Chapter 22
Friday Night – The Braai
The quad crackled with life under a dusky sky, the braai in full swing. Meat—boerewors, chops, chicken—had been pooled from everyone’s eager student budgets, beers sourced from a guy who knew a guy, and tunes blared from a battered Bluetooth speaker, some Afrikaans rock mix Jo had insisted on. Twenty-odd unlikely friends sprawled around—rugby boys, rock nerds, a few stray tagalongs—chatting like they’d known each other forever, a mishmash crew forged by Jo and Piet’s orbit.
Jo ruled the fire, tongs in hand, a king in his element. “No one touches this, hey,” he barked, swatting away a rugby mate’s hand, his blonde hair wild with sweat, green eyes sparking. Energy fired off him—electric, uncontainable—stoking the flames like he was born for it. He lived for this: meat sizzling, smoke curling, mates laughing. Piet hovered nearby, sipping a Black Label, dry quips keeping the vibe loose, his stocky frame a calm anchor to Jo’s storm.
The meat came off perfect—juicy, charred just right—and the crew dug in, plates piled high. “Fok, Jo, you’re a genius,” a rock nerd called, and the rest chimed in, cheers and claps raining down. Jo grinned, freckled face glowing, and someone dubbed him “Braai Master”—a title he accepted with a mock bow, tongs raised like a sceptre. Piet smirked, clapping his shoulder. Don’t let it go to your head, bru.”
They mingled after, weaving through the group—Jo charming a rugby guy with a braai tip, Piet nerding out with a rock collector over quartz—but always drifted back to each other. Shoulder to shoulder, they fed off their energies—Jo’s wild buzz pulling Piet out, Piet’s steady hum grounding Jo. It was unspoken, effortless, bringing out the best in them both, a rhythm the night danced to.
The braai was a hit—plates empty, beers drained, laughter echoing—and as the fire died down, someone slurred, “Month-end tradition, hey?” The crew roared approval, a pact sealed. Slowly, people peeled off, stumbling to beds or other parties, until only four remained: Jo, Piet, and two other guys—Matt and Byron, roommates from down the hall.
Matt, lanky with a lazy grin, cracked a fresh beer. “You lot coming back to ours? Night’s not done.” Byron, broader and quieter, nodded, holding up a half-empty six-pack. Jo’s eyes lit up—energy still crackling, nowhere near spent—and Piet, buzzed and loose, shrugged. “Ja, why not?” They grabbed their cans, following Matt and Byron, eager to stretch the night, hoping it wouldn’t end anytime soon.
Friday Night – Matt and Byron’s Room
The trek to Matt and Byron’s room was a stumble down the hall, the four of them weaving through the res, beers in hand, Jo’s laughter bouncing off the walls. Matt pushed the door open, revealing a space not unlike Jo and Piet’s—cramped, cluttered, two beds shoved against opposite walls, a desk piled with textbooks and empty cans. A single bulb buzzed overhead, casting a warm glow, and Byron cranked a speaker, low hip-hop thumping into the air.
“Welcome to the palace,” Matt grinned, flopping onto his bed, cracking a fresh Black Label. Byron dropped onto a chair, kicking a spare one toward Piet, who took it with a nod, sinking down with his beer. Jo, too wired to sit, paced the room, eyeing a rugby poster taped crookedly to the wall. “Nice setup, bru,” he said, sipping his can, energy still sparking off him like a live wire.
Byron smirked, quieter than Matt but sharp. “Better than the quad after you torched half the grass with that fire.” Jo laughed loud, pointing his beer at him. “Oi, that’s art, not arson. Braai Master, remember?” Matt chuckled, raising his can. “Ja, fair—meat was fokken legendary.”
Piet leaned back, legs stretched out, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t stroke his ego too much, hey. He’ll start charging us for it.” Jo shot him a mock glare, then grinned, dropping to sit on the floor near Piet’s chair, back against the bedframe. Their shoulders brushed—a casual, constant pull—and the room settled into an easy rhythm.
Beers flowed, the pile of empties growing as they swapped stories. Matt, a second-year, regaled them with a tale of sneaking into a prof’s office for a dare, his lanky arms flailing for emphasis. Byron chimed in, deadpan, about Matt nearly getting caught—his broad frame shaking with a rare laugh. Jo matched them, spinning a yarn about a farm prank gone wrong involving a sheep and his ma’s laundry, his freckled face animated, pulling laughs from the lot. Piet tossed in dry jabs— “Ja, and he still thinks sheep don’t hold grudges”—keeping Jo’s wildness in check, their banter a familiar dance.
The night stretched, clock ticking past 3 a.m., the speaker’s battery dying to a faint hum. Matt sprawled on his bed, half-lidded, while Byron nursed his last beer, slouched in his chair. Jo leaned heavier against Piet’s leg, buzzed but mellowing, his blonde hair a mess from raking it back. “Good crew, hey,” he mumbled, glancing up at Piet, green eyes catching the light.
Piet nodded, sipping slow, his own buzz softening his edges. “Ja, not bad for a bunch of misfits.” He clapped Jo’s shoulder, a quiet anchor, and Matt lifted his can in a lazy toast. “To more nights like this, boets.” Byron grunted agreement, and they clinked—four cans, four mates, the braai’s high carrying them into the early hours.
Jo yawned, finally slowing, and Piet nudged him. “Ready to crash, Braai Master?” Jo grinned, sluggish but game, hauling himself up. They said their goodnights—Matt waving, Byron nodding—and stumbled back to their room, the night’s buzz lingering in their steps, a new thread of friendship woven into their week-one chaos.
Friday Night – Matt and Byron’s Room
The stumble to Matt and Byron’s room was a blur—Jo’s laughter ricocheting down the hall, Piet trailing with a steady grin, Matt and Byron leading the charge with beers in hand. Inside, the space was a familiar mess—beds askew, desk cluttered with cans, a dim bulb flickering overhead. Byron plugged in a speaker, low beats pulsing out, while Matt cracked a Black Label and flopped onto his bed. “Make yourselves at home, boets,” he said, tossing a spare can to Piet, who caught it and sank into a chair. Jo, too restless to sit, leaned against the wall, eyeing a rugby poster with a smirk.
“Nice digs,” Jo said, sipping his beer, energy crackling off him. Byron, slouched in his own chair, smirked back. “Better than the fire hazard you turned the quad into.” Jo laughed, loud and bright. “That’s skill, bru—Braai Master, official title now.”
Piet snorted, legs stretched out. “Ja, don’t remind him—he’ll demand a crown next.” Jo grinned, sliding down to sit cross-legged on the floor near Piet’s chair, their knees brushing, a tether in the chaos.
The beers flowed, the pile of empties growing, until Matt sat up, eyes glinting. “Oi, let’s spice this up—truth or dare, who’s in?” Byron raised an eyebrow but nodded, and Jo’s grin widened, game as ever. “Fok, ja, let’s go.” Piet groaned, but his crooked smile betrayed him. “Fine, but you’re first, circus boy.”
Matt kicked it off, pointing at Jo. “Truth or dare, Braai Master?” Jo didn’t blink. “Dare.” Matt leaned forward, grinning. “Chug that beer, then do ten push-ups—shirt off.” Jo laughed, downed his can in seconds, crushed it, and peeled his tee over his head—freckled chest bare, muscles flexing as he dropped and banged out the push-ups, counting loud. “Ten, boets—easy!” He popped up, buzzing harder, and shot Piet a look. “Your turn, de Wet. Truth or dare?”
Piet sipped his beer, playing it cool. “Truth.” Jo’s eyes narrowed, teasing. “Ever sniffed someone’s undies before?” The room froze—Matt and Byron’s jaws dropped—then Jo cackled, waving it off. “Kidding, bru! Real one: worst thing you did back home?” Piet smirked, unfazed. “Snuck into the neighbor’s barn, let their goats loose—blamed it on my cousin.” Matt howled, Byron chuckled, and Jo clapped his shoulder, proud.
Jo spun to Byron. “You, big guy—truth or dare?” Byron shrugged. “Dare.” Jo grinned wickedly. “Call your ex, tell her you miss her cooking.” Byron’s face went blank, then he laughed—rare and deep—grabbing his phone. The call was quick, awkward, and ended with a muttered “Ja, cheers,” as the room erupted, Matt nearly spilling his beer.
Byron turned to Matt. “Your go, lankie. Truth or dare?” Matt picked dare, and Byron didn’t miss a beat. “Run down the hall in your boxers, shout ‘Braai Master rules!’” Matt groaned but stripped to his skivvies, bolting out—his yell echoing back, Jo whooping like a madman as Matt staggered in, red-faced.
The game rolled on—truths spilling (Matt admitting he’d cried watching a rugby final, Piet confessing he’d faked sick to skip church once), dares escalating (Jo belting an off-key anthem, Byron balancing a can on his head). Past 3 a.m., the speaker died, and the buzz softened. Jo leaned heavier against Piet’s leg, yawning mid-laugh, while Matt sprawled half-asleep and Byron nursed a final beer.
“Good night, hey,” Jo mumbled, glancing at Piet, green eyes bleary but warm. Piet nodded, clapping his knee. “Ja, not bad.” Matt waved a lazy hand. “More of this, boets?” Byron grunted assent, and they clinked cans one last time. Jo hauled himself up, still shirtless, and Piet followed, the truth-or-dare buzz carrying them back to their room, a new layer of mateship tucked into their week-one saga.
Friday Night – Back in Their Room
The stumble back to their room was quiet, the braai and truth-or-dare buzz still humming in their veins. Jo kicked the door shut, stripping to his boxers in a flash, flopping onto his own bed for a change—freckled chest bare, legs sprawled. Piet followed slower, shedding down to his briefs, sinking into his mattress across the room, the space between them unfamiliar after a week of tangling. The dim light from the window cast shadows, the air thick with beer and unspoken vibes.
Jo rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, blonde hair a mess. “Piet, boet,” he said, voice low, still rough from shouting dares, “I get vibes from Matt and Byron, hey. Think they’re like us, you know?” His green eyes glinted, probing, a mix of curiosity and something sharper.
Piet turned his head, meeting Jo’s gaze, his face hardening into a serious line. “Thought I was imagining it,” he said, slow, measured, “but ja, definitely something there.” He’d caught it too—the way Matt and Byron moved together, a rhythm too easy, glances that lingered like theirs did. They locked eyes, a silent pact forming: they’d dig deeper, figure it out.
The room fell dark, quiet stretching between them, until Jo’s croaky voice cut through. “What you think they’re doing now?” It was a push, a nudge toward territory Piet could feel coming.
Piet paused, mind racing. He knew where Jo was headed—knew that glint in his eye. “Probably talking about us,” he said, keeping it light, “our crazy friendship.” His voice stayed steady, shutting the door Jo was trying to crack open.
Jo huffed, a soft laugh, but didn’t push harder—just rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Ja, maybe.” His snores started soon after, soft and rhythmic, filling the silence.
Piet lay still, heart thudding, thoughts spinning wild. If Matt and Byron were like them—hands wandering, lines blurring—did Jo want in? Was he picturing them tangled up with those two, feeding off their energy like he did Piet’s? The idea twisted in his gut—sharing Jo, that reckless charm split with someone else. Or did Jo mean all four of them, a mess of limbs and heat? How the fok would that work with the slowdown rule they’d barely stuck to? His cock stirred, hard again, and his hand slid down his briefs, stroking slow, absentminded—half comfort, half chaos—as Jo’s snores lulled him. The questions churned, unanswered, and he drifted off, fingers still wrapped around himself, resigned to the storm Jo kept dragging him into.
