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Aaron had always been careful.

From the time he was little, he’d never worn sandals, never gone barefoot at a friend’s house, never showered after gym without keeping his right foot angled away from anyone who might notice. The birth defect was simple and permanent: his right big toe had never formed properly and had been removed when he was still a baby. What remained was a clean, empty space beside his second toe. No one at school had ever seen it. He made sure of that.

Then, on a Tuesday afternoon in early October, he broke his leg playing soccer.

It happened in the last ten minutes of practice. A bad landing after a contested header, a sharp crack that everyone heard, and then the kind of pain that made the world go quiet. His coach and two teammates half-carried him off the field. By the time his mom got him to the orthopedic clinic, the swelling was already serious.

The doctor was kind but efficient. X-rays. A quick talk about the fracture. Then the orange fiberglass cast went on, bright and final, running from just below his knee all the way down over his foot. They left the toes free so the circulation could be checked.

Four toes.

And a clear empty space where the fifth should have been.

Aaron sat on the edge of the exam table while the doctor finished the paperwork. His mom stayed quiet in the chair against the wall. He stared at the cast. The color was almost cheerful. The missing toe was not. For the first time in years, the thing he had hidden was sitting right out in the open under fluorescent lights, impossible to ignore.

His mom drove him home with the windows cracked. After a few minutes of silence she said, “You could wear a sock over it.”

He tried that night. A dark sock stretched thin over the end of the cast. It didn’t hide anything. The empty space still showed as a flat, unnatural dip. In the morning he stuffed the sock into his backpack and left it there.

First period was American History. He sat down carefully, propped the cast on the extra chair someone slid over for him, and waited.

It took about thirty seconds.

“Dude… what happened to your toe?”

The question came from Marcus, who sat two seats over and had never been known for subtlety. A few heads turned. Aaron felt the old familiar tightness in his chest, the one that used to make him angle his foot away under cafeteria tables.

He answered without looking up. “I was born without it. They took it off when I was a baby.”

Someone else asked if it hurt. Another kid wanted to know if he could still play soccer once the cast came off. A girl across the aisle simply said, “That’s kind of cool, actually.”

No one laughed. No one made the face he’d always imagined. They just asked, listened, and then—after a minute or two—went back to talking about the weekend or the upcoming quiz.

It kept happening all morning. Different people, same questions, same matter-of-fact answers. By third period Aaron had stopped bracing for the worst. The worst didn’t seem to be coming.

At lunch he found his usual table. His friends had already claimed a spot near the windows and left the end open for him. He sat down, swung the orange cast up onto an empty chair, and let the toes stay visible. Someone—probably Jay—had already drawn a small, slightly crooked smiley face on the plaster with a black Sharpie.

“You good?” Jay asked.

Aaron looked at the four toes sticking out of the bright cast, at the empty space that had felt so large for so long, and then at the faces around the table. Curious. Easy. Completely unbothered.

“Yeah,” he said, and meant it. “I’m good.”

Someone started telling a story about the soccer game that had put him here in the first place, exaggerating the dive, the referee’s call, the coach’s reaction. Aaron laughed harder than the joke deserved. The secret he’d protected for years sat out in the open under the cafeteria lights, and for the first time it didn’t feel heavy.

Kellen sat on the living-room couch with Travis’s casted leg stretched across his lap. The bright green cast locked the foot from mid-calf down, leaving only the five bare toes free to twitch against the dark fabric of Kellen’s jeans. Travis was half-reclined against the armrest, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, already looking a little nervous.

Kellen already knew those toes were murderously ticklish. He’d found out the hard way months ago. Now they were trapped, unable to kick free, and the knowledge sat warm and heavy low in his gut. He reached into the side-table drawer and pulled out the long white feather he’d stashed there earlier. Travis’s eyes narrowed the second he saw it.

“Kellen…”

“Shh.” Kellen lifted the cast just enough to rest it more firmly across his thighs. The toes flexed once, already sensing trouble. He dragged the tip of the feather along the side of the big toe, light as breath. Travis’s whole leg jumped.

“Fuck—don’t—”

Kellen ignored the protest and traced the feather across the soft pad of each toe in turn, watching them curl and spread, the skin flushing pink almost immediately. Travis’s breathing went shallow. A soft, helpless laugh broke out of him when the feather slipped into the space between the second and third toes and stayed there, circling slowly.

“You’re evil,” Travis gasped, trying to twist his foot even though the cast made it impossible. “They’re so fucking sensitive right now—”

Kellen hummed and kept going, slower, mapping every crease until Travis was laughing in short, desperate bursts, hips shifting restlessly against the couch cushions. The feather was only the beginning. When the laughter started turning into soft, needy sounds, Kellen set it aside and reached for the second thing he’d prepared: a soft-bristled toothbrush still in its plastic packaging.

Travis’s eyes went wide.

“Oh no. No, you absolute—”

Kellen tore the package open, wet the bristles just enough under the kitchen faucet to make them slick, and returned to the couch. He settled Travis’s foot back across his lap and pressed the brush to the underside of the big toe. The moment the bristles dragged across the skin, Travis’s head dropped back against the armrest with a broken moan that was half laugh, half something much dirtier.

Kellen worked methodically. Long, slow strokes under each toe, then short, buzzing circles right on the most sensitive pads. Travis’s free foot kicked uselessly against the couch cushions. His cock was hard against his stomach, leaking, completely ignored while Kellen focused on the trapped toes that couldn’t escape.

“Please—Kellen, please, it’s too much—”

Kellen leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the top of the big toe, still brushing steadily underneath. “You can take it,” he murmured against the skin. “You’re stuck right here on the couch. Nowhere to go.”

Travis’s answer was a high, broken sound as the toothbrush found the soft web between two toes and stayed there, vibrating lightly. His whole body arched. Kellen watched the way the toes clenched and spread, watched the way Travis’s thighs trembled, and felt the familiar, possessive heat of his own arousal settle deeper.

He kept going until Travis was reduced to wordless, breathless laughter and soft curses, until the toes were pink and shiny and twitching even when the brush pulled away for a second. Only then did Kellen set the toothbrush aside, lean in, and finally take the big toe into his mouth, sucking slow and deep while his fingers stroked the others.

Travis’s voice cracked on his name.

Six to eight weeks in this thing. Minimum. Then another month or more of physical therapy after it comes off. We’re talking late September, maybe October before I can even think about walking normal again. Forget gym. Forget any kind of real activity. Just weeks and weeks of limping around like a pirate who lost a fight with a barbell.

Three bones. Three. And the cast is so tight that my fifth toe is completely swallowed inside it while the rest of them are already turning that ugly deep purple. Every time I look down I’m reminded this isn’t a two-week inconvenience. This is the rest of my summer. Gone.

I’ve been sitting for almost an hour now, arms crossed, staring at the wall while they finish the paperwork. The doctor keeps saying “you’ll heal up just fine” like that’s supposed to make the next two months feel shorter. It doesn’t.

Sean broke his leg on a Tuesday that started like any other.

He was racing his bike down the hill behind the school, the one everyone said was too steep, when the front wheel caught a patch of loose gravel. One second he was flying. The next he was on the ground, the world tilted sideways, and a sharp white pain shot through his lower leg like a lightning bolt.

The hospital confirmed what everyone already suspected. Clean break. Six weeks in a cast.

The first cast was blue—bright, electric, the exact shade of the sky on the day he fell. Sean stared at it in the casting room while the doctor wrapped the wet plaster around his leg. It felt heavy and warm at first, then slowly cooled into something solid and final. When they finished, the technician handed him a black marker.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Make it yours.”

By the end of the first week the blue cast was covered in signatures, doodles, and inside jokes. His little sister drew a stick-figure version of him falling off the bike (complete with a speech bubble that said “OW”). His best friend wrote “World’s Okayest Bike Rider” in giant letters across the shin. Someone added a tiny rocket ship blasting off near the ankle. Sean started signing other people’s casts in return whenever he saw them at school, a quiet club of the temporarily grounded.

Those first three weeks were the hardest. Stairs became mountains. Showers required plastic bags and careful balancing. Sleep meant propping the leg on pillows so the throbbing would quiet down. But the blue cast also became a kind of badge. Teachers gave him extra time. Kids asked to sign it. He learned how to hop on crutches with surprising speed, and he discovered that the cafeteria lady always saved him the last chocolate-chip cookie if he arrived a little late.

Then the day came to cut the blue cast off.

The saw was loud and vibrating, but it didn’t hurt. When the two halves fell away, Sean’s leg looked pale and skinny, the skin flaky and strange. The doctor examined the X-rays, nodded, and said the bone was healing well—but not quite ready for full freedom. Another three weeks. This time in an orange cast.

Orange felt different from the start.

It was louder somehow. Brighter. The color of caution signs and autumn leaves and the traffic cones that had blocked off the hill where he’d crashed. Sean’s sister immediately declared it “the fire cast.” His friends covered it in black marker flames and a cartoon phoenix rising from the toes. Someone wrote “Almost There” in careful block letters near the knee.

Caught in the act: Austin officially claiming ownership of Avery’s cast.

Oof, that’s a rough streak of bad luck for Nahum.

Broken foot → cast + crutches is already miserable enough (the constant weight shift, the itch you can’t scratch, the sheer awkwardness of everything). Then managing to slice open the big toe on the same foot while the cast is still on and needing stitches on the bottom of it? That’s next-level inconvenience. Walking (or rather, hobbling) with both a cast and fresh stitches on the weight-bearing part of the toe sounds like a special kind of torture.

Ryan pushed open the front door and called out, “Special delivery for the one-legged pirate!”

From the living room came a familiar laugh, followed by the soft thump of crutches. Ian appeared in the doorway, grinning despite the awkward green cast that ran from his toes to just below his knee. It was the exact shade of a fresh lime, already covered in a few messy signatures and doodles from the past week.

“You’re late,” Ian said, hopping carefully toward the couch. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“Never.” Ryan dropped a bag of snacks on the coffee table and pulled a black Sharpie from his pocket. “Alright, give me the canvas.”

Ian stretched out his leg with a dramatic groan. Ryan knelt beside the cast, found a clean spot near the ankle, and carefully wrote:

Get well soon, you clumsy idiot. –Ryan Then, just below it, he added a tiny stick-figure version of Ian falling off an imaginary skateboard.

“There. Official now.”

Ian examined the new addition and snorted. “You’re lucky I can’t kick you.”

They settled in for the afternoon—video games with one controller shared between them, half-eaten bags of chips, and the usual back-and-forth roasting. Every time Ian shifted and the cast bumped the coffee table, Ryan would glance over, ready to help, but Ian waved him off with a smile that said he was managing just fine.

By the time the sun started to dip, the living room smelled like microwave popcorn and the green cast had one more story written on it.

Ryan stood to leave, giving Ian’s shoulder a light squeeze. “Same time next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Ian replied. “Bring more snacks. And maybe a better drawing next time.”

Brady kept the long toes moving while the three boys watched. He curled them, spread them, lifted the second one higher than the rest and held it there for a few seconds before letting it drop. Jake’s finger still rested lightly against the tip of that longest toe, following the motion without pressing hard.

Marcus finally looked up from the open end of the cast. “You got a marker?”

Brady glanced at his pack, still sitting where he’d dropped it. “Somewhere in there. Why?”

“We’re signing it,” Marcus said, like it was already decided. “Camo or not, you don’t leave camp without names on that thing.”

Jake nodded, still watching the toes flex under his finger. “Yeah. Gotta claim a spot before someone else does.”

Tyler was already digging through Brady’s pack. He came up with a thick black permanent marker and held it out. “Who goes first?”

Brady didn’t move the leg. He just kept the long toes shifting slowly against the dirt while the three of them crowded closer. Marcus took the marker and started near the top of the thigh, writing his name in big block letters across the green-and-brown pattern. Jake waited his turn, still playing with the toes—pressing them gently one by one, watching them curl and straighten.

When Marcus finished, Jake took the marker but didn’t start writing right away. He gave the longest toe another slow stroke with his thumb first, then finally leaned over and signed lower down the shin. Tyler went last, claiming a spot closer to the ankle, right above where the fiberglass ended and the toes began.

The whole time, Brady’s toes never stopped moving. The boys signed with one hand and kept the other free to touch, poke, or just rest against the long pale toes that stuck out into the open air. Jake traced the length of the second toe with a fingertip while Tyler capped the marker. Marcus watched the toes spread wide again and muttered, “Still the best part.”

yo check out my cast rn it’s actually disgusting

this purple thing has been on my foot for forever and i literally have not cleaned it once. not even once. it’s all cracked and broken and the fiberglass is just peeling off everywhere like it’s falling apart on purpose. there’s dirt and sand stuck all over it and my toes are sticking out looking hella dirty like i’ve been walking through a construction site or something.

idk why people act like casts are supposed to stay nice and clean. mine looks like trash and i don’t even care. i just leave it like this and keep doing whatever.

Evan’s soccer game started like any other Saturday. He was running hard, chasing the ball, doing what he loves most. One awkward landing later and everything changed. The sudden pop, the sharp pain, the abrupt stop on the field.

That afternoon he was in the ER. The first photo captures those early hours — his foot carefully splinted and elevated, already looking a little defeated. X-rays confirmed the break. Doctors fitted him with the temporary setup and sent him home to rest.

A few days later the splint was gone, replaced by a bright blue cast and a pair of crutches. The second photo shows him at the science center shortly after, blue cast on full display, standing among the exhibits and asking question after question. Crutches and all, he still managed to make the trip.

Now the cast is part of his everyday routine. Evan is already back at school, navigating crowded hallways, classroom desks, and the lunch line with one leg out of commission. The crutches echo down the corridors. Friends sign the blue plaster. Teachers adjust seating. Everything takes a little longer than before.

Mick sat on the sun-warmed bench at the edge of the skatepark, his blue fiberglass cast stretched out in front of him like a bright, awkward sock. The park was busy for a Sunday afternoon. Wheels clacked against coping. Someone yelled as they landed a kickflip on the flatbar. The air smelled like hot asphalt, wax, and the faint rubber of grip tape. Mick’s right foot twitched inside the cast, muscle memory still trying to ollie even though the bones weren’t ready.

He watched his friends. Tyler was attempting a backside smith on the ledge for the third time. Fail. Fail. Then a clean lock-in and a smooth roll away. The usual cheers. Mick clapped once, then stopped, feeling stupid for making noise when he couldn’t follow it up with anything.

A shadow fell across the bench.

“You’re really just gonna sit here and rot?”

It was Jace. He dropped his board with a familiar clatter and sat down hard enough to bounce Mick’s cast.

“Doctor said six weeks minimum,” Mick muttered. “Maybe eight if I don’t stop trying to put weight on it.”

Jace looked at the blue cast, then at Mick’s face. “So you’re just gonna watch us land the stuff you invented?”

Mick shrugged. The motion felt small. “Not like I have a choice.”

Jace stood up, kicked his board into his hand, and pointed the nose at Mick’s chest. “Then coach. You’ve got the best eye in this whole park. Tell me why my feeble is still sketchy.”

Mick blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. And if you start moping again I’m drawing a dick on your cast while you’re not looking.”

Mick almost smiled. Almost.

He leaned forward, elbows on his good knee, and studied the way Jace set up for the next try. The weight distribution was off by half a second. The shoulders opened too early. Little things. The kind of things Mick used to feel in his own body before the concrete decided otherwise.

“You’re rushing the pop,” Mick said. “Wait until the nose is fully over the coping. And keep your front shoulder closed longer.”

Jace nodded, dropped in, and nailed it cleaner than before.

The afternoon stretched on. Mick’s voice got stronger. He called out lines, pointed out timing, laughed when someone ate shit in the most spectacular way possible. The blue cast stayed heavy and useless on the bench, but somehow it stopped feeling like the only thing that mattered.

When the sun started dropping and the park lights flickered on, Tyler rolled up and held out a black Sharpie.

“Your turn,” he said. “Write something good. Something that’ll make future Mick laugh when he sees it.”

Mick took the pen. For a second he just stared at the empty space near his ankle. Then he wrote, in careful block letters:

Still here. Still watching. Still better than you.

He capped the pen and looked out at the ramps, the rails, the kids still chasing the last light.

The ankle would heal. The board was waiting in the garage. And until then, the park still had a place for him—even if that place was a wooden bench and a bright blue cast that glowed under the floodlights like it was trying to be part of the scene.

Mick leaned back, crossed his arms, and kept watching.

Trevor sat on the classroom floor with his legs stretched out, his neon green cast sticking straight into the middle of their work space like a big glowing obstacle. The bright fiberglass cast went halfway up his shin and felt warm and itchy from sitting on the carpet all period. His toes poked out the end, looking pale and a little sweaty after two weeks stuck inside.

Marcus, Andi, and Visha were sitting cross-legged around the big piece of poster board, supposed to be working on their solar system project. But mostly they kept sneaking glances at Trevor’s cast.

“Whoa, that green is so bright it’s like a highlighter,” Marcus said, leaning forward on his elbows. “Tell us again how you broke it at the trampoline park.”

Trevor grinned and tapped the side of the cast with his pencil. “I was trying to do a double backflip and landed super weird on the edge. My foot twisted under me and I heard this loud crack. It hurt so bad I couldn’t even stand up. My dad had to carry me out while everybody stared.”

Andi’s mouth dropped open. “Did you cry?”

“Yeah… a little,” Trevor admitted, his face turning red. “The doctor said I broke two bones in my foot. I picked neon green when they put the cast on. It’s fiberglass so it’s lighter than the old plaster ones.”

Visha reached over and gently knocked on the cast with her knuckles. “It’s rock hard! Can you feel anything when I do that?”

“Nope,” Trevor said. “My whole foot’s numb inside there. But it gets crazy itchy. I shove a ruler down the top to scratch sometimes.”

Marcus laughed. “That’s gross but cool. Can we sign it?”

All three kids grabbed markers at once. Andi drew a little Earth near his ankle. Visha wrote “Get Well Soon, Astronaut!” in purple. Marcus sketched a trampoline with a stick figure crashing and wrote “NO DOUBLE BACKFLIPS EVER” in big letters across the side.

Trevor tried not to laugh too loud so the teacher wouldn’t notice. “You guys are the worst.”

Visha wrinkled her nose. “Does it smell weird in there yet? Casts get stinky after a while, right?”

“Kinda,” Trevor said, making a face. “My toes are all wrinkly and pale now. My mom says I gotta keep it dry, but it’s hard when we’re sitting on the floor like this.”

Brady sat on the curb, staring at his dirty toes sticking out of the blue cast. He sighed and thought back to that dumb day three weeks ago.

It had started like any other Saturday. Him and Sam had biked over to the park after lunch, the one with the big dirt hills and the giant rock that everyone called Monster Rock. It was this huge boulder that stuck up higher than the playground equipment. Kids were always climbing it, but nobody jumped off the top. Nobody except Brady that day.

"Bet you won't jump from the highest part," Sam had dared him, grinning like an idiot. Brady, who hated backing down from anything, climbed straight up. The rock was all rough and warm from the sun. From the top it looked way higher than it did from the ground. His heart was pounding, but he didn't want Sam to think he was scared.

"Watch this!" Brady yelled. He took a big breath and leaped off like he was some kind of superhero. For a second it felt awesome, like flying. Then he hit the ground weird. His right foot twisted under him with a sharp crack that he actually heard. Pain shot up his leg so bad he dropped right there in the dirt, yelling and holding his ankle.

Sam freaked out and ran over. "Whoa, are you okay?" But Brady wasn't okay. He couldn't even stand. Some older kids helped carry him to a bench while Sam called Brady's mom on his phone.

At the hospital they took X-rays and everything. The doctor said he broke a bone in his foot and sprained his ankle real bad. "No running, no skateboarding, and keep the cast dry for six weeks," the doctor told him. Six whole weeks! Brady thought that was the worst news ever.

Now here he was, toes all gross and black under the nails from three weeks of limping around outside. The cast had started bright blue but was already scuffed up with dirt and marker drawings from his friends.

Sam finally rolled up on his bike, that same squeaky wheel sounding extra loud today. He stopped and looked at Brady's foot. "Still thinking about Monster Rock?"

Brady nodded and gave a half-smile. "Yeah. Never jumping off that stupid thing again."

Sam laughed. "Good. 'Cause next time I'd have to carry you home myself."