And Deidara's eyes snapped open. In all honestly, he had awoken the moment the needle had touched his skin; not only had he been trained, as all ninja were, to wake up and become alert at the slightest provocation, but his chest-mouth was also one of the most sensitive areas on his body. The first observation he catalogued was that his body was unresponsive, save the few movements he managed with his eyes. There was no chance he'd get a limb moving and his mouths were useless. His next task, then, was to register his surroundings. Words like outside and forest immediately came up. Damn, so that was why he vaguely felt the discomfort of lying on hard ground. The last thing he noticed—all of these things being sorted in his brain within the first half-second after opening his eyes—was the image of his partner in his favourite carapace, staring down at him, holding the tip of a blade to his chest-mouth. He was conflicted; on one hand, he knew without a doubt that Sasori wanted so much to turn him into one of his macabre creations and it was everything Deidara would kill himself—kill Sasori—to avoid. He wanted no part of Sasori's delusions of forever, and yet— —there was an awful intentness with which the redhead looked at Deidara's torso that made his mouth dry. Sasori was within Hiruko's protective shell, but Deidara could almost see the curious, fascinated stare even through the outer puppet's glassy eyes. It was a beautiful thought. He wished he could lick his lips, but that task was impossible to him now. He'd always liked the way Sasori regarded his victims, and to be the focus of that stare almost made up for the fact that, this time, he was the victim. Almost. Deidara glared at the man staring at the mouth on his chest, his eyes nearly vibrating with anger.
