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.
