Author's Note:

This fic is based on several different adaptations of Victor Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1831). I will be taking inspiration from Hugo's novel, the Disney adaptation, and the Broadway show. I got the overall idea for the story from a YouTube video called APH - Heaven's Light/Hellfire by BlueFireTigerLion. Go check it out!

It was March of 1698 when Ivan, a pious and austere orphan immigrant, was visited by an old friend and confidant. Yao approached the Cathedral of Notre-Dame with clods of dirt and stale manure stuck to his shoes and a bundle mewling in his arms, and after finally making it inside - both him and his babe chilled to the bone and stinking of the streets of Paris - met Ivan in his living quarters pale and starved.

"Yao!" Ivan exclaimed, taking the thin man in his arms and gently rocking him. He was so cold that Ivan almost believed he had ice in his veins. "It has been years, my friend," Ivan whispered in a hushed tone, holding Yao at arm's length to get a better view of him. "Where have you been? You're nearly starved – let me fetch some -,"

"Ivan," Yao snapped, interrupting his friend. The baby squirmed in his arms, disturbed from its napping by his tone, and Ivan glanced down with interest at the writhing child before his eyes met Yao's. "I don't have much time," Yao murmured apologetically. "I'm afraid I have…very little strength left," he winced as he sat, balancing his bundle in one arm.

"We can speak later," Ivan argued, though also allowing himself to take a seat across from Yao. "I must aid you, my friend. Paris has been healing under God's hand since the famine, and yet you look as though you haven't seen bread for ten years."

"It feels like it, too," Yao smiled wryly. "I remember when we traversed the streets together all those years ago…before you came here…"

Yao could see the flicker in Ivan's eyes and felt that hope rekindle in his chest, the hope that his friend…lover…whatever they had been – that he had not forgotten Yao after he went away. The man had never quite taken to the church. He could never truly abandon the streets as Ivan had. And alas, the years had strained their friendship. Once a pair of immigrants – outcasts who belonged neither to France nor outside of it – they now were strangers with a shared past. Yao only hoped Ivan's sentimentality could overrule the pain of their history.

"Remember the time when we were boys? I would try and steal from the baker but was always caught. I swear, I never escaped that part of town without the police nipping at my heels."

"You're lucky you escaped at all," Ivan smiled, closing his eyes and picturing it. Those early years had been golden; cold and cruel, but filled with friendship and sunlight and God's warmth, though Ivan may not have realized it at the time.

"Yes," Yao nodded, looking back at the baby in his arms. It squirmed as Ivan also watched, longing to ask Yao of its origins. "You were the provider. You knew how to intimidate the baker. He'd be cowering in his shop and you'd stroll out with two loaves in hand, plenty for both of us. I'll never forget that. I'll never forget how you fed me, cared for me…" Yao trailed off, growing misty-eyed. He felt weaker with every word, and he knew Ivan noticed the way he slouched into the chair. The man was about ready to offer him a meal, but Yao needed to finish his business and get away before his heart betrayed him.

Ivan nodded, urging him to continue.

"I want you to take him," Yao swallowed thickly, holding the baby out to Ivan.

Ivan blinked for a few moments, in shock, but gradually moved himself closer and took the bundle into his own arms. The baby looked very similar to Yao: dark hair, pale skin, though clearly not European. Like them, it certainly wasn't a child of France. "I've named him Kiku. He's strong, resilient, and I know you would never turn him away."

"Naturally not," Ivan nodded, pawing gently at the blankets until he found the child's hand. He thumbed at it, smiling at the way the child managed to curl its small fingers around Ivan's own. "Who did he belong to?" Ivan asked off-handedly.

"He was mine," Yao looked down in shame. "His mother was a pirate."

Ivan stopped playing with the child, his violet eyes flashing upwards at the man in front of him. The man he loved, had loved and lost for so many years, had produced the child in his arms.

"Forgive me?" Yao whispered, still hanging his head. Ivan scorned him for not even having the gall to look at his face. That face, crumbled and bent with anguish burned holes into the wall behind Yao's head. He believed God had forgiven him for loving Yao as he shouldn't, for treasuring him in a way that was so unholy, but alas…it seemed Ivan was doomed to lose more before God finally made his peace.

"How can you expect me to take him?" Ivan asked, voice trembling with barely-suppressed rage. "You ran out on me, Yao. You shared your bed with a...a pirate – the lowest of the low – and you expect me to raise the offspring of your Godless passions?"

Yao flinched at the way Ivan spat out the word 'pirate'. He should have known this was a lost effort. His betrayal of Ivan warranted no peace for him or the child, and he knew that they would both continue to suffer long after he was gone. But at least there was a little hope; after all, the man had not dropped Kiku to the floor…yet.

"Now, I consider myself a fair and honorable man," Ivan raged on, ignoring the pleading expression on Yao's face, "I have served the Cathedral of Notre-Dame as her archdeacon for almost a decade. I have served and guided the people of Paris, and I believe I have saved many despite my own sins. You betray me, Yao," he snapped, "because you intend to saddle me with the very reminder that I am still in need of saving. I have sullied myself for your sake – because of you – and you dare ask that I do it again?"

"I don't ask," Yao grunted, lifting himself out of the chair and almost collapsing. This time Ivan offered no assistance, but Yao did not wish for his assistance anyways. "I beg," he whispered, kneeling to the floor in front of Ivan's feet. "I know I am lost, but please save Kiku. You will be all he has left in this world after I'm gone," the man explained, looking up into Ivan's eyes again, placing his hands on the other man's knees and feeling grateful when he wasn't immediately shaken off.

"What are you saying?" Ivan demanded.

"I must leave you here. And him," Yao nodded to where Kiku cuddled up to Ivan's chest. He was disappointed to see Ivan look at the child coldly, the warmth in his face since replaced with hate. Perhaps he should have lied about Kiku's origins. Perhaps he had overestimated Ivan's ability to forgive…

"Where are you going?" Ivan growled, following Yao as the man hastened – albeit still very weak – in the direction of the door.

Yao turned to look at his friend, letting his gaze linger selfishly for a few final moments. This would be the very last time they ever saw each other, and Yao didn't want the moment to be wasted with meaningless banter or more of Ivan's curses. But finally, feeling satisfied that Ivan wasn't going to break the silence, Yao turned away and mumbled a reply to Ivan's earlier question.

"Hell, Ivan. I'm probably going to hell."

That was the last time Ivan Braginski saw his friend. Though a body had never been found, he assumed Yao to be dead – likely hoisted and pinned to the mast of a ship by one of his dear pirates. Ivan couldn't bring himself to care. Yao's memory stung him to the core, and so he resigned himself to forgetting the man entirely. Yet the sting would never truly fade.

Looking down at the baby in his arms, the child named Kiku, Ivan realized that God had sent the boy to Ivan to punish him for his disloyalty…his incompetence. And so, knowing well that he was fated to raise the boy – his badge of shame – he allowed himself to make some good of the situation. He told himself that Kiku would never engage in the sinful behavior of his parents. He would stay in the church, away from all the thieves and cutpurses and dregs of humankind. He did not belong to Paris, and may never truly belong as he was not French himself, but he could be a child of God as long as he remained in the cathedral.

The snow fell atop both of them, shrouding the city in a white, almost purifying film. And Ivan closed his eyes and prayed, prayed for the salvation of Paris – and for himself.

Author's Note:

Okay, so if you were curious about the cast, this is how I picture it being:

Frollo: Russia

Quasimodo: Japan

Esmeralda: England

Phoebus: America

Clopin: France

I'll probably include other characters in there, but these are our main five.

I hope you guys don't have any issues with the plot changes, because there will be many. For instance, instead of gypsies I will be focusing on pirates, and the Quasimodo character isn't ugly in this. Kiku's isolation will come from other factors instead.