Two farm boys collide at university

[jayson_steyn]

The dorm room was cloaked in pre-dawn grey, the first slivers of light creeping through the blinds, catching dust motes in their lazy drift. Jo stirred, his blonde hair a sweaty tangle against the pillow, freckled arm flung out where Piet’s warmth usually anchored him. He blinked awake, groggy, expecting Piet’s familiar bulk curled beside him, but the bed was empty. His green eyes sharpened, darting across the room, landing on Piet—sitting upright on his own mattress, back against the wall, knees drawn up, staring blankly at nothing. Piet looked like hell: brown eyes sunken, rimmed with shadows, his stocky frame hunched, hairy chest heaving unevenly like he’d been fighting some invisible weight all night.

“Fok, Piet!” Jo bolted upright, sheet sliding off his bare torso, panic clawing his throat. He swung his legs off the bed, crossing the room in two strides, crouching beside Piet, hands hovering near his shoulders. “Bru, what’s wrong? Is it your family? Your mom? Grandpa? Fok, talk to me!” His voice cracked, green eyes wide, searching Piet’s wrecked face for answers, mind already racing to the de Wet farm, drought, a death, something shattering his best mate.

Piet flinched under Jo’s gaze, shaking his head quick, too quick. “Nah, Jo, it’s nothing, just… couldn’t sleep, hey.” His voice was rough, hollow, barely meeting Jo’s eyes before dropping to the floor, hands rubbing at his scarred forearm like he could scrub away whatever was eating him. Jo froze, hands falling to his sides, suspicion flickering through the worry. Piet was a rock, didn’t crack like this over a sleepless night. Something was off, but Jo bit his tongue, nodding slow. “Ja, alright, bru,” he said, voice softer, testing, but Piet just grunted, turning away, shutting him out.

Jo hauled himself to Agri Economics, notebook untouched, green eyes darting to the clock, Piet’s wrecked face looping in his head. Piet dodged him all day, skipped their usual canteen lunch, no text, no sign, just a ghost on campus. Jo’s gut churned, a nagging itch he couldn’t scratch. By afternoon, he hit rugby practice at Coetzenburg, the floodlights harsh against the grey sky, and poured it all into the drills. He smashed into tackles, boots tearing grass, sweat streaking his freckled face as he roared through rucks, harder than he needed to, harder than the coach called for. Each hit muffled the suspicion, the worry, Piet’s distance a bruise he could pound out on the field. The rugby boys noticed, one clapping his back, “Fok, Jo, you’re a beast today, what’s got you amped?” Jo just grinned, tight and forced, “Just feeling it, bru,” and dove back in, the thud of bodies a temporary balm.

Back in the dorm, the air was thick, the desk lamp casting long shadows as Jo kicked off his muddy boots, eyes on Piet. He was there now, slumped at the desk, pretending to read Viticulture notes, but his brown eyes were distant, unfocused, fingers tapping a restless rhythm. Jo stripped to his boxers, towelling sweat from his chest, worry gnawing deeper. “Oi, Piet,” he said, voice casual but edged, “you good, bru? Been off all day, hey.” He stepped closer, leaning against Piet’s bedpost, green eyes searching.

Piet didn’t look up, just shrugged, voice flat. “Ja, fine, Jo. Tired, that’s all.” He flipped a page he hadn’t read, shoulders stiff, shutting Jo out again. Jo’s jaw tightened, suspicion flaring hot, but he swallowed it, nodding slow. “Alright, my guy. Sleep it off, hey.” He climbed into his own bed, flicking off the lamp, plunging them into dark. Piet grunted a vague “night,” and the room fell silent, but neither slept. Jo tossed, sheets tangling, mind racing, had he fucked up? Said something? Pushed Piet too far with Spencer’s return? Was it the farm deal, Jacques pulling strings? Every worst-case scenario spun wild, except one, Lukas. Piet wouldn’t, couldn’t, not to him. Jo clung to that, a lifeline in the chaos, eyes burning as he stared at the ceiling.

Piet was worse dying inside, every creak of Jo’s bed a knife twist. He’d fucked Lukas, broken the pact, and now Lukas’s threat loomed, a noose tightening. Losing Jo was the first blow, but the fallout spiralled bigger, Jacques van der Merwe, the farm deal. Millions pumped into the de Wet land, irrigation, vines, cattle, all tied to Jo’s family, all at risk if Jacques sniffed betrayal. He’d pull the plug, demand repayment they couldn’t scrape together, seize the farm. Generations of de Wets, gone, because Piet couldn’t keep his dick in check. He saw no out, no fix, just ruin piling on ruin, his brown eyes wet, chest caving as he turned away from Jo’s restless shape, guilt a weight he couldn’t shake.

The dorm was a tomb when Jo woke, groggy, head thick from no sleep, Piet already up, same spot, same wrecked look. Jo didn’t push this time, just dressed, grabbed his kit, and bolted, the silence louder than any fight. Piet sat there, staring at nothing, until his phone buzzed, a cold jolt through the haze. Lukas’s message glared up at him: *“You’ve got till Saturday, de Wet, or I spill it all. Three days. Tick tock.”* His stomach dropped, hands shaking as he read it again, the words a death knell. Three days to confess, to dodge, to fix this, or lose everything. Jo, the farm, his life, all teetering on a ledge he’d pushed them to, Lukas’s smirk a shadow he couldn’t outrun.

Jo hit lectures, then rugby again, smashing through drills with a fury that left him bruised, trying to outrun the dread. Piet ghosted through geology, avoiding the lab, Lukas’s lean frame a spectre he dodged. Back in the dorm that night, the air stayed heavy, Jo’s worried glances, Piet’s curt deflections, both tossing in their beds, sleep a stranger. Piet’s mind churned: confess and pray Jo forgives, or twist Jo into Lukas’s game and pray he doesn’t see the strings. Either way, the clock was ticking, and the fortress they’d built was cracking, brick by brick, under the weight of what he’d done.

 

[jayson_steyn]

The dorm room was stifling, the late afternoon sun slanting through the blinds, casting jagged stripes across the floor. Piet was already there when Jo pushed the door open, kit bag slung over his freckled shoulder, green eyes tired from lectures but lighting up briefly at the sight of Piet. He hadn’t even dropped his bag when Piet surged to his feet, crossing the room in two strides, pulling Jo into a tight, desperate hug. Jo stiffened, caught off guard, the damp heat of Piet’s hairy chest pressing through his shirt. “Fok, bru, what’s—” Jo started, but Piet cut him off, voice low and urgent against his ear.

“We need to talk, Jo.” Piet pulled back, hands gripping Jo’s shoulders, brown eyes wet and wild, a wreck Jo hadn’t seen since that first sleepless night. Jo’s bag hit the floor with a thud, suspicion flaring, but he nodded, stepping back to lean against the desk, arms crossed, waiting.

Piet paced once, then stopped, facing Jo, words tumbling out raw and unfiltered. “I fucked up, bru. Bad. Monday night, after I left, I went to Lukas’s flat. Was just gonna be a beer, but… fok, Jo, it went further. We kissed, stripped, hands everywhere, then he fucked me, hard, on his couch. I wanted it, couldn’t stop, but after, I knew I’d ruined us. He’s blackmailing me now, says he’ll tell you everything unless I set up a threesome, you, me, him. I’ve been dying inside, Jo, losing you, the farm deal, Jacques pulling out, millions we can’t pay, everything’s crashing ‘cause of me.” His voice broke, tears spilling, chest heaving as he laid it all bare, every messy detail, every stab of guilt.

Jo stood silent, a statue carved from stone. His green eyes locked on Piet, unblinking, no flinch, no flicker, nothing. His freckled face was blank, lips a thin line, hands still crossed tight over his chest. Piet searched for a crack, a sign—anger, hurt, anything—but Jo gave him nothing, just a wall of stillness that cut deeper than any shout. When Piet’s words ran dry, his shoulders slumped, tears streaking his sunburnt cheeks, Jo didn’t speak. He just turned, grabbed his bag, and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the empty room.

Piet crumpled onto his bed, sobs racking his stocky frame, the silence swallowing him whole. Jo was gone, and the weight of what he’d done, shattering their bond, risking everything, crushed him.

By 8 p.m., panic clawed at Piet’s gut. Jo hadn’t come back, his phone was off, no texts, no trace. Piet stumbled out, barefoot in jeans and a crumpled tee, brown eyes frantic as he checked the usual haunts. He banged on Henk’s door first, the big man opening it mid-laugh with Sarah, his buzzed head tilting at Piet’s state. “Jo here?” Piet rasped, voice shot. Henk frowned, “Nah, bru, haven’t seen him. What’s up?” Piet shook his head, bolting to Spencer’s room next—same story, blue eyes narrowing with concern, “Fok, Piet, he’s not here, what’s going on?” No answer, just Piet running again.

He even trekked to Dylan’s flat, pounding the door until Dylan sneered through the crack, “Jo? Fuck off, de Wet, haven’t seen your precious king.” Piet scoured the rugby lads’ res, the rock nerds’ hangout, the water polo boys’ locker room—no Jo, just shrugs and growing worry. The gang rallied, word spreading fast—Henk, Sarah, Spencer, the rugby boys, rock nerds, all fanning out across campus, calling Jo’s name, phones buzzing with updates: nothing.

Henk found Piet near the quad, slumped on a bench, head in his hands, tears soaking his jeans. The massive figure loomed, voice a low growl, “Fok, Piet, what happened? Gang’s losing it looking for Jo—spill it.” Piet looked up, broken, and let it pour out. Lukas, the hookup, the blackmail, Jo’s silence, his vanishing. Henk’s jaw dropped, then hardened, shock morphing to fury. “You’ve blown it, bru. Jo’s your anchor, and you fucked him over for some lab oke? Then let him blackmail you? Fok, Piet, that’s it, done. He’s gone ‘cause of you.” Henk’s words hit like fists, no mercy, just truth, and he stormed off, leaving Piet shattered, the night closing in.

Jo didn’t return Thursday. Piet haunted the dorm, pacing, checking his phone, jumping at every creak, but the room stayed empty, Jo’s bed untouched, his rugby jersey still crumpled on the floor. Friday dragged worse, lectures skipped, the gang’s texts tapering to grim silence, no sign of Jo. Piet’s mind spun: Jo hurt, Jo lost, Jo done with him. The Saturday deadline loomed, Lukas’s threat a ticking bomb, and Piet’s guilt festered, the farm deal’s collapse a shadow he couldn’t face, Jacques’s millions, the de Wet land, all dust if Jo cut the cord.

By Saturday, Piet couldn’t take it. Jo still gone, the gang’s search stalled, he grabbed his hoodie and marched to Lukas’s flat, the clock ticking down. He banged on the door, brown eyes blazing when Lukas opened it, leaning casual in a black tee, hazel eyes glinting with that smug edge. “Jo knows, Lukas,” Piet spat, voice raw. “I told him everything on Wednesday, all of it. He’s vanished, no one’s seen him, so there’s no need to spill shit. It’s done.”

Lukas didn’t flinch, just smirked, stepping closer, beer in hand. “Nice try, de Wet. Deal’s still on. Jo might know, but I’ll tell him again. My version, with all the juicy bits you left out. How you begged for it, how you came screaming. Unless you bring him to me by Tuesday, he hears it from my mouth, and I’ll make it hurt.” His voice was cold, a blade twisting deeper, unfazed by Jo’s absence, the power still his.

Piet’s fists clenched, rage boiling, but he saw it, Lukas wouldn’t bend, didn’t care. “You’re a fucking bastard,” he growled, shoving past, storming back to campus, the deadline stretched to Tuesday, four more days of hell. Jo was out there, lost to him, and Lukas held the strings, the gang’s trust fraying, the farm deal teetering. Piet sank onto his bed, tears gone, just a hollow shell, the fortress he’d built with Jo in ruins, and no way back he could see.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Late Saturday afternoon, the dorm room felt like a cage, the air heavy with Piet’s sleepless vigil. He stood by the window, brown eyes scanning the quad below, when a shiny black Range Rover rolled up outside the res building, its sleek frame cutting through the campus haze. Jo climbed out, blonde hair tousled, freckled face set in a hard line Piet hadn’t seen before. No bag, just him, stepping out like he’d been gone years instead of days. Piet’s heart lurched—relief, dread, a tangle he couldn’t name—and he bolted down the stairs, bare feet slapping the cold tile, meeting Jo just as he pushed through the building’s entrance.

Jo’s green eyes locked on him, sharp and unreadable. “We need to talk,” he said, voice flat, no trace of the usual warmth. Piet nodded, breathless, but instead of heading to their dorm, Jo turned, leading him out to a nearby coffee shop. The place was quiet, a low hum of chatter and clinking cups, the smell of roasted beans thick in the air. They slid into a corner booth, Jo across from Piet, hands folded on the table, posture all business. Piet braced himself, brown eyes searching Jo’s face for a crack, a hint of what was coming.

“He’s gone,” Jo started, voice steel but his lopsided grin slipping through, like he couldn’t help it despite the weight. “I told dad everything, made him move fast, Lukas is fired. Pulled from geology, kicked out of Stellenbosch. Dad says he’s pissed, might not stay quiet, but I won’t tolerate anyone blackmailing someone I love.” The word *love* hit Piet like a punch, raw and unexpected, and he reached across the table, hand trembling, to grab Jo’s. Jo pulled away, sharp and deliberate, green eyes flashing. “That doesn’t fix this, Piet. We’re still broken. There’s a shit-ton of work on your side to get us back to where we were. Yeah, I’ve made mistakes with Spencer, but I stopped them. You didn’t.”

Jo’s frankness landed like a sledgehammer, each word a blow Piet felt in his bones. He’d known it was bad, but hearing it laid bare, Jo’s clarity, his hurt, his resolve carved a hole in Piet’s chest, one he’d dug himself. Jo leaned back, arms crossing, voice staying firm. “I’m moving into my own flat. We need space, bru. I’m not losing the gang over one night of your foolishness, and I’m not letting this sink us completely. When and if the time’s right, we’ll see where it goes, but for now, we’re friends. No flirting, no nothing, until we’ve worked through this together. And don’t worry, my father’s a man of his word. He won’t ditch the farm project.”

Piet stared, stunned. He’d never seen Jo like this, stripped of his usual ease, all business, almost transactional, yet that grin betrayed the conflict beneath. It wasn’t anger, wasn’t hate, just a cold, clear line drawn in the sand. It left Piet hollow, the weight of his betrayal sinking deeper, a hole he’d have to climb out of alone. He swallowed, throat tight, and managed a hoarse, “Thanks, Jo. For… everything.” Jo’s grin widened then, cheeky and bright, cutting through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds. “Do you want to come to my new place?” he asked, voice lighter, almost as if the gut-wrenching talk they’d just had never happened.

Piet blinked, thrown by the shift, but nodded, grasping at the lifeline. “Ja, bru, I’d like that.” They paid for the coffees they’d barely touched and walked out, Jo leading the way across campus to a small block of flats just off the main drag. The place was newish, clean lines and big windows, a step up from the creaky dorm. Jo unlocked the door to a one-bedroom spot, wood floors, a couch still wrapped in plastic, a kitchenette with a single mug on the counter. It smelled of paint and possibility, stark against the chaos they’d left behind.

Jo flopped onto the couch, kicking off his boots, freckled legs sprawling as he grinned up at Piet. “Not bad, hey? Dad sorted it quick, perks of being a van der Merwe, I guess.” Piet hovered near the door, then sank into a chair across from him, brown eyes tracing the space, Jo’s ease a balm and a sting all at once. “Ja, it’s lekker, Jo. Suits you.” His voice was quiet, still raw, but Jo waved it off, grabbing a beer from a mini fridge and tossing one to Piet. “Relax, bru. We’re good here. Friends, like I said. No pressure.”

They cracked the beers, the hiss loud in the quiet flat, and sipped in silence for a beat. Piet wanted to say more—sorry again, something to bridge the gap—but Jo’s grin held him back, a signal to let it rest for now. “Rugby boys were asking about you,” Jo said, switching gears. “Said you’ve been a ghost. Henk’s pissed, but he’ll come round. Gang’s still solid, just… shaken.” Piet nodded, relief creeping in. “Ja, I’ll sort it with them. Thanks for not letting it blow up.”

Jo shrugged, green eyes softening. “You’re still my mate, Piet. Fucked up or not, that doesn’t vanish. Just takes time.” He leaned back, beer dangling from his fingers, and for a moment, they were just two farm boys again, the weight lifting enough to breathe. Piet managed a small smile, the hole in his heart still there, but Jo’s presence—steady, forgiving, even now—gave him something to hold onto. He swore silently he’d prove it, starting tomorrow, claw his way back no matter how long it took. For the first time in days, he believed it might not be the end.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Kobus chuckled, “Ja, Jo, your dad’s happy too, he wants a joint braai soon, blend of both farms’ best.”
Jo grinned, face glowing, “Flip, that’s epic, celebrating both our farms, one big jol?” Piet nodded, “Ja, Kobus, tell dad to arrange it.”

So Piet's calling Jacques "Dad" now?

 

[jayson_steyn]

So Piet's calling Jacques "Dad" now?

Oops typo

 

[michaelnola]

Late Saturday afternoon, the dorm room felt like a cage, the air heavy with Piet’s sleepless vigil. He stood by the window, brown eyes scanning the quad below, when a shiny black Range Rover rolled up outside the res building, its sleek frame cutting through the campus haze. Jo climbed out, blonde hair tousled, freckled face set in a hard line Piet hadn’t seen before. No bag, just him, stepping out like he’d been gone years instead of days. Piet’s heart lurched—relief, dread, a tangle he couldn’t name—and he bolted down the stairs, bare feet slapping the cold tile, meeting Jo just as he pushed through the building’s entrance.

Jo’s green eyes locked on him, sharp and unreadable. “We need to talk,” he said, voice flat, no trace of the usual warmth. Piet nodded, breathless, but instead of heading to their dorm, Jo turned, leading him out to a nearby coffee shop. The place was quiet, a low hum of chatter and clinking cups, the smell of roasted beans thick in the air. They slid into a corner booth, Jo across from Piet, hands folded on the table, posture all business. Piet braced himself, brown eyes searching Jo’s face for a crack, a hint of what was coming.

“He’s gone,” Jo started, voice steel but his lopsided grin slipping through, like he couldn’t help it despite the weight. “I told dad everything, made him move fast, Lukas is fired. Pulled from geology, kicked out of Stellenbosch. Dad says he’s pissed, might not stay quiet, but I won’t tolerate anyone blackmailing someone I love.” The word *love* hit Piet like a punch, raw and unexpected, and he reached across the table, hand trembling, to grab Jo’s. Jo pulled away, sharp and deliberate, green eyes flashing. “That doesn’t fix this, Piet. We’re still broken. There’s a shit-ton of work on your side to get us back to where we were. Yeah, I’ve made mistakes with Spencer, but I stopped them. You didn’t.”

Jo’s frankness landed like a sledgehammer, each word a blow Piet felt in his bones. He’d known it was bad, but hearing it laid bare, Jo’s clarity, his hurt, his resolve carved a hole in Piet’s chest, one he’d dug himself. Jo leaned back, arms crossing, voice staying firm. “I’m moving into my own flat. We need space, bru. I’m not losing the gang over one night of your foolishness, and I’m not letting this sink us completely. When and if the time’s right, we’ll see where it goes, but for now, we’re friends. No flirting, no nothing, until we’ve worked through this together. And don’t worry, my father’s a man of his word. He won’t ditch the farm project.”

Piet stared, stunned. He’d never seen Jo like this, stripped of his usual ease, all business, almost transactional, yet that grin betrayed the conflict beneath. It wasn’t anger, wasn’t hate, just a cold, clear line drawn in the sand. It left Piet hollow, the weight of his betrayal sinking deeper, a hole he’d have to climb out of alone. He swallowed, throat tight, and managed a hoarse, “Thanks, Jo. For… everything.” Jo’s grin widened then, cheeky and bright, cutting through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds. “Do you want to come to my new place?” he asked, voice lighter, almost as if the gut-wrenching talk they’d just had never happened.

Piet blinked, thrown by the shift, but nodded, grasping at the lifeline. “Ja, bru, I’d like that.” They paid for the coffees they’d barely touched and walked out, Jo leading the way across campus to a small block of flats just off the main drag. The place was newish, clean lines and big windows, a step up from the creaky dorm. Jo unlocked the door to a one-bedroom spot, wood floors, a couch still wrapped in plastic, a kitchenette with a single mug on the counter. It smelled of paint and possibility, stark against the chaos they’d left behind.

Jo flopped onto the couch, kicking off his boots, freckled legs sprawling as he grinned up at Piet. “Not bad, hey? Dad sorted it quick, perks of being a van der Merwe, I guess.” Piet hovered near the door, then sank into a chair across from him, brown eyes tracing the space, Jo’s ease a balm and a sting all at once. “Ja, it’s lekker, Jo. Suits you.” His voice was quiet, still raw, but Jo waved it off, grabbing a beer from a mini fridge and tossing one to Piet. “Relax, bru. We’re good here. Friends, like I said. No pressure.”

They cracked the beers, the hiss loud in the quiet flat, and sipped in silence for a beat. Piet wanted to say more—sorry again, something to bridge the gap—but Jo’s grin held him back, a signal to let it rest for now. “Rugby boys were asking about you,” Jo said, switching gears. “Said you’ve been a ghost. Henk’s pissed, but he’ll come round. Gang’s still solid, just… shaken.” Piet nodded, relief creeping in. “Ja, I’ll sort it with them. Thanks for not letting it blow up.”

Jo shrugged, green eyes softening. “You’re still my mate, Piet. Fucked up or not, that doesn’t vanish. Just takes time.” He leaned back, beer dangling from his fingers, and for a moment, they were just two farm boys again, the weight lifting enough to breathe. Piet managed a small smile, the hole in his heart still there, but Jo’s presence—steady, forgiving, even now—gave him something to hold onto. He swore silently he’d prove it, starting tomorrow, claw his way back no matter how long it took. For the first time in days, he believed it might not be the end.

So Piet--get it together--great partnership is difficult to come by. Sex is always easy...Tomorrow--tomorrow...

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Totally called it that Piet would be the next to mess up.

But I also think Jo is deliberately using his power over Piet and maybe punishing him a bit too consciously.
(In his position, I might well do the same thing, but that doesn't mean it's great behavior ...)

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Oops typo

Well, it isn't -- wasn't -- entirely unlikely that Piet might call Jacques that.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

“He’s gone,” Jo started, voice steel but his lopsided grin slipping through, like he couldn’t help it despite the weight. “I told dad everything ...

So Jo came out to his father.

I'd be interested to read just how that went.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

“He’s gone,” Jo started, voice steel but his lopsided grin slipping through, like he couldn’t help it despite the weight. “I told dad everything ...

So Jo came out to his father.

I'd be interested to read just how that went.

 

[jayson_steyn]

The Stellenbosch campus was bathed in the soft amber glow of late afternoon as Piet and Jo trudged back toward their once-shared dorm room. The air hung heavy with unspoken words, the Range Rover’s sleek black frame waiting like a silent witness outside. Inside the cramped space, Jo moved with purpose, gathering his scattered belongings, rugby jerseys, the tin of braai spice, a few dog-eared textbooks, packing them into a duffel bag with methodical precision. Piet hovered nearby, hands restless, helping fold a faded shirt or hand over a boot, his brown eyes shadowed with guilt. The creak of the bedsprings, the faint scent of old wood and disinfectant, it all felt like a ghost of their past, now slipping away.

When the last item was stowed, Jo slung the bag over his shoulder, pausing at the door. Piet stepped forward, pulling him into a hug, arms tight around Jo’s lanky frame, freckled shoulders warm under his grip. “Fok, Jo, I’m sorry—again,” Piet rasped, voice thick, his scarred forearm trembling against Jo’s back. Jo returned the embrace, brief but firm, his green eyes softening as he pulled back. “We’ll fix this, bru. Just… give it time,” he said, his tone steady, carrying that dual edge of resolve and lingering warmth. He offered a small, lopsided grin, a flicker of their old connection, before turning to head downstairs.

Piet watched him go, the thud of Jo’s boots fading, then climbed back to the room alone. He collapsed onto his bed, the mattress groaning under his stocky weight. The gravity of his actions crashed down, a tidal wave of regret and shame. Tears broke free, hot and unrestrained, soaking into the pillow as sobs racked his hairy chest. The room, once their fortress, now echoed with his isolation, the silence amplifying every mistake—Lukas, the blackmail, the fracture with Jo. He buried his face in his hands, the weight of losing Jo, the farm deal, the gang’s trust, all pressing down until he felt he might shatter.

Meanwhile, in his new flat, Jo unpacked with a quiet efficiency, the wood floors gleaming under the soft light of a single lamp. He invited Henk and Sarah over, the door swinging open to their familiar faces, Henk’s massive frame filling the doorway, Sarah’s bright smile a contrast to the tension in the air. They settled on the plastic-wrapped couch with beers in hand, the clink of bottles a small comfort. Jo leaned forward, green eyes serious as he laid out his version of the past week, Piet’s confession, Lukas’s blackmail, his decision to move out. “Fok, okes, it’s a mess,” he admitted, running a hand through his blonde hair. “But I’ve got dad to boot Lukas, geology’s done with him, out of Stellenbosch. Might not shut him up, though.”

Sarah’s eyes widened, then softened. “Ja, Jo, the gang knows whole situationship with Piet, the rumours, all of it. Been buzzing since Spencer spilled. They’re piecing it together.” Jo nodded, a mix of relief and unease settling in. “Good, less for us to explain. Can you tell them the latest? Lukas gone, me here, Piet… well, he’s still my mate. Ask them to treat him normal, hey? No shunning, no kak. He’s got enough to carry.” Henk grunted, massive hand wrapping around his beer. “Fok, Jo, you’re soft on him, but ja, I’ll back that. Gang’s solid, we’ll keep it fair.” Sarah squeezed Jo’s arm. “I’ll spread it, bru. Piet’s still one of us.” They clinked bottles, the pact holding, but Jo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

When Henk and Sarah left, the flat fell silent, the loneliness creeping in like a cold draft. Jo stood by the window, staring at the campus lights, the hum of life beyond his walls a stark contrast to the emptiness inside. He thought of Piet, the familiar weight of him in their shared bed, the laughter, the trust. The urge to call, to ask him back, pulsed strong, but he shook his head, muttering, “Too soon.” He longed for that familiarity, the ease they’d lost, but the hurt was fresh, a barrier he couldn’t cross yet. He sank onto the couch, beer forgotten, sleep eluding him as the night stretched on.

Back in the dorm, Piet lay awake, the creak of the empty room a constant reminder of Jo’s absence. Knowing Jo was just down the road, alone because of him, broke his heart anew. The mattress felt foreign without Jo’s lanky frame beside him, the silence deafening where their breaths once synced. He stared at the ceiling, brown eyes burning, the weight of his betrayal a chain he couldn’t shed. Tears threatened again, but he held them back, resolve flickering faintly—Jo’s words, “We’ll fix this,” a thread of hope he clung to. Neither slept well, the distance between them a chasm, but a shared ache that kept them tethered, waiting for a way back.

 

[jayson_steyn]

The Stellenbosch dawn broke soft and slow, a pale gold spilling over the campus, filtering through the blinds of Jo’s new flat. He woke stiff on the couch, neck cramped from a night of restless dozing, the single beer still warm on the coffee table. His green eyes blinked against the light, bleary and heavy, the quiet of the flat pressing in like a weight. He rubbed his freckled face, groaning as he stretched, the loneliness of the night lingering like a bruise. Across town, in the dorm, Piet stirred on his bed, the sheets tangled around his stocky frame, brown eyes rimmed red from another sleepless stretch. The room felt cavernous without Jo’s sprawl, the silence a mirror to his guilt, sharp and unrelenting.

Jo hauled himself up, splashing water on his face in the tiny bathroom, the mirror reflecting a tiredness he couldn’t shake. He pulled on shorts and a faded tee, grabbed his rugby ball, and headed out, craving the noise of the quad to drown the quiet. The campus was waking, students shuffling toward coffee, a few early birds kicking a ball around, and Jo joined them, tossing his own into a pickup game of touch rugby. His freckled frame darted through the grass, boots kicking up dew, a grin breaking through as he scored, the shouts of “Lekker, Jo!” a balm to the ache. For an hour, he was just a farm boy again, sweat streaking his face, the gang’s laughter echoing from yesterday’s promise to hold steady.

Piet, meanwhile, dragged himself to the showers, the communal chaos a dull roar he barely registered. Hot water pounded his hairy chest, washing away the crust of tears but not the weight. He dressed slow, jeans, a plain tee, his faded blue cap, then grabbed his geology notebook, heading to the library. Church tugged at him, a pull from home, but the thought of hymns and guilt in equal measure kept him away. He sank into a corner table, the hum of pages turning a faint distraction, but his eyes drifted from rock layers to Jo’s empty bed, Lukas’s smirk, the farm deal’s fragile thread. He scribbled notes he wouldn’t read, resolve flickering, prove it to Jo, claw back trust, but it felt distant, buried under the mess he’d made.

By midday, Jo was back at the flat, showered and restless, the rugby buzz fading fast. He texted Sarah, *“Oi, you and Henk free? Need okes here.”* Her reply came quick: *“Ja, on our way.”* They rolled in twenty minutes later, Henk’s massive frame ducking through the door, Sarah’s bright energy cutting the gloom. Jo cracked beers, handing them out as they hovered near the kitchenette, but Sarah’s eyes darted around, clocking the plastic-wrapped couch, the bare space. “Flip, Jo, this place is still in wrappers, let’s sort it,” she said, already moving, peeling the plastic off the couch with a loud rip, tossing it into a pile.

Jo grinned, grabbing one end to help, while Henk hauled a box of kitchen stuff, plates, a kettle, from a corner, grunting, “Ja, bru, make it liveable, hey.” Sarah fluffed the cushions, her hands quick, turning the sterile flat into something warmer, while Jo unpacked a few rugby trophies, setting them on a shelf. “Lekker, okes, feels less like a showroom now,” he said, green eyes softening as they settled on the couch, plastic gone, beers in hand. Henk sank into it, massive frame testing the springs, while Sarah perched beside him, nodding approval.

“Gang’s sorted?” Jo asked, leaning against the counter, voice casual but probing. Sarah sipped her beer, meeting his gaze. “Ja, Jo, told ‘em last night—Lukas out, you here, Piet still in. Rugby boys grumbled, rock nerds shrugged, but they’re holding. No one’s cutting Piet off, like you asked.” Henk grunted, arm slung around Sarah. “Fok, bru, they’re shook, Piet’s mess hit hard, but they’ll play nice. I’ll keep ‘em in line.” Jo’s shoulders eased, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Lekker, thanks, okes. Just… keep it normal with him, hey? He’s beating himself up enough.” Sarah squeezed his arm through the air, a gesture from across the room. “He’s still your mate, Jo. We see that. Gang’s family—bent, not broken.”

They stayed an hour, banter flowing, Henk recounting a rugby tackle gone wrong, Sarah teasing Jo about his braai skills, while the flat took shape around them, less empty, more his. When they left, though, the silence crashed back. Jo stood by the window, spinning the rugby ball in his hands, the flat’s new warmth not quite filling the void. He pictured Piet, alone in that dorm, and the urge to call flared hot, his thumb hovering over the screen. “Too soon,” he muttered, tossing the phone aside. He flopped onto the couch, now free of plastic, staring at the ceiling, longing for the creak of their old beds, the easy rhythm they’d lost.

Piet, back in the dorm by late afternoon, felt the same pull. The library had been a bust, focus shot, guilt a constant hum and now he sat on his bed, staring at Jo’s empty side, the rugby jersey still crumpled where he’d left it. He knew Jo was down the road, alone because of him, and it tore at his chest, fresh tears pricking his eyes. He grabbed his phone, typed *“Jo, you good,?”* then deleted it, hands shaking. Too raw, too soon. He collapsed back, cap sliding off, brown eyes tracing cracks in the ceiling, the weight of his actions a stone he couldn’t shift.

The gang converged on the quad that evening, an impromptu jol sparked by the rugby boys’ restlessness. Jo got the text from Henk—*“Oi, okes meeting up, braai and beers, come”*—and hauled himself out, craving the noise. Piet saw it too, a group chat ping, and hesitated, dread coiling, but Jo’s words, *“friends, no nothing,”* echoed. He pulled on his hoodie and went, resolve flickering—he’d face them, start proving it. The quad glowed with fairy lights, a fire pit crackling, the smell of boerewors and smoke thick in the air. Jo arrived first, green eyes brightening as he clapped Henk’s back, grabbed a beer, and slid into the circle, rugby boys, rock nerds, Sarah laughing with a new girl from res.

Piet showed up late, cap pulled low, brown eyes scanning the crowd. The gang clocked him, Henk’s nod stiff but there, Sarah’s smile tight but real, the rugby boys muttering “de Wet” with shrugs. No one froze him out, no one pounced, just a cautious welcome that stung and soothed in equal measure. Jo caught his eye across the fire, a quick grin flashing, not warm but not cold, a lifeline Piet grabbed silently. He sank onto a bench, beer in hand, the chatter washing over him, rugby plays, rock finds, Sarah’s quips, normalcy a fragile thread he clung to.

Jo worked the crowd, all charm and loud laughs, but his gaze flicked to Piet, tracking him. Piet stayed quiet, dry wit slipping out once “Ja, that fire’s more alive than my notes” earning a chuckle, a step back in. When the night wound down, Jo lingered, tossing his empty can into the fire, green eyes meeting Piet’s as the gang dispersed. “You good, bru?” Jo asked, voice low, that duality back, firm but with a flicker of care, Jo’s casual ease masking the weight of the question.

Piet nodded, cap shadowing his eyes. “Ja, Jo. Getting there.” His voice was rough, gratitude and guilt tangled in it. Jo’s grin softened, just a flicker. “Lekker. See you round, hey.” He clapped Piet’s shoulder, brief but solid, then turned, disappearing into the thinning crowd. Piet watched him go, resolve hardening, he’d keep showing up, keep proving it, one step at a time.

Back at the flat, Jo sprawled on the couch, the buzz fading into quiet. He didn’t call Piet, didn’t text, just let the night settle, the gang’s hold and the newly unwrapped space a comfort he leaned on. Piet trudged to the dorm, collapsing on his bed, cap tossed aside. Sleep didn’t come easy, but it crept closer, Jo’s grin, the gang’s noise, a faint light in the dark. Sunday ended shadowed but steady, steps taken, bonds bent but not broken, the road back still blurry but there.

 

[Hottobbe]

Jayson! Great story! I just love the way you describe the love and tension between Piet and Jo. You are also spoiling us with frequent and massive upgrades! Checking multiple times per day for update.

 

[michaelnola]

The Stellenbosch campus was bathed in the soft amber glow of late afternoon as Piet and Jo trudged back toward their once-shared dorm room. The air hung heavy with unspoken words, the Range Rover’s sleek black frame waiting like a silent witness outside. Inside the cramped space, Jo moved with purpose, gathering his scattered belongings, rugby jerseys, the tin of braai spice, a few dog-eared textbooks, packing them into a duffel bag with methodical precision. Piet hovered nearby, hands restless, helping fold a faded shirt or hand over a boot, his brown eyes shadowed with guilt. The creak of the bedsprings, the faint scent of old wood and disinfectant, it all felt like a ghost of their past, now slipping away.

When the last item was stowed, Jo slung the bag over his shoulder, pausing at the door. Piet stepped forward, pulling him into a hug, arms tight around Jo’s lanky frame, freckled shoulders warm under his grip. “Fok, Jo, I’m sorry—again,” Piet rasped, voice thick, his scarred forearm trembling against Jo’s back. Jo returned the embrace, brief but firm, his green eyes softening as he pulled back. “We’ll fix this, bru. Just… give it time,” he said, his tone steady, carrying that dual edge of resolve and lingering warmth. He offered a small, lopsided grin, a flicker of their old connection, before turning to head downstairs.

Piet watched him go, the thud of Jo’s boots fading, then climbed back to the room alone. He collapsed onto his bed, the mattress groaning under his stocky weight. The gravity of his actions crashed down, a tidal wave of regret and shame. Tears broke free, hot and unrestrained, soaking into the pillow as sobs racked his hairy chest. The room, once their fortress, now echoed with his isolation, the silence amplifying every mistake—Lukas, the blackmail, the fracture with Jo. He buried his face in his hands, the weight of losing Jo, the farm deal, the gang’s trust, all pressing down until he felt he might shatter.

Meanwhile, in his new flat, Jo unpacked with a quiet efficiency, the wood floors gleaming under the soft light of a single lamp. He invited Henk and Sarah over, the door swinging open to their familiar faces, Henk’s massive frame filling the doorway, Sarah’s bright smile a contrast to the tension in the air. They settled on the plastic-wrapped couch with beers in hand, the clink of bottles a small comfort. Jo leaned forward, green eyes serious as he laid out his version of the past week, Piet’s confession, Lukas’s blackmail, his decision to move out. “Fok, okes, it’s a mess,” he admitted, running a hand through his blonde hair. “But I’ve got dad to boot Lukas, geology’s done with him, out of Stellenbosch. Might not shut him up, though.”

Sarah’s eyes widened, then softened. “Ja, Jo, the gang knows whole situationship with Piet, the rumours, all of it. Been buzzing since Spencer spilled. They’re piecing it together.” Jo nodded, a mix of relief and unease settling in. “Good, less for us to explain. Can you tell them the latest? Lukas gone, me here, Piet… well, he’s still my mate. Ask them to treat him normal, hey? No shunning, no kak. He’s got enough to carry.” Henk grunted, massive hand wrapping around his beer. “Fok, Jo, you’re soft on him, but ja, I’ll back that. Gang’s solid, we’ll keep it fair.” Sarah squeezed Jo’s arm. “I’ll spread it, bru. Piet’s still one of us.” They clinked bottles, the pact holding, but Jo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

When Henk and Sarah left, the flat fell silent, the loneliness creeping in like a cold draft. Jo stood by the window, staring at the campus lights, the hum of life beyond his walls a stark contrast to the emptiness inside. He thought of Piet, the familiar weight of him in their shared bed, the laughter, the trust. The urge to call, to ask him back, pulsed strong, but he shook his head, muttering, “Too soon.” He longed for that familiarity, the ease they’d lost, but the hurt was fresh, a barrier he couldn’t cross yet. He sank onto the couch, beer forgotten, sleep eluding him as the night stretched on.

Back in the dorm, Piet lay awake, the creak of the empty room a constant reminder of Jo’s absence. Knowing Jo was just down the road, alone because of him, broke his heart anew. The mattress felt foreign without Jo’s lanky frame beside him, the silence deafening where their breaths once synced. He stared at the ceiling, brown eyes burning, the weight of his betrayal a chain he couldn’t shed. Tears threatened again, but he held them back, resolve flickering faintly—Jo’s words, “We’ll fix this,” a thread of hope he clung to. Neither slept well, the distance between them a chasm, but a shared ache that kept them tethered, waiting for a way back.

Awesome --well done

 

[michaelnola]

The Stellenbosch dawn broke soft and slow, a pale gold spilling over the campus, filtering through the blinds of Jo’s new flat. He woke stiff on the couch, neck cramped from a night of restless dozing, the single beer still warm on the coffee table. His green eyes blinked against the light, bleary and heavy, the quiet of the flat pressing in like a weight. He rubbed his freckled face, groaning as he stretched, the loneliness of the night lingering like a bruise. Across town, in the dorm, Piet stirred on his bed, the sheets tangled around his stocky frame, brown eyes rimmed red from another sleepless stretch. The room felt cavernous without Jo’s sprawl, the silence a mirror to his guilt, sharp and unrelenting.

Jo hauled himself up, splashing water on his face in the tiny bathroom, the mirror reflecting a tiredness he couldn’t shake. He pulled on shorts and a faded tee, grabbed his rugby ball, and headed out, craving the noise of the quad to drown the quiet. The campus was waking, students shuffling toward coffee, a few early birds kicking a ball around, and Jo joined them, tossing his own into a pickup game of touch rugby. His freckled frame darted through the grass, boots kicking up dew, a grin breaking through as he scored, the shouts of “Lekker, Jo!” a balm to the ache. For an hour, he was just a farm boy again, sweat streaking his face, the gang’s laughter echoing from yesterday’s promise to hold steady.

Piet, meanwhile, dragged himself to the showers, the communal chaos a dull roar he barely registered. Hot water pounded his hairy chest, washing away the crust of tears but not the weight. He dressed slow, jeans, a plain tee, his faded blue cap, then grabbed his geology notebook, heading to the library. Church tugged at him, a pull from home, but the thought of hymns and guilt in equal measure kept him away. He sank into a corner table, the hum of pages turning a faint distraction, but his eyes drifted from rock layers to Jo’s empty bed, Lukas’s smirk, the farm deal’s fragile thread. He scribbled notes he wouldn’t read, resolve flickering, prove it to Jo, claw back trust, but it felt distant, buried under the mess he’d made.

By midday, Jo was back at the flat, showered and restless, the rugby buzz fading fast. He texted Sarah, *“Oi, you and Henk free? Need okes here.”* Her reply came quick: *“Ja, on our way.”* They rolled in twenty minutes later, Henk’s massive frame ducking through the door, Sarah’s bright energy cutting the gloom. Jo cracked beers, handing them out as they hovered near the kitchenette, but Sarah’s eyes darted around, clocking the plastic-wrapped couch, the bare space. “Flip, Jo, this place is still in wrappers, let’s sort it,” she said, already moving, peeling the plastic off the couch with a loud rip, tossing it into a pile.

Jo grinned, grabbing one end to help, while Henk hauled a box of kitchen stuff, plates, a kettle, from a corner, grunting, “Ja, bru, make it liveable, hey.” Sarah fluffed the cushions, her hands quick, turning the sterile flat into something warmer, while Jo unpacked a few rugby trophies, setting them on a shelf. “Lekker, okes, feels less like a showroom now,” he said, green eyes softening as they settled on the couch, plastic gone, beers in hand. Henk sank into it, massive frame testing the springs, while Sarah perched beside him, nodding approval.

“Gang’s sorted?” Jo asked, leaning against the counter, voice casual but probing. Sarah sipped her beer, meeting his gaze. “Ja, Jo, told ‘em last night—Lukas out, you here, Piet still in. Rugby boys grumbled, rock nerds shrugged, but they’re holding. No one’s cutting Piet off, like you asked.” Henk grunted, arm slung around Sarah. “Fok, bru, they’re shook, Piet’s mess hit hard, but they’ll play nice. I’ll keep ‘em in line.” Jo’s shoulders eased, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Lekker, thanks, okes. Just… keep it normal with him, hey? He’s beating himself up enough.” Sarah squeezed his arm through the air, a gesture from across the room. “He’s still your mate, Jo. We see that. Gang’s family—bent, not broken.”

They stayed an hour, banter flowing, Henk recounting a rugby tackle gone wrong, Sarah teasing Jo about his braai skills, while the flat took shape around them, less empty, more his. When they left, though, the silence crashed back. Jo stood by the window, spinning the rugby ball in his hands, the flat’s new warmth not quite filling the void. He pictured Piet, alone in that dorm, and the urge to call flared hot, his thumb hovering over the screen. “Too soon,” he muttered, tossing the phone aside. He flopped onto the couch, now free of plastic, staring at the ceiling, longing for the creak of their old beds, the easy rhythm they’d lost.

Piet, back in the dorm by late afternoon, felt the same pull. The library had been a bust, focus shot, guilt a constant hum and now he sat on his bed, staring at Jo’s empty side, the rugby jersey still crumpled where he’d left it. He knew Jo was down the road, alone because of him, and it tore at his chest, fresh tears pricking his eyes. He grabbed his phone, typed *“Jo, you good,?”* then deleted it, hands shaking. Too raw, too soon. He collapsed back, cap sliding off, brown eyes tracing cracks in the ceiling, the weight of his actions a stone he couldn’t shift.

The gang converged on the quad that evening, an impromptu jol sparked by the rugby boys’ restlessness. Jo got the text from Henk—*“Oi, okes meeting up, braai and beers, come”*—and hauled himself out, craving the noise. Piet saw it too, a group chat ping, and hesitated, dread coiling, but Jo’s words, *“friends, no nothing,”* echoed. He pulled on his hoodie and went, resolve flickering—he’d face them, start proving it. The quad glowed with fairy lights, a fire pit crackling, the smell of boerewors and smoke thick in the air. Jo arrived first, green eyes brightening as he clapped Henk’s back, grabbed a beer, and slid into the circle, rugby boys, rock nerds, Sarah laughing with a new girl from res.

Piet showed up late, cap pulled low, brown eyes scanning the crowd. The gang clocked him, Henk’s nod stiff but there, Sarah’s smile tight but real, the rugby boys muttering “de Wet” with shrugs. No one froze him out, no one pounced, just a cautious welcome that stung and soothed in equal measure. Jo caught his eye across the fire, a quick grin flashing, not warm but not cold, a lifeline Piet grabbed silently. He sank onto a bench, beer in hand, the chatter washing over him, rugby plays, rock finds, Sarah’s quips, normalcy a fragile thread he clung to.

Jo worked the crowd, all charm and loud laughs, but his gaze flicked to Piet, tracking him. Piet stayed quiet, dry wit slipping out once “Ja, that fire’s more alive than my notes” earning a chuckle, a step back in. When the night wound down, Jo lingered, tossing his empty can into the fire, green eyes meeting Piet’s as the gang dispersed. “You good, bru?” Jo asked, voice low, that duality back, firm but with a flicker of care, Jo’s casual ease masking the weight of the question.

Piet nodded, cap shadowing his eyes. “Ja, Jo. Getting there.” His voice was rough, gratitude and guilt tangled in it. Jo’s grin softened, just a flicker. “Lekker. See you round, hey.” He clapped Piet’s shoulder, brief but solid, then turned, disappearing into the thinning crowd. Piet watched him go, resolve hardening, he’d keep showing up, keep proving it, one step at a time.

Back at the flat, Jo sprawled on the couch, the buzz fading into quiet. He didn’t call Piet, didn’t text, just let the night settle, the gang’s hold and the newly unwrapped space a comfort he leaned on. Piet trudged to the dorm, collapsing on his bed, cap tossed aside. Sleep didn’t come easy, but it crept closer, Jo’s grin, the gang’s noise, a faint light in the dark. Sunday ended shadowed but steady, steps taken, bonds bent but not broken, the road back still blurry but there.

Awesome story man for sure---you do an awesome job with your writing skills. You can feel the emotion from the pages. Excellent---