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Today was his final day.
Hair hung loosely around his face, fallen from his ponytail and lacking its usual shine. Eyes that were usually filled with fire were now glazed over, staring at the webbing crevices in the wall. He couldn't help his habit, staring the wall down and determining its weak points, where it would crumble if he detonated a clay spider in the cracks. His throat was parched—it felt sick and raw. He hadn't had much to drink in the past few days. He refused most of anything they gave him. He didn't want to be poisoned. A hand came up to scratch an oily cheek, the shackles around his wrists clinking loudly at the motion. His face was drenched in sweat and smeared with dirt; he hadn't bathed in days, his captors keeping even that luxury from him, now that they knew his fate. Why clean the mud off of him when he was just going to be thrown back into the ground anyway?
They had given him new clothes at least, a normal beige suit that zipped up the front. It was an itchy monstrosity that smelled like piss, but it was something he had to put up with. His cloak was gone, taken away, and his normal undergarments had been taken as well. He missed the smell of them, the smell of smoke and ash—it was a familiar scent, a comforting one. The cot he was lying on was lumpy and hard, but at least he had it to himself. He was glad that no one else shared a cell with him—he couldn't imagine what would have gone on if another man had been in there with Deidara. He had heard stories. Deidara had never been to prison before, of course; if he had he would have been dead a lot sooner than this. He had heard stories from the other Akatsuki members before, though hearing it was a lot different than experiencing it.
His eyes moved from the wall to the floor, staring at the bowl of rice that he had chosen to ignore. His last meal. He couldn't stomach the idea, let alone the food, so he remained on his bed, staring at the walls and trying to think past the looming shadow of his death. How could he have let himself get caught like this? He should have gone after Uchiha Sasuke, that would have gone much better than taking on the jinchuuriki. Deidara didn't expect him to be that strong, nor did he expect Sharingan Kakashi to be with him again, or his backup group—he should have left after seeing the number of them. Tobi had warned him, but he couldn't let Itachi get to the jinchuuriki first. He wondered where the idiot was now. He was still pissed that Tobi had the gall to abandon him like that, even if he had promised to come back. Deidara hadn't believed him, and he still didn't believe him now. It had been days. Where was he? Not here. He had no reason to trust useless Tobi, who wouldn't have been able to free him even if he was here.
At least he hadn't gotten back in Suna's hands. Deidara wasn't sure what kind of torture they would have put him through before finally executing him, but he would have preferred if Konoha would have kept him instead of handing him back over to his village. He was forced to see his old team, his old family, watch them cry for him as he was dragged off to be interrogated. Probably fake tears. They were pathetic. Didn't they see that he didn't care, and he knew they didn't either. None of them came after him when he left. None. They never understood his art, never appreciated it, never took the time to care, and now they wanted to care once he was sentenced to die? How selfish of them.
It was going to be a public affair, his death put on display, as if his death were to be used as an example, as a guideline of what not to do with your life. Deidara thought it was stupid. They just wanted to scare everyone back into submission, scare them all back under Iwa's thumb and follow what they had to say, never branching out, never breaking the rules, never thinking that there was more out there to do, more to explore, more to enjoy in life. His sandals scuffed the ground noisily as he was guided up the stairs and onto the wooden platform. His eyes lifted to the crowd. Not many had shown, which wasn't surprising, but it still pissed Deidara off. How dare they not come to witness his last performance, last moments of life— he was disgusted with them. There was a small hum of activity in the small crowd of people, each person with their eyes on him, whispering to one another—probably telling their neighbor how much he deserved to die, to pay for his crimes. Putting his death on display like this was sick; he even saw some children in the crowd, watching with their parents. To them, he was an example. His own parents were at the very front of the crowd, his mother staring up at him with wet eyes and his father's brow wrinkled in worry. He hated that they were there, pretending to care about him. They never seemed to care back then, forcing a life upon him that he never wanted—it was their fault he was like this. But that wasn't important now. They had to sit and watch him die, and that was their punishment. Raising their kid for slaughter. He hoped they were happy. His team was there as well, but Deidara looked over them, not wanting to see the fake emotion they were putting on display.
The rope was brought down around his head, and it hung there loosely, the fraying edges bristling against his neck. He wished his hands weren't bound so he could scratch at it, it was an uncomfortable feeling, but he was bound, unable to stop the growing itch. He moved his shoulder, rolling his neck to rub at the rope, trying to move it away from his skin. Guards stood all around him, and he watched them stare out into the crowd lifelessly, ignoring him. Pretending he didn't exist. That pissed him off more than anything. Growling, he stared down at his toes as the man next to him read out a short list. Deidara had killed civilians. Destroyed the east side of the village. Committed treason. Anger bubbled up in him at hearing this. Yeah. He did those things. They weren't even listing the rest of the shit he did, and the other stuff was ten times worse. Did he regret any of it? No, and reading out every horrible thing he did in his life wasn't going to make him feel bad about it. He hated this. Were they trying to make him guilty before hanging him? If so, it wasn't really working. It was making him pissed off instead. Since it had been a public event, of course the Tsuchikage would be there—his teacher stood from his chair on the platform, addressing his former pupil. Deidara tuned him out, not wanting to be lectured. He knew what he had done, he didn't need to be reprimanded any longer.
The crowd was getting impatient. Some called out for him to just be hanged already. Hearing this left a bad taste in his mouth— these people where disgusting. Did they really want him to die that badly? It didn't feel like justice anymore, it felt like revenge. A life taken to satisfy everyone in the village, not to keep them feeling safe— his stomach sank. Everything seemed to hit him hard, like an ocean wave picking him up and throwing him further out to sea. His knees suddenly felt weak, and he didn't want to continue standing there and take any more of this crap.
What was he doing here? He couldn't die like this, this wasn't what he planned, this couldn't possibly be happening. He was supposed to be his masterpiece, was supposed to be perfect, finally be recognized for his art—instead he was going to die a criminal. Not an artist. He couldn't die like this— this wasn't happening— where was Tobi? He said he'd come back, why wasn't he here? He needed to escape, now, he needed to get out, this wasn't right— he couldn't fucking die like this! With an enormous amount of newfound energy, Deidara ducked out from under the rope, but was immediately restrained by the guards that had been stationed around him. He fought back with all the energy he could muster, kicking at the guards, head-butting one, yelling, elbowing, spitting—He was pulled back by his hair to his spot on the gallows, a growl ripping through his throat from the sharp pain, and he dug his feet into the ground, resisting with every bone in his body. He was held there in place, but he didn't stop fighting, didn't stop screaming, kicking, jabbing at the ninja holding him back. "Fuck you! None of you could possibly fathom the hate I have for this place, and none of you will ever understand my art, do you hear me?" He spat at the top of his lungs, his throat throbbing with the effort. "I'm not going to die like this, you'll all see, I'm going to go out in a blast, take all of you fuckers with me! It's going to be a beautiful death, not ugly like this, I'm not going to die, I'm not—" Deidara felt the floor beneath him disappear, and he fell—the scratchy rope jerking him in place, and the wind was knocked from his body. He writhed there, unable to breathe, choking on the rope digging deep into his neck. He couldn't believe he was going to die like this, a pathetic death, a waste of life—his throat was closed up, and his eyes were staring up at the blue sky, looking for an escape, looking for something to save him from this pain, this numbness that was spreading quickly through his body. He needed air, he needed help, he wanted the pain to just end already—unexpectedly, the rope loosened, allowing him to fall. Deidara's ass hit the ground, and he gasped loudly, sobbing for breath. Why wasn't he still hanging there, what had happened… A hand grabbed the back of his suit, pulling the fabric up and yanking him to stand, his legs shaking, not enough presence of mind to object to being moved around just yet.
The next few seconds came in a blur, and Deidara felt sick to his stomach at the sensation overcoming him—every part of him, every cell in his body felt as if it were being plucked apart one by one and tossed across the planet, his lungs feeling as if they were collapsing, similar to the earlier feeling when he was being hanged. The feeling passed quickly, and Deidara found himself on the floor getting reacquainted with the contents of his stomach. His mouth burned, his head pounded. Deidara licked his lips, then spat at the bitter taste, his head swimming as he fought to stay awake. He couldn't manage keeping consciousness any longer, and he fell to the side, hands gripping his shoulders and steadying him as he blacked out.
His eyes blinked open hours later. Deidara stared at the low ceiling, blinking slowly and wondering briefly if he was dead. The pillow under his head was fluffier than the ones back at the main base where he slept. Hell wouldn't have had such nice pillows.
He sat up, and pulled the blanket that was covering him down slightly, glancing around the room; he was in a hotel, he gathered, noticing the double beds and the strange plainness of the place. No pictures, just lifeless posters of famous paintings hanging on the walls and terribly hideous wallpaper. The room was dimly lit by a small lamp, the windows dark. He checked the nearby clock—6:56. He couldn't tell if it was AM or PM, but Deidara decided he didn't care. He threw the blanket back and dropped his feet to the floor, standing up unsteadily. He headed for the door on the other side of the room; he figured it was a bathroom since it was off in the corner. He flicked on the light switch, and he flinched, blinking his eyes at the sudden light. His vision cleared a moment later, but his stomach sank down to his feet at the sight of his reflection in the mirror.
Deidara looked like a ghost—his skin was pasty and shiny, and his hair was greasy and damp, streaks of it sticking to his forehead. He was disgusting, and he felt like it too. He bit his lip—his teeth were sore and his lips dry and peeling. The most noticeable thing about him was the marks on his neck, a simple purple V shape trailed under his jaw, a sickening reminder of what he had barely escaped. He couldn't breathe again, and he headed for the toilet, heaving into it. After a minute he pushed himself up to the sink, rinsing his mouth of the rancid taste under the running water. He spat out the water once his mouth was clean, yearning for a drink. The water was warm, soft, and soothed his aching throat. He kept drinking, drinking until his stomach was heavy. He gasped as he pulled back, quickly needing air again. The door clicked open, and a familiar orange mask came into view in the mirror.
"Senpai, you're awake!" Tobi gasped, hurrying over to him. Faster than he had anticipated, he turned to face him, fury plain on Deidara's face. His fist met Tobi's stomach, and the other ninja doubled over, not expecting the blow.
"You fucking dumbass!" Deidara screeched, his voice hoarse. "I could have died! You told me you'd get me out of there, Tobi, and you fucking lied to me—"
"Deidara-senpai, you are out," Tobi managed, arms wrapped around his aching stomach. "Tobi used his special juts u to save you, don't you remember?" Tobi looked up, his voice pleading. Deidara looked down at him, confusion marring his features.
"Huh? That wasn't you, how did we get out of—" Deidara paused, everything seeming to come together in his head at Tobi's quick explanation. That strange feeling of him being pulled apart… was that the effect of the jutsu? He hadn't ever experienced it. What an odd sensation. Silence fell between them, both of them unsure of what to say next. Tobi spoke up first.
"Tobi promised he'd save you senpai, and he did. You're safe now," Tobi told him as he stood, putting his hand on Deidara's shoulder to steady him (had he been swaying?). "You should get back to bed, Tobi thinks you're still in shock, you need lots of rest." He ushered him out of the bathroom, guiding the silent blonde back to the bed. Deidara didn't object, but he stopped him before he could climb back onto the mattress. He stood there and stared down at the sheets, his mind lost in thought. Tobi came back for him, just like he said he would. Deidara was sure that he wouldn't have come back, and he was sure that even if he had, nothing he could do would have saved him. Deidara was supposed to die. But he didn't. Tobi had managed to make it there and save his life. He couldn't believe it.
"I thought I was going to die," Deidara mumbled almost inaudibly, his eyes falling to the floor. Tobi almost missed this little confession, and he stared at Deidara, waiting in silence for him to continue if he had more to say. "No more close calls like that, un."
Tobi smiled behind his mask. "I'm sorry," his voice was trembling and he pulled the blonde in for a hug, pressing him close. Deidara sighed at his affections but made no move to push him away. For once he was too tired to fight back.