Authors Note: first fic published here; originally posted on tumblr. There is also a rewrite of the ending as well, marked as the second chapter. Take a look- I love to hear feedback as well. Thanks for reading. Naruto belongs to Kishimoto.
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 pulled at his neck, and a sickening snap came next, loud as thunder in his ears. His eyes stared up at the blue sky, the light and energy from them completely gone.