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It takes Nick 4 whole months to find out that their foster kid is illiterate.
It might be horrible of him and Charlie, but Danny had been hiding it from them. Getting Nat to read him the signs and memorising them for rote regurgitation on car rides to and fro school. Guessing at the labels on cereal boxes. Pretending to be over-active when they’re making their way through reading. Using big words he’s heard from the TV but none that are actually in his books.
Nick sits now, in the headmaster’s office, watching the condensation fade from said headmaster’s oval glasses as he flips and flips and flips through Danny’s intake documents. He wonders what he might think of the situation – a primary school teacher not even realising that his own foster kid was illiterate.
“You’re, um. You’re not going to find anything,” Nick offers after a while, wanting so badly to get this over with. He’s imagining the nails-on-chalkboard scene in Jaws, except that scene is happening over and over again in his stomach. “Daniel’s never had formal schooling until now.”
Mr Malik arches an eyebrow, hand stilling over the documents. “His previous placements?”
“Never stayed long enough for the problem to come up, I think.”
Nick turns around to check on Danny and finds him exactly where they left him. Sitting in a plastic seat further down the hall, staring at his hands in his lap. He’s not moving at all – not playing with his fingers, not swinging his feet. His fiery red curls hang down over his eyes and ears, heavy like they’re dripping wet.
The image looks exactly like the first time he walked into their home. Like nobody would notice him if he could just stay quiet enough.
Nick feels his heartbeat pound slowly against his ribcage; blood dragging along his veins, heavy with sluggish guilt. His palms are slick with sweat, and he lets go of the arms of the chair to wipe them on his jeans. He’s been told that the swooping in his stomach is what makes him a parent, but Nick wonders if it’ll ever get less uncomfortable. Less jarring.
He pushes through the next fifteen minutes going through resources and options with the headmaster – transferring Danny to the special ed class, hiring an after-school tutor, holding him back a grade, homeschooling. Mr Malik seems surprised when Nick says he’s going to consult Danny before deciding to do anything, but he does allows Danny to stay home for the week and lets Nick leave without too much of a fuss.
Nick stuffs the brochures in his tote bag and makes a beeline for down the hall as soon as the door closes behind him.
“Hey kiddo,” Nick drops to the floor, pushing his kid’s hair out of his face as he goes.
But Danny doesn’t look up, so his curls just fall down again. He continues staring into his lap and breathing harshly – in and out, in and out – like if he doesn’t consciously do it he might forget to.
Nick, with a fracturing heart, places a hand on Danny’s shoulder, but his glacial speed is still not enough warning. The touch startles Danny so much that the chair beneath him screams as it scrapes against the tile.
Nick freezes, waiting for the warmth of the touch to sink in, before rubbing his thumb in slow circles against Danny’s crisp white shirt. The one he tried to hide behind his bed last night. Everything makes so much sense now: Danny’s reluctance to go to school and his aversion to even talking about it.
“Wanna go home?”
This finally gets Danny’s attention. He looks up at Nick like he can’t understand. Like he can’t believe this is happening.
“I just bought a new pint of that ice cream you like.”
Danny sucks his lower lip between his teeth and, just as Nick’s about to give up on getting a response, he nods.
***
“You’re not in trouble, okay? And I’m definitely not mad.” Nick twists around in the driver's seat before he starts the car to make sure Danny can hear and see just how not-mad he is. “When we get home we’re just going to sit down in the living room, have some ice cream, and talk about how we can help you. Does that sound good?”
Danny’s eyes rove over his face, but he doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for.
“Or we can just take a chill day and have the conversation tomorrow,” Nick takes a stab in the dark. “Whatever you want.”
“Today is fine,” Danny says softly, like he’s trying out words for the first time. And then, completely unnecessarily: “Please.”
Nick puts on his most assuring smile. “Sounds good, Dan. Do you want to use my phone on the way home? You can finish that level you were working on last night.”
He shakes his head, even though he’s normally begging to get his hands on any device he can. Instead, he stares up at Nick with a practiced blank expression.
Nick lifts up a fist between them, hoping for a bump back or something. Danny just tucks his hands under his chin and curls up into an even tighter ball.
***
Ice cream is mostly silent, except for Nick volunteering small comments about the new salted butterscotch flavour in his bowl. Trying to draw Danny into the conversation but to no avail.
He feels embarrassed like he hasn’t been since the first week; when he’d ushered Danny into the kitchen, and all he could think about was how ridiculously opulent their coffee machine, Charlie’s high-end juicer, his smoothie machine are. How they dare to live like this when there are other people – children – who don’t even have a square inch of space to themselves.
That feeling had abated a few weeks in, when Charlie realised how Danny’s eyes would track them with interest whenever they used the kitchen. He’d peer at them across the room, then over the sofa, then by the doorway. Closer and closer, until Nick had invited him to a cupcake frosting session and he’d shyly said yes. The first time he’d expressed interest in anything at all. After that, Nick could never be more relieved at having all these… things they could teach him how to use.
Danny’s file says child neglect. Says food insecurity.
And they’ve seen it in crystal clear detail over the last few months – hoarding food in his room, continuing to eat even after he’s full, getting anxious before every mealtime like he's anticipating walking up to the table to find no place set out for him. But today, he's less than halfway through his bowl of ice cream when he pushes it away and asks: “When do kids learn how to read?”
Danny looks genuinely ill, and Nick knows it's not the sugar.
So he puts his own bowl away and takes a deep breath. “It really depends. Every kid is–”
“When did Nat learn how to read?"
Nick’s expecting the utter deflation in his kid’s posture when he replies: “she was kind of a fast learner. She learned when she was three”, but it really doesn’t make it any less gut wrenching.
“Three,” Danny repeats, eyes wide in horror and shining with tears. “ Three. I’m… I’m nine.”
“Yes.” Nick has to grit his teeth against the sour feeling worming up his chest just to get the words out. “You’re nine, and you’re so smart. You’re going to learn in no time.”
“No.” Danny shakes his head, simultaneously petulant like the nine-year-old he is and defeated like he’s lived ten lives over. “No. I can’t.” He scratches at the side of his face with a viciousness Nick’s never seen before, and it leaves three wobbly lines of pink on his skin. “I’m stupid.”
Nick reaches out to grab at his wrist before he can do it again. “Don’t –” But Danny squirms out of his grip and places his back against a corner.
“I’m stupid,” Danny says again, like he’s convinced Nick didn’t hear him the first time.
“No, you’re not.”
“Stop it.” Danny’s arms creep up towards his face and Nick’s scared he might try to hurt himself again – but all he does is clamp his hands over his ears. “Stop it. I’m stupid. I don’t want to learn. I don’t want to learn.”
Nick takes a step forward and Danny doubles down immediately – squatting down, pressing his ears closed with even more effort and screwing his eyes shut, all the time still repeating “I’m stupid, I’m stupid, I’m stupid” under his breath until the words become a garbled mess of self-derision and disgust. Interspersed in his chanting, too, are words that no child should ever know and that’s when Nick understands: someone had fed him these vile, pathetic things.
It’s a rule in their house to not touch Danny unless he can see it coming, but Nick can’t help himself now. He steps forward and folds Danny into a hug, squeezing and shushing him until the trembling stops and the words die into nothing but wet breathing.
Nick tilts his head toward the ceiling and closes his eyes. He can’t decide if this world is cruel precisely so that good people can fix it, or if it's simply because there’s never been anyone good enough to fix it.
***
“Nick?” Danny whispers, finger stuttering on his skin. They’re laying down on the floor of the living room – black-out curtains drawn and lights off – and Nick is letting Danny trace mindless lines on his forearm.
The horrible breakdown had ended 30 minutes ago, but Nick can still hear the tears in Danny’s voice, rising and falling like the tide.
“Yeah?”
“Can you not tell Charlie?”
“About?” Nick keeps his tone carefully neutral, and wills his arm to stay perfectly outstretched even when Danny traces a spiral over the sensitive skin of his inner elbow.
“That I don’t know how to read.”
Nick hums. “How come?”
Silence.
“He won’t be mad,” Nick whispers into the darkness. “You know we’d never be mad at you about anything like this.”
Once the words leave his mouth, though, Nick knows that Danny definitely has no frame of reference for normality. Just an hour ago he was probably convinced that Nick was driving them home just to kick him out.
It honestly makes him sick to his stomach.
“Can I hold your hand?” Nick unfurls his fingers so they’re within Danny’s reach.
“Why?” is the question that eventually bounces back, guarded and confused.
Nick has to take some time to think. He wants to say, “because I’m your parent” or “because I want to be your parent”, but he can’t. Danny has a parent – a downright neglectful one, but it’s not like she’s ceased to exist just because Danny’s a ward of the state. So, in the end, Nick settles for a: “Because I think you’re scared. And don’t think anybody deserves to be scared alone.”
There’s a tiny sniffle and a weak shuffle before a small hand finds its way into his own. Nick curls his fingers around Danny’s, and squeezes once. Twice. Thrice.
“Nick? Can I tell you a secret?” Danny asks.
“Of course.”
“I want to stay here. With you and Charlie.”
Nick’s heart skips a beat.
He can’t believe the lights are off right now.
A hundred different images of Daniel flash past in his mind, and he wants so badly to believe that the version of Daniel who’s saying this is the one that’s relaxed and truthful, not the version that’s scared and willing to say anything to please whatever adult is in front of him.
“We’re not making you leave,” Nick says, steel in his voice. “We’d never make you leave. Not for anything.”
“Charlie.” Nick waits what feels like hours for the rest of the sentence. And the rest of it is: “Charlie’s a professor. He's not going to want someone like me in his house.”
Nick is so stunned that he literally can’t think of anything to say. But Danny must take his silence for something else, because he sits up abruptly and starts to ramble. “So just – Just. Just give me some time, okay? I’ll – I’ll work really hard. Even though – I’ll work hard. You don’t have to tell Charlie.” Nick can practically hear his heart hammering away in his tiny ribcage. “Please, Nick. Please. I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll do all the chores. I’ll –”
“Stop.” Nick has to put an end to this before he actually throws up. “Danny. Stop. Stop.”
In the thin light that filters in through a gap in the curtains, he can see a tiny hand wrap around a tiny mouth to keep too-large words from tumbling out.
Nick pushes himself up, ignoring the twinge in his lower back from lying down for so long on a hard floor. Danny doesn’t react to this except to grip tightly at his hand.
“Kiddo, can I hold you? Please?”
Nick is hardly done asking before he gets an armful of nine-year-old, clambering into his lap and burying his face into his collarbone. “Are you cross? Please don’t be cross with me.”
“I’m not cross,” Nick shushes, running a palm up and down his back, skin catching then releasing on the tiny balls of lint that have built up on the worn cotton of Danny’s purple Paw Patrol shirt. It was a present from Nat, who had picked it out for him in anticipation for his arrival. They were a little worried that he’d hate it, that it’d be a little too childish for him, but he’s worn it almost every day since that first day. They’ve caught him, more than once, imitating the entire squad just to make Nat laugh.
He’s a good brother.
He just doesn’t quite know how to be someone’s child. Not yet.
“Has anyone even tried to teach you how to read?”
“Victor has,” Danny says softly, before getting riled up again. “But I keep forgetting! I never – He’d teach me and by the next time I’d forget. I always forget.”
Nick knows Victor was a volunteer at the at-risk youth program in Danny’s old estate. Nick knows that Danny was dropped off at the daycare there sometimes, but he also knows that only ever happened when his mom was home. Which was almost never.
“We all forget things we don’t use, Dan.” Nick reminds him. “Reading’s like a skill. You have to keep practicing to get a hang of it.”
“Like your rugby?”
“Like my rugby. Exactly.” Nick feels the corner of his lip snick upwards, the pounding in his head letting up for the first time in hours. “And you remember how easily you picked that up.”
Danny lets out a shaky breath in a big sigh. “I don’t know, Nick."
“I know. I know you can do it. Okay? Just trust me.” Nick squeezes Danny in his arms, hard enough that it presses all air out of Danny’s lungs.
Nick knows he falls in love easily, and he falls in love hard. But he never knew he could love someone in this way: this pure, untethered way. Unaccompanied by ego of any kind. Just a simple, straightforward drumming of: this person needs love and therefore I’m going to love him.
“You’re going to hug me to death.” Danny wheezes out, but he still climbs even closer and wraps his arms around Nick’s neck. “You’re going to squeeze me and I’m going to pop and disappear into nothing. You won’t even be able to find me anymore because – because I’d be gone.”
Nick laughs and presses a kiss into the top of Danny’s head, the scent of his kid shampoo filling up everything. For the life of him, he can’t seem to make himself let go.
***
Charlie comes home with Nat later that afternoon and while Nat goes running off to find her big brother, Nick pulls him aside to explain the situation as vaguely as he possibly can. Charlie is confused – understatement – and jealous that they have a secret – also an understatement – but he trusts Nick enough to let it slide.
And so their private lessons begin.
The first class begins bright and early on a Saturday morning, and with teaching Danny the alphabet.
Danny has a good vocabulary; he’s just missing the components to put them together on paper. Nick can’t even imagine how much pain his kid has been in all these years, knowing what he wants to write but not being able to do it. Then having to lie about it like it doesn’t touch him.
But it must hurt. There's no way it doesn't.
Because Danny grips his pencil like a lifeline but also like a weapon pointed at himself. The graphite deposit on the paper builds up only after a few passes of him trying to trace the letters, biting down on his lip in concentration and body tense with anxiety.
Nick has to force him to take a break after just five minutes and four letters because he’s shaking so hard that his letters are coming out all wonky, which pushes him closer and closer to the brink of hyperventilation.
It goes on like this for fourty-five minutes – Danny writing four letters, then Nick forcing him to take a break to breathe, then writing four letters again.
Nick himself is sweating by the end of it: watching not just the words on the paper but also for Danny’s other hand to make sure he’s not digging his nails into his thigh.
“Okay, that’s the alphabet.” Nick says slowly, watching carefully as Danny sucks down water from his bottle. “What do you want your first word to be?”
Danny, chewing on the tip of his bottle, points cautiously at Nick.
“Me?”
He nods.
“My name?”
He nods again.
Not a talking day today, then.
Which is fine.
He ruffles Danny’s hair and points at the chart, letter by letter, until there, on the lined paper, is Danny’s first ever word: Nick.
***
Nick catches him, on more nights than not, reciting the alphabet to himself and tracing letters in the air past bedtime.
When he checks through Danny’s homework from his special ed class, the margins are all him practicing his alphabets. ABCs and abcs running up and down the page, on every spare surface. Then, a week or so later, he progresses onto writing Nick’s name on every spare surface. Then Nick and Charlie’s. Then Nick and Charlie and Nat’s. Sometimes there’s a doodle of a Paw Patrol character next to Nat’s name.
He writes their names more than he does his own – and on the off chance that he does, it’s always in a separate column from the three of them.
It breaks Nick’s heart, but he doesn’t point it out. Just reminds him to capitalise the D in his own name, because his name is as important as everyone else’s. He also always draws a heart or a star next to Danny’s name whenever he gets the chance to.
Danny rests his chin on his hands every time he sees it, but Nick knows it’s only to hide the red flush racing down his neck.
Slowly but surely, Danny starts writing his name with a capital D. And dan becomes Dan becomes Daniel becomes Daniel right next to Nick and Charlie and Natalie.
New words are still hard for him, though. And he doesn’t get less stressed or desperate about writing – he takes every dictation exercise like it’s a test for whether he gets to continue staying with Nick and Charlie.
So Nick tries every fun trick in the book – drawing pictures in letters, playing Bananagrams, Googling fun etymology facts – but nothing works better than being outdoors. They take a walk around the park together, hand in hand, and they take turns spelling things.
Danny points to a bench.
“B-e-n-c-h,” Nick says, then he points to a tree.
Danny's hand is sweating as it lies in Nick's, but he gives it a shot anyway. “T…r…e.” A pause. “And another E?”
“You got it.”
Danny stops walking and looks up at the leaves. The sunlight streams down his face in uneven, glimmering patches. “What kind?”
“Oak.”
“How do you spell that?”
“O-a-k.”
He wrinkles up his nose and starts walking again, but Nick knows exactly what he’s thinking.
“Weird spelling, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Nick laughs, then points at a dog walking past them.
“I know that one,” Danny says, with more confidence. “D-o-g. Poodle?”
“Good job. Yeah, poodle.” Danny has to pull gently on his hand before he remembers. “Oh, sorry. P-o-o-d-l-e.”
“Sounds like noodle. Noodle’s… the same? But with… With an N?”
“Exactly,” Nick smiles down at him. “Easy, right?”
He knows Danny disagrees vehemently, but sometimes just saying things makes them real.
They stop at an ice cream cart and he's aware of just how much Danny hates people knowing about the fact that he can’t read, so Nick reads everything out to him and buys him whatever he wants. After, they sit on a bench far away but near enough to still see the menu, and Danny struggles through every item, stopping only to lap up the ice cream melting down his fingers. He doesn’t give up until he gets through each flavour on the board, and Nick is so proud of him that he could combust.
Later that night when they get home, Danny joins Nat on the floor of the living room for some Paw Patrol and Nick goes straight to Charlie, sweeping him off his feet then hiding his face in his husband’s jacket.
Charlie laughs and lets himself get manhandled, as always. “Is it something you can tell me about? Or is it about the super-secret secret you have with our kid?”
“It’s the super-secret secret,” Nick confirms, ignoring Charlie’s half-hearted grumbling into his hair. “But just know that I love you, and I love Danny, and I love Nat. And I can’t believe how lucky I am.”
Charlie huffs out an exasperated breath. “Okay, put me down you freak. My brussel sprouts are burning in the oven.”
Nick, as always, does what he’s told. But he doesn’t leave the kitchen without slapping Charlie’s ass, which earns him a painful flick to the forehead.
***
Danny lets Charlie into the super-secret secret about a month or so later, when they’re out at a restaurant.
He sounds the letters of the dishes out loud, steadfastly ignoring Charlie’s confused glances flickering between him and Nick. His voice starts out strong, but it starts wobbling more with each word that he gets wrong.
“S-h-e-p-h-e-r-d,” Danny twists a hand in the collar of his Paw Patrol shirt, perpetually wrinkled from his anxious chewing and fussing at it over the past few months. “S-h-e, she. S-h-e-p, Shep. S-h-e-p-h. Shef.”
Nick leans forward to help, stomach flipping from the sheer distress on Danny’s face, but Charlie beats him to it.
“It might be easier to think of it as two words,” Charlie says evenly, sliding his index finger across the menu. “S-h-e-p, and h-e-r-d.”
Danny looks up in surprise, a frustrated tear slipping down his cheek before he quickly wipes it away.
Charlie just gazes back at him, a gentle smile on his lips but an expression that’s somehow both open and daring at the same time. “Try again. You got this.”
Shakily, Danny starts again. “S-h-e, she. S-h-e-p, Shep. H-e, he. H-e-r, her. H-e-r-d, herd.” He risks a glance upwards. “Shep. Herd? Shepherd?”
Charlie lifts a fist, and Danny bumps it without hesitation. The three of them share a secret smile, and then a Shepherd’s Pie in the centre of the table.