notes: perhaps this would have been more suited to frollo, but i'd sooner write quasimodo than him, so.
just treat me like a stolen glance to yourself
"Father, forgive me for I have sinned," he says hoarsely, mouth forming hesitantly around the vowels of slowly remembered words. The sound of his voice has long been lost to him, but he can feel his throat straining, imagine a whisper of what it once was. An offense this grave, he thinks, must be said aloud.
He cannot go to Frollo for this. No, he has seen the archdeacon pacing around the cathedral in frustration, tugging at his rosary as if it's strangling him.
Quasimodo bows his head, folds his hands together and murmurs a Gloria Patri. The weight never lessens.
When she allows him to stay, he observes her. At this point she does not mind his presence, but he does see her restraining a cringe every now and then. Growing up has taught him not to expect anything less.
Sometimes she sings, and he doesn't know what she's saying, only that it must be beautiful.
Other times she plays with her goat or stares pensively out the window. He is content with simply gazing at her, watching the way her bottom lip slides out slightly in her little pout, the motion of her fingers through her thick, black hair. He catalogues her every gesture until he can see her effortlessly behind closed lids.
Every time he finds himself on his knees before her. Ave, he thinks, watching her mouth lift in a little smile, and remembering when she danced with entrancing elegance and spirit.
In his thoughts: Ave Esmeralda. Full of grace.
Death comes with the scent of rotting flesh and perpetual darkness.
In the last moments of his life, he does not pray to God.
He keeps his eyes shut, ignoring the shivers that rattle his brittle bones, and whispers gratia plena against her skin.