Two farm boys collide at university

[PouletAuPoivre]

As I finish another chapter, I am reminded how Spencer's friendship was so important to Jo. I still say it wasn't right to make Piet sit and witness that friendship Jo had with Spencer. Even after Jo said they are only friends and nothing else, he went and kissed Jo. He claims he wanted to be there for Spencer and didn't think much about how it would affect Piet.

What happened to the other two guys Jo was hooking up with behind Piet's back too. Their names escape for some reason, but he was able to drop them as friends in his been there done that attitude but what i am really curious about is how Jo will handle Spencer when they get back to school. Not only has he been disrespecting Piet & Jo's relationship he has now disrespected his parents, the same parents Jo said he would ask and see what they could do for Spencer.

It's probably not too much of a spoiler to tell you that Matt and Byron don't really figure any more in the story except as onlookers. (Well, unless our Jayson brings them back much later.) I think Jo had satisfied his curiosity regarding those two, and he probably sensed that going much farther with them would badly mess up his relationship with Piet.

Also, come to think of it, I think Matt and Byron had satisfied their curiosity about Jo, and I don't know that they had much further interest themselves.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Okay, the only people in this story I like right now is Piet's mom and grandfather. That's it! I was hoping that Piet would finally wake up and get with Lukas the next time Dylan chose Spencer over him. But isn't Lukas a TA or something. Won't he get in trouble for hooking up (forcing himself, that's how i would remember it) on a student?

You're asking good questions. Keep reading!

 

[ndamood4sum]

The Stellenbosch quad shimmered under a late Monday sun, the kind of heat that stuck to your skin and made the air taste of dust and grass. Jo van der Merwe loped across it, rugby ball tucked under one freckled arm, his faded tee clinging to his chest from an impromptu game with the boys. His green eyes glinted, still riding the high of a slick try he’d scored, boots scuffing the path as he veered toward the Agri block. Lectures were done, but he wasn’t ready for the flat yet, the quiet there still gnawed at him, a hollow he hadn’t filled since moving out of the dorm three days ago.

He’d heard the chatter at practice—some Agri Economics okes talking up a student winemaking gig, a ragtag crew messing with barrels behind the viticulture labs. “Bloody chaos,” one had said, laughing, “they’re fermenting grape juice in a shed, reckon it’s half vinegar already.” Jo’s ears had pricked up, a grin tugging at his lips. Wine wasn’t his game—braai and wheat were his blood—but Piet’s viticulture stories from the de Wet farm flickered in his mind, Kobus’s update about fat pinotage grapes still fresh. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was the itch to do something, anything, to keep the silence at bay. He chucked the rugby ball into his kit bag and swung toward the labs, figuring he’d poke his nose in.

The shed was a squat, rusted thing tucked behind the main building, vines creeping up its sides like it was part of the experiment. Jo pushed the door open with a creak, the smell hitting him first, yeast and sour fruit, sharp enough to sting his nose. Inside, it was a mess: barrels stacked haphazardly, a table cluttered with glass jars of murky liquid, a whiteboard scrawled with “Day 5: Still Shit” in red marker. Three figures turned at the sound, two rugby-built guys in stained tees, one stirring a vat with a paddle, and a wiry girl with dark braids and a clipboard, her sharp brown eyes narrowing at him.

“Oi, who’re you?” she snapped, voice cutting through the hum of a portable fan. She was short, barely past Jo’s chest, but carried herself like she owned the shed. Rachel, he’d learn later, third-year viticulture, all brains and bite.

Jo flashed his lopsided grin, leaning against the doorframe, all easy charm. “Johan van der Merwe, Agri Econ. Heard you lot were making wine, thought I’d see if it’s as kak as they say.” He nodded at a jar of purple sludge on the table, bubbles fizzing slow. “Looks like it is.”

The bigger of the two guys, broad shoulders, buzzed head, snorted, setting the paddle down with a wet thud. “Ja, bru, it’s kak now, but we’re learning. You here to laugh or help?” His tone was light, but there was a challenge in it, the kind Jo couldn’t resist.

Rachel stepped forward, clipboard tucked under her arm, sizing him up. “If you’re helping, grab a jar and taste. If you’re laughing, piss off. We’ve got enough clowns.” She thrust a glass at him, half-filled with a cloudy red that smelled like wet socks. Jo took it, grin widening—her edge reminded him of Piet’s dry jabs, back when things were simple.

He tipped the glass back, the liquid hitting his tongue like a punch—sharp, sour, with a faint grape ghost buried in the mess. He swallowed, grimacing, then laughed, loud and bright. “Fok, that’s awful! Tastes like I licked a barn floor. I could do better blindfolded.” He set the glass down, green eyes sparking with mischief.

Rachel’s lips twitched, almost a smirk. “Big talk, farm boy. Prove it.” She jerked her head toward a barrel in the corner, half-full of crushed grapes, skins floating like a bruised soup. “Show us your magic, then.”

Jo didn’t hesitate. He rolled up his sleeves, freckled arms flexing as he plunged his hands into the barrel, feeling the cool, pulpy mess squish between his fingers. It was like kneading dough for his ma’s potjie bread—instinctive, messy, right. “Needs more time,” he muttered, half to himself, “and something to cut the bite. You got sugar? Herbs?” The rugby guys swapped a look—Doug and JP, he’d catch their names later—while Rachel arched a brow, scribbling something on her clipboard.

“Bossy, hey,” Doug said, tossing him a bag of sugar from a shelf. “You’re in now, bru. No backing out.”

Jo grinned, dumping a handful into the mix, stirring with a borrowed paddle. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Let’s make something that doesn’t taste like piss.” The shed buzzed with a new energy, Doug cracking a beer and handing one to Jo, Rachel barking orders like a drill sergeant, but her eyes glinted with grudging respect. For an hour, he lost himself in it—tweaking, tasting, laughing at JP’s dumb braai jokes—Piet’s absence a dull ache he could almost ignore.

Across campus, Piet slumped at the dorm desk, the room dim save for the desk lamp casting a harsh circle over his geology notes. His brown eyes were sunken, the past three nights a blur of restless tossing, Jo’s empty bed a silent accusation beside him. The gang’s braai last night had been a lifeline—Jo’s quick grin across the fire, the rugby boys’ shrugs—but it wasn’t enough. He’d fucked up, shattered their fortress, and Jo’s move to the flat was a wall he couldn’t climb yet. His phone sat dark, no texts sent, no replies to beg for. “Too soon,” Jo had said, and Piet clung to that, a promise or a deadline he couldn’t tell.

He flipped a page—sedimentary layers, boring as hell—and his mind drifted to the farm. Kobus’s call, the pinotage thriving, his viticulture paying off. It should’ve been a win to share with Jo, a late-night beer over braai plans, but now it just mocked him. He rubbed his scarred forearm, the familiar ache grounding him, when a knock jolted him upright. Henk loomed in the doorway, massive frame filling it, buzzed head tilting as he clocked Piet’s state.

“Oi, de Wet,” Henk rumbled, stepping in uninvited, a beer in hand. “Sarah says Jo’s good, flat’s sorted. You look like kak, though. Still beating yourself up?”

Piet managed a weak smirk, dry as ever. “Ja, Henk, got a talent for it. Jo’s thriving, hey?” He leaned back, cap shadowing his eyes, fishing for scraps without asking outright.

Henk sank onto Jo’s old bed, the springs groaning under his weight. “Ja, bru, he’s Jo—bouncing back, rugby, gang’s holding. Heard he’s sniffing round some winemaking thing today, Agri okes messing with barrels. Suits him, farm boy and all.” He cracked his beer, sipping slow, watching Piet like he might break.

Piet’s chest tightened, a pang he couldn’t name—pride, loss, something bitter. Jo with wine, stepping into Piet’s world without him. “Winemaking?” he rasped, voice rougher than he meant. “He say anything about it?”

“Nah, just chatter from the rugby boys. He’s diving in, though—typical Jo, headfirst.” Henk’s tone was neutral, but his eyes softened, reading Piet’s flinch. “You’ll sort it, bru. He’s not gone, just… space, like he said. Gang’s still yours too.”

Piet nodded, throat tight, forcing a “Ja, thanks, oke,” as Henk clapped his shoulder and lumbered out. Alone again, he stared at the ceiling, Jo’s new path a thread pulling away, farm roots they’d shared now splitting. Winemaking. Fok, it fit him—braai instincts, that restless spark. Piet’s fingers twitched, wanting to text, to ask, but he stopped. Too soon. Instead, he grabbed his viticulture textbook, flipping to fermentation notes, a flicker of resolve sparking—maybe he’d brush up, find a way in, prove something.

Back at the shed, Jo wiped grape-stained hands on his shorts, the crew sprawled around a makeshift table, tasting their tweaked batch. It wasn’t gold—still sharp, a little rough—but better, a hint of promise in the murk. Rachel smirked, tossing him a rag. “Not bad, van der Merwe. You’re stuck with us now—Wednesday, same time. Don’t flake.” Jo laughed, green eyes bright, “Wouldn’t miss it, boss,” already hooked, the chaos a lifeline he hadn’t known he needed.

He trudged back to the flat as dusk settled, the rugby ball bouncing in his hands, the shed’s buzz clinging to him. Inside, he flopped onto the couch—plastic gone, thanks to Sarah—grinning at the ceiling. It felt good, building something, even if it was messy. Piet flickered in his mind—those steady brown eyes, the farm talks they’d had—and Jo’s grin faltered. He could tell him, share it, but the hurt held him back, a line he wasn’t ready to cross. “Later,” he muttered, cracking a beer, the flat’s quiet softer now, filled with the echo of barrels and banter.

In the dorm, Piet closed his book, the room dark around him. Jo was out there, thriving, and it stung—but it lit something too. He’d show up, somehow, not beg, just be there. The gang, the farm, now wine—threads he’d weave back into, one step at a time. Sleep came slow for both, the distance still raw, but a new ferment starting, messy and uncertain, just beneath the surface.

I have to give it to Jo for not sitting around sulking but if I'm Piet it looks like he is moving on with his life and that has to hurt really bad. But if he picked up a hobby or actually hung out with his friends he may come across something that picks him up. But seriously I want someone to explain to me how when Jo was out there screwing around the gang was on his side and now Piet's made a mistake they are still on his side and the treat has been terminated but Piet had to sit with his treat almost daily.

 

[EmKnight]

The Montagu bus rattled along the N1, its diesel hum a low drone as Spencer stared out the window, the Western Cape’s vastness blurring past. His guilt sat heavy in his chest, leather jacket creased, blonde hair still a mess, blue eyes reflecting the dusk’s fading light. The farm’s lessons—Piet’s unyielding truth, Jo’s wounded trust, their fierce love—clung to him like the dirt on his boots. Stellenbosch loomed, a town of stars and judgment, the quad’s firelight waiting to burn or redeem him. His journal, tucked in his bag, held his scrawled confessions, a map of his failures, but also a spark of hope: Maybe I can be more than the Shark.

The bus lurched into Stellenbosch’s depot as night fell, the air warm, scented with oak and distant braai smoke. Spencer stepped off, heart hammering like a war drum. The quad wasn’t far, a ten-minute walk, but each step felt like wading through tar. He pictured the gang—Kyle’s sharp smirk, Liam’s steady gaze, Doug’s quiet pain, Sarah’s piercing eyes, Henk’s gruff wariness, Rachel’s cool distance, JP’s burning anger. His confession, raw and unpolished, churned in his throat, a speech he’d rehearsed on the bus but now felt fragile, like glass underfoot.

The quad came into view, a mix of blankets and firelight, the gang sprawled in their chaotic glory. Laughter rang, beer cans glinted, the thump of a portable speaker pulsing Die Antwoord’s beat. Henk and Sarah sat chatting casually to a group of friends, their bond a cornerstone of the gang’s heart. Rachel and JP fussing over a bottle of Chenin Blanc, their voices bright with plans for their next blend, ambition undimmed by Spencer’s failure. Doug sat quiet beside them, dark eyes distant, the wine shed’s betrayal a wound that hadn’t healed. Kyle tossed a ball with the rugby lads, tanned face split in a grin, carefree but sharp-edged. Liam sat with his new girlfriend, her hand in his, a new strength Spencer couldn’t touch.

Spencer stood at the quad’s edge, firelight casting his shadow long and jagged. The gang hadn’t noticed him, their world whole without him, a family forged in Jo and Piet’s absence, his failures—potjie night, captaincy, wine shed—buried in their revelry. His chest tightened, a sob threatening, but he swallowed it, Jo’s “Be real” and Piet’s “Face them” steeling him. He dropped the bag with a thud, boots scuffing grass, and stepped into the light, heart pounding like a storm.

The laughter died, a ripple of silence spreading as heads turned. Kyle’s grin faded, the ball dropping to the grass with a soft thump. Liam’s hand tightened on his girlfriend’s, brown eyes narrowing, wary but not hostile. Doug’s gaze dropped. Rachel’s brow raised, her pragmatism a shield. JP’s scowl deepened, anger flaring like the fire. Sarah’s eyes sharpened, piercing through him, while Henk’s jaw set like stone, a protector ready to judge. The gang froze, a fractured mosaic of hurt, betrayal, and guarded hope, Spencer’s presence a ghost they’d left behind.

He stood, exposed, no City Shark swagger, just a broken boy in a creased jacket, voice shaking as he began, words rough, slurring from nerves, not whisky. “I fucked you all over,” he said, the quad’s silence swallowing his voice, the fire’s crackle loud in the void. “Kyle, Liam, Doug—I used you, for votes, for equity, for control.

He sank to his knees, hands gripping the cool grass, blue eyes glistening under the stars, the fire’s heat licking his skin. “Wanted to be the guy—like Jo and Piet, leading, loved. Thought I could charm my way there, use my body, my deals, to own you. Broke your trust, hurt you all, and now I’m nothing. I’m sorry—want a second chance to be real, not this… fuck-up.” His voice broke, a sob escaping, the quad’s silence a weight, the gang’s eyes a jury under the oaks.

The fire crackled, embers floating like ghosts, and the silence stretched, heavy as the dusk. Sarah spoke first, auburn curls framing her green eyes, her voice low, empathetic but guarded, cutting through the tension. “You owned it, Spense—that’s something. But trust’s earned, not begged. You hurt us, broke what we had. Don’t expect us to run to you, not yet.” Her words were a lifeline, thin but real, her gaze holding his, searching for truth.

Henk grunted, voice gruff. “Prove it’s not just talk, bru—takes time, not tears. You fucked over my mates, my family. Step careful, or you’re out for good this time.” His arm tightened around Sarah, a wall Spencer couldn’t breach, but his nod was a crack, a chance.

Rachel’s pragmatism sliced through, arms crossed, dark hair taut, her voice cool as steel. “Business is business—you’re out, Spense. Don’t hate you, but we’re done for now. Build something else, somewhere else.” Her eyes flicked to JP, whose scowl burned hotter, voice a snarl. “Burned us once—fuck off with your sorry. I’m not buying this shit.” The rejection stung, a whipcrack in the quiet, JP’s anger a wound Spencer couldn’t soothe.

Doug’s dark eyes met Spencer’s, pain raw, his voice a whisper, barely audible. “Need time, man… hurts too much.” The wine shed’s betrayal, their night in the shed, hung between them, a ghost of trust shattered, his hesitation a knife to Spencer’s heart.

Kyle’s smirk was sharp, his voice laced with grudging respect. “Not cool, Spense—maybe we’re square, but don’t push it. Step light, or I’ll knock you out myself.” He tossed the ball in his hands, a flicker of his old banter, a door not fully closed.

Liam, anchored by his girlfriend’s hand, nodded slowly, brown eyes steady, voice quiet but firm. “Don’t do it again—start there, maybe we talk. You’ve got work to do, bru.” Her presence, a new strength, grounded him, a reminder of the life Spencer had lost, but his nod was a bridge, fragile but there.

No unified forgiveness, no outright rejection—just a splintered chance, the gang’s bonds tested, their responses raw, jagged, real. Spencer rose, knees trembling, eyes stinging but steady, Jo’s “try being real” a faint pulse in his chest. He nodded, mute, to Sarah’s guarded hope, Liam’s cautious nod, Kyle’s sharp smirk, absorbing JP’s burning anger, Rachel’s cold distance, Doug’s quiet pain, Henk’s protective wariness. The quad’s hum resumed, softer, laughter creeping back as the gang turned to their fire, their beers, their family, leaving Spencer on the edge, no longer part of the circle but not wholly cast out.

He turned, the fire’s warmth fading at his back, the oaks looming like sentinels as he walked into the night. The campus was a maze of shadows, the stars above Stellenbosch indifferent, their cold light a mirror to his uncertain future. His dorm waited, vinyls and coffee a small sanctuary, but the journal in his bag called louder, a place to write the next step, to map a path he’d have to forge alone. Jo and Piet’s farm, their love, their truth, had shown him what he lacked—trust, roots, a heart not ruled by deals. The gang’s fractured chance was no crown, no empire, but a flicker of hope, a second chance he’d have to earn, one honest step at a time. The City Shark was gone, and Spencer Clarke, raw and unmade, walked on, the weight of his choices both a burden and a guide.

Something about this chapter feels final, anyone else think this is the ending of Spencer’s story?

 

[ndamood4sum]

Thursday morning broke over Stellenbosch with a lazy sun, the kind that tricked you into thinking the day’d stay slow. Jo ambled into the campus canteen, his faded rugby jersey clinging to his freckled frame, green eyes still bleary from a night of tossing in the flat. The tasting loomed—profs judging their shed brew at three—but first, Rachel had texted, *“Brunch, 11, canteen. Wine talk, don’t flake, Zanzibar.”* He grinned at the screen, slinging his kit bag over his shoulder, ready for her sharp edges to wake him up.

The canteen buzzed—plates clattering, first-years shouting over coffee steam, the smell of bacon and burnt toast thick in the air. Jo spotted Rachel at a corner table, dark hair pulled back, clipboard swapped for a tray of bacon and eggs and black coffee. She waved him over, smirking as he dropped into the chair across from her, bag thudding to the floor. “Late again, van der Merwe,” she said, sliding him a plate of bacon and egg, voice dry but warm. “Thought you’d ditch me for a rugby game.”

Jo laughed, loud and bright, tearing into his breakfast. “Nah, boss, wouldn’t miss your kak for the world. Wine talk, hey? You nervous about the profs, or you just wanna boss me around some more?” His green eyes sparkled, leaning into her jab like it was fuel.

Rachel snorted, sipping her coffee, brown eyes glinting over the rim. “Nervous? Please. I’m not the one who turned our vat into a potjie experiment. You’re the wild card, Zanzibar—rosemary and all. We’re here to figure out how not to choke when they taste it.” She kicked his shin under the table, light but pointed. “So, what’s your big plan if they hate it? Cry? Run back to your wheat fields?”

Jo grinned wider, chewing slow, her sarcasm a match to his fire. “Fok, Rachel, they’ll love it—my ma’s tricks never fail. If they don’t, I’ll just braai ‘em something to wash it down. You’re the one sweating, clipboard queen—bet you’ve got a speech ready, hey?” He leaned back, arms crossed, all cocky ease, egging her on.

She rolled her eyes, but her smirk grew, feeding off his energy. “Ja, right, I’ll just recite pH levels while you flirt with the profs. Worked yesterday—Doug’s still calling you a genius for that sugar move. Nutrient tip from your shadow helped too.” She paused, tearing at a piece of bacon, voice dropping a notch. “He coming today? Your farm boy backup?”

Jo’s grin faltered, just a flicker, green eyes darting to his coffee. “Piet? Dunno, bru. He’s… around. Gave us a leg up yesterday, but it’s not his gig.” He shrugged, casual but tight, shoving the thought of Piet’s quiet nod out of his head. “We’ve got this—me, you, the okes. No shadows needed.”

Rachel arched a brow, catching the shift but letting it slide. “Fair. Just don’t fuck up my vat, Zanzibar. I’m not taking the fall for your braai-wine.” She tossed a crumb at him, laughing as he swatted it away, the banter rolling easy—business wrapped in bites and barbs.

Across the hall, Piet stood frozen by the juice machine, faded cap pulled low, brown eyes locked on them. He’d come for a quick coffee, geology notes weighing down his bag, but Jo’s laugh—loud, unguarded—hit him like a punch. There he was, sprawled with Rachel, all grins and grease-stained fingers, her smirk bouncing off him like they’d been mates forever. Piet’s chest tightened, a hot, bitter twist he hadn’t felt since Spencer—jealousy, raw and sharp. Jo was replacing him, already, shedding their dorm days for this new crew, this shed life, Rachel’s bite filling the space Piet used to hold.

He dumped his empty cup in the bin, coffee untouched, and bolted, boots thudding out the door. Back in the dorm, he slammed it shut, sinking onto his bed, the creak of springs loud in the silence. Jo’s empty side stared back, rugby jersey still crumpled where he’d left it. Piet grabbed his viticulture book, flipping pages he wouldn’t read—fermentation curves blurring into Jo’s grin, Rachel’s laugh, a life moving on without him. He stayed there, locked in, the day ticking by, jealousy gnawing as he tried to bury it in ink and guilt.

Meanwhile, Jo and Rachel finished brunch, crumbs scattered, coffee cold. They trekked back to the shed, the rusted door groaning as they stepped in. Doug and JP were already there—Doug stirring the vat, JP sprawled with a coffee, the air thick with yeast and nerves. “Oi, Zanzibar!” Doug bellowed, paddle sloshing. “Thought you’d ditched us for a date. Ready to taste this beast?”

Jo grinned, dropping his bag. “Ja, bru, no dates—just plotting with the boss. Let’s see if it’s still kak.” He grabbed a ladle, dipping it into the vat, the purple mix swirling with rosemary flecks and Piet’s yeast kick. He sipped, eyes lighting up—sharp, earthy, not perfect but alive. “Fok, okes, it’s got legs! Not shit at all.”

Rachel snatched the ladle, tasting, then nodded, a rare grin breaking through. “Hell, van der Merwe, you’re right. Day eight miracle.” She grabbed a marker, scrawling on the whiteboard: *“Day 8: Not Shit at All.”* JP whooped, raising his coffee, while Doug clapped Jo’s shoulder, massive hand nearly knocking him over. “Zanzibar’s the man, hey. Profs won’t know what hit ‘em.”

They tweaked it—more stirring, a pinch of sugar, sealing the vat tight—then hauled it to the viticulture courtyard, a sunlit patch by the labs. The profs waited, three of them—grey-haired, stern, clipboards ready—tables set with glasses and notepads. Rachel took the lead, all charm and bravado, pouring the cloudy red like it was gold. “Gents, ladies,” she said, “shed crew’s first go—rough, but it’s got heart. Taste the farm in it.”

The profs sipped, faces unreadable at first. One grimaced, another scribbled fast, but the third—a wiry oke with glasses—paused, swirling his glass. “Green notes, rosemary? Unorthodox, but it’s there—structure’s raw, fermentation’s uneven. Few tweaks, you might have something.” The others nodded, grudgingly. “Potential,” one muttered. “Needs polish—bring it back next month.”

Jo’s grin split wide, fist bumping Doug as Rachel smirked, whispering, “Told you, Zanzibar.” JP cracked a beer behind them, the crew buzzing—vindicated, hooked, a lifeline to a uni contest dangling. Piet’s tip had worked, yeast pushing it over the edge, but he wasn’t there—no cap in the crowd, no dry quip. All credit landed on Jo, the profs shaking his hand, Rachel clapping his back, Doug and JP chanting “Zanzibar” like a rugby cheer.

They dragged the vat back to the shed, beers flowing, the win sinking in. Jo flopped onto a crate, green eyes bright but flickering—Piet’s absence a quiet itch he couldn’t scratch. “Lekker, okes,” he said, raising his can. “We’re in deep now.” Rachel tossed him a rag, nodding. “Damn right, van der Merwe. You’re stuck with us.”

Back in the dorm, Piet stayed buried, book open to a page he hadn’t turned in hours, brown eyes tracing cracks in the ceiling. The tasting had passed, Jo’s triumph echoing through the gangs chatter he couldn’t avoid—texts from Henk, *“Jo killed it, bru, wine’s a hit.”* Jealousy burned, but beneath it, a flicker of pride—Jo shining, like always. He didn’t text back, just sank deeper, the day fading outside, their bond a ghost he couldn’t face.

Jo trudged to his flat as dusk settled, the shed’s buzz clinging to him, the profs’ “potential” a fire in his gut. Sprawling on the couch, the silence softer now but still heavy. Piet’s tip had landed, his shadow in the vat, but he hadn’t shown. Jo’s thumb hovered over his phone—*“Bru, we nailed it, your yeast was gold”*—then stopped. Too soon, maybe. He tossed it aside, grinning at the ceiling, solidly the shed’s star, but the empty space beside him ached, a vintage not yet bottled.

I still don't know why he is being so hard on Piet with all the crap he did to him. Besides, didn't they have a hall pass for that weekend anyway?

 

[ndamood4sum]

Got to remember they hashed all that out and then agreed to move on with each other with there bond.

It's sad, even the rock nerds aren't reaching out to Piet.

 

[ndamood4sum]

Got to remember they hashed all that out and then agreed to move on with each other with there bond.

Did they? I don't remember that, I thought they only talked about Spencer.

 

[ndamood4sum]

The Stellenbosch sun hung low, painting the campus in hues of gold and amber as autumn tightened its grip. Jo’s flat had become a second skin for Piet, his faded blue cap a fixture on the couch armrest, his toothbrush claiming space beside Jo’s in the bathroom. He hadn’t fully abandoned the dorm—his books and a spare pair of boots still cluttered his old bed—but most nights found him sprawled on Jo’s couch or tangled in the sheets beside him, the pull of their renewed rhythm too strong to resist. Things were settling back to normal, or something close to it, the jagged edges of Lukas’s shadow smoothed by time and trust.
The gang was vibing again, a loose orbit of rugby boys, rock nerds, and shed crew orbiting Jo and Piet’s gravitational pull. Rugby training sharpened Jo’s edge—his lanky frame darted through drills, green eyes fierce, three tries a game now his baseline. Piet dominated water polo, his stocky build slicing the pool, brown eyes steady as he blocked shots with a quiet ferocity. Lunches in the quad rang with Henk’s grunts, Sarah’s laughs, and the rugby boys’ shouts, the gang knitting tighter with every shared beer and bad joke.
The wine shed hummed with progress, Jo’s rosemary-kicked “Zanzibar Red” clawing its way back from disaster under Piet’s yeast wizardry. Thursday rolled in, crisp and clear, and the shed became a hive—barrels lined the walls, the air thick with fermentation and banter. Jo and Piet worked side by side at the main vat, shoulders brushing as they stirred the deep purple mix. Jo dipped a ladle, tasting, his freckled face lighting up. “Fok, bru, it’s singing now—rosemary’s there, but it’s got backbone. Your yeast trick’s gold.” He grinned, lopsided and bright, passing the ladle to Piet.
Piet took a sip, brown eyes narrowing thoughtfully under his cap. “Ja, Jo, it’s balanced, but needs a kick—maybe more nutrient, magnesium? Push the finish.” He grabbed a vial from the shelf, measuring with a mechanic’s precision, his scarred hand steady as he tipped it in. They bounced ideas like a rugby ball—quick, sharp, seamless—Jo suggesting a sugar tweak, Piet countering with pH checks, their voices overlapping in a rhythm that felt like old times, only deeper now.
Rachel leaned against a crate, dark hair swinging as she watched, her sharp brown eyes catching every glance, every casual touch. JP sprawled beside her, massive frame dwarfing a folding chair, nursing a beer as he followed her gaze. “Oi, check them,” Rachel muttered, nodding at Jo and Piet, her voice low but edged with amusement. “Zanzibar and Lurker, thick as thieves—look how they fit, hey. Bouncing off each other like they’ve got a secret playbook.”
JP smirked, tipping his beer. “Ja, Rach, they’re tight—closer than mates, if you ask me. Saw Piet crash at Jo’s flat three nights running last week. You reckon there’s more there?” His tone was light, but his eyes glinted, suspicions mirroring hers.
Rachel snorted, crossing her arms. “Bloody obvious, bru. Jo’s all grins, Piet’s got that quiet glow. They’re not just braai buddies—I’d bet my clipboard they’re shagging, or damn close to it.” She grinned, oblivious to the dorm days, the messy history etched in their bones. JP laughed, raising his beer in a mock toast. “To the shed’s worst-kept secret, then.”
The vat sealed, the day’s work done, and the shed crew parted with fist bumps and plans for Friday’s braai—Jo’s domain, the famous Braai Master event, a campus legend. Friday evening flared to life on a patch of lawn near the res, the fire pit roaring under Jo’s command, his faded rugby jersey streaked with ash as he flipped boerewors and ribs with a cocky flourish. Piet was back at his side, trusty sidekick reborn, cap low as he handed Jo spice tins and cracked beers, their movements synced like a dance they’d never forgotten. The gang sprawled around—Henk tossing a rugby ball, Sarah snapping pics, Doug and JP chanting “Zanzibar!” as the meat sizzled.
Rachel jostled in, playful but sharp, vying for Jo’s ear with a tray of koeksisters. “Oi, Braai Master, don’t burn my dessert, hey,” she teased, nudging Piet aside with a grin. Piet laughed—a rare, full sound—passing her a beer instead of retreating, jealousy burned out, replaced by a steady ease. “Ja, Rach, keep him in line—I’m just here for the wors,” he quipped, brown eyes warm as he stepped back, letting her lean in.
Later, as the fire dimmed and the gang thinned, Rachel cornered Jo by the cooler, her voice dropping low, conspiratorial. “Jo, listen, bru—Piet’s your shadow, and you’re lit up around him. It’s obvious there’s something there, hey. Make your move, don’t cock it up.” Her brown eyes sparkled, pushing him with a nudge, blind to the layers she couldn’t see.
Jo’s grin faltered, green eyes flicking to Piet across the lawn, then back to her. “Fok, Rach, you’re dreaming—me and Piet, we’re just mates, thick as ever. That’s it.” He brushed her off, voice light but strained, grabbing a beer to dodge her stare. She shrugged, unconvinced, but let it drop, sauntering off with a “Your loss, Zanzibar.”
The braai wound down, embers glowing, and Jo and Piet walked back to the flat, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, steps uneven from the beers. Jo’s freckled arm rested heavy on Piet’s stocky frame, Piet’s hand gripping Jo’s waist, the night air cool against their flushed skin. They stumbled through the door, boots thudding, and flopped onto the couch, legs tangled, the flat wrapping them in its quiet hum.
Jo shifted, sitting up straighter, green eyes locking on Piet’s. “Bru, we haven’t talked about us since the farm—what’s happening here?” His voice was low, rough with the weight of it, Rachel’s words sinking in despite his deflection.
Piet pulled off his cap, running a hand through his short brown hair, brown eyes meeting Jo’s with a steady, searching look. “Ja, Jo, been dodging it, hey. Farm was heavy—your dad laid it out, forced us to think. I’ve been here more than the dorm, sleeping next to you, and it feels… right. More than mates, more than just messing around. You?”
Jo nodded, slow, his freckled hand resting on Piet’s knee, fingers brushing the denim. “Same, bru. You’re here, and I don’t want you gone. Those nights—hands, heat, all of it—it’s not just beer and horniness anymore. It’s us, carved deep, like you said. But what do we call it? Couple? Partners? Still mates who fuck?”
Piet’s smirk flickered, dry but warm. “Fok, Jo, labels are kak. We’re us—farm boys who’d die for each other, who fit like this.” He gestured between them, hand landing on Jo’s, squeezing lightly. “I want you—flat, bed, life, all of it. No more half-in. You in?”
Jo’s grin broke wide, green eyes softening as he leaned closer, forehead brushing Piet’s. “Ja, Piet, I’m in. No more dodging—flat’s yours too, we’re together, whatever that means. Business at the farm, this here, no overlap, like dad said. Just us.” His hand tightened on Piet’s, the decision settling like a fire stoked steady.
Piet nodded, breath hitching as he closed the gap, lips crashing into Jo’s in a kiss that was hot, sure, no hesitation now. Hands roamed—Jo’s up Piet’s back, Piet’s gripping Jo’s neck—sealing it, the flat their ground zero. They pulled back, panting, foreheads pressed, a pact forged in the quiet, no labels needed, just Jo and Piet, all in, the night stretching out with their future wide open.

Finally, someone was able to make Jo wake up. Whomever said they weren't a fan of Rachel's, which I wasn't sure I was either, but If she were here, I'd hug and thank her!

 

[ndamood4sum]

The Stellenbosch Country Club meeting wraps up, the signed contract a victory, but as Jo and Piet step out into the crisp autumn air, something shifts in Jo. They’re walking to the Land Rover, shoulders brushing, Jo’s lanky frame loose with relief, when it hits him—Piet’s the one who caught the clause, who pushed for the lawyer, who turned a potential trap into a fair deal. Jo’s grin falters, his green eyes clouding as they climb into the vehicle. He starts the engine, but his mind’s elsewhere, replaying the moment Jacques and Grandpa De Wet praised Piet’s diligence. “Knew Piet had it in him… not to rush, to dig in.” Jo had laughed it off in the room, but now it stings—he’d been ready to sign blind, trusting his dad’s word, while Piet saw the risk.

The drive back to the flat is quiet, Jo’s hands tight on the wheel, Piet gazing out at the vineyards blurring past, oblivious to the storm brewing beside him. Jo’s thoughts spiral: Piet’s the one with the instincts, the grit. What did I do? Sat there, paid the R5,000, played the good son. Fok, I’m just the rich kid with a safety net—Dad’s money, Dad’s farm, Dad’s deal. What’s mine in this? His privilege—Jacques’s R20 million, the flat, the credit card he’d flashed without a thought—starts to feel like a crutch, not a strength. By the time they park, Jo’s mood is a tangle of self-doubt, his usual swagger muted.

Back in the flat, the air feels heavier. Piet kicks off his boots, cap tossed on the couch, and heads to the fridge for a beer, his stocky frame relaxed after the win. “Bru, we nailed it today, hey? That clause fix—your dad didn’t see it coming.” He cracks the can, grinning, expecting Jo to match his vibe. But Jo’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, green eyes fixed on the floor, the rugby ball he’d usually toss lying still.

“Ja, you nailed it,” Jo mutters, voice flat. “You caught the clause, got the lawyer, made it right. I just… followed along.” He forces a laugh, but it’s hollow, and Piet’s brown eyes narrow, catching the shift.

“What’s this now?” Piet sets the beer down, stepping closer, his sunburnt face creasing with concern. “You’re off, Jo. What’s eating you?”

Jo shrugs, avoiding Piet’s gaze, his freckled hands fidgeting. “Just thinking, bru. You saw the risk, fought for it. I didn’t. If it was just me, I’d have signed it raw, let Dad’s word ride. Maybe I’m not cut for this—farm, partnership, any of it. You’re the one with the head for it. I’m just… here ‘cause of my last name.” His voice cracks slightly, the cocky farm boy peeling back to reveal a raw edge.

Piet’s quiet for a beat, processing, then snorts—a dry, disbelieving sound. “Fok, Jo, you serious? You think you’re dead weight ‘cause I caught one thing?” He steps closer, scarred hand resting on the counter beside Jo, grounding the moment.

“Ja, Piet,” Jo snaps, green eyes flashing up, frustration spilling out. “You’ve got the scars, the hustle—your dad’s gone, your farm was dying, and you still fought tooth and nail. Me? I’ve got Dad’s millions, a flat, a bloody credit card I don’t even earn. You’d have lost everything without that clause fix. I’d have just… coasted. What do I bring that’s not handed to me?” He turns away, running a hand through his blonde hair, the doubt gnawing deeper.

Piet grabs Jo’s shoulder, turning him back with a firm grip, brown eyes locking onto green with an intensity that cuts through the haze. “Listen, bru, you’re talking kak, and I’m not having it.” His voice is low, steady, the mechanic’s precision in his tone pinning Jo in place.

“You think I’d be here—flat, farm, us—without you? Ja, I caught the clause, ‘cause I’m paranoid, ‘cause I’ve got nothing to fall back on. But you? You’re the one who pulled me in, made me more than a quiet oke tinkering with rocks. You dragged me to parties, pushed me to question my own kak life back home, made me want this.” He gestures between them, hand tightening on Jo’s shoulder. “That’s not privilege, Jo—that’s you.”

Jo blinks, caught off guard, but Piet’s not done. “And don’t give me this ‘I’m just the rich kid’ rubbish. You think I know jack about livestock? Crop rotations? Soil readings? That’s all you, bru. You walk a field and feel it—when the wheat’s ready, when the sheep need moving, how the dirt’s holding up. I can fix a tractor or crunch numbers for the backend, keep the books straight, but the farm work, the real guts of it? That’s your instinct, not mine. I’d be lost out there without you calling the shots.”

Piet’s smirk flickers, dry but warm. “I’m the guy who catches clauses and tinkers with engines. You’re the one who makes the land sing—keeps the herd alive, the crops turning. We’re a team, hey? I handle the paperwork, you run the soul of it. That’s not handed to you by your dad—that’s yours, carved deep.”

Jo exhales, a shaky laugh escaping as he leans into Piet, forehead brushing his. “Fok, bru, you’re too good at this. I was ready to sulk all night.” His freckled hand finds Piet’s, squeezing tight, the tension melting into something warm.

Piet chuckles, pulling Jo into a rough hug, their frames fitting like puzzle pieces—lanky and stocky, fire and earth. “Ja, well, don’t make me pep-talk you every week. You’re stuck with me now, privilege or not.” They stay like that, tangled on the counter’s edge, the flat wrapping them in its quiet hum.

Later, sprawled on the couch with cups of tea, Jo’s grin is back—lopsided, real—his green eyes bright as he tosses the rugby ball to Piet. “Guess I’m not just the rich kid, hey?” he quips, lighter now, the lesson settling: his worth isn’t his dad’s money, but the heart he brings, the bond he builds.

Piet catches the ball, smirking. “Never were, bru. Now shut up and pass me the remote.” The night stretches out, their partnership stronger for it—Jo’s privilege reframed, Piet’s faith the glue that holds them steady.

I forget, will someone please remind me how and why is Piet's scarred arm and sunburnt skin so important in this story? I ask this because those things seem to be mentioned a couple of times in every chapter.

 

[ndamood4sum]

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.

I'm not sure why they were so worried, they had already all but confessed to Jacques, Carol asked the question already but I am surprised the Anna did know or have a feeling. They say a mother always knows.

I wondered what was going to happen with school. No more, water polo, lacrosse, wine shed, rugby lads, rock nerds or Friday nite cookouts.

 

[ndamood4sum]

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.

This is one story that I really HATE to see go. Why is the Civil Partnership paperwork still unsigned a year later? But what I really want to know is with 500K a month, why is Jacques still paying for or giving seed money to them?

I drive a Transit bus and every time I think about Spencer, I imagined using him as a speed bump so what I am about to say is so unlike me but, he showing up at one of the monthly gatherings, taking a chance not knowing if they would let him in or not, actually put the past behind them and welcome him back.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

I'm also irked that the civil partnership papers aren't signed. You want to know why? Because Johan is still too scared of being publicly labeled gay to sign anything official that would confirm that he's gay.

If it were up to Piet, they'd be married. There'd be no big ceremony, but there would probably be a celebratory braai.

If @jayson_steyn ever decides to continue this story, perhaps one plot line he might explore would be something to teach Jo the importance of being legally connected to Piet on a personal as well as a business level.

Say, heaven forbid, Piet having some serious accident and Jo not being allowed into the intensive care hospital room because he's not a family member. And then Piet's mother irrationally deciding their sinful relationship is why God punished her son with the accident and refusing to let Jo in. Learning that Jo gets no say in decisions about Piet's care and that if Piet died in there, Jo would not inherit Piet's half of the farm.

The lessons that taught American gay men, during the worst years of the AIDS crisis, that legal marriage was not just a heterosexual construct that gay men would never need.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

But what I really want to know is with 500K a month, why is Jacques still paying for or giving seed money to them?

The 500K rand a month is just rent for the farm, and it would be going to Grandpa and Anna de Wet if Grandpa hadn't died.

Van der Merwe Enterprises is operating the farm; it's not really any different than if the company were operating a restaurant or store or factory -- it's just that the farmland is what's being rented instead of an office or storefront or manufacturing space.

The money Jacques is spending at the farm is investment that Van der Merwe Enterprises is making in the business, no different from upgrading a restaurant kitchen or manufacturing facility.

The confusion probably comes from the fact that the boys are both Van der Merwe Enterprises' landlords (as owners of the farm) and employees (managing the farm for Van der Merwe Enterprises).

Is Jacques, as owner of Van der Merwe Enterprises, paying the boys a salary to be the farm's managers? A good question. As a business matter, he probably should be paying them. In fact, my guess is that he isn't. (And it probably wouldn't occur to them to bring it up; they're simply working in the family business.)

The theory is probably that the boys are managing the farm for Van der Merwe Enterprises as the major part of their degree program at Stellenbosch University -- sort of an internship on steroids. And they can live on the rent paid for the farm.

When the term of the Van der Merwe Enterprises lease ends, the boys, as owners of the farm, will presumably operate it for themselves, just as the de Wet family did before. Van der Merwe Enterprises will probably be involved in some major way, since the boys are the heirs apparent to that entire business.

(Why is Jacques giving seed money to Anna for the restaurant? Because he wants to give Anna seed money for the restaurant. Sure, he probably wouldn't do it if she weren't basically a relative, but she is. )

 

[Mcjoeybear]

This was extra hot, well written, I felt like I was there in their dorm room. Any plans to write more of the story?

 

[jayson_steyn]

guess whos back after a little break...

 

[jayson_steyn]

Jo and Piet hadn’t been back to Stellenbosch University much since taking over the DeWet fam—since dorm rooms had hummed with tension, water polo and rugby consumed lives, and the space between twin beds had become a no man’s land of desire, confusion, and slow-burning loyalty. Time had passed. Distance had settled things. But now, they were back.

It started with an invitation: a presentation Jo had to give on sustainable grazing methods for a visiting professor, and Piet tagging along to support—and maybe scope out an opportunity for his winemaking research. One night turned into a weekend, and Jo, ever the instigator, had a plan.

“We do this proper,” he’d said, slapping Piet’s shoulder with that old, lopsided grin. “Braai master night. Bring the whole gang back. Even Spencer.”

Piet had hesitated. Spencer, with his jagged fallout from the group, his sharp tongue and colder glares—hadn’t spoken to half the crew since last year. But Jo had a way of pushing momentum into places even fear couldn’t block.

And so they did it.

They borrowed the rugby house’s backyard—a low, slanted patch of grass under string lights and the outline of Stellenbosch mountains. Jo showed up in flip-flops and a sleeveless tee, that tin of braai spice still in his bag like a relic. Piet arrived with a crate of hand-bottled shiraz, a vintage he’d helped craft with the wine crew. The rest trickled in—old faces, newer ones, loud laughter dulling the rust of time.

Even Spencer came.

He lingered on the fringe at first, arms crossed, sunglasses on despite the evening sun. No one spoke to him much. Until Jo thrust a pair of tongs into his hand.

“You still know how to turn a wors without mangling it, or you gone all soft on us?”

That cracked it.

The fire roared. Flames hissed as fat dripped onto coals. The scent of boerewors and marinated lamb filled the air, earthy and thick with memory. Jo flipped meat like he was conducting a symphony, whistling an old Afrikaans tune under his breath. Piet poured wine with quiet grace, offering glasses with that steady smirk that made people feel steadied too.

Old grudges softened in the firelight. Spencer’s laugh—rare and raspy—finally slipped free after Jo dared him to race to the vineyard fence barefoot. Someone played guitar. Someone else sang off-key. The group, fractured once, found shape again in the smoke and spice.

Near the end of the night, Piet caught Spencer leaning close to Jo, murmuring something. Jo laughed, clapped him on the back, and passed him a rib bone like a peace offering. Their eyes met—not all the way trusting yet, but the bridge was being built, one ember at a time.

And later, as the last embers glowed and people drifted off, Jo and Piet stood side by side, beer bottles in hand, watching the flames crackle down.

“We still got it,” Jo murmured.

“Ja,” Piet said, his voice low. “Think we brought it all back. Even him.”

Jo nudged him, a grin forming. “Maybe we never really lost it.”

Piet didn’t answer—but his hand brushed Jo’s as they both reached for the last piece of steak. Not on purpose. Not entirely by accident either.

 

[ndamood4sum]

The 500K rand a month is just rent for the farm, and it would be going to Grandpa and Anna de Wet if Grandpa hadn't died.

Van der Merwe Enterprises is operating the farm; it's not really any different than if the company were operating a restaurant or store or factory -- it's just that the farmland is what's being rented instead of an office or storefront or manufacturing space.

The money Jacques is spending at the farm is investment that Van der Merwe Enterprises is making in the business, no different from upgrading a restaurant kitchen or manufacturing facility.

The confusion probably comes from the fact that the boys are both Van der Merwe Enterprises' landlords (as owners of the farm) and employees (managing the farm for Van der Merwe Enterprises).

Is Jacques, as owner of Van der Merwe Enterprises, paying the boys a salary to be the farm's managers? A good question. As a business matter, he probably should be paying them. In fact, my guess is that he isn't. (And it probably wouldn't occur to them to bring it up; they're simply working in the family business.)

The theory is probably that the boys are managing the farm for Van der Merwe Enterprises as the major part of their degree program at Stellenbosch University -- sort of an internship on steroids. And they can live on the rent paid for the farm.

When the term of the Van der Merwe Enterprises lease ends, the boys, as owners of the farm, will presumably operate it for themselves, just as the de Wet family did before. Van der Merwe Enterprises will probably be involved in some major way, since the boys are the heirs apparent to that entire business.

(Why is Jacques giving seed money to Anna for the restaurant? Because he wants to give Anna seed money for the restaurant. Sure, he probably wouldn't do it if she weren't basically a relative, but she is. )

I think I understand how the whole lease thing works and while I am not confused on the rental aspect of the farm, what I'm asking is they are getting 500K/mo in income. It doesn't make sense for Jacques to keep paying for things around the other farm since they actually have an income now, which will continue whether or not the farm makes money.

Within a few months, Anna could save up enough money to open her own restaurant without financial support for Jacques. If he is still providing them financial support, even now, it is starting to look like he's the ATM. Not sure what the agreement for the restaurant would be for the seed money, but Jacques would probably want a piece of that pie as well (maybe another 50/50 split) but if she can go at it alone, then I think she should, in order to leave something to Piet for himself, in case things don't go according to the plans.

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

It doesn't make sense for Jacques to keep paying for things around the other farm since they actually have an income now, which will continue whether or not the farm makes money.

Jacques is paying for things around the boys' farm because his company is the one operating that farm.

If the boys owned a storefront space and Jacques's company decided to lease it and operate it as a Chinese restaurant, it's Jacques's company which would buy the kitchen equipment and the tables and chairs. (And, if the restaurant closed, Jacques's company would still be the owner of the kitchen equipment and furnishings and would take them away, as long as they weren't permanently built into the building. After all, the next tenant might want to operate a bakery instead.)

And since Jacques's company is operating the farm, for as long as the lease lasts, Jacques's company gets to keep all the profit beyond the 500K rand in rent. (Unless, that is, there's some further profit-sharing agreement in the lease that Jayson didn't write out for us because what we're here for is romance and sex, not profit and loss.)

Within a few months, Anna could save up enough money to open her own restaurant without financial support for Jacques. If he is still providing them financial support, even now, it is starting to look like he's the ATM.

He is the ATM. But he knows it, and he's fine with being the ATM for family (as long as he's confident the money's not being wasted).

Not sure what the agreement for the restaurant would be for the seed money, but Jacques would probably want a piece of that pie as well (maybe another 50/50 split)

I'd presume that some split like that is just what he (or van der Merwe Enterprises) is getting. (The other possibility is that De Wet's Table will be a wholly-owned subsidiary of van der Merwe Enterprises and Anna will be paid a salary as executive chef. But I gathered from what Jayson wrote that the first option is the one they're going with.)

if she can go at it alone, then I think she should, in order to leave something to Piet for himself, in case things don't go according to the plans.

You have a good point, and if things go well with the restaurant, perhaps Anna will buy out Jacques's interest in the restaurant as the way to repay his investment. (Or his investment was simply a business loan that she repays. Who knows?)

As for leaving something for Piet himself if things don't go according to plan -- well, he owns 50% of the farm in his own right, so even if Jo decides to abandon Piet and the farm and run off to form a throuple with Byron and Matt in Cape Town, Piet will still own half the farm. He could sell and use the money for whatever else he decides, or (more likely) Jacques would take over Jo's interest in the farm and keep running it with Piet until Piet could either buy Jacques out or become a full partner in van der Merwe Enterprises.

Think back to the first conversation Piet and Jacques had, back on Piet's first visit to the van der Merwe farm. Jacques knows very well that Jo is not cut out to run the family business by himself, and he had Piet in mind as a partner of some sort. (Why nobody i thinking about Jo's sisters in all this is another question. Blame the patriarchy.)

@jayson_steyn, did you ever imagine we'd be discussing your characters' business dealings like this?

 

[PouletAuPoivre]

Here's a question ...

Piet and Jo each own, in their own right, 50% of the VDMDW farm.

If, a few years down the line, Jo does decide to run off to Cape Town to form a throuple with Byron and Matt -- or if, in a last-ditch attempt to demonstrate (to whomever) that he's not gay (because he hates labels, hey?), he decides to run off to Cape Town and shack up with Henk's sister (against the advice of Henk and everyone else) --

... would Piet be better off having married Jo (making the farm and everything else joint marital assets), or is he better off not being married to Jo, and maybe not even civil partners, so that Piet's ownership interest in the farm is free and clear and not tied up as a marital asset?

Or, perhaps more interesting, what would be the three parents' reactions to Jo running off (especially to shack up with a woman)?

And how would they react when Jo came crawling back (from the failed throuple or failed attempt at heterosexuality) like the Prodigal Son?

 

[jayson_steyn]

Jacques is paying for things around the boys' farm because his company is the one operating that farm.

If the boys owned a storefront space and Jacques's company decided to lease it and operate it as a Chinese restaurant, it's Jacques's company which would buy the kitchen equipment and the tables and chairs. (And, if the restaurant closed, Jacques's company would still be the owner of the kitchen equipment and furnishings and would take them away, as long as they weren't permanently built into the building. After all, the next tenant might want to operate a bakery instead.)

And since Jacques's company is operating the farm, for as long as the lease lasts, Jacques's company gets to keep all the profit beyond the 500K rand in rent. (Unless, that is, there's some further profit-sharing agreement in the lease that Jayson didn't write out for us because what we're here for is romance and sex, not profit and loss.)




He is the ATM. But he knows it, and he's fine with being the ATM for family (as long as he's confident the money's not being wasted).




I'd presume that some split like that is just what he (or van der Merwe Enterprises) is getting. (The other possibility is that De Wet's Table will be a wholly-owned subsidiary of van der Merwe Enterprises and Anna will be paid a salary as executive chef. But I gathered from what Jayson wrote that the first option is the one they're going with.)




You have a good point, and if things go well with the restaurant, perhaps Anna will buy out Jacques's interest in the restaurant as the way to repay his investment. (Or his investment was simply a business loan that she repays. Who knows?)

As for leaving something for Piet himself if things don't go according to plan -- well, he owns 50% of the farm in his own right, so even if Jo decides to abandon Piet and the farm and run off to form a throuple with Byron and Matt in Cape Town, Piet will still own half the farm. He could sell and use the money for whatever else he decides, or (more likely) Jacques would take over Jo's interest in the farm and keep running it with Piet until Piet could either buy Jacques out or become a full partner in van der Merwe Enterprises.

Think back to the first conversation Piet and Jacques had, back on Piet's first visit to the van der Merwe farm. Jacques knows very well that Jo is not cut out to run the family business by himself, and he had Piet in mind as a partner of some sort. (Why nobody i thinking about Jo's sisters in all this is another question. Blame the patriarchy.)

@jayson_steyn, did you ever imagine we'd be discussing your characters' business dealings like this?

It’s too funny! To be honest not a single one of this things even remotely crossed my mind. But it all makes for great future story lines because you know don’t you? It’s never smooth sailing with these 2…