Saturday morning unfolded gently across the de Wet farm, the air crisp and alive with the faint hum of irrigation pipes and the distant lowing of cattle as Jo and Piet woke in their tent, the canvas walls glowing faintly with the first light filtering through the gnarled oak outside. Their bond, frayed by weeks of tension and mended by the previous night’s wild passion, felt tender yet strong as they stirred from sleep, Jo’s freckled arm still draped across Piet’s hairy chest, their legs tangled in the blanket, the musk of sweat and cum lingering faintly in the air around them. Jo rolled over with a groan, his green eyes blinking open to meet Piet’s brown ones, a sleepy grin tugging at his lips as he murmured, “Fok, bru, slept like a rock—tent’s still standing, hey.” Piet chuckled, his voice rough with sleep, “Ja, boet, barely—reckon we shook it good last night,” the warmth in his tone threading their closeness tighter, a quiet ease settling between them as they disentangled and crawled out into the morning, pulling on jeans and tees over briefs still crumpled from the night before.
They wandered the farm together after a quick wash in the stream, water cold against their skin as they splashed their faces, the bond rekindling with every shared glance and casual nudge of shoulders. Piet’s grandfather joined them as they got closer to the house, his cane tapping a steady rhythm against the packed earth as they roamed the transformed acres, his gruff voice cutting through the morning stillness to talk about plans and what he envisioned for the land that had been his life’s work. He gestured with a gnarled hand toward the back fields, his eyes squinting against the sun, “Always wanted those patches green—proper grazing, not this kak scrub, cows fat and happy, maybe some sheep too, wool’s good money if you do it right.” His words carried a mix of nostalgia and hope, his scepticism from the day before softened by the tangible progress around him—fences gleaming, fields thriving, the barn a bold red sentinel against the horizon—and he turned to Jo, “You’re the brains now, seun—you going to make it happen, hey.”
Jo listened intently, his green eyes glinting with ideas as he walked beside Piet and Oupa, formulating plans to bring those visions to life, his mind already spinning with the practical steps to turn dreams into dirt-stained reality. He pictured soil tests to map the back fields’ potential, their gritty samples revealing what grasses would take root best; he imagined rotational grazing grids scratched onto paper, ensuring the cattle and sheep—if Oupa got his way—fattened without stripping the land bare; he envisioned negotiating with suppliers for hardy stock, his charm smoothing deals over rough handshakes. “Ja, Oupa,” Jo said, his voice bright with purpose, “we’ll get those fields sorted—grass thick enough to choke a cow, stock that’ll make you proud—got it all brewing up here,” tapping his temple with a grin. Piet smirked, nudging him, “Fok, bru, don’t burn out that brain—need it for three years,” the tease laced with pride, their bond deepening as they walked, a shared rhythm syncing their steps with Oupa’s slower pace, the farm a canvas for their growing trust.
Sunday morning broke with the rich scent of breakfast wafting from the homestead, Piet’s mother bustling in the kitchen as the boys sat down to a spread of mielie bread slathered with butter, eggs fried crisp at the edges, and sausages still popping with heat, coffee steaming dark and strong in their mugs. They ate with the family, laughter and chatter filling the room, but after plates were cleared, Jo and Piet slipped away alone, needing space to breathe and talk beyond the homestead’s walls. They set out across the farm, boots crunching over the earth as they climbed a small hill on the edge of the property—a gentle rise of grass and stone that overlooked the sprawling fields, the barn a red speck below, cattle dotting the green like dark stars, the windmill spinning slow in the distance.
At the top, they stood side by side, taking in the view, the vastness of the farm stretching out beneath them like a living map of their shared future, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. Piet broke it first, his voice low and rough as he turned to Jo, brown eyes searching green with a raw, unguarded intensity, “Fok, bru, I’ve been a mess about this Spencer kak—lost my head, felt like my chest was caving in, like I was losing you to something I couldn’t fight, and I’m sorry for going so hard, accusing you like that.” His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening as he spoke, the confession spilling out jagged and real, his sunburnt face tight with the weight of it, “It’s not just about him—it’s this fear, hey, that you’d drift, that I’d wake up one day and you’d be gone, not just from the room but from me.”
Jo swallowed hard, his blonde mop shifting as he turned to face Piet fully, green eyes glistening with a mix of guilt and something softer, his voice thick as he responded, “No, boet, I’m the one who’s sorry—fok, I messed up, letting myself get caught up, flirting and sneaking like some dumb oke chasing a rush, and it wasn’t fair to you, not one bit.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands as if to pull the words out, his freckled face creasing with regret, “I wasn’t thinking—about you, about us—how it’d hit you right here,” tapping his chest, “and I hate that I made you feel like you weren’t enough, ‘cause you are, bru, more than I’ve got words for.” The honesty poured out raw and unfiltered, Jo’s voice cracking faintly as he pushed on, “I’ve been scared too—scared of screwing this up, of not being the mate you deserve, ‘cause sometimes I feel like I’m just stumbling through this kak, dragging you along.”
Piet’s eyes watered, a sheen catching the light as he nodded slow, his voice dropping softer, “Ja, I get that—fok, I feel it too, like we’re both just okes trying to keep our heads above water, and I don’t wanna lose this, whatever it is, ‘cause it’s the realest thing I’ve got.” He stepped closer, boots scuffing the grass, his hand hovering before resting light on Jo’s shoulder, “Been thinking about those nights in the dorm, just us talking kak, playing FIFA—felt safe, you know? Then this Spencer thing hit, and it was like the ground dropped out, like I couldn’t trust it anymore, and I hated that feeling, hated doubting you.” Jo’s hand came up, gripping Piet’s forearm, his voice steadying, “I hated it too—hated seeing you hurt, knowing it was me who put it there, and I swear, bru, I’m done with that kak, done hiding anything—I want that safety back, want us solid.”
They stood there, hands lingering, the wind tugging at their clothes as the confession settled, a deal forming in the space between them—Piet squeezing Jo’s shoulder, “Let’s keep it open, hey—no more bullshit, just say it straight, whatever’s eating us.” Jo nodded, his grip tightening, “Ja, no secrets—fok, if I’m feeling lost or tempted or anything, you’ll hear it, and same for you, boet—we sort it together.” Their eyes locked, green on brown, a pact sealed without words needing to say more, the farm below stretching wide and steady like the trust they were rebuilding, raw and real and scraped clean of shadows.
Piet exhaled, his voice softening further as he shifted the ground beneath them, “No, bru, we’re not boyfriends—just two okes trying to navigate this thing called life, figuring it out together.” Jo let out a relieved laugh, the tension in his chest unwinding like a coiled spring, “Ja, exactly—mates, brothers, whatever this is—works for me.” They grinned, the clarity grounding them, but Jo’s expression sobered as he added, “Fok, though—temptation’s real, hey, always gonna be there, lurking around corners.” Piet nodded, his brow creasing with understanding, “Ja, can’t pretend it’s not—okes like us, young and dumb, it’s gonna pull sometimes, no use lying about it.” Jo’s voice grew firm, “So if it hits—if I feel that urge for someone else, or you do—we talk it out first, no sneaking, no kak—just straight up, deal with it like mates.” Piet’s hand tightened on Jo’s shoulder, his voice resolute, “Deal, bru—if I’m itching for something, someone, you’re the first to know, and we figure it—same for you.” They clasped hands again, a second pact layered onto the first, their bond bolstered by the raw acknowledgment of their flaws, the farm’s expanse below a silent witness to their commitment to face the mess of life head-on.
An awkward silence followed, the weight of their words sinking into the earth, the wind rustling the grass around them as they dropped their hands, eyes drifting back to the view, the vastness of the farm holding them in its quiet embrace. Piet’s earlier words—‘not boyfriends’—echoed faintly, and the new deal settled, leaving them standing in a stillness that felt both heavy and light, their shoulders brushing as they lingered, the hilltop bearing witness to a closeness redefined yet unshaken.
Sunday evening swelled into a massive family dinner, the homestead’s long oak table extended with extra planks as the neighbours from the bordering farm joined in, their weathered faces creased with smiles, voices loud with celebration for the de Wet farm’s turnaround. Piet’s mother had outdone herself again, the kitchen a whirlwind of steam and spice—roast beef carved thick and juicy, its edges crusted with herbs, gravy pooling rich and dark; mieliepap steamed in heaping bowls, flanked by platters of roasted vegetables—sweet potatoes, carrots, and pumpkin glistening with butter. The neighbours brought their own bounty—boerewors coiled and charred, bottles of homemade peach brandy clinking as they poured—turning the meal into a feast that spilled beyond the table, and to finish off Jos favourite, a malva pudding bubbled warm in its dish, the caramel sauce soaking into its spongy depths, ready to be scooped with cream. Plates were passed hand to hand, laughter echoing off the walls.
Jo and Piet sat among the chaos, their bond glowing warm amidst the noise—Jo piling his plate high, grinning at Piet’s ma, “Jus, Ma, you’re spoiling us rotten!”—Piet nudging him, “Ja, bru, save room for that brandy, hey.” Oupa raised a glass, his voice gravelly but proud, “To this farm—DeWet dream made real by a Van Der Merwe miracle, and to you boys keeping it alive!” The toast rippled through the room, mugs and glasses clinking, the neighbours cheering, “Ja, to Jo and his family—saved the bloody place!” The night stretched long, stories swapped—tales of lean years and now this bounty—until the stars hung heavy overhead, the celebration a roaring testament to the farm’s revival, Jo and Piet at its heart, their closeness a quiet anchor in the storm of joy.
Monday arrived with a brutal jolt, the alarm shrieking at 4 a.m., pulling Jo and Piet from sleep in the homestead’s guest room where they’d crashed after striking the tent late Sunday night, their bodies heavy but buzzing with the weekend’s weight. They stumbled up, groggy and cursing—Jo muttering, “Fok, bru, too early for this kak,” as he yanked on jeans over briefs, Piet grunting, “Ja, lectures wait for no oke,” tugging a hoodie over his hairy chest. They packed fast—duffels stuffed with dirty clothes, Jo’s rugby ball, Piet’s geology notebook—grabbing mugs of coffee from Piet’s mom, who pressed warm mielie bread into their hands, “Safe trip, boys—come back soon,” her voice soft with love.
The Range Rover roared to life under Jo’s hands, its black frame cutting through the predawn dark as they rolled out, Captain Jo driving, his trusty sidekick Piet shotgun, the farm fading behind them—fields swallowed by shadow, the barn a faint red blur. Stellenbosch loomed three hours ahead, Monday lectures waiting at 8 a.m., the road stretching long and quiet—Jo’s green eyes fixed on the gravel, Piet’s brown ones tracing the horizon—their bond rekindled over the weekend, stronger for its honesty, a thread woven tight by farm dirt, family, and a pact to face life head-on, together.
They wandered the farm together after a quick wash in the stream, water cold against their skin as they splashed their faces, the bond rekindling with every shared glance and casual nudge of shoulders. Piet’s grandfather joined them as they got closer to the house, his cane tapping a steady rhythm against the packed earth as they roamed the transformed acres, his gruff voice cutting through the morning stillness to talk about plans and what he envisioned for the land that had been his life’s work. He gestured with a gnarled hand toward the back fields, his eyes squinting against the sun, “Always wanted those patches green—proper grazing, not this kak scrub, cows fat and happy, maybe some sheep too, wool’s good money if you do it right.” His words carried a mix of nostalgia and hope, his scepticism from the day before softened by the tangible progress around him—fences gleaming, fields thriving, the barn a bold red sentinel against the horizon—and he turned to Jo, “You’re the brains now, seun—you going to make it happen, hey.”
Jo listened intently, his green eyes glinting with ideas as he walked beside Piet and Oupa, formulating plans to bring those visions to life, his mind already spinning with the practical steps to turn dreams into dirt-stained reality. He pictured soil tests to map the back fields’ potential, their gritty samples revealing what grasses would take root best; he imagined rotational grazing grids scratched onto paper, ensuring the cattle and sheep—if Oupa got his way—fattened without stripping the land bare; he envisioned negotiating with suppliers for hardy stock, his charm smoothing deals over rough handshakes. “Ja, Oupa,” Jo said, his voice bright with purpose, “we’ll get those fields sorted—grass thick enough to choke a cow, stock that’ll make you proud—got it all brewing up here,” tapping his temple with a grin. Piet smirked, nudging him, “Fok, bru, don’t burn out that brain—need it for three years,” the tease laced with pride, their bond deepening as they walked, a shared rhythm syncing their steps with Oupa’s slower pace, the farm a canvas for their growing trust.
Sunday morning broke with the rich scent of breakfast wafting from the homestead, Piet’s mother bustling in the kitchen as the boys sat down to a spread of mielie bread slathered with butter, eggs fried crisp at the edges, and sausages still popping with heat, coffee steaming dark and strong in their mugs. They ate with the family, laughter and chatter filling the room, but after plates were cleared, Jo and Piet slipped away alone, needing space to breathe and talk beyond the homestead’s walls. They set out across the farm, boots crunching over the earth as they climbed a small hill on the edge of the property—a gentle rise of grass and stone that overlooked the sprawling fields, the barn a red speck below, cattle dotting the green like dark stars, the windmill spinning slow in the distance.
At the top, they stood side by side, taking in the view, the vastness of the farm stretching out beneath them like a living map of their shared future, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. Piet broke it first, his voice low and rough as he turned to Jo, brown eyes searching green with a raw, unguarded intensity, “Fok, bru, I’ve been a mess about this Spencer kak—lost my head, felt like my chest was caving in, like I was losing you to something I couldn’t fight, and I’m sorry for going so hard, accusing you like that.” His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening as he spoke, the confession spilling out jagged and real, his sunburnt face tight with the weight of it, “It’s not just about him—it’s this fear, hey, that you’d drift, that I’d wake up one day and you’d be gone, not just from the room but from me.”
Jo swallowed hard, his blonde mop shifting as he turned to face Piet fully, green eyes glistening with a mix of guilt and something softer, his voice thick as he responded, “No, boet, I’m the one who’s sorry—fok, I messed up, letting myself get caught up, flirting and sneaking like some dumb oke chasing a rush, and it wasn’t fair to you, not one bit.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands as if to pull the words out, his freckled face creasing with regret, “I wasn’t thinking—about you, about us—how it’d hit you right here,” tapping his chest, “and I hate that I made you feel like you weren’t enough, ‘cause you are, bru, more than I’ve got words for.” The honesty poured out raw and unfiltered, Jo’s voice cracking faintly as he pushed on, “I’ve been scared too—scared of screwing this up, of not being the mate you deserve, ‘cause sometimes I feel like I’m just stumbling through this kak, dragging you along.”
Piet’s eyes watered, a sheen catching the light as he nodded slow, his voice dropping softer, “Ja, I get that—fok, I feel it too, like we’re both just okes trying to keep our heads above water, and I don’t wanna lose this, whatever it is, ‘cause it’s the realest thing I’ve got.” He stepped closer, boots scuffing the grass, his hand hovering before resting light on Jo’s shoulder, “Been thinking about those nights in the dorm, just us talking kak, playing FIFA—felt safe, you know? Then this Spencer thing hit, and it was like the ground dropped out, like I couldn’t trust it anymore, and I hated that feeling, hated doubting you.” Jo’s hand came up, gripping Piet’s forearm, his voice steadying, “I hated it too—hated seeing you hurt, knowing it was me who put it there, and I swear, bru, I’m done with that kak, done hiding anything—I want that safety back, want us solid.”
They stood there, hands lingering, the wind tugging at their clothes as the confession settled, a deal forming in the space between them—Piet squeezing Jo’s shoulder, “Let’s keep it open, hey—no more bullshit, just say it straight, whatever’s eating us.” Jo nodded, his grip tightening, “Ja, no secrets—fok, if I’m feeling lost or tempted or anything, you’ll hear it, and same for you, boet—we sort it together.” Their eyes locked, green on brown, a pact sealed without words needing to say more, the farm below stretching wide and steady like the trust they were rebuilding, raw and real and scraped clean of shadows.
Piet exhaled, his voice softening further as he shifted the ground beneath them, “No, bru, we’re not boyfriends—just two okes trying to navigate this thing called life, figuring it out together.” Jo let out a relieved laugh, the tension in his chest unwinding like a coiled spring, “Ja, exactly—mates, brothers, whatever this is—works for me.” They grinned, the clarity grounding them, but Jo’s expression sobered as he added, “Fok, though—temptation’s real, hey, always gonna be there, lurking around corners.” Piet nodded, his brow creasing with understanding, “Ja, can’t pretend it’s not—okes like us, young and dumb, it’s gonna pull sometimes, no use lying about it.” Jo’s voice grew firm, “So if it hits—if I feel that urge for someone else, or you do—we talk it out first, no sneaking, no kak—just straight up, deal with it like mates.” Piet’s hand tightened on Jo’s shoulder, his voice resolute, “Deal, bru—if I’m itching for something, someone, you’re the first to know, and we figure it—same for you.” They clasped hands again, a second pact layered onto the first, their bond bolstered by the raw acknowledgment of their flaws, the farm’s expanse below a silent witness to their commitment to face the mess of life head-on.
An awkward silence followed, the weight of their words sinking into the earth, the wind rustling the grass around them as they dropped their hands, eyes drifting back to the view, the vastness of the farm holding them in its quiet embrace. Piet’s earlier words—‘not boyfriends’—echoed faintly, and the new deal settled, leaving them standing in a stillness that felt both heavy and light, their shoulders brushing as they lingered, the hilltop bearing witness to a closeness redefined yet unshaken.
Sunday evening swelled into a massive family dinner, the homestead’s long oak table extended with extra planks as the neighbours from the bordering farm joined in, their weathered faces creased with smiles, voices loud with celebration for the de Wet farm’s turnaround. Piet’s mother had outdone herself again, the kitchen a whirlwind of steam and spice—roast beef carved thick and juicy, its edges crusted with herbs, gravy pooling rich and dark; mieliepap steamed in heaping bowls, flanked by platters of roasted vegetables—sweet potatoes, carrots, and pumpkin glistening with butter. The neighbours brought their own bounty—boerewors coiled and charred, bottles of homemade peach brandy clinking as they poured—turning the meal into a feast that spilled beyond the table, and to finish off Jos favourite, a malva pudding bubbled warm in its dish, the caramel sauce soaking into its spongy depths, ready to be scooped with cream. Plates were passed hand to hand, laughter echoing off the walls.
Jo and Piet sat among the chaos, their bond glowing warm amidst the noise—Jo piling his plate high, grinning at Piet’s ma, “Jus, Ma, you’re spoiling us rotten!”—Piet nudging him, “Ja, bru, save room for that brandy, hey.” Oupa raised a glass, his voice gravelly but proud, “To this farm—DeWet dream made real by a Van Der Merwe miracle, and to you boys keeping it alive!” The toast rippled through the room, mugs and glasses clinking, the neighbours cheering, “Ja, to Jo and his family—saved the bloody place!” The night stretched long, stories swapped—tales of lean years and now this bounty—until the stars hung heavy overhead, the celebration a roaring testament to the farm’s revival, Jo and Piet at its heart, their closeness a quiet anchor in the storm of joy.
Monday arrived with a brutal jolt, the alarm shrieking at 4 a.m., pulling Jo and Piet from sleep in the homestead’s guest room where they’d crashed after striking the tent late Sunday night, their bodies heavy but buzzing with the weekend’s weight. They stumbled up, groggy and cursing—Jo muttering, “Fok, bru, too early for this kak,” as he yanked on jeans over briefs, Piet grunting, “Ja, lectures wait for no oke,” tugging a hoodie over his hairy chest. They packed fast—duffels stuffed with dirty clothes, Jo’s rugby ball, Piet’s geology notebook—grabbing mugs of coffee from Piet’s mom, who pressed warm mielie bread into their hands, “Safe trip, boys—come back soon,” her voice soft with love.
The Range Rover roared to life under Jo’s hands, its black frame cutting through the predawn dark as they rolled out, Captain Jo driving, his trusty sidekick Piet shotgun, the farm fading behind them—fields swallowed by shadow, the barn a faint red blur. Stellenbosch loomed three hours ahead, Monday lectures waiting at 8 a.m., the road stretching long and quiet—Jo’s green eyes fixed on the gravel, Piet’s brown ones tracing the horizon—their bond rekindled over the weekend, stronger for its honesty, a thread woven tight by farm dirt, family, and a pact to face life head-on, together.
