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On the outskirts of Mt. Fuji, a convoy of emergency vehicles slowly descended on the remnants of the battlefield. Not the only one by far, and not even the one with the most obvious signs of destruction—it would be a long time before Japan was rebuilt, scars gouged into the earth and lingering on the crumbling buildings—but the bulk of young heroes were here, bloodied and exhausted, and without the portals to transport them back to safety, mundane transport was the only thing remaining as the standby emergency workers hastily triaged the injured.
The adrenaline wasn’t pumping in his veins anymore, and he didn’t have pops of nitroglycerin to replace it, which was probably for the best. Not like he’d be able to ride the waves of pain to control it now anyways; everything hurt so much that it was hard to focus on any one part of himself, and Katsuki was pretty sure he wasn’t sweating right either.
Also, critically, he had a feeling they’d try and tie him down if he started using explosions to move again. What was expedient and necessary in the heat of battle was not a very good excuse when he was just too tired to stand, and casting a weary eye (the only one that works, now) over the rest of his classmates was enough to tell him that he was probably the worst one on the field right now. Other than Izuku, maybe, who had this blank, lost look in his eyes, his borrowed shirt smeared with blood and dirt.
He should get up and say something. Smack him over the back of the head, maybe. Tell him that they fucking won, and it meant he didn’t have to kill himself to try and save everyone anymore.
His left hand trembles as he pushes it into the dirt and his muscles all scream at him, but before Katsuki can get upright, a long-fingered hand wraps around his uninjured shoulder and gently, but firmly, pushes him back down again.
“When did you get here?” Katsuki asks, craning his head back and blinking the grit from his eyes. It’s a beautiful cloudless sky above, and the shadow of Jeanist’s towering form blocked out the sun, rendering his ragged denim costume and tangled hair in lines of gold.
“Just a moment ago,” Jeanist says, and there’s a tone to his voice that Katsuki struggles to decipher. “How badly injured is your back? There’s a stretcher reserved for you on the medicopter I came in on, but they’re checking to see if there’s anyone else in need of emergency surgery as well.”
“I’m fine.” He’s not, but he’s not dead either, and he’s pretty sure he could push himself if he had to.
“You are not,” Jeanist tells him firmly, but when Katsuki makes no other attempts to stand, he stops looming over him and crouches next to him instead. “If you can’t walk, then we can wait for the EMTs to get here.”
“I can walk,” Katsuki says irritably, but he lets himself tip slowly sideways instead of proving it, his cheek resting against the soft fabric of Jeanist’s sleeve. If Jeanist wants to complain about the smear of sweat and blood soaking into it, he holds his tongue; this probably isn’t the worst thing to get on his costume today, anyways.
It strikes Katsuki abruptly that there’s nothing else he needs to do right now, and the heavy weight of exhaustion on his shoulders triples in an instant, taking advantage of the way he slumps without the strength to push up against it.
There’s not another battlefield. He’s got eyes on Izuku, who hasn’t moved from the spot he’s been standing in as their classmates swirl around him in a messy tangle of concern and worry. All Might is fine, somewhere back on the crumbling fortress that UA became, and the other heroes are either with him or helping the emergency workers here. He’s done, and he doesn’t have to keep pushing, and he can just—rest. Just for a second. Just long enough to get back up and start moving again.
He breathes in, planning to tell Jeanist about this revelation, and his breath catches around the lump in his throat that he’s been trying to ignore along with every other injury, and the noise that emerges from him is raw and ugly instead of the triumphant victory cry he was planning on.
The hand on his shoulder shifts up, those long fingers running through the sweaty, dirty mess of his hair, and Jeanist holds him a little bit closer as he fights not to sob like a child. Not just because he’s trying not to lose face—silent tears can be cool, but the ugly crying he’s prone to is not —but because every inch of him hurts, his chest most of all, and Katsuki is fighting not to let his heart stop again. It’s hard enough to breathe even with Jeanist’s hasty stitches and Edgeshot’s sacrifice to get him moving again, and crying isn’t going to help with that.
But he’s just so—
“It hurts,” he chokes out, like a fucking toddler, but Jeanist doesn’t tell him off for being immature or for sitting here crying after all the hard work is done, and he doesn’t leave either. “It h-hurts really fucking bad, actually.”
“I know,” Jeanist tells him, slowly sitting instead of crouching, still keeping Katsuki close. The hand in his hair doesn’t stop moving, gentle and steady, and that makes it even harder to keep himself from sobbing.
“This is fucking stupid,” Katsuki adds, since he hasn’t been chastised for his swearing yet. “We won. Why am I—why does it still—”
“I know,” Jeanist repeats, patient and surprisingly gentle. “It’s okay, Bakugou. It’s over now.”
“Obviously,” he tries to snarl, but it comes out whiny and pathetic instead, and when he lifts his aching hand to his face to rub at his eyes, it’s so weak that he struggles to get it all the way. He gave and he gave and he gave until he forced past all his limits to give some more, all to buy a little more time and make the fight a little easier for everyone else, and he doesn’t have anything left, and he’s fucking tired.
He’s so fucking tired. No one needs him anymore, and his body is a stitched together mess of agonies, and part of him is thinking longingly of just how peaceful it was to die the first time around because it meant he didn’t have to keep pushing himself to the limit. Not that he wants to be dead, but fuck, being dead was easier than this.
Jeanist doesn’t tell him off for that either. He just adjusts his grip and tucks Katsuki’s uninjured cheek into his shoulder and makes low, soothing noises in the back of his throat like Katsuki’s a lost child and not a war veteran at this point, but it’s impossible to be mad about it. Being angry takes more energy than Katsuki has left, so he’s just so pathetically grateful to have someone else to lean on for the moment instead.
It doesn’t take long for the tears to run out either. He’s dehydrated as hell, and crying takes effort, so within minutes he’s given up on even that, curled into Jeanist’s side and leaving his eyes shut. Supposedly that stretcher is going to show up soon, but Katsuki knows how slow emergency care can be, and they’ll have to wrestle him on to the stupid thing without help anyways, so there’s no reason not to just pass out here.
Well. Maybe one reason, but when he asks, “Are you staying?” and hates himself for how weak his voice sounds, Jeanist doesn’t make any move to pull away.
“Yes, I’ll stay,” he promises instead. “I’ll ride back with you as well. All the way to the hospital, if you want.”
“Okay,” Katsuki sighs, not bothering to open his eyes again. He doesn’t need to do anything here. His part is done.
Finally, he lets himself rest.