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Chapter Text

By this time last January 6th, Quasimodo had been hyperventilating and scrubbing his skin raw to get rid of the rot and sludge. It was now a full year later, and the memories had dimmed excruciatingly slowly, but he thought they wouldn’t haunt him anymore. The people of Paris had promised him restitution, a new Festival of Fools built on lessons learned. He agreed to show up as last year’s king, after many talks with his friends and many, many  promises of innocent intent from Clopin.

And Clopin had kept his word. The people carrying him sang his praises as the king, the crowds threw nothing but flowers and confetti. Phoebus and Achilles kept a sharp eye out for any disorder and Esmeralda smiled reassuringly at him from where she waited at the stage. She had just crowned the new king, for their impressively ridiculous costume and not for their looks, and Quasimodo was set to ceremoniously pass on the honour. They had rehearsed this. He had been apprehensive but also, inexplicably, excited. Even if deep down in his gut something was twisting, telling him to bolt every time a thrown flower came too close.

He should’ve listened to his instincts, because in that crowd he was prey. Strong as he was he was only one man, and it didn’t take many others to bring him to his knees this time. They had gotten bolder, while they were seething at him as he walked free, the Captain of the Guard at his heels. Unless sleeping on the floor of a prison cell sounded appealing, no one would mess with Quasimodo. But it was a big crowd, and an auspicious day. One man screaming profanities got subdued by everyone around him, who were horrified on Quasi’s behalf, but then another man followed his lead. Emboldened by the anonymity of the crowd and embittered by Quasi’s public existence, there were enough who sought the entertainment of last year’s Feast. And in a sea of people growing increasingly hostile, Quasi could’ve sworn he saw the first guard to throw a tomato. The second one. The woman who shielded her baby with a cross. The child who screamed monster. The man who brought him to kneel with rope digging into his neck, choking him, yanking as if rounding up a dangerous animal. The laughter. The gleeful laughter.

“Quasi?”

He should’ve known the people ecstatic to watch him be beaten to the ground would’ve been scattered throughout this year’s crowd. He should’ve known they’d be angry that he’d dare to show his face. The face of a monster. A monster unfit for a joyous celebration, unfit to be around the good people of Paris. He shouldn’t have been surprised when pain ripped through his lower back and when he turned, a rock had clattered at his feet. It had traces of cement clinging to its sides, and must’ve been a cobblestone torn up from the street. It was an incredibly stupid thing to pay attention to, where the stone might’ve come from. But his brain had to latch onto something as his body kicked into panic.

“Quasi.”

Esmeralda’s hands were on his arm, and he knew automatically that she didn’t mean to hurt him but she was, she was pulling too hard, nails digging into his skin, and the next rock almost hurt less.

“Sweetie, look at me.”

Her hand tilted his head up, her thumb rubbing soft circles into his cheek. She tried for a smile when his dull eyes finally focused on her. Sporting a black eye and tear stains, she was the only person Quasimodo could bear to look at.

“The festival’s over, it’s quiet out there,” she spoke slowly, her voice always kind. It hadn’t been when she was screaming at a man twice her size, one of Frollo’s old guards, as she beat him off the stage. “Phoebus has the house surrounded, nobody’s getting to either of us.” She had been a target too. Men spat witch at her. She bobbed her head a bit lower and met his eyes with her pleading ones. “You’re safe.”

He knew she was freaking out. He hadn’t said a word or shed a tear, he didn’t quite remember if he’d done anything but follow her obediently as he was pulled away from the festival. There was such anger in her eyes, the remnants of her going ballistic on the sea of screaming, blurring faces. None of it was meant for him, he knew, as her hand was nothing but gentle. It brought him warmth but no comfort. How could he feel comforted, when he didn’t even feel upset? He didn’t feel anything.

His cuts were bandaged, the gouges in his body covered by clean white cloth. Esmeralda had held his hand steady, the one with two broken fingers, while he washed the remains of concrete and dirt from his marred skin. In any other circumstance he would have been mortified to bathe in front of Esmeralda, or anyone, but he could only acknowledge the sting of his wounds being washed out with disinterest. Nothing else even registered. Now he was bundled in one of Phoebus’ oversized nightshirts, old cotton worn down to be so soft. It smelled like Phoebus. Esmeralda’s hand was on his face. He felt nothing.

Quasimodo, sweetheart, it will be okay, she signed.

He nodded, because of course he would agree with anything she told him. She could’ve yelled that she never wanted to see him again and he would’ve nodded in appeasement all the same.

Phoebus walked in, he must’ve arrested half the city from the exhaustion weighing him down. He wordlessly turned into the kitchen and it wasn’t long before the kettle whistled and chamomile wafted through the air. Esmeralda accepted her mug with a tight-lipped but genuine smile, and a second mug was placed by her knee. Quasi’s gaze drifted towards it. The smell was nice, homey. He didn’t want any.

Sitting heavily down with a huff Phoebus put his arm around Quasi’s shoulders, pulling him into a side-hug in the casual way he did often. Quasimodo let his muscles relax, leaning into the new source of warmth. Esme blew on her tea, staring miles away with a storm raging behind her eyes.

Phoebus was speaking softly to Esmeralda, and Quasi leaned into the gentle vibrations coming from his chest. He felt the words brush against his hair as little breaths, and realized he must’ve been pulled closer. Phoebus had both arms around him now and his chin mantled atop Quasi’s head, careful not to aggravate any wounds. Engulfed by the other man, he still didn’t feel safe. There was a hollowed out cavity in his chest where all his whirling, turbulent emotions used to fight. The little breaths of air felt nice on his damp hair. Everything they did for him felt nice, every part of his body hurt, none of the words hurled at him echoed in his empty head. Maybe this was the closest he’d ever feel to safety from now on.

And that did it. With his last bit of consciousness he felt his breathing grow laboured and his nose sting as tears spilled suddenly into the fabric of Phoebus’ shirt. He just wanted to feel safe, secure, loved. But it would never last, because two people could not protect a monster from the endless swarm of hateful jeers and stones and fists. His sanctuary on the floor of their living room was impermanent, it would be ripped away from him soon. Phoebus rocked him gently as his breathing evened out and deepened. By this point, sleep was a mercy.

Chapter Text

Esmeralda couldn’t taste her tea over the bile rising in her throat. She stared at the wall, letting her periphery blur as she tried to control her anger. Now that Phoebus had taken Quasi she didn’t have to be stable for him, she didn’t have to radiate kindness, and finally processing the day’s events she was burning with rage. And guilt. It happened again. She vowed nothing like that would ever happen again. She was the one to reassure him nothing would happen this year.

She was almost as angry at herself as she was at the men hopefully sitting in cells by now.

“Esmeralda, you need something for that eye. Esme, hey.”

Her bones felt like they were grinding together with how tense she was when she turned to Phoebus.

“I’ve got him, you need to take care of yourself now.” He was looking at what was surely a nasty bruise with concern. He had come out relatively unscathed, but she’d seen Achilles limping and he must be furious about that.

Everything was threatening to bubble over when she opened her mouth. “I can’t—” her voice cracked painfully. “He’s—” One time was an unfortunate incident. Twice was a lesson learned. “He’s not responding to anything, Phoebus,” her voice fell to a whisper, “something’s wrong.”

Phoebus looked at her the way he would look at a spooked horse, even though she needed him to understand the gravity of what had happened. “There’s nothing more you can do for him right now, not until you’ve calmed down.” Before she could scream that calm was the last thing she wanted to be, his gaze softened. “I know. I know, Esme, that was inhuman. It’s not alright, but you’re bruising your arm.”

With great effort Esmeralda loosened the vice grip she had on her own arm. Her nails left little red crescents.

Phoebus suddenly shifted his focus back to Quasimodo, and the next moment she realized why. He was too tired to cry very loud but the sound broke her heart. And yet relief flooded through her body; he had been unresponsive for the hours it had taken to clean and bandage every vicious reminder of the festival. All the tension in her collapsed as tears of her own gathered in her eyes. She’d never seen him like that before, not for that long. Holding his vacant face in her hands, searching desperately for any emotion she could soothe and finding nothing, was going to haunt her.

Phoebus began to sing and rock them both to the slow beat with his heels, Quasi practically in his lap. He only knew songs sung by soldiers and drunks, and wasn’t a particularly good singer, but Quasi never seemed to mind. Curling up against them while they sang was the most surefire way to calm him down, and always ended with him fast asleep in their arms. It was a rare occasion, because he was embarrassed to ask for such affection from them, and even rarer for Phoebus. It was Esmeralda whom Quasi usually sought comfort from, but, inexplicably, Phoebus was better at it. He had sat down and guided Quasi into an embrace, and immediately he had relaxed more than Esmeralda had managed with him. She ignored Phoebus’ plea for her wellbeing a few minutes more, relishing in her boys being safe beside her.

The image and the warmth they radiated was one she would hold onto as fiercely as Djali with something inedible in her mouth. Little by little the tension left Quasimodo and he could do nothing but breathe shakily through his cries and grasp weakly at the hem of Phoebus’ tunic. She wanted so badly to have scooped him into her arms and kissed his perfect face until he was giggling and turning red, but she knew that would’ve been too much for him right now. Tremors had wracked her since the adrenaline faded, and had yet to cease. If she had been the one to hold him, she might’ve ended up even more of a sobbing mess.

She didn’t care that Phoebus was cycling through the same song as Quasi’s hitching cries quieted. He continued singing and rocking long after the man in his arms had fallen asleep, looking haggard below the calm and about ready to pass out himself. When he absentmindedly kissed Quasi’s hair in between verses Esmeralda couldn’t take anymore and buried her face in her knees, willing the tears back. The world was cruel and wicked and sometimes Frollo’s hateful face flashed in her mind, but nothing could rip her boys from her, and she would fight for that promise if it left her bloody and bruised.

Esmeralda dragged her sore body over to the wash basin, remembered it was still full of dirty, bloody water, and pivoted to find something else, almost losing her footing as her vision swam. Phoebus looked torn between staying with Quasi and jumping up to help her. She waved in his general direction and focused on the corner of the rug until her head stopped pounding. “I’m fine. Just hungry, is all.”

None of them had eaten much, expecting to partake in the actual feast of the Feast of Fools. She had been hungry before the festival imploded, and now it wasn’t helping her anxious nausea. She took a deep breath. Clean up first, her dancing garb smelled like sweat and the rotten tomatoes that had managed to hit her. There was a smaller bucket she had been using for carting clean water to replace the filthy contents of the tub, and peering into it she saw enough to start with. She really didn’t want to leave the house to get more.

Checking for the hundredth time that the curtains were drawn, the red and violet cendals were stripped from her body and she scrubbed uncaringly at the sweat dried underneath the fabric. The pigment on her eyelids had dribbled down with her tears to make a mess all over her face, and she suddenly found all the makeup unbearable and focused her attention there. Her hair would have to wait, but she eventually pulled it angrily into a braid behind her lest she rip it all out. Several times she heard Phoebus inhale like he was about to say something, but he never did and she didn’t care if trying to scrub her skin off made her look crazy.

There was a knock at the door just as she had finally begun applying salve to the bruising around her eye. It had swollen so much she could barely open it without pain. She ran to grab something to cover herself, landing on another one of Phoebus’ nightshirts— how many did a man need, really— but she supposed it was cute they were all wearing his clothes today. Some levity was required at some point, and matching shirts was better than matching bruises.

At the door one of Phoebus’ trainees shuffled his feet nervously. “Um, your jolly bad-times pal is here.” What. The poor teen gestured desperately around. “He— he said you would know what that means?”

“He— oh.” She was not in the mood for this. “Thank you, Perci,” she smiled at him sympathetically and walked out to motion Clopin closer.

The spindly jester skipped past the guards, who eyed him but said nothing. He was missing a shoe, one of his bizarre festival ones that squeaked. The uneven honking sound from every other step grew in volume as he approached. Esmeralda glared at him wearily. “You look gruesome, chérie.”

“Thanks.” She slipped into Romani. “Why are you here?”

He pinwheeled his arms up and towards her, and she would’ve flinched if she wasn’t so used to him as they smacked onto her shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye Perci reached for his sword hilt. Clopin’s grip strength was remarkable for his physique. “I had nothing to do with this. This time.” He was smart to have gotten her in an inescapable position before he started his spiel, otherwise she would’ve turned and slammed the door in his face. “La Esmeralda. Light of my life, near-martyr of France, the girl who brought the Church to kneel—”

“If you’re trying to flatter me, it isn’t working, I’m about to punch you.”

“— I swear on the blond’s life I had nothing to do with this. Again, this time. I had a significant amount to do with the first time. But not this time. I no longer wish to torment your friends, even if thinking about it helps me fall asleep at night.”

“You have ten seconds.”

“So!” Clopin’s teeth were bloody, she noticed as he grimaced frantically, searching for a way to prolong his speech without getting thrown out of the neighbourhood. “So! I wanted to offer my assistance!”

“How hard did you get hit?” She couldn’t see much of his face behind this year’s elaborate mask.

“Pardon?”

She pointed to her own teeth before repeating herself. “How hard did you get hit?”

“Ah.” His hand mimicked hers, snaking halfway up to his face. “Hard enough that I came to with a bucket of ale dunked on my head, and you lot disappeared.”

Esmeralda pried his remaining claws off of her aching shoulders. She nodded for him to continue.

“Let me send a party to the house, love, I don’t trust these foolish folk, come on, they let me near, which was a grievous mistake.” Perci looked like he knew he was being insulted, but at least his hand had wandered from the sword.

Letting the tension leave her once more, Esmeralda sighed with more than a hint of exhaustion. “That would be very kind of you, but we’re covered for now. Send them upon sunset, the boys here will want to go home.”

Clopin nodded resolutely, clearly not happy with that decision but unwilling to test her patience further. He patted her uninjured cheek with surprising softness. “Take care of yourself, now. And give him my well-wishes. From the King of Truands to the King of Fools.”

With a quick disappearance until nothing but the receding squeaking of his shoe remained, Esmeralda was left alone on her front step. Well, besides the teenager. “When a group arrives at sunset, call me out again, and then you are all free to go.”

Reentering the house she found Phoebus making a little braid in Quasi’s hair, and she smiled to herself. “Clopin sends his regards,” she spoke quietly, as if afraid to spook the men cuddling on the ground. It was the most adorable, albeit heartbreaking, thing she had ever seen.

“Does he?” Phoebus’ face scrunched up unpleasantly. “I find that hard to believe.”

She shrugged, and before she knew what she was doing she was carrying the water bucket outside. Maybe she just needed a little push, she actually felt better.

Chapter Text

Something soft and warm and… breathing?… surrounded him as his consciousness unwillingly rose to meet reality. It smelled like Phoebus. It probably was Phoebus. Quasi’s lips felt like leather and he instinctively licked them. He should’ve accepted the tea when he had the chance. Nothing else hurt but he was sure that was because he hadn’t yet moved. His body was content in its half-asleep state, and he didn’t want to feel the day’s events come crashing down on him. Thirst he could handle, the Feast of Fools he could not. Not anymore.

A hand reached for his unbroken one, and Phoebus signed into it. Hi.

“Hi.” His voice was barely there, but the way Phoebus’ whole body relaxed told him he heard.

It was dark and dusky in the house, and having his face pressed into a shirt for so long made him yearn for fresh air. No one would be out at whatever early hour of morning it was. The thought would’ve sent him into a panic if he had any energy left.

“Have you… been here the whole time?” His voice gave out on half the syllables but he let it be when Phoebus shook his head into his hair. He must’ve switched out with Esmeralda at some point, then. A memory surfaced of her arms around him, for a brief moment of barely-there lucidity.

Phoebus began to pull away, not even so he wasn’t holding Quasi anymore but just enough to catch a glimpse of his face, before Quasi made a pathetic little noise and tensed involuntarily. Immediately Phoebus was holding him as securely as he had been, speaking words that ran over his hair and were meant to soothe him. This was a soldier whose life’s work was evident in the sturdy build of the arms cocooning him. For decades he had risked brutal death on the whim of whoever could pay. He should’ve balked at being gripped like Quasimodo was a scared child. He should be disgusted with his weakness, and it wasn’t until he began rocking them again that Quasi realized he was on the verge of panic. Expecting to be shoved aside once tolerance had worn thin. Phoebus wasn’t Frollo.

Yet even as he reminded himself of this, disgust settled in his gut. If his friends didn’t demean him, it was only because they didn’t want to ignite his instability. An angry and scared Quasimodo could’ve hurt everyone in this house, no matter how sore and shaky he was. His inability to move on from a day that, in retrospect, had led to so much good in his life was causing his friends, the people he cared for most in the world, to sit on a hardwood floor for hours and hours to keep him comfortable.

Phoebus squeezed his hand, and Quasimodo squeezed back enough for the other man to feel it, if only to say he was sorry. Sorry for making them sit on the floor with him all night because he was too battered and mangled to sleep laying down. The pain was coming back in waves. He pressed his nose into Phoebus’ chest and wished for his mental state to go away again. The man had stopped trying to stave off his panic and had settled back into comfortable stillness, but he pressed a reassurance into Quasi’s hand. Don’t be.

He must’ve apologized out loud. Or maybe Phoebus just knew him well enough to tell.

A few minutes passed of Quasi ignoring his body’s needs in favour of prolonging the drowsy safe feeling before Phoebus would inevitably start an unpleasant conversation. But he was glad when he finally pulled back the slightest bit to offer him water. They moved up towards the fireplace, which was rekindled until it was blazing and warm enough to make him forget this was the worst time of year. It was enough to make him sleepy, and brought some contentment back into his tired body. He downed his second refilling of water and ignored how his back ached in this position as he drifted off.

A hand on his arm brought him back, and was removed as Phoebus wrung out the washcloth. Quasi wasn’t psyched about it but let him unwrap and clean the deeper cuts. Most were superficial and had already scabbed over. The heat was making them itchy and he resisted the urge to pick at them. He would only get chastised and prolong Phoebus’ work. Neither of them said anything besides Phoebus explaining what he would do next. Rewrapping his broken fingers was the most difficult, as Esmeralda’s handiwork had begun falling apart. When Quasimodo was five he had tried to swing on Jean-Marie’s clapper and had crushed his hand against the side of the bell. It was a hard lesson learned, one that Frollo didn’t let him forget the whole time he was healing and unable to perform his regular duties. Quasi hadn’t been angry at her though, it was his own foolishness that hurt him, and she rang ever so beautifully even when he had only one hand.

Phoebus set cloth between each finger and Quasi tried to stifle his whines. If he noticed he gave no indication, but Quasi could tell he was being as gentle as humanly possible. He splinted the fingers and gave his hand back, before starting to tie a sling.

“That seems like… a lot…”

“Overkill?” Phoebus supplied good-naturedly. “This is for your shoulder.”

“My shoulder?”

“Mm. You’ve barely moved it, I tried to check while you were asleep and almost woke you up. It’s not dislocated but you might’ve torn something, this’ll help immobilize.”

Quasi repeated that last word, it felt funny in his mouth. He tried to watch what Phoebus was doing but the man directed him to hold his head straight, so he gazed into the fire. Fire. Fire, smoke, Notre Dame burning, Esmeralda and black smoke rising all around her. He shut his eyes, dried from the heat. Esmeralda was surely asleep in the bedroom.

Phoebus patted his cheek somewhat heavy-handedly. “Hey, Quasi.”

He blinked up at the flames clear in his dark eyes. “I…” The words died in his throat before he even realized what they were. When he did, something hollowed out his chest and settled, and he couldn’t muster the energy to cry. “I want to go back to the belltower.”

Holding his gaze only a fraction of a second longer because he could see the gears turning in Phoebus’ head, he averted his attention and stared with sudden interest at the drawstrings on his shirt. Months ago, one of the ends had frayed so Quasi had stolen the shirt and in the morning returned it mended with little beads, courtesy of Esme. They dangled glinting in the firelight as Phoebus took a deep breath.

Quasi felt him trying to meet his eyes and reluctantly acquiesced. He braced himself to be shut down, and unlike usual he wouldn’t argue. He was done talking for the night.

“Okay.” Phoebus signed along with his words. “We’ll talk more before making a big decision, yeah?”

Quasimodo barely processed what he said and nodded.

“Let’s go to bed?”

He nodded.

Phoebus led him into his bedroom and propped up a mountain of pillows. Quasi didn’t want him to leave but wasn’t going to say that. He fell into a restless sleep almost immediately, unaware that his friend stayed sat beside him, glaring at the covered window as if daring anything to pry it open.

Chapter Text

“Six of the old guard confessed to premeditated assault and battery.” Good Claude sipped his burgundy. “Not under duress, of course, the bastards seemed eager to brag.”

Phoebus gave a closed-mouth smile to his lieutenant, affectionately nicknamed to differentiate him from the dead judge, whom the soldiers had taken to posthumously calling Bad Claude. He downed his own drink without caring to savour the taste, despite it being one of the nicer bottles his subordinates kept stashed in the barracks. It was the guard’s worst-kept secret, and Phoebus had no qualms fishing a bottle out to get through the day. Certainly, it wouldn’t do for the entire guard to be laying around incoherent before breakfast, but a drink or two wouldn’t hurt. His men were good men, vetted by himself, and he trusted the Palace of Justice was being run with the discipline of a phalanx.

Phoebus hadn’t slept the night before, sitting with Quasi until he was out like the dead, and then spent the early hours of morning preparing enough food that the others wouldn’t have to worry until he got home. When dawn’s rosy fingers crept through the curtains, he felt rather insulted that such a beautiful winter’s sunrise should be wasted on him. Quasi and Esmeralda were the ones always out on the roof to see them; Phoebus might’ve been classically-trained, but no poetic beauty beat laying in bed. He would have done anything to crawl into his warm bed beside his warm girlfriend. Anything but be late for work.

He had been at it for hours and had clocked the main operatives behind yesterday’s violence, although he knew he couldn’t lock up everyone in that crowd who joined in the vicious revelry. Sitting on the cold floor of a cell would’ve knocked some much-needed sense into some people. Frollo’s old stomping grounds unsettled him, but he had to admit the place was effective. Phoebus stood in spite of the oncoming headache, and headed deeper into the looming black stone and the mold that festered frustratingly throughout the Palace. Good Claude trailed behind him, rattling off the accomplishments of the night shift, and Phoebus made affirmative noises when appropriate, even though all he could think was that jack shit had happened while he was away. So the prisoners confessed, great, they would weasel their way out of a trial because every single Parisian magistrate, so he’d learned, thought he was an inept captain and completely insane. He thought they should keep their stuck-up noses out of his personal life and the company he kept.

The plan was to get out of this thankless position anyhow. At this rate, mucking the stables for barely a bushel of wheat was looking mighty tempting. He could learn dancing from Esmeralda, if he could convince her he wouldn’t be a total buffoon on the stage. Quasi could get him into the carpentry business, it had been lucrative ever since much of the wood in the city had been, well. The city had been set on fire.

Good Claude must’ve had exceptional hearing, for he stopped his captain before Phoebus heard anything, saying sheepishly: “That one’s been making trouble all night. Maybe we could go back on the torture ban?”

Phoebus looked at him unimpressed before he too heard the screaming. For a moment he worried that one of his men had gone rogue on some poor prisoner, before he registered what was being spat with such vitriol. Quasimodo, the sweetest soul in Paris, should be caged like a rabid dog. A monster even Hell didn’t want. His Esmeralda, a witch and a degenerate who the voice would gleefully burn every inch of sinful flesh away at the pyre. Phoebus took a deep breath. One of Frollo’s men would know he should be nearby. This was meant to get at him. He wouldn’t let it.

“Hello my friend, could we quit the hysterics? It’s ruining the cheerful mood of the place.” He had found the man, whom he recognized as having briefly held position of captain during the siege on Notre Dame.

The remnants of that entitled authority were etched in the man’s sneer. “De Martin.”

“It’s de Châteaupers, actually. Not sure who told you that—”

The man rushed for the bars and they would’ve been nose-to-nose if Phoebus hadn’t had the good sense to step back. He gazed tiredly at the former captain, whose antics were starting to unnerve him.

“Pawn.”

“Hm?”

“Your gypsy led a good man to the Devil and your monster killed him. It’s not honourable to copulate with the wicked, sir. You’ve been bewitched. You let them kill.” He reached a hand, once well-built and now shaking with malnourishment and rage, to point an accusatory finger through the bars. “Coward. Traitor. Gypsy’s pawn. You’ve been bewitched.”

“Lieutenant, see to it that our friend here gets a hearty breakfast, and ready him for transfer to the basement.” No one was held in Frollo’s old underground chambers anymore. The man could destroy his throat screaming and Phoebus would be none the wiser.

In the spring, he had been woken up by a frantic Esmeralda, who had in turn been woken by a young page at their door. Quasimodo, who should’ve been safe in bed, had broken someone’s jaw. Phoebus made it to the Palace before he was fully awake, and in nothing but a nightgown ordered his release. Quasi was led out shellshocked, and Phoebus immediately took him home and shushed him as he begged for forgiveness. He had only wanted to see the moon reflected on the Seine, he hadn’t meant to wake them, he hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. Several times he begged to his master. One of the guards had taunted that Frollo would be in soon. Phoebus had to restrain Esmeralda from marching up to the Palace herself. None of them slept. Quasi hadn’t left the house alone at night since.

Phoebus was rapidly losing compassion for those who looked at his friends as devils and monsters. Teaching the people to overcome their misgivings would be great and all, but protecting his loved ones came first. He made it home before darkness fell and found Esmeralda eating the bread he had made with a teasing grin.

“Edible?”

“Barely,” she laughed around a mouthful.

“Is Quasi doing okay?”

The corners of her mouth dropped hard. “He’s in his room.” She held the bread solemnly in her lap. “Won’t talk to me, I think I… I think I pushed him earlier, I wanted him to talk to me. He got upset, I got upset, he got more upset.” Her shoulders sagged. “He seems hopeless. He won’t even look outside.”

Phoebus remembered what Quasi had told him, sounding on the verge of tears but expression blank. He tilted Esmeralda’s head up and gently knocked their foreheads together. As much as he wanted to kiss her, her lower lip was trembling and she desperately held his gaze. He tried to emanate reassurance. He was as worried as Esmeralda was, but wasn’t surprised Quasi needed time alone.

“Give him time. He feels safe here, that’s good. He…” I want to go back to the belltower. “… He suggested staying a night in the belfry, we can prepare for that.”

Esmeralda looked slightly revitalized at having a feasible plan. She nodded against his head, and after a moment brought her lips to his.

God, he did not want to set foot in the Palace of Justice ever again. He would be fine if they had to pack up and leave Paris entirely. A scene flashed in his mind of himself and Esmeralda cuddled up in a crowded but cozy wagon, warm light filtering in through the drapery, while outside Quasi rambled on to the horses about every new sight. Maybe they could finally relax.

Chapter Text

Esmeralda was whistling poorly to the birds outside. He had to remind her to eat, and she laughed. Then she looked past him, towards the curtains, expression stiffening. She heard someone outside, she must’ve heard someone— Esmeralda laid her hand over his and he flinched, embarrassment immediately washing over him. He inched his hand back. “Sorry,” he said softly. At least she had broken his attention away from the window.

The house was cut off from the crisp winter morning and everything inside sat in murky greys. Her green eyes lacked the vibrancy they had in sunlight. They were filled with something heavy and it took a moment for him to recognize the once-foreign emotion: concern.

“I heard some passersby.” She smiled. “I’m a little jumpy too, nothing to worry about.”

He nodded quickly. Something caught in his throat from how tenderly she looked at him.

Can we talk? she signed.

His good hand fumbled around unintelligibly as he avoided her gaze. Finally he settled on agreement, because of course he would agree to anything she asked of him.

What do you need? He looked at her confused and after a pause she recalibrated her approach. What can Phoebus and I do to help you feel better?

He couldn’t swallow whatever had lodged itself in his throat and he shrunk in on himself. What he wanted to say would upset her, he knew it would. Phoebus was able to distance his emotions from situations, but Esmeralda put her whole soul into every moment. They loved her for that. We could clean the house? he settled on.

She was struggling with understanding but the corners of her mouth twitched upwards when he repeated the sentence. “That would make you feel better?” He nodded. “Okay. But, Quasi—” I want you to talk to me.

He was already rising from his seat and gathering the dishes.

Quasimodo. She rounded the table so he couldn’t ignore her. I love you very much and it hurts me to see you hurt. She extracted the dishes from his hand and set them back down. We can talk later— Her hands intercepted his as he reached for his plate again. “You don’t have to push yourself through this alone, okay?”

Her calloused hands rubbed some warmth into his, and he wondered for the thousandth time how she could touch him without reservations. Laying awake at night, he would trace the lines of his palm like she had on top of the cathedral. No monster lines. He had been past thinking of himself as something to be reviled, but the last day had sent those thoughts careening back. They had never truly gone away; Esmeralda’s kindness could only beat them back so far.

“Hey.” She leaned down until they were almost touching noses. “We can clean [the house?], I’m sorry.”

His brows furrowed. There was nothing at all she ever had to apologize for. It was his own fault for being difficult. Quasimodo knew she could read him like a book and he turned his eyes up to meet hers, not bothering to hide anything anymore. The bruise marring her skin had deepened overnight, one eye reddened and swollen mostly shut, and with a jolt of fear he… what would happen if she went outside?

“Do you remember when I showed you the sunset? On top of Notre Dame?” he blurted out, backpedaling to what he had been thinking about before.

She blinked before grinning at him with more life than he’d seen from her since yesterday. “When I followed you that first time? I suppose last night was the anniversary.”

What a preferable moment to commemorate; it had been a year since he’d beckoned her to the roof, giddy as a child. He shyly returned her smile. The January night had been cold, and his hands ached from the frozen stone, but Esmeralda’s hands were warm. She had reached for him without a trace of fear, slow yet confident as he pulled away, because no one had ever touched him with hands that didn’t chastise, or patronize, or hurt. That evening had been the most wonderful of his lifelong confinement. Esmeralda could make any prison bearable. Although, it didn’t hurt that now they were both allowed to leave. His anxiety spiked again as soon as outside crossed his mind.

We should go back, have a rooftop picnic, her hands grasped his, “what do you think?”

He nodded slowly, and might not’ve had she not been so earnest. He didn’t want to disappoint her, and maybe this would be a good opportunity to broach him moving back into the belltower. Guilt curdled in his stomach and he frowned; that would surely disappoint her. He could already hear the upcoming conversation: her face would harden and there would be no room for argument. He kind of wanted his hands back, but also didn’t want to deprive himself or Esmeralda of this moment, and he chewed on his lip in frustration.

They were allowed to leave, but at what cost? People had hurt her. And not just this one instance, but before he met her she had been treated terribly. He had never seen her from the belltower because she was forced into obscurity, in alleyways far from the cathedral and its guards. She had one ruined eye now, like him, it would only get worse. Quasi’s acceptance among the people had lasted about as long as the afterparty alcohol flowed, and then when everyone came to their senses he was Frollo’s stray. Amid their charred city, the crowd congregated in little groups with all their anguish and misplaced anger. Their whispers turned foul until every time he set foot outside it was like being pulled onto that stage again.

But going outside would make Esmeralda happy.

A cloak had been made for him, one of the first things he’d bought; it was massive, the extensive drapery hiding his body. Esmeralda thought he was drowning in it, but he liked it. The hems were painstakingly embroidered with leaves and mountain-ash, and occasionally a little bird. Esmeralda threw on a shawl and headed out the door with more gusto than Quasi could imagine having. Their gloved hands clasped together, his feet hit the freezing cobblestones for the first time since being dragged inside two days ago. Two days were all it had taken to bring Quasimodo from eternity in his tower to facing a little figure with curious reaching hands.

He didn’t feel brave anymore. Only tired. His hand loosed from Esmeralda’s to pull his cloak tighter around his face. Then he found himself looking idly at the stones on the ground and tore away only to meet the eyes of a stranger. His breath caught in his throat. Angry posture— scared?— and the body language of someone ready to run or fight. An automatic response he had gotten used to from other people. The recoil, the quick cast of their eyes upwards as if an answer might be written in the heavens. As if there was some good reason God had made him this way, in His image but unpleasantly malformed.

Esmeralda, who was much more comfortable voicing these thoughts out loud, would tell him she didn’t care what His reasoning was, or what ‘in His image’ was supposed to mean anyway. When he protested, with a little smile she said her feelings towards him did not depend on whether some man in the sky had played a joke, or made a mistake, or maybe been a bit drunk (a notion that Quasi protested even more). It was hard to believe, even with the hard truths cemented in his brain over the years of Frollo’s preachings, that God had made any misstep when she then kissed his cheek. No trace of fear or disgust lingered when she pulled back, only amusement at his blushing.

Now walking through the dreary streets, still littered with streamers and colourful scraps, Quasimodo gripped those memories as tightly as his cloak.

Notre Dame stood proud before them, the rusticism of the surrounding benches and stairs replenished after the fire. Esmeralda twirled around in the dead grass before running towards the front doors. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted something excitedly at him. Warmth filled his chest at the same time as guilt again. There was constant guilt now, even with no clear trigger. No, there were triggers; her black eye and broken fingernails and the old scars peeking above her socks. There was no way she wanted to be here. She should be in the Court, or the market, or by the river, not dwarfed by the saints and gargoyles who had been grown from stone by their sculptors in such a way that they tilted towards any penitent soul at the entrance. Esmeralda said she felt at peace in the cathedral, but right now Quasi’s hairs stood on end at their judgmental gazes fixed on her tiny form.

Whatever words had been carried on the wind towards him clearly encouraged following her. He shambled forward, knocking the fronts of his toes lightly on each step he passed. Esmeralda reached out and he was pulled by his good arm into soft candlelight. By the time they reached the belfry he could feel his scabs giving way underneath shifting cloth, but he kept quiet. When Esmeralda was sufficiently distracted he could slip away and adjust the bandages. Which might mean ripping them all off in frustration. He sighed. What did it matter if the wounds healed gracefully, he was already littered with scars.

While bent over the picnic basket Esmeralda suddenly perked up. Looking to the floor as if looking through it, her expression turned pensive, then a full smile bloomed. Before he could comment that the choir should be practicing around now and that’s surely what she heard, Esmeralda splayed an arm out towards him. Her body easily fell into a pose accentuating her dancer’s physique, even with the winter garb. He chuckled despite everything, because only Esmeralda would dance to warbly hymns.

Tentatively he slipped his arm out of the sling and placed both hands in hers. Hers slid down to clasp his wrists, guiding him in simple steps across the floor. It hurt to move so much, but Esmeralda barely held any tension on his arms and was simply encouraging him to follow. Her smile was huge and gummy and kind of goofy-looking as he clumsily swayed along. It wasn’t the smile she used to coax coins into her tambourine, it was real and he couldn’t help but smile back.

His clothes and bandages continued to chafe but he staunchly ignored it, savouring the moment. She drew her feet together without shifting weight into a new step, and Quasi stopped short in front of her. Had the choir stopped?

Am I hurting you? There wasn’t any accusatory hint in her tone.

His eyes widened; they were having such fun, had his discomfort been obvious? “No! No no I’m fine!” he tried to placate her. Was he speaking too loudly?

Esmeralda’s expression turned worried. Her pout pushed her cheeks up just enough that the swollen eye shut completely. It was such an angry colour, seen on his own face before but never should’ve been on hers— He realized he hadn’t seen her get hit, was it with a fist? A blunt object, a bottle? Were they trying to get to him and she held her arms outstretched to hide him, herself wide open? She had been taking care of him so kindly, patiently, all with a deepening bruise that she hadn’t so much as acknowledged.

Sudden guilt pounded in his chest with a painful physicality. Quasimodo reeled back, hands to his sternum, all his focus locked on her face. He hadn’t once asked if she was okay.

“Quasi…” She reached for his hands, comforting and just as confident as that night on the roof. But the contact hurt and neither of them realized why until Esmeralda was already apologizing, her voice taking on a horrified pitch when the bandages registered. “Quasi I— I’m sorry, I forgot,” now her hands stuttered against her own chest, “please sit, let’s sit down.”

He settled his arm back into Phoebus’ sling, ignoring the way his muscles pulled at his broken fingers. Not for a second did he think she had hurt him on purpose, and apologies were spilling from his mouth while Esmeralda tried to guide him to the bench. Their simultaneous voices raised with nerves were turning into a cacophony and Quasi couldn’t even read her lips, he was too overwhelmed.

Was she frightened, had he frightened her with the way her hands had grasped at nothing against her chest? How he wanted for her to reach out for him without doubt, without a care for how God had made him. No, she cared, she loved everything about him, she told him so constantly. But it didn’t matter, not at the end of his idyllic days because he always came back here. She could love him all she wanted but he was only safe where no one else would venture. Someday Esmeralda’s waiting hand would no longer outweigh the cruelty; she ought to move into the sun without him. Her hands refused to touch him now. Had he moved too quickly? Had she finally realized he wouldn’t protect her if the crowd was loud enough?

Beneath his happiness, the hopeful prayers he made every day, he was still kneeling clutching Frollo’s robes. No matter what he repeated, his master had been right about one thing. The world was cruel, the world was wicked. If one of those stones had hit his head hard enough it could have killed him. The grazes on his chin and forehead stung as reminders. Clopin could have hanged him, Frollo could have stabbed him, his master could have thrown him off the balustrade. He could have killed Esmeralda. The scars on her feet were her reminders to bear forever.

Quasi couldn’t protect her from a world trying to purge them, he couldn’t even protect himself, he should never have left and dragged her into his prison—

“I’m sorry—” The choir shouldn’t be stopping already. No music rippled through Esmeralda anymore, she stood stiff as stone.

He couldn’t leave this place, she couldn’t stay out there, he had trapped her here with him, this wasn’t supposed to be her punishment it was always his. Frollo’s teachings rang clear in his head as the sparrow bells he loved so dearly. Abomination. You aren’t meant to go outside. Blasphemy. You weren’t created to walk among people. Contrition. Apologize, Quasimodo.

“I’m sorry, mast— Esmeralda, I—I’m sorry Esmeralda I—” She was looking at him in disgust it had to be disgust. “I—”

He turned and was in the rafters before the words finally died in his throat. Esmeralda didn’t follow him, her faded shadow didn’t grace the floor once.

Chapter Text

He hurt Esmeralda.

That was all he kept repeating to himself. He knew by now she wasn’t an angel, but time couldn’t fully shake the image of her haloed in sunlight, commanding silence from the city as she gazed down at him with apprehension melting into kindness. Not an angel from Heaven, but from the catacombs and the streets. An angel with dirty soles of her feet and chipped fingernails from carving with him. No one could be more perfect, even when her face wrinkled in protective rage. Rage on his behalf, shielding him from the evils of the world. And he almost brought her to tears. What kind of horrible friend was he?

Phoebus had had his work cut out for him when he found them in Notre Dame, but managed to coax them both down from the belfry. Esmeralda went first, giving a ride on Achilles up for Quasi. Sensing how upset she still was as soon as they entered the house, Phoebus immediately separated them, taking Quasi to his room to tend to his injuries. Neither of them said anything, which was probably for the best, because every time Phoebus shot a questioning glance his way he dreaded trying to explain. After Phoebus left to talk to Esmeralda, Quasi curled up in bed and waited for his surroundings to darken into obscurity as sunlight faded.

He hoped the vespers were being rung with care; he trusted his apprentices but no amount of time could chase away the feeling that he belonged up there, dutifully ringing the city through their days and nights.

He felt even worse in the morning, when the full force of what he’d said was processed. He’d accidentally called Phoebus ‘master’ once, during an argument about something he couldn’t remember, but Esmeralda? Kind and good Esmeralda, who had never once done anything comparable to Frollo; even when she was angry and pissed off she was always unquestionably his Esmeralda. Her presence alone was enough to bring him out of spiralling… but a year onward his past continued to beat at his defences and maybe…

It wasn’t her he had begged to as his apologies wore on. Being back in the belltower, hurt and on edge after the festival, was just the perfect place for his master’s image, all perfectly groomed angles and cold, calculating scowls, to invade his mind. No matter how much he distracted himself, working until his fingers bled, Quasi couldn’t escape his chastising voice. Not even when he would childishly beat against his head, if his friends weren’t around. Stupid. Frollo always came back, eventually. He always came back, bringing a basket of food and repentances to recite.

Quasi was a fool to think he wouldn’t anymore, just because his body was dead.

It took a week of wallowing and awkward conversations with Esmeralda before she reluctantly decided to leave him alone in the house for a day. He had apologized by then, of course, but it rang hollow even to him. It wasn’t Esmeralda he had been talking to in the belfry. There was no association that now had to be severed. She had been only the vaguely human-shaped vessel for his mind to impose Frollo onto. It had been his master’s voice, his words, not hers, and he didn’t know how to tell her he was so sorry she had witnessed such a lapse on his part— The guilt blending with the guilt Frollo had always imbued in him. He couldn’t get away from him.

As he let his thoughts claw ever forward, the ache in his chest would have worsened until he was forced into sleep, if the stale air of his room had not been punctured by a stroke of colour. Quasi jumped almost comically as he struggled to catch up to what was going on. A purple foot had hurled itself through his window, spraying wood everywhere and throwing his shutters askew on their hinges.

“AAAAAAAA!”

“Hello!”

Sharklike teeth inside a curling grin gnashed as the head coming through his broken window spoke voraciously. Quasi couldn’t follow any of it but didn’t really care to as his fist closed around brass. He lobbed the candle snuffer right at Clopin’s head before registering that it was, indeed, Clopin.

A lifetime of acquired acrobatical reflexes was the only thing saving Clopin from a stake in the skull. He continued slinking into his room, looking a little nervous now. An angry and often repressed part of Quasi’s mind cursed the man as he fled for the kitchen. He pulled himself behind a support post and waited for colourful fabric to appear. When the man did and they locked gazes, Quasi put on his best glare. Clopin bounced on his feet impatiently before striding forward.

Quasi drew further behind the post, even as he continued the stare-down. He could put on the intimidation act even on his bad days, and Clopin knew he could snap him in half. If he didn’t know after watching Quasi carrying beams for the construction crew while scaling houses, leaving the other baffled workmen dangling below on a boatswain’s chair… well, Quasi remembered him taking off his hat and squinting up at him handing a load off to four struggling men on the roof, only to briskly return to his wagon when Quasi waved. With his social competence growing, Quasi was starting to recognize attempts at hiding emotions, and one of the big ones was jealousy. It wasn’t surprising that shifting several hundred pounds of wood into a one-armed carry while waving with the other hand made Clopin mope to Esmeralda, who excitedly told Quasi that her dad thought he was cool, or something. He actually enjoyed hanging out with the bizarre jester, execution attempt be damned, and had spent much of the warmer months teaching him parkour. Which apparently led to Clopin feeling that it was absolutely appropriate to smash and climb through his window.

One of Clopin’s steps took him precariously close to Quasi’s hiding spot and he ducked away. Before he could get steady on his feet the jester was rounding on him with his hands by his ears, imploring him to pay attention. Quasi assumed a defensive stance, the effect deflated by the sling around his arm and his bedhead. Nevertheless, he waited for Clopin to explain himself.

“You are getting out of this house, right now. No one will throw things at you.”

Moving immediately into it, then. If Clopin wasn’t careful he was going to get something else thrown at him. Quasi scowled and tried to hide again but he kept following, circling the post like a vulture.

Get out, he signed, knowing Clopin would barely understand, let alone one-handed, which brought him a bit of confidence. Two could play this confusion game. Pay Esmeralda for the window.

“What the Devil are you saying?”

Get. Out.

He rolled his eyes almost into the back of his head. “I’m glad […?] fun being obtuse, but—”

Quasi revoked the benefit of the doubt and stopped paying attention. G-E-T O-U-T.

Clopin parsed through the letters before his face hardened. “No.”

He gestured wildly in frustration, trying to get some of the tension out. He wanted to go back to laying in bed. What do you want?

Clopin struggled less this time, but Quasi still took satisfaction from watching his tirade grind to a halt as his hands sloppily copied the sentence. “Ah… ah! What I want is for you to come on a jaunt outside, because—” Despite Quasi’s best efforts he finally had him cornered. “Esmeralda has been crying to me all day, [worried?] half to death about you, and I can’t take it anymore.” He grabbed his arm and Quasi easily wrenched free.

“No! Get out of my house!”

“I brought you a gift!”

“Get out!”

Something green was shoved in his face and Quasi was moments away from ripping it in half when he registered a mop of orange knitting wool atop a lumpy sewn body, covered in a surprisingly soft little green tunic. He turned the puppet around to see button eyes, one peeking out beneath a lump of cloth. It was softer than Clopin’s normal wooden-headed puppets. Leaves had been sewn into the tunic, and upon closer inspection he realized they were recognizable as from a variety of local trees. Quasi liked all the different trees in the forests surrounding Paris. He glanced with suspicion up at Clopin, who was wringing his hands.

“Consider it a peace offering, and a plea for you to stop whining about wanting to try the puppets.” Clopin seemed much more subdued now, even a little… embarrassed? “When your hand is healed, you can practice with that.” He whipped his own signature doppelgänger out, Lord knows where it came from. The miniature Clopin inched towards him with that permanent friendly smile.

Quasi looked down again at his own clearly well-crafted lookalike, and back to the Clopin puppet keeling increasingly to the side as it waited for any reaction. It gave a sad little shake before finally folding in on itself, it’s painted eyes somehow looking desolate, and the pathetic thing was so ridiculous Quasi started to laugh.

“Thank you. Pay for the window.”

The man let out a relieved breath. Had he… been worried Quasi wouldn’t like the puppet? Quasi cradled it against his chest, feeling the soft woollen hair.

“I will, but I cannot watch your terrible household fall apart, because Esmeralda is part of it, despite my best efforts, and if she sulks all day then we make no money.” Quasi raised his eyebrows. “That’s why,” said Clopin hurriedly, “I’ll continue breaking into your house until I am satisfied that you won’t rot away in here.” He repeated himself until Quasi caught everything.

In the end, they compromised that Quasi didn’t have to go out but he couldn’t lay in bed being sad all day. And he had to do something other than worry over Esmeralda. They sat on his bed with Quasi wrapped in his favourite ratty blanket and smacked at Clopin’s hands when he tried to approach it with a mending needle. Clopin instructed him quite seriously on how to perform all a puppet’s possible manoeuvres, and by sunset his hand was cramping and they had gotten into more than one argument but Quasi felt lighter than he had in days.

The other two returned together, and Quasi was too busy showing a very sleep-deprived Phoebus his new Little Quasi that he failed to notice Esmeralda yank Clopin out the door.

When they were alone, she demanded to know why there were splinters everywhere and, more importantly, how he got Quasi to smile again and, most importantly, why. It was a fact of the world that Clopin Trouillefou didn’t dry others’ tears or hold their hands when they were sad. He wasn’t the sentimental type, much preferring grittier entertainment.

“I was driven to my wit’s end seeing you show up everyday looking like a kicked puppy.”

She pursed her lips. “My worries aren’t yours to solve, Clopin.”

“Believe that if you must.”

He rocked back on his heels, looking contemplative. Esmeralda only saw him like that when he was huddled up in some alcove in the Court, miserable but dutifully scrawling out catalogues of supplies and budgets and lists of newcomers. It wasn’t luck that had kept their safehaven alive for decades, it was work. She decided the window was no longer of any concern, and tried to get his attention.

“Clopin. While your methods are… um.” She thought of Quasi, some of the colour returned to his cheeks. Not unresponsive in bed. She hadn’t forgiven herself for how callously she had dragged him around until he snapped. “Thank you.”

He couldn’t complain when she crushed his bones in a tight hug, both because he could barely breathe and this was practically his daughter. Only patting her back and listening to Quasimodo in the house demanding Phoebus take a nap, who in turn was waxing on about how soldiers could go days without sleep. The house went quiet and soon Quasi came to the door to fetch Esmeralda, smiling smugly. Clopin only stayed long enough to laugh at the blond passed out on Quasi’s bed and have a quick tea before leaving the three to whatever it was they did.

Chapter Text

“All the sou in my pocket for a quarter of oats! What, do I need a ration book to get food at humane costs? Do I need to fight for my oats?! Esme! Are you listening?”

She blearily blinked in the late winter sun to see Phoebus, desperately in need of a haircut. His shaggy hair was most of what she could see of him; he argued it kept him warm. Sometimes she thought he took too much after his horse. “Hm?”

“Monsieur and Madame Waquet are scamming me again.”

“That’s nice, darling. We have enough oats.”

“Not for Achilles!”

She left her pouting boyfriend to argue with his nemeses, and went to find Quasimodo. Les Halles was brightly lit on the clear morning, and Esmeralda was freezing her toes off. January had melted into spring, but for a few days now winter had been back with a vengeance.

As much as she wanted to duck into some corner and try to rub feeling into her fingers and toes, she knew Quasi wouldn’t be far and the faster they were together the faster they could all go home. It didn’t take more than a couple minutes to find him, seemingly unaffected by the cold and engaged in a heated discussion with a friend. They were signing back and forth too fast for her to follow, but Quasi’s bright smile was enough to assuage her worries. She still worried for him whenever he was out of her sight, and honestly had since they met. This was his first trip farther than their street since the second festival. Well, not including when he would slip away to Notre Dame and she would wake to his distinctive music, imbuing the city with the life it needed to get through another winter’s day.

Esmeralda waved and his face brightened further when he turned and waved back. His fingertips were red and she wondered again how he could ignore the biting cold, before the same answer settled in her gut. A lifetime in the belltower. That was always the answer, for every worry she held over him.

Eugénie wrapped up telling Quasi something about her knitting, before giving them quick hugs and hurrying behind her stall. When Esmeralda turned to Quasi, he was proudly holding up a thick blanket of blues and reds. Without wasting any time she slid her hands underneath and relished in the warmth.

“She gave me this almost for free, it seemed unfair but she’s very kind. And you need mittens, I’ve been telling you!”

“I know!” She grasped his hands under the blanket. Just as cold as she expected, even with his gloves. “Come on, Phoebus and I have a surprise for you.”

His interest was definitely piqued at that, but he stayed quiet all the way back to the Waquets’ stall, from which they had to drag Phoebus. Who was muttering insults that would’ve made Quasi blush, but he had gotten his oats.

Jittery from anticipation and the cold, Quasi eyed them with a hint of impatience. He didn’t like surprises, they all knew, but Esmeralda had a sneaking suspicion her plans would bear some good for once. Even so, he would have plenty of time to decide and plenty of leeway to make alterations or bow out entirely. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her skirt and silently bemoaned how she could be sweaty and freezing at the same time. Realizing she wasn’t going to start, Quasi looked to Phoebus with his arms crossed.

The man clapped his hands on his thighs, the smack cutting through the dry air, grinning. “My friend! We’re getting out of this shithole.”

Quasi’s face contorted in poorly repressed amusement. “What?”

“We’re going camping!”

“We’re what?”

Camping! he spelled before Esmeralda interrupted, reluctantly pulling her hands from under the blanket.

If you want to, Phoebus and I want to take you up the river, for as long as you want. We’ll bring a wagon and try for the bay.

Quasi stared at her, his mouth hanging open like the fish at the nearby stall.

We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready. Her confidence was beginning to waver but she held fast. You can say no, okay?

She knew he’d have trouble entertaining the idea soon after the festival, what with his reluctance to go outside at all. But Phoebus had been nudging the idea at her, recounting times in the bush with his bunkmates (conveniently leaving out the military horrors), slowly convincing her that this would be good for all of them. They had gone on overnight trips before, down the Juine or Essonne a short ways, sleeping in hammocks on cool summer nights. But she felt this could be different; not just a fishing trip on their way to some nearby village, not even just for Quasi to experience the world changing in increments of smells and terrain and the views from atop a tree.

There was something evil in the city. Not the kind Frollo would have beaten his Bible about, spitting and raving about infestations of the Other. The kind that made people pervert their faith to shut their doors on anyone who wasn’t like them. Cruelty and abuse. The city wasn’t evil, and Esmeralda clung fervently to her belief that the people in it weren’t either. But they did hurt. There was poison within them, poison they’d cultivated willingly. And she could not wait for change any longer.

It wasn’t her job to fix everything, Phoebus had to remind her. And it wasn’t Quasi’s job to grin and bear the callousness of his neighbours, day after day. She was sick of watching him trail behind others, trying to help, trying to be heard and ignored, or whispered about. Eyes cutting to him, the snorts and chuckles and quiet mockeries of how he spoke or walked. People snatching their children away from him, away from her.

Quasi scuffed at his chin for a moment before signing: The bells?

Esmeralda chuckled. There are other bellringers.

Quasi looked mildly offended at that, and she quickly reassured him, “they’re only as good as you’ve taught them. Notre Dame will be alright without you for a while.”

He looked even more offended, but his posture was relaxed and she felt he was almost teasing her. Fine.

She pecked his cheek, turning an angry red from the cold. “Tell Eugénie she’ll be picking up more of your workload.”

They had made it almost home, starting a quick skip-walk because it was so close and their toes were ice. Esmeralda hated the feeling, and couldn’t focus on the boys’ conversation with her teeth grit against the wind. Their salt-stained front step was almost in her reach when Quasi tugged at her shawl.

Too cold to bring her hands out and mouth too dry to speak, she glared at him with wide-eyed urgency. Hopefully conveying ‘be with you in a fucking minute!’ He laughed, and Phoebus laughed, and she would kill them both later when she could move her hands. His infuriating blond head bowed teasingly as he held the door open for her.

“I—” Huff. “Cannot—” Huff. “Wait for spring.”

“It’s really not that bad!”

“Phoebus, you’re sleeping in the stables.”

She could hear his smile. “Scratch that, the roof.”

“Fine, but I’m bringing Quasi. You’ll be missing out.”

“… Esmeralda?”

She turned much more benevolently to his quiet voice. “Yeah?”

Quasi picked at his old glove fringes. “Thank you for coming with me, I’m sorry it got so cold.”

“Oh,” she exhaled through her nose, any annoyance melting. “Quasi, of course. Hey…”

He was hesitant to meet her gaze, almost getting there before fidgeting away. Something was off, a tension in his frame she’d initially assumed was from the chill.

“I was happy to. Look at me?” He finally fully did. “It’s okay to be nervous, I was nervous too,” she signed along. “I’m happy to go out with you, and if I can’t then Phoebus will.”

“Hmf?” The sound came through a mouthful of oats.

“Yes, you. Anyways, Quasi, you’re doing great. Small steps, right?”

That shame, familiar from years under Frollo, sunk down on his features.

“I’m proud of you.”

“Why?” The telltale, slightest widening of his eyes told her he hadn’t meant to say that. His voice had cracked and jammed on the word as it surfaced without his intent. His mouth clamped shut.

“Because—” She gathered her wits. Going outside is hard for you. That’s not shameful. You’ve been hurt when you’ve gone outside, it’s okay to be scared. I’m so happy today went well, but if it goes worse tomorrow I’ll be there. She gestured towards the loud chewing. And Phoebus. We want to take you out of the city so you can relax, but if when we come back you’re struggling, I’ll still be there. Some of that was spelled haltingly out, but by his slow creeping smile she knew he appreciated the effort.

She bonked her forehead onto his. “And if you ever have doubts, I’ll be so ‘there’ you won’t be able to peel me off.”

He screeched as she tackled him, very mindful of injuries this time, into a hug. They giggled as he inched pleadingly towards Phoebus, who smirked with his cheeks full of oats.

“Stop that, you’ll have no room for dinner!” she shrieked.

“If you ban my oats I’ll sleep on the roof by choice.” Except she barely understood his words.

“Swallow your food, you’re disgusting.”

“You looove me.”

Quasi was cackling and half-heartedly trying to unstick her, feinting to the side and accidentally slamming her into a wall.

He gasped. “I’m sorry—”

“C’mere,” she said, letting gravity slide her down. Fearful of hurting her, he let her pull him to the floor. “Quasi. Quasimodo. Please don’t worry, see?” She couldn’t stop laughing breathlessly. The sound resounded around them. “It’s okay.”

Hesitantly, his grin crept back.

Chapter Text

Phoebus woke at the final watch of night and languidly swirled the grit at the bottom of his mug around as he waited for Quasi to leave. Waiting as the twang of beer on his tongue slowly faded, and the remnants looked more and more appetizing. They couldn’t call him a day-drinker if the sun wasn’t even peeking out yet. He pushed at the sack at his feet, wishing for more leg room for his poor cramped toes. Esmeralda had insisted on piling everything by the front door, so they wouldn’t be dragging it farther than necessary with their sore early morning bodies. So much for that; no matter how he shifted and wriggled, whatever he sat on wasn’t getting any comfier. But he wanted to see Quasi off.

The man of the hour emerged from the darkness with a bedhead to rival his own, caught in a yawn. When his jaw cracked and settled and he groggily blinked his eyes open, Phoebus raised his mug slightly. “Sleep well?”

Quasimodo waved him off with the sluggishness of a lifetime forced to ring those damn bells at ungodly hours. They knew how much he wanted to try sleeping in, but it was like a fire lit under him when it came time to be off to Notre Dame.

“Watch out—”

Quasi tripped gracelessly on a sack that Phoebus wished was soft, but the solid thud of his foot said otherwise. “Ow!”

“Happened to me too.” Phoebus braced him upright and grinned, ignoring the morning crust in his eyes crinkling unpleasantly. “Don’t stall, don’t even think about cleaning those bells. We leave at dawn!”

Quasi blinked heavily, clearly not following. “… Why are you up?”

“Guarding the loot.”

“I don’t—” yawn, “know what you’re saying, but you smell like beer.”

“You’re no fun this early.”

The whites of his eyes reflected the first rays of sun as he rolled them. “We’ll stop calling you a day-drinker when you stop drinking in the day.”

It’s not morning yet! he signed vividly.

“I’m the bellringer,” Quasi gave him a firm yet playful clap on the shoulder, “I decide when it’s morning.”

“Not until I hear those bells,” Phoebus grumbled.

And hear them he did, with their house so close to Notre Dame. Ringing clear as the air, rhythmic and almost putting Phoebus back to sleep. He settled his head sideways on the fleshy part of his arm, which rested on the windowsill. The matins were his favourite, another night survived and another day for the taking. Unlike the previous bellringer from when Phoebus was a little boy, Quasi rang them like a hymn, the melody rising past their houses into the frigid air.

“Can’t get tired of them, hm?”

He jumped a little at Esmeralda’s voice and she laughed softly, with a hint of an apology.

He let his head lower to his arm again. “I wouldn’t say that, they put me to sleep.”

“And yet awake you are.” She rested a hand between his shoulder blades, leaning in to kiss his hair. “You okay?”

“Mrff. Quasi was being mean to me.” He sunk down further.

The pressure between his shoulders increased slightly. “… What’s wrong.”

Notre Dame sharpened against a backdrop of dusty lilac skies, and at his temples a headache was conceiving. Even such little colour burned. “I hate this place.”

“Have you slept? You were up late.”

“A little.”

Esmeralda sat on the sack with her thighs pressed against his, and watched the light creep in. Dirty blond strands in his eyes, grey in the dark, were turning to straw and would be golden when the sun painted the sky red.

“I didn’t think my life would be here either,” she said at last. “But we’ll be out before the streets get busy, and by the time it’s sunny and warm the city will be long behind us.” She lay her head on his, her curls spilling down and catching a ray of sunlight. “We don’t have to stay here forever.”

“Quasi wouldn’t leave,” he mumbled.

“He might,” she spoke with a tentative, quiet confidence. “There are other cathedrals.”

Phoebus bit back a more argumentative tone, spurred by his tiredness, that Quasi knew those bells by name and would barely leave them for a day, let alone forever. He honestly didn’t think Esmeralda would leave either, Clopin and her cousins and friends were here, even if she had other ties far from the city. Her feet knew these cobblestones better than Phoebus knew anything. And Quasi knew that tower better than the monks knew their scripture. He would never leave, even if the city emptied out and no one heard the bells.

“Maybe this is a bad idea.”

Esme squeezed him closer. “It was your idea, and you tend to have good ones.”

“That time I climbed out the window because Quasi was being annoying and fell two stories?”

“Not that one.”

“That time I—”

“Phoebus,” she lightly smacked him. “This is a good idea.”

He tried to relax in her embrace. “Even if he hates it?”

“Then we’ll talk about it.”

After the droning notes of the bells had silenced for the final time, they reluctantly got up and stepped outside. They’d spent every waking moment cataloguing supplies and re-checking their stock of preserves (even though Phoebus would try his hand at hunting), but when it came time to load the wagon they’d forgotten to make room for people. Then Quasimodo’s figure ambled up the street, sunlight cast over the rooftops above him. Excitement bubbling, Phoebus waved his arm in big arcs until he waved back.

“You’re like a dog wanting a walk,” Esmeralda snorted, Djali at her heels. Where the little beast had come from, he didn’t know. “Bouncing on your feet like that.”

“Keeps the body warm, it’s entirely practical.”

“Uh-huh,” his ear-to-ear grin certainly wasn’t fooling her, but at least she seemed relieved he was no longer moping. She turned. “Quasimodo! Help me with this?”

He took one end of the sack and they loaded it, Esme crawling in after and Quasi turning to him.

Phoebus was off as soon as the sign for horse was given, Quasi laughing behind him at his eagerness. Sure he’d fetch the horse, no he wasn’t acting like an excitable puppy. He was displaying the normal amount of enthusiasm for a wagon ride that a grown man should exhibit, thank you very much.

They hit the dirt roads when the skies turned white with sun, the city trailing off behind their wheels. The occasional thud of Esmeralda, who was inside trying to decorate, hit the wall at his back. Quasi was perched on the roof, holding very still with seeds in his palms, the early morning birds flitting around. As for himself, he sat at the front with one leg over the other, the reins held loosely. Some of Quasi’s birds were getting a little too close. Should’ve tied his hair back, it was windy and they were pecking at the strands.

Finally the cold and the wind and the birds became too much, and he tied off the reins and climbed to join Quasi. Up on the roof the sun warmed his frigid skin, whereas before the wagon had blocked it and cast him in shadow. He bumped shoulders with Quasi, who made a devastated noise when the birds were spooked away.

“Sorry.” He received only a glare in return.

They sat in comfortable silence, Phoebus eyeing the birdseed and wondering if that snack would be a new low.

“How’s your shoulder?” He gestured to it, out of the sling for several days now.

Quasi tilted his head a little in what might’ve been a nod, or he was just thinking. “Better. Achey after I helped Esmeralda pack.”

“You could’ve told us,” Phoebus chided, but he was kinda glad that Quasi didn’t seem to have heard. He tapped him. “And your hand?”

That was still splinted; Quasi had it tucked under his elbow. He tilted his head in what definitely wasn’t a nod. “Better.”

“Mm.” Phoebus saw through him. The worst scrapes hadn’t fully healed either, and not for the first time he silently hoped Quasi would tell them if he was in pain, even if they had to go home.

Red dusted the tips of Quasi’s ears too quickly for it to be the cold. He wouldn’t look at him, shifting the birdseed from one hand to the other, bits sticking as his palms started to sweat. Phoebus sighed and after a moment, lightly hugged him.

Part of him, the part that thinks all the laws of the earth should be modelled after and written by Esmeralda, wants to make him look at his dead-serious face while he tells him over and over that they want him to be honest about his feelings. Esmeralda was always better at getting Quasi to understand these things. So he’d heard, in the span of minutes she’d taken a boy who wholeheartedly believed he was a monster and got through to him that he was a person, a wonderful person. And his ‘master’ was not infallible. Sometimes Phoebus wished he’d had her when his father reprimanded displays of emotion, or the first time he’d killed someone. But he felt lucky, vicariously through Quasi, that she’d found the lonely bellringer. And of course, that series of events had brought Phoebus together with her.

Still, bullheaded kindness might not be the best approach right now. He remembered what happened in the belltower earlier. Honestly, they hadn’t yet had a proper conversation about that. Quasi seemed lost in thought, stewing over something with furrowed brows.

“When I left for my first campaign,” Phoebus started, enunciating with one-handed signing, “I had my head so far up my prideful ass they could’ve threatened to chop off my legs and I would’ve offered to do it myself. Then one night I watched a bunkmate cut another man down because… oh I don’t even remember the insult. Called him weak, whatever he’d done. And he killed him on the spot, because everyone was watching.” He didn’t really know where he was going with this, but there was a foothold here, if only he could keep his confidence. “He didn’t get off the hook, quite the opposite, but there was this unspoken understanding among us. Protecting your pride, and that of your lord, is the most honourable thing a soldier can do.”

Quasi was looking at him now with unbidden concern.

“And when I came home, that honour had been beaten into me. It was all I was supposed to know. But I guess they made a defective soldier, when after years of following every order I wouldn’t kill for Frollo. He was supposed to be my master too, and defying him warranted immediate execution.”

He suddenly released Quasi and threw his arms up, startling him slightly. “So maybe the whole thing sucks?”

“The whole thing?”

“Honour. Digging your own grave. Bashing your head into the wall instead of crying. Maybe that’s stupid and Esmeralda has the right idea?”

“Esmeralda always has the right ideas,” Quasi pondered for a moment. “About what?”

“Everything, of course, but specifically that we should care about each other and talk about our fucking feelings.” Now it was bullheaded kindness time. “Please don’t lie to me. What’s wrong?”

For several long seconds Phoebus worried he hadn’t made an impression, he’d just gone on a mildly traumatizing spiel and confused Quasi. Then his friend’s face crumpled.

“I’m scared. I’m sad. Everything hurts. I hate Frollo. I miss Frollo. I’m mad Esmeralda took me to Notre Dame. Why would she need to apologize for that? She didn’t do anything wrong. I miss her. I’m angry. I’m scared that I’m angry.”

Phoebus waited until he was sure he was done, Quasi finally running out of air. “That’s okay.”

Quasi huffed and tried to control his shoulders heaving up and down, trying to keep his hands steady for the birds, who were flying out of reach.

“Being angry doesn’t make you a monster, Quasi.”

Quasi’s lower lip wobbled as he stared down, trying and failing to school his expression.

“Even being angry at Esmeralda. Even being irrationally angry at Esmeralda. Hey, look at me?”

He did with a tired and very halfhearted, very wet-eyed glare.

“Thank you for talking to me. Why don’t we give Cù a break and make breakfast, and you can show me what hurts? That’s an immediate issue we can fix.”

Quasi nodded miserably. “Thank you, I’m sorry. This is very kind, what you’re both… you taking me…” He gestured about, “you taking me out here, I’m— I’m sorry for—”

You’re not ruining it, Phoebus signed. Come on, off the roof.

He was getting down to halt Cù when quiet words barely reached him over the wind. “A pious man will never stoop to repay evil with evil.” His voice changed in calibre, he was quoting someone. Then the real Quasi returned, all timid and fidgety. Wavering, unable to steady his voice. “But I’m sick of how they treat me. I-I know I deserve better, but they won’t…”

Phoebus held up a hand against the bright sun, a downcast mop of red hair visible between his fingers. Hey. I have an idea.

Chapter Text

From over by the brush, Esmeralda watched with her arms crossed as the boys walked off with every pillow. “Should I be concerned?”

She got one wide grin and one baffled half-smile in response.

When they were enough out of her earshot, Phoebus handed all but one of his pillows to Quasi, who squawked indignantly at having reached maximum pillow-carrying capacity. And with twine he bound the pillow around his waist; it was a good, stuffed bulky one, good for taking punches. Beneath the downy mountain Quasi’s face peeked to observe, becoming more baffled by the second.

When Phoebus plucked the uppermost pillow from his arms and began situating that one too on his body, Quasi piped up. “What are you doing?”

Armour, he signed, almost dropping a pillow he was attempting to secure on his shoulder.

“Those are pillows.” Quasi was looking at him with a mixture of concern, confusion, and pity.

Yes, he signed.

“You are tying pillows on you.”

Yes.

“Okay. Sure.”

His burden lightened as Phoebus took stuffed sack after sack, looking like bannock on a stick. He checked they were secure and resilient enough, pounding them with fists. Now relieved of pillows, Quasi leaned closer.

Satisfied, he made an expression that made Quasi shrink back like a disgruntled cat. “Now, my friend. Don’t be nervous!”

“I am nervous. I don’t like that grin, it’s…” He thought for a moment. Mischievous, he tried spelling, mostly successfully.

“I’m not mischievous. I am helpful, and noble, and a genius.” His face was buried as he inspected the last pillows, but Quasi didn’t need to have caught all that. He’d find out soon enough.

Truth be told, Phoebus felt rather silly but he’d done more embarrassing things with his bunkmates. Quasi still seemed nervous but in a different, inquisitive way, leaning all forward with no sign of bolting. Phoebus liked to see him willing to try something new and stupid; it had gone unspoken save for Esme’s disjointed words after the festival, but they had worried over more permanent damage.

Quasi looked better than he had atop the wagon, although there was still a bit of dried snot under his nose from when he’d been all teary-eyed. A quick breakfast of rolls Esme picked up fresh from the bakery had given them enough time to check him over, and Phoebus was relieved to find the bruises fading.

“Alright Quasi, come at me.” He spoke and beckoned as clearly as possible, because Quasi’s silent parsing of his words wasn’t going smoothly. “Come at me with your fists.”

His friend just looked more confused; surely he followed the words, just couldn’t comprehend why those words in that order in particular had been uttered.

“You need an outlet, and I like getting beat up— We won’t talk about that part. It’s simple! It’s fun!”

“I’m getting Esme.”

“Wait! Wait,” he placated. “It won’t actually be you beating me up, I will block everything and reciprocate in kind. Hence the pillows. It’ll be a little friendly fight and you’ll feel a little lighter after. You— I promise there is not a chance you will hurt me.”

“But… why?”

“Okay, maybe you’re a learning-from-experience kinda guy.” He exhaled all the air from his lungs sharply, then took it all back even sharper and lunged.

Quasi shrieked and fell on his butt, arms trailing after him but they didn’t guard his head. Pride that he didn’t feel the need to guard himself anymore swelled. “What are you doing! H-have you lost your mind?!” Always a treat to witness Quasi’s mean side. Phoebus took a swing full of feathery stuffing, well back and not intending to land. “Mary’s sake! You’re covered in pillows!”

“Yeah! What are you gonna do about it!”

“I’m gonna take- take the horse and go home!”

“Not sitting on your ass you’re not!”

“Yeah I-I am!”

The dry skin on his lips fractured and tore, Phoebus was grinning so hard. He sunk into a defensive stance, pillowed forearms brandished. “Then get through me!”

Quasi just kind of screamed, kind of groaned, all his teeth, what few he had, showing. Dirt caked in the folds of his hands as he rounded them in fists. He noticeably did not bend his splint much, holding his left hand closer to his body. Phoebus advanced like one of those egregiously colourful birds he had seen on the farthest marches south, in some ridiculous dance upon the poor object of their interest. Quasi looked appropriately full of grief. “You’re crazy!”

“Old news!” He pounced like an ill-practiced kitten and landed in a cushioned heap on the dirt. Quasi scrambled away but realized he was coming up to the trees at his back. Pillows raising in a curve along his spine and blooming from his squared shoulders, Phoebus rose from a crouch to his full height. Well aware he was covered in mud and their bedding was ruined.

The clods of dried-out moss scattered underfoot, budding with baby greens. Lighter flecks of dirt flew from them, tiny stones skittering into the tree-line. Quasi ground his boots into the rustled dirt, wary as Phoebus took steps sideward and approached in arcs hard to anticipate.

Then a fist fuelled by what must’ve been the most bizarre and uncalled for panic Quasi had ever felt met his chest. Instead of pain elation exploded, the actual impact being little more than a tap. Quasi peeked one screwed-shut eye open.

Phoebus surveyed him in the second it would take to tell whether a novice sparring partner was ready to intercept a jab without a whole-body flinch. Stance strong and muscles only holding necessary tension. Not the locked-up exhausting intensity that overtook someone who couldn’t pick fight or flight. The grin didn’t fade but lessened its grip to leave only good intentions in his wide open eyes. Quasi relaxed further, face falling into curiosity again. Slowly putting more weight on his left leg. Then, with so little warning Phoebus was impressed, he kicked him in the shin.

“Ow! Hey!” The particularly lumpy pillow there saved him any real pain.

Quasi dropped his fists as deadweights, leaving himself wide open. “Happy?”

“Not yet.” His grin opened as his tongue finds the cracked molar, from getting punched in 1465. Good year. Hit me again.

“No.” The kid’s whole body has fallen as deadweight, Phoebus can see the bones settling back into his familiar hunch. Straining his neck to keep looking at him tiredly, and Phoebus became acutely aware of how silly he must look.

Why not?

“Because it’s mean?”

“Okay. Exercise for you. Pretend Esmeralda is in your palm. She’s really small and fits in your palm.”

“… Okay?”

“Now very carefully raise her up. Bend your arm back more. Good. Don’t drop her. Are you following?”

“Please say that again?”

Of course he repeated it. Don’t say please! he signed.

“I’m following.”

“Now throw her into the trees as hard as you can. Throw Esmeralda into the woods, I want her eliminated.”

“What?!”

“Get her out of here!” He primed himself to take a blow. “It’s mean and you’re gonna do it anyway! Stop being nice!”

“No!” he shouted. Good, he’s talking back more confidently.

You didn’t see how she glared at Frollo, on the pyre, could’ve killed him, he thought.

“I know her voice rattles around in that thick skull of yours whenever you do anything and you feel bad all the time! That’s not what she wants, she’s mean all the time! She learned how to defend herself! And now—” he swung under Quasi’s centre and under where he would instinctively grab at. He checked his shoulder into the soft stomach and used the momentum to hoist him over his pillowed shoulder.

“— you’re gonna learn!” he finished in grunts. Quasi clung to the pillows for dear life.

He deposited him with care onto the dirt. Quasi was staring up with incredible affront.

“Are your fingers okay?”

Quasi kept staring.

Fingers. Okay?

Quasi doesn’t need to say anything because he’s so expressive, and Phoebus knew he didn’t actually hurt him. He would never. It was the same way he’d pick Esmeralda up in their kitchen and she would laugh and smack him with a batter-covered spoon. Though he would still give Quasi the chance to speak for himself.

He was about to ask again, as was normal with them and his hearing loss. Then Quasi threw his entire weight in what definitely wasn’t proper form onto Phoebus’ legs, crumpling him instantly. He had a brief, horrible mental image of himself as a delicate papier-mâché doll taking a ball of solid lead to the chest. He made an equally horrible noise. They were both on the ground. But Quasi had started laughing.

“Fine! Fine! Oh— fine!” he shouted between gasping and laughter torn from the bottom of his chest.

The dirt found its home deep under his fingernails and soaked up blood. This was familiar, in a good way, even though he also had the trenches under his nails for weeks after he got out, but this wasn’t there and everyone was safe and Quasi was laughing. Phoebus had him in a secure grip and Quasi kept trying to swing him off and was cupping his forearm for balance. He was kicking his shins and they were definitely gonna bruise.

“Fine! I’m sick of letting them hurt me! Sick of it!” He successfully crashed him into a tree, right on the spine. Phoebus’ laughter was frozen on his face as he keeled over, in pain and feeling so proud. “Sick! Hate them! Hate me and I’m tired! Want my twenty years back!” Snot was running down his upper lip again. He kicked his foot right into the ground and stumbled on a wayward pillow. “I-I want my twenty years back!”

Heaving and crying he was taking it all out on the dirt, and Phoebus was so happy he wasn’t shrinking inward and hitting himself and keeping them out. He managed to stand, most of his armour having been cast off from the shoddy fastenings, and opened his arms in invitation. Quasi pounded his chest once, hard, barely seeming to see him, only the busted up earth underfoot. He swayed as he came up against someone who wouldn’t be knocked down, and for once Phoebus had no clue what he was feeling. There was too much in his expression.

A loud sniffle, clogged with wetness. “I want my mom. Want my mom back.”

Unseeing, his left hand took a clumsy swing past Phoebus. Tree bark splintered behind his ear.

“Ow!”

Chapter Text

Phoebus couldn’t stop laughing with the slightest hint of sympathy, and Quasi couldn’t stop laughing and also crying because ow it hurt. Below them the brambles gave way to spring’s baby grasses, that Phoebus was currently trampling with double the weight. Quasi got a very fast, very bouncy piggyback ride back to camp.

“You re-broke his hand?!”

……………………………………

A lone figure in blue moved along lines of grasses in the light wind, turned grey from the oppressive storm hung around them. Quasimodo sat sunk into the soft grass, watching him. Above were the impressive branches of a beech tree, leafless and shuddering slightly in acknowledgment of the dangerous front approaching. But Phoebus, out in open sky, ran towards the cloud boundary.

Esmeralda crouched down, her smile soft. Hair all frizzy from the weather, thousands of strands waving in the light breeze, catching little flecks of muted gold from the lantern. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.” Quasi went from smiling back at her to eagerly looking down around himself, all the soft gently swaying grass, all the space they had. He patted the ground. “Sit! Sit!”

Esmeralda turned to the stretch of land they faced. She mused to herself for a moment, mildly concerned.

“Phoebus?”

Yeah. She sat. I don’t know what I’ll do if he gets… “struck by lightning. Do we have a sign for ‘struck by’?” She knocked her hands together. “Feels more specific [than hit].”

Quasi tilted his head in contemplation, and she made the face he knew she made when he did something cute. His “What?” was breathy and quiet and hinted at incredulous amusement. He tilted his head, again, in question as her chin curled further inward, her smile small and sweet, pouting in the middle in delight.

“Nothing.” She looked as though here was the perfect place to be, to sit in the quiet of an oncoming storm. Wholly content, and Quasi wondered if he looked the same. He felt the same.

His lopsided teeth poked out as his smile grew. “We watch what he does when he is struck and copy?”

“And that’ll be the sign for ‘struck by lightning’? What are you expecting he’ll do, thrash like a stuck pig?” Her head fell back, hair cascading down, everything weighed down by the heavy air. Suddenly at an angle Quasi couldn’t read her lips, he imagined she was hoping Phoebus would survive out there.

“He’ll be fine.” He pressed his large hand over her small one. “Lots of trees for lightning instead.”

Not out in the middle of the field, she worried. “PHOEBUS!” she called, he didn’t follow the rest.

The haze quivered around Phoebus’ tiny figure as he waved swooping arcs over his head. He was too far away now, and Quasimodo felt Esmeralda’s nerves. Little Quasi slumped in his lap, being absentmindedly fiddled with. The fingers on his left hand were swathed securely again, thanks to the local midwife in the nearest town they found. Paris had a slew of doctors flocking from the university, always eyeing him like they fancied cutting him open on a table to marvel at his twisted body. Luckily this time it was just one woman whose curiosities were silenced by the looming, bedraggled and filthy captain behind him. Phoebus had been awfully high-strung today and Esmeralda had remarked he would drop as soon as she got him to sit down.

“Oh, he’s coming back.”

“It’ll take him till the storm’s here,” Esmeralda grumbled. “He’s leagues out there, crazy boy.” She shifted in relaxation as he got closer, eyes half-lidded. “He’s my crazy boy, though.”

The talc glaze of the lantern dispersed its glow through the air, disallowing their eyes to get used to the night’s lightlessness. Scatterings of mayflies flew around them even though the last early morning frosts had yet to cease. It was an odd time of year, between the frenzy of keeping and losing crops in the summer and the long, hungry trudge of winter. It was Quasi’s favourite time of year, because the belltower wasn’t too cold nor did he get sunburnt, and there were many hearths lit and so many people out at night. He watched them for days on end.

Watching Phoebus now was like that, except there were no hearths and the air was too laden with bugs and stormclouds. Quasimodo suddenly felt very small in the expanse of field now that he was on the ground, staked before it. High above in the belltower he was safe; the land splayed out from its base, moving forever in all directions, but none of it could touch him. He tipped from sitting centred to leaning on Esmeralda, his now-free knee moving up to press against his side, being as close as he could to her. Little Quasi went keeling off his lap.

Esmeralda held him back tightly.

“You know,” she started, when she had managed to get them face to face, Quasi still huddled in a ball at her side, “I’m getting a little scared out here. Too much open space out in the dark. Anything could be out there.”

He whispered with his louder voice unwittingly cracking through, “Phoebus is out there.”

“And what could be scarier than that?” She laughed. “And it’s chilly, and there’s bugs. It can be miserable outside.”

“Out here?”

“Yeah.” Her hand moved firmly up and down his shoulder. “There’s so much world we rarely see and when we do, it frightens us. I’ve been on the open sea at night, it’s terrifying. I’m glad you’re here with me now.”

They sat together as the night fell deeper and the storm rolled closer. Phoebus finally arrived and, without stopping, breezed past them when Esmeralda told him to set up the wagon for sleeping. Quasi relaxed slightly knowing he was safe. He had felt that the night was closing its walls in on them and Phoebus would be lost in it had he not been quick enough.

A broken thread of lightning appeared on the expanse, and Quasimodo braced for the sound to follow. He could hear thunder when lightning struck the belltower, it was so loud. Surprisingly, Esmeralda flinched. So he wrapped big arms around her, patting her back and trying hard to speak softly.

“It won’t get us, don’t be afraid! Phoebus is safe too. Just loud, exciting!” He sometimes forgot that Esmeralda could get scared.

She pulled back and laughed, the shadows swinging gently under the ridges of her face. When the wind picked up they started a furious dance, light running down each frazzled strand of hair and disappearing just as quickly. The rough movement of the lantern felled dead flies to its base.

“I know, no need to be afraid.” Safe, she signed for good measure, and scooped up Little Quasi. Sweetheart… I’m scared all the time.

Esmeralda really could read him like a book. He hadn’t meant— no, sometimes he didn’t consider her fear. Those anxious times of danger, of uncertainty, when one of them was threatened or missing for an hour too long brought out fear for her, he had seen it, but it drove her forward, it was a symptom of how strongly she loved. It made her charge out to find him that night on the barred inside of the Palace of Justice, and he was sure she would’ve ran all the way had Phoebus not gone. Fear had held Quasimodo back, hanging back away in dark corners, until the siege on Notre Dame when he’d saved her. He’d do anything for her, no matter how it tore through his quiet, unseen nature. But why was she looking at him like that? Why did she look ashamed?

As he leaned in to— he didn’t know yet, worry over her, because how could she ever deserve guilt— she continued. Since I left you alone in the belltower I’ve been worried. I didn’t come after you because I couldn’t believe you saw me as Frollo. “I know—” she cut him off when his mouth snapped open in objection. I know you don’t. I know, I’m so sorry. You didn’t hurt me, I let it hurt me. I was scared for a moment that you didn’t trust me, “or… I…” her hands were frozen in place until she forced them away from her chest. I… heard you crying and did nothing—

“Not— not your fault!” He hadn’t realized he’d been crying loudly enough to be heard then, but often they heard him and came to comfort him. It relieved Esmeralda knowing she could always find him if he needed her, even if he thought he was silent and causing no worry. Reminded, he carefully lowered his voice; she was right next to him. “Not your… job… to do anything.”

“I care about you and I’m choosing to make it my job.” Esmeralda looked like she didn’t know what to do with her hands, with herself in this moment, and this parallel dunked him upside down into a scene that was real but wrong, the realization that she was acting like him. If she was, then she was nervous, nervous that… he would be mad at her?

Words spoken and signed fell from her like an unraveling spool, almost at its end, without the protection of many loops of thread it fell away entirely. In sad order they fell, almost like she was begging to him as her explanation slipped away without control.

“I didn’t follow you and I sat in the other room as you hid away in shame that you’d done something terrible to me. You didn’t. You never did and I’m scared you were suffering all that time and I did nothing, Phoebus and even Clopin were there for you more than I was. I never apologized, I said we should go… camping and run away from Notre Dame instead of sitting down and telling you I’m sorry for dragging you there and then leaving you there alone. I’m capable of hurting you and I… hate that.”

The clouds were upon them with a cold front, but Esmeralda radiated warmth far enough. It was from shivering, he realized with sympathy. She didn’t like the cold.

“You… you didn’t, never—” How could he even begin to make her understand he had never felt hurt by her— but he had. He had and he felt terrible. “I was angry, at you, not fair, you didn’t do anything wrong. Angry at myself. I never… I…” I never want to see Frollo when I look at you, and I got so upset, he finished.

“Oh Quasi, you’re allowed to be [angry?] with me.” All of a sudden the signs that she was about to cry overtook her face: her lips pursed, trying to hold it back, and her eyes became glassy as the lantern. “Please don’t blame yourself.”

“Don’t blame yourself!”

She shook with abrupt laughter. “This is— this is such a non-issue we’re both mad at [ourselves?] over something that happened weeks [ago?], […] wasn’t [even…?] big deal—” He lost her there as she hid her head down under thick hair, the wind still playing across it, plucking strands for the light to dance on. Her shoulders shook with violent jumps.

It had been such a small thing, one word, not even a full one at that, but he understood. The hint that her friendship with Quasi was undone, that she had ruined something integral, for one moment, must have sent icy fear through her. He understood, because who was he now if not her friend? Just the bellringer, the hunchback, the monster in the tower. He would never go back to that. She could never have done that.

Although he was unsure, he pulled her into his arms instantly. She returned the hug with a suffocating grip. Rain was coming down in buckets; they would be storm-stayed for the night at least. The flame folded violently and then the lantern went out.