymns ‘Abide With Me,’ it was his favourite.” They plan a simple service for Saturday, family and community invited, burial in the De Wet graveyard by the forrest. Piet suggests a braai after, a nod to Grandpa’s love of gathering folks around fire and meat, and Anna agrees, a faint smile breaking through her tears. “He’d like that, my boy. Keep it simple, like him.”

Jo hovers nearby, a pillar of quiet strength, his lanky frame leaning against the counter as he brews more coffee or fetches papers when asked. He doesn’t intrude, just watches Piet with green eyes soft with understanding, stepping in when the weight gets too heavy. When Anna falters over the guest list, her voice cracking, Jo kneels beside her, freckled hand on her shoulder. “Tannie Anna, I’ll call the neighbours, let ‘em know. You rest a bit, hey?” She pats his hand, grateful, and Piet shoots him a look, wordless thanks that Jo returns with a small nod. The day stretches on, calls made, Frans briefed to keep the farm ticking, Jo running errands to town for flowers and food, giving Piet and Anna space to mourn and plan.

Friday brings a shift, practicality over emotion. Piet and Anna meet Reverend Botha at the farmhouse, the old man’s gentle voice a consolation as they finalize the service. Piet’s in jeans and a faded shirt, scarred hands fidgeting with a pen as he confirms readings, Psalm 23, Grandpa’s choice. Anna picks wildflowers from the garden with Carol. Jo’s outside with Frans, checking the graveyard site near the forest, ensuring the massive oak tree shades Grandpa’s resting place beside his wife, Maria. He digs a little himself, sweat on his freckled brow, making sure it’s perfect for Piet’s sake. Back inside, he finds Piet staring at Grandpa’s cane, lost in thought, and sits beside him, shoulder brushing his. “It’s gonna be right, Piet. He’d be proud of you,” Jo murmurs, and Piet leans into him, just for a moment, drawing strength.

Saturday dawns crisp and clear, the sun breaking through the clouds as if honouring Grandpa De Wet’s final farewell. By mid-morning, the De Wet farm is alive with the hum of the Western Cape community, hundreds descending on the homestead, funded by Jacques van der Merwe’s quiet generosity. Cars and bakkies line the dirt road, neighbours in Sunday best mingle with farmhands in work boots, kids darting through the wheat fields. The farmhouse yard overflows, tables groan under platters of food and drink, all paid for by Jacques to celebrate a life rooted in this soil.

The service starts at noon, Reverend Botha’s voice carrying over the crowd gathered under the oak tree. Piet stands beside Anna, rigid in a borrowed suit, brown eyes glistening as he grips her hand. Jo’s on his other side, lanky in a dark shirt, green eyes steady on Piet, a rock in the storm. The hymn “Abide With Me” rises, rough voices blending with the rustle of leaves, and Anna weeps softly as Grandpa’s plain pine coffin is lowered beside Maria’s weathered stone. Piet tosses a handful of dirt, whispering, “Totsiens, Grandpa,” his voice breaking, while Jo’s hand rests on his back, silent support.

After, the braai kicks off, a bittersweet release. Laughter mixes with tears, stories of Grandpa’s stubbornness and wisdom traded over brandy and beer. Jacques, broad and imposing, works the crowd, ensuring no glass is empty, while Carol comforts Anna with quiet words. Piet and Jo stick close, passing plates, accepting condolences, their bond a lifeline amid the chaos.

As night falls, the crowd thins, leaving family around a crackling fire in the yard. The air smells of smoke and earth, stars pricking the sky above the oak. Piet, Jo, and Jacques sit on camp chairs, brandy glasses in hand, the amber liquid glinting in the firelight. Anna and Carol are inside, giving them space. Piet’s stocky frame is slumped, exhaustion etched in his sunburnt face, while Jo’s lanky legs stretch out, his green eyes reflective. Jacques, broad and authoritative, swirls his brandy, breaking the silence.

“Boys, today was good. Pa De Wet got his send-off,” Jacques starts, voice gruff but warm. “But now it’s real, you own this farm, full-time. Uni’s a stretch from here. I’ve been thinking, approach Stellenbosch, see if they’ll let you finish your degrees with distance learning, credits for work logged here. You need to be hands-on now, no more juggling.”

Piet blinks, brown eyes sharpening as he processes it. “Ja, Oom Jacques, that could work. Ag economics fits, budgets, markets, I’m doing it already with Frans.” He glances at Jo, seeking his take.

Jo nods, freckled hand rubbing his chin. “Viticulture too, hey. I’m learning more here with the vines than in lectures. Distance plus farm credits, sounds solid.” His grin flickers, tired but hopeful. “What do you reckon they’ll say?”

Jacques leans forward, elbows on his knees, brandy glass dangling. “They’ll listen. You’re not dropping out, just adapting. I’ve got pull with the dean, old rugby mate. I’ll call Monday, set a meeting. You two draft a proposal, what you’ve learned here, how it ties to your courses. They’ll see the sense.”

Piet exhales, relief mixing with resolve. “Thanks, Oom. We’ll write it up tomorrow. Farm’s ours now, gotta make it work.” He sips his brandy, the burn grounding him.

Jo clinks his glass against Piet’s, green eyes locking with his. “To us, Piet. Full-time farm boys, degrees or not.” His voice is light, but the weight of their future hums beneath it.

Dawn breaks soft over the De Wet farm, the river glinting gold as Jo and Piet slip away to their old camping spot near the river. They carry blankets and a thermos of coffee, barefoot in shorts and tees, the morning chill nipping at their skin. The spot’s familiar, reckless nights of the last few months etched into the earth, and they spread the blanket, sitting shoulder to shoulder, the massive tree casting a gentle shade.

Jo pours coffee, handing Piet a mug, his green eyes tracing the water. “Bru, What’s next for us?” His voice is casual, but there’s a thread of something deeper, a question he’s been chewing on.

Piet sips, eyes steady on Jo, hand warming against the mug. “Ja, Jo, farm’s set with Frans, uni’ll work out. But us, you and me, what do we call it? Marriage, maybe? Future’s gotta have a shape.”

Jo’s grin falters, his lanky frame shifting uncomfortably. “Fok, Piet, you know I’m not one for labels. Marriage, rings, vows, all that kak, feels like a box. I love you, deeper than anything, but I don’t need a paper to say it.” His hand rests on Piet’s knee, earnest.

Piet’s brow furrows, eyes searching Jo’s face. “No paper, hey? But something solid, folks will ask, Ma’ll want to know. Civil partnership, maybe? Legal, quiet, us.” He’s pushing, gentle but firm, wanting a tether.

Jo exhales, eyes softening as he leans into Piet. “Ja, civil partnership I can do. No fuss, just us, legal enough to shut up the questions. You good with that?” His hand squeezes Piet’s, testing.

Piet nods, a small smirk breaking through. “Good enough. Us, official-like, no kak ceremonies. Now, telling them? Ma, your folks? We’ve danced around it long enough.”

Jo laughs, rough and nervous. “Fok, that’s the hard bit. Your Ma’s religion, might flip. Jacques, he’s a wall, who knows? Carol’s chill, maybe. I say we just do it, breakfast, straight up. ‘We’re together, partners, deal with it.’ No hiding anymore.”

Piet’s quiet, eyes tracing the river, then he nods, resolute. “Ja, breakfast. All at once, rip the plaster off. They’ve seen us, close as we are, can’t be a shock. We stand firm, let ‘em react.” His scarred hand finds Jo’s, interlocking fingers, a pact sealed.

Back at the farmhouse, the kitchen’s warm with the smell of bacon and fresh coffee, the table set for five as Jacques, Carol, and Anna join Jo and Piet before the van der Merwes head back to Robertson. Anna’s bustling, her grief softened by routine, while Carol pours juice, her quiet calm a steady pulse. Jacques sits at the head, broad frame filling the space, sipping coffee. Jo and Piet exchange a glance, green on brown, a silent *now* and Piet clears his throat, scarred hand gripping his mug.

“Ma, Oom Jacques, Tannie Carol, we’ve got something to say,” Piet starts, voice rough but firm. “Jo and me, we’re together. Not just mates, partners. We want a civil partnership, legal-like. It’s us, always has been. Wanted you to know proper.”

Jo jumps in, lanky frame leaning forward, green eyes steady. “Ja, we’re not hiding it anymore. Love each other, running this farm together, building a life. That’s the truth of it.” His hand rests on Piet’s arm, a united front.

The room stills, forks pausing mid-air. Carol’s the first to break, her soft smile unfurling as she sets her glass down. “Boys, I knew all along, the way you look at each other, thick as thieves. Doesn’t change a thing for me. You’re my Jo, and you’re Pieter, and that’s enough.” Her voice is warm, unwavering, a mother’s acceptance.

Anna’s next, her face crumpling, eyes welling as she clutches her napkin. “Pieter, my boy… I—” She stops, voice thick, wrestling with her faith, the church’s echo loud in her mind. “It’s hard, hey, what I was taught. But I see it, the love, the way you hold each other up. I won’t fight you. You’re my son, and I want you happy.” She reaches for Piet’s hand, trembling but resolute, tears spilling.

Jacques stays silent, broad face unreadable, coffee mug still in hand as the women speak. The air hangs heavy, all eyes shifting to him. Then he stands, slow and deliberate, both hands planting on the table, his imposing frame looming like a storm cloud. Jo tenses, Piet’s grip tightens, but Jacques raises his mug, voice booming through the kitchen “To the van der Merwe-De Wet boys!” It’s a thunderclap of approval, gruff and final, his stern mouth curving into a rare, proud grin. “You’re family, partners, whatever you call it. Farm’s yours, life’s yours. Lekker.” He drinks deep, and the tension shatters, laughter bubbling up as Jo claps his dad’s shoulder, Piet exhaling a shaky grin.

Breakfast resumes, lighter now, the family knit tighter by truth. Jacques and Carol leave soon after, hugs exchanged, promises to sort the uni plan on Monday ringing in the air. Anna stays with the boys, her quiet acceptance settling like dust after a storm, the De Wet farm humming with a new chapter begun.

 

[michaelnola]

The three days following Grandpa De Wet’s death unfold in a quiet, somber rhythm at the De Wet farm, the weight of loss tempered by the steady presence of family and the land itself. Thursday morning dawns gray, the sky heavy with clouds that mirror the mood inside the farmhouse. Piet and his mom, Anna, sit at the kitchen table, surrounded by the remnants of breakfast—half-eaten mielie bread and cooling coffee. The room smells of woodsmoke and grief, Grandpa’s empty chair a silent void between them. Anna’s hands, weathered from years of farm life, tremble slightly as she flips through a worn notebook, jotting down funeral details with a pencil Piet sharpened for her. Piet, his stocky frame slouched, brown eyes red-rimmed but focused, takes the lead with a gentleness he’s learned from Jo.

“Ma, what about the church? Reverend Botha knew Grandpa best,” Piet says, voice low but steady, scarred hand resting on hers to still the shaking. Anna nods, wiping her eyes. “Ja, Pieter, he’d want that. And the hymns ‘Abide With Me,’ it was his favourite.” They plan a simple service for Saturday, family and community invited, burial in the De Wet graveyard by the forrest. Piet suggests a braai after, a nod to Grandpa’s love of gathering folks around fire and meat, and Anna agrees, a faint smile breaking through her tears. “He’d like that, my boy. Keep it simple, like him.”

Jo hovers nearby, a pillar of quiet strength, his lanky frame leaning against the counter as he brews more coffee or fetches papers when asked. He doesn’t intrude, just watches Piet with green eyes soft with understanding, stepping in when the weight gets too heavy. When Anna falters over the guest list, her voice cracking, Jo kneels beside her, freckled hand on her shoulder. “Tannie Anna, I’ll call the neighbours, let ‘em know. You rest a bit, hey?” She pats his hand, grateful, and Piet shoots him a look, wordless thanks that Jo returns with a small nod. The day stretches on, calls made, Frans briefed to keep the farm ticking, Jo running errands to town for flowers and food, giving Piet and Anna space to mourn and plan.

Friday brings a shift, practicality over emotion. Piet and Anna meet Reverend Botha at the farmhouse, the old man’s gentle voice a consolation as they finalize the service. Piet’s in jeans and a faded shirt, scarred hands fidgeting with a pen as he confirms readings, Psalm 23, Grandpa’s choice. Anna picks wildflowers from the garden with Carol. Jo’s outside with Frans, checking the graveyard site near the forest, ensuring the massive oak tree shades Grandpa’s resting place beside his wife, Maria. He digs a little himself, sweat on his freckled brow, making sure it’s perfect for Piet’s sake. Back inside, he finds Piet staring at Grandpa’s cane, lost in thought, and sits beside him, shoulder brushing his. “It’s gonna be right, Piet. He’d be proud of you,” Jo murmurs, and Piet leans into him, just for a moment, drawing strength.

Saturday dawns crisp and clear, the sun breaking through the clouds as if honouring Grandpa De Wet’s final farewell. By mid-morning, the De Wet farm is alive with the hum of the Western Cape community, hundreds descending on the homestead, funded by Jacques van der Merwe’s quiet generosity. Cars and bakkies line the dirt road, neighbours in Sunday best mingle with farmhands in work boots, kids darting through the wheat fields. The farmhouse yard overflows, tables groan under platters of food and drink, all paid for by Jacques to celebrate a life rooted in this soil.

The service starts at noon, Reverend Botha’s voice carrying over the crowd gathered under the oak tree. Piet stands beside Anna, rigid in a borrowed suit, brown eyes glistening as he grips her hand. Jo’s on his other side, lanky in a dark shirt, green eyes steady on Piet, a rock in the storm. The hymn “Abide With Me” rises, rough voices blending with the rustle of leaves, and Anna weeps softly as Grandpa’s plain pine coffin is lowered beside Maria’s weathered stone. Piet tosses a handful of dirt, whispering, “Totsiens, Grandpa,” his voice breaking, while Jo’s hand rests on his back, silent support.

After, the braai kicks off, a bittersweet release. Laughter mixes with tears, stories of Grandpa’s stubbornness and wisdom traded over brandy and beer. Jacques, broad and imposing, works the crowd, ensuring no glass is empty, while Carol comforts Anna with quiet words. Piet and Jo stick close, passing plates, accepting condolences, their bond a lifeline amid the chaos.

As night falls, the crowd thins, leaving family around a crackling fire in the yard. The air smells of smoke and earth, stars pricking the sky above the oak. Piet, Jo, and Jacques sit on camp chairs, brandy glasses in hand, the amber liquid glinting in the firelight. Anna and Carol are inside, giving them space. Piet’s stocky frame is slumped, exhaustion etched in his sunburnt face, while Jo’s lanky legs stretch out, his green eyes reflective. Jacques, broad and authoritative, swirls his brandy, breaking the silence.

“Boys, today was good. Pa De Wet got his send-off,” Jacques starts, voice gruff but warm. “But now it’s real, you own this farm, full-time. Uni’s a stretch from here. I’ve been thinking, approach Stellenbosch, see if they’ll let you finish your degrees with distance learning, credits for work logged here. You need to be hands-on now, no more juggling.”

Piet blinks, brown eyes sharpening as he processes it. “Ja, Oom Jacques, that could work. Ag economics fits, budgets, markets, I’m doing it already with Frans.” He glances at Jo, seeking his take.

Jo nods, freckled hand rubbing his chin. “Viticulture too, hey. I’m learning more here with the vines than in lectures. Distance plus farm credits, sounds solid.” His grin flickers, tired but hopeful. “What do you reckon they’ll say?”

Jacques leans forward, elbows on his knees, brandy glass dangling. “They’ll listen. You’re not dropping out, just adapting. I’ve got pull with the dean, old rugby mate. I’ll call Monday, set a meeting. You two draft a proposal, what you’ve learned here, how it ties to your courses. They’ll see the sense.”

Piet exhales, relief mixing with resolve. “Thanks, Oom. We’ll write it up tomorrow. Farm’s ours now, gotta make it work.” He sips his brandy, the burn grounding him.

Jo clinks his glass against Piet’s, green eyes locking with his. “To us, Piet. Full-time farm boys, degrees or not.” His voice is light, but the weight of their future hums beneath it.

Dawn breaks soft over the De Wet farm, the river glinting gold as Jo and Piet slip away to their old camping spot near the river. They carry blankets and a thermos of coffee, barefoot in shorts and tees, the morning chill nipping at their skin. The spot’s familiar, reckless nights of the last few months etched into the earth, and they spread the blanket, sitting shoulder to shoulder, the massive tree casting a gentle shade.

Jo pours coffee, handing Piet a mug, his green eyes tracing the water. “Bru, What’s next for us?” His voice is casual, but there’s a thread of something deeper, a question he’s been chewing on.

Piet sips, eyes steady on Jo, hand warming against the mug. “Ja, Jo, farm’s set with Frans, uni’ll work out. But us, you and me, what do we call it? Marriage, maybe? Future’s gotta have a shape.”

Jo’s grin falters, his lanky frame shifting uncomfortably. “Fok, Piet, you know I’m not one for labels. Marriage, rings, vows, all that kak, feels like a box. I love you, deeper than anything, but I don’t need a paper to say it.” His hand rests on Piet’s knee, earnest.

Piet’s brow furrows, eyes searching Jo’s face. “No paper, hey? But something solid, folks will ask, Ma’ll want to know. Civil partnership, maybe? Legal, quiet, us.” He’s pushing, gentle but firm, wanting a tether.

Jo exhales, eyes softening as he leans into Piet. “Ja, civil partnership I can do. No fuss, just us, legal enough to shut up the questions. You good with that?” His hand squeezes Piet’s, testing.

Piet nods, a small smirk breaking through. “Good enough. Us, official-like, no kak ceremonies. Now, telling them? Ma, your folks? We’ve danced around it long enough.”

Jo laughs, rough and nervous. “Fok, that’s the hard bit. Your Ma’s religion, might flip. Jacques, he’s a wall, who knows? Carol’s chill, maybe. I say we just do it, breakfast, straight up. ‘We’re together, partners, deal with it.’ No hiding anymore.”

Piet’s quiet, eyes tracing the river, then he nods, resolute. “Ja, breakfast. All at once, rip the plaster off. They’ve seen us, close as we are, can’t be a shock. We stand firm, let ‘em react.” His scarred hand finds Jo’s, interlocking fingers, a pact sealed.

Back at the farmhouse, the kitchen’s warm with the smell of bacon and fresh coffee, the table set for five as Jacques, Carol, and Anna join Jo and Piet before the van der Merwes head back to Robertson. Anna’s bustling, her grief softened by routine, while Carol pours juice, her quiet calm a steady pulse. Jacques sits at the head, broad frame filling the space, sipping coffee. Jo and Piet exchange a glance, green on brown, a silent *now* and Piet clears his throat, scarred hand gripping his mug.

“Ma, Oom Jacques, Tannie Carol, we’ve got something to say,” Piet starts, voice rough but firm. “Jo and me, we’re together. Not just mates, partners. We want a civil partnership, legal-like. It’s us, always has been. Wanted you to know proper.”

Jo jumps in, lanky frame leaning forward, green eyes steady. “Ja, we’re not hiding it anymore. Love each other, running this farm together, building a life. That’s the truth of it.” His hand rests on Piet’s arm, a united front.

The room stills, forks pausing mid-air. Carol’s the first to break, her soft smile unfurling as she sets her glass down. “Boys, I knew all along, the way you look at each other, thick as thieves. Doesn’t change a thing for me. You’re my Jo, and you’re Pieter, and that’s enough.” Her voice is warm, unwavering, a mother’s acceptance.

Anna’s next, her face crumpling, eyes welling as she clutches her napkin. “Pieter, my boy… I—” She stops, voice thick, wrestling with her faith, the church’s echo loud in her mind. “It’s hard, hey, what I was taught. But I see it, the love, the way you hold each other up. I won’t fight you. You’re my son, and I want you happy.” She reaches for Piet’s hand, trembling but resolute, tears spilling.

Jacques stays silent, broad face unreadable, coffee mug still in hand as the women speak. The air hangs heavy, all eyes shifting to him. Then he stands, slow and deliberate, both hands planting on the table, his imposing frame looming like a storm cloud. Jo tenses, Piet’s grip tightens, but Jacques raises his mug, voice booming through the kitchen “To the van der Merwe-De Wet boys!” It’s a thunderclap of approval, gruff and final, his stern mouth curving into a rare, proud grin. “You’re family, partners, whatever you call it. Farm’s yours, life’s yours. Lekker.” He drinks deep, and the tension shatters, laughter bubbling up as Jo claps his dad’s shoulder, Piet exhaling a shaky grin.

Breakfast resumes, lighter now, the family knit tighter by truth. Jacques and Carol leave soon after, hugs exchanged, promises to sort the uni plan on Monday ringing in the air. Anna stays with the boys, her quiet acceptance settling like dust after a storm, the De Wet farm humming with a new chapter begun.

Jayson---you did an unbelievable task with the twist and turns involved in this chapter and you managed it all in a manor that captivates and inspires all of us. Excellent!!!

 

[jayson_steyn]

The sun dips low over the De Wet farm, now proudly dubbed the VDMDW farm, a nod to the van der Merwe-De Wet legacy, casting a golden glow across the sprawling wheat fields and thriving vineyards. Beside the river, where Jo and Piet once camped under reckless stars, stands their new house, a sturdy, single-story build of stone and timber, its wide veranda facing the water. The spot’s a sanctuary, the massive oak tree still shading their old blanket patch, now a permanent marker of their roots. Inside, the house smells of fresh paint and braai smoke, Jo’s rugby ball perched on a shelf beside Piet’s odd-shaped rocks, a tin of braai spice sharing space with a heart-shaped stone. The civil partnership papers sit unsigned on the kitchen counter, a quiet promise they’ll get to “soon”—no rush, just them, solid as the land they’ve inherited. January looms, the start of their third year at Stellenbosch via distance learning, credits earned from the farm’s hard-won lessons, a deal Jacques muscled through with his dean mate. They’re ready, laptops humming with ag economics and viticulture notes, the farm their living classroom.

Jo’s lanky frame fills the veranda most evenings, barefoot in shorts and a faded tee, green eyes tracing the river as he sips a beer. He’s leaner, sharper, the cocky farm boy tempered by ownership’s weight, but that grin still flashes, especially when he’s knee-deep in the vines, tweaking blends with Frans or barking orders at a lambing. The farm’s soul is his—yields up, sheep thriving, grapes ripening under his instinct—and he’s found his stride, privilege shed for a partnership he’s earned. Piet, stockier and sunburnt, haunts the house’s office corner, hands poring over budgets or tinkering with a tractor part. His brown eyes carry a quiet pride, grief for Grandpa softened by purpose, the farm his tether to Dad and the old man’s legacy. Together, they’re a unit, hands brushing over dinner or crashing into bed after long days, their bond unsigned but ironclad.

Across the Western Cape, Jacques and Carol are empire-building, van der Merwe Enterprises booming. Jacques, broad and gruff, spends his days between Robertson and Montagu, barking deals over the phone, his farms churning out record wool and wine. Carol’s quieter hand steers logistics, her calm smoothing his edges, their marriage a powerhouse behind the growth. The VDMDW farm’s pest traps are now standard across their operations, Jo and Piet’s ingenuity paying dividends, and Jacques brags about “my boys” at every braai, pride glinting in his stern eyes. They visit monthly, Carol with a casserole, Jacques with a bottle of brandy, the river house a second home.

Piet’s mom, Anna, has traded mourning for a new fire. She’s a semi-pro cook, her kitchen a lab of mielie bread and potjie magic, recipes honed from decades on the farm. She’s in talks with Jacques to open a restaurant in Montagu town—“De Wet’s Table,” they’re calling it—her steady hands flipping skillets while his money secures the lease. She’s softer now, faith stretched to fit Piet and Jo’s love, and she fusses over them at the river house, her hugs fierce, her acceptance a quiet gift.

Kobus, grizzled and steady, still runs the van der Merwe farm like clockwork, his wiry frame a fixture among the cattle. Frans, sharp as ever, is the VDMDW’s linchpin, his lanky stride pacing the fields, fixing pumps or wrangling sheep with a grin. He’s family now, living in the farmhouse with Anna, his weekly reports a lifeline that keeps Jo and Piet free to study and breathe. The farm’s numbers dazzle—wheat at 25% over quota, wine barrels stacked high—Frans’s grit and their vision a perfect match.

In Stellenbosch, Henk and Sarah thrive in Jo’s old flat which he gifted them, a love nest cluttered with books and rugby gear. Henk’s hulking frame dwarfs Sarah’s petite one, their laughter spilling out the windows Jo once cracked open. They’re the boys’ anchors, visiting the VDMDW farm monthly, Henk hauling braai wood, Sarah with a playlist, their bond unshakeable. The wine crew—Rachel, JP, Doug—hit gold with their first vintage, a crisp Chenin Blanc selling out at local co-ops. They’re deep in a new blend now, partnering with Jo and Piet, VDMDW grapes lending a bold edge to their next bottle, Wednesday shed nights swapped for riverbank tastings.

The rock crew and rugby lads—scattered but loyal—descend on the VDMDW farm monthly for Jo’s braai-master festival, a chaotic sprawl of meat, beer, and chaos under the oak. Piet’s nerds swap stones, the rugby boys tackle each other into the river, and the gang roars through the night, the house alive with their noise. It’s a ritual, a tether to uni days, and Jo’s braai spice reigns supreme, Piet’s dry wit cutting through the din.

A year on, they’re rooted—Jo and Piet in their river house, Jacques and Carol scaling heights, Anna cooking her way to peace, Frans holding the farm steady, friends orbiting close. The civil partnership’s a formality, their love already carved into the land, the VDMDW farm a testament to what they’ve built, together, against all odds.

 

[jayson_steyn]

The end. Thanks for all the comments, likes, motivation, and encouragement along the way. This took up way more of my time than I anticipated. hahahaha

 

[Eissua22]

The end. Thanks for all the comments, likes, motivation, and encouragement along the way. This took up way more of my time than I anticipated. hahahaha

Thanks for a great story man

 

[John1812]

Fantastic story, so well written

 

[michaelnola]

The end. Thanks for all the comments, likes, motivation, and encouragement along the way. This took up way more of my time than I anticipated. hahahaha

Thanks for the awesome journey and your giving of your time. There is sadness for this ending but hope that it is only the beginning for you. Aloha!!

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Great way to wind it all up! Bravo, Jayson, and thanks for sharing it with us all!

Now, for all of you who might need something good to read while waiting for Jayson to tell us more of what he got up to (and whom he got all up in, and who got all up into him) as a lad in London ...

... I recommend the stories by IDreamaboutMen: "The Beach House," "Hard as Ice," and "Holding Out for a Hero."

 

[domcom]

Thank you so much Jayson, this is been one of the best stories I've ever read on here, you had me checking for updates multiple times a day! You have a real gift for writing, man!

 

[Hal_Manc]

The end. Thanks for all the comments, likes, motivation, and encouragement along the way. This took up way more of my time than I anticipated. hahahaha

Wow.

Thank you so much for this story, it's caused me to come out of lurking just to reply and let you know how much I've loved it and how much it has managed to impact me, unable to stop reading. I luckily discovered it late into the story, close the end.

The idea for romance, since my last relationship (and only real relationship since I was 15 when it started and in my 20's when it ended) ended over 7 years ago, and I hadn't had thoughts of romance towards anyone since, and had no desire to find a partner; I had accepted that I was aromantic...

But this story has awoken feelings of desire, to have something like they have even though I know they're fictional, in a fictional relationship and fictional scenario.
I am suddenly wanting someone who could compliment me, as much as Jo compliments Piet (I see myself as closer to a Piet personality) and I don't know how long this feeling will last, but definitely had opened something in my brain I thought was dead that I now need to find out and discover...

Some kak without labels.

I have time.

 

[michaelnola]

Wow.

Thank you so much for this story, it's caused me to come out of lurking just to reply and let you know how much I've loved it and how much it has managed to impact me, unable to stop reading. I luckily discovered it late into the story, close the end.

The idea for romance, since my last relationship (and only real relationship since I was 15 when it started and in my 20's when it ended) ended over 7 years ago, and I hadn't had thoughts of romance towards anyone since, and had no desire to find a partner; I had accepted that I was aromantic...

But this story has awoken feelings of desire, to have something like they have even though I know they're fictional, in a fictional relationship and fictional scenario.
I am suddenly wanting someone who could compliment me, as much as Jo compliments Piet (I see myself as closer to a Piet personality) and I don't know how long this feeling will last, but definitely had opened something in my brain I thought was dead that I now need to find out and discover...

Some kak without labels.

I have time.

No labels man--just something that works for you and that someone who can and will be your partner--YOU HAVE TIME but do for it now...

This story was awesome--I am so glad I found it as well--timing is everything..