Chapter 30: The Weight of Cheers
The finish line was a threshold crossed into a new dimension of sound. The air, which moments before had been filled with the singular focus of the race, erupted into a chaotic, deafening roar. The stadium, a distant backdrop for the past several minutes, was now an overwhelming, all-encompassing presence. The force of tens of thousands of voices, a sonic tsunami of shock and excitement, crashed over the four boys who stood panting in the sudden, jarring stillness of the race's end.
Izuku Midoriya was on his knees, his body trembling with a violent, post-adrenaline tremor. The searing pain in his arm was a distant, secondary sensation to the roaring in his ears and the utter, soul-shaking disbelief that was flooding his mind. He had done it. He, the boy who had been Quirkless, who had been told his dream was impossible, had come in first. Tears of pain, exhaustion, and pure, unadulterated shock streamed down his face.
Shoto Todoroki stood tall, his breath pluming in the air, his fists clenched at his sides. He was not looking at the cheering crowd or the leaderboard. His intense, mismatched eyes were fixed on Midoriya's back. There was no anger on his face, only a new, dangerous level of focus. He had been beaten. Not by the raw, overwhelming power he understood, but by a desperate, brilliant, and completely unpredictable strategy. A new, formidable rival had just been carved into his world.
And then there was Katsuki Bakugo. He stood shaking, not from exhaustion, but from a rage so profound, so absolute, that it seemed to be a physical force, radiating from him in waves of pure heat. A low, animalistic snarl ripped its way from his throat. He had been humiliated. Beaten not only by the icy prodigy he had sworn to surpass, but by the two people he disdained most in the world: the silent, unnerving freak, and—impossibly, unforgivably—the useless, pebble-in-his-path Deku.
In the eye of this emotional hurricane, Gaara stood perfectly still. He slowly straightened from his hunched-over position, his hands still on his knees. He was breathing heavily, but the strain was not just from the race. It was from a new, utterly foreign sensation that was beginning to dawn on him.
He looked up at the giant screen that loomed over the stadium. He saw the names, the rankings. He saw his own name, next to the number '2'. It was a piece of objective data, a fact. He had not failed. He had passed the test. He processed this information with his usual, detached logic.
But then, the sound of the crowd began to change.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE WHAT I'VE JUST SEEN, FOLKS! AN UNBELIEVABLE UPSET!" Present Mic's voice screamed, somehow cutting through the roar. "IZUKU MIDORIYA OF CLASS 1-A TAKES FIRST PLACE IN A STUNNING, LAST-SECOND GAMBIT! BUT LET'S NOT FORGET OUR SECOND-PLACE FINISHER! IN A DISPLAY OF UNBELIEVABLE POWER, STRATEGY, AND… QUIRK-ASSISTED CIVIC DUTY… THE MYSTERIOUS NEWCOMER, GAARA!"
Guided by the announcer's hype, the crowd's focus shifted. A new wave of cheers erupted, different from the initial roar of shock. This was focused. This was directed. And Gaara, as he stood there, realized with a jolt that a significant portion of that sound, that immense wave of positive energy, was aimed directly at him.
A strange, fluttering sensation bloomed deep within his chest. It was an alien feeling, uncomfortable in its novelty, like a muscle being used for the very first time. It was a warmth that spread through his ribs, a stark contrast to the cold, empty cavern that usually resided there. Without thinking, his right hand rose, his fingers pressing lightly against his sternum, as if trying to identify the source of this bizarre new ailment, or perhaps, to keep this fragile, unfamiliar feeling from escaping.
He looked out at the sea of faces in the stands. They were smiling. They were pointing at him, not with accusation, but with excitement. He saw children, their faces bright with awe, mimicking the clenching motion of his hand that had crushed the robot. He saw adults, Pro Heroes among them, nodding to each other, their expressions ones of genuine admiration for his skill.
They were not running. They were not screaming. They were cheering.
For him.
The moment of profound, world-altering confusion was shattered by a familiar, furious voice.
"You think you're something special now, eyebrow-less freak?"
Bakugo was stalking towards him, his crimson eyes blazing with a humiliation that had curdled into pure poison. "That was a fluke! A pathetic fluke! You and that useless Deku just got lucky! That second-place trophy should have been mine!"
Gaara slowly turned his head, his hand still resting on his chest. He looked at Bakugo's contorted, angry face. He heard the insults. They were the same kind of words he had been hearing his entire life. But for the first time, they seemed… small. Muted. The echo of the crowd's cheer was still ringing in his ears, a powerful, protective buffer against the familiar sting of hatred.
He did not reply. There were no words. He simply met Bakugo's furious glare with his own calm, unreadable, teal stare. The silence, the utter lack of reaction, was more infuriating to Bakugo than any retort could ever be. It denied him the fight, the confrontation his rage so desperately craved.
"What, nothing to say for yourself?!" Bakugo snarled, taking another step forward.
"Bakugo kun, please stop."
Iida's voice was as sharp and decisive as a whip crack. "The race is over. The results are final. Control yourself. There upcoming games.."
Bakugo shot one last, hateful glare at Gaara before turning away with a frustrated scream, stomping off towards the stadium exit.
As Gaara turned to leave, he saw the faces of his other classmates. Kirishima and Kaminari were looking at him, not with admiration, but with a renewed, wary suspicion. He heard Jiro mutter to Yaoyorozu, "That power… it's still terrifying. Can we really trust him?"
He heard it all. He saw their cold shoulders, their suspicious glances. A few minutes ago, those reactions would have been the only reality he knew. They would have reinforced the cold emptiness in his chest.
But now, they were competing with a new sensation. The warmth.
He walked away from the field, away from his silent accusers. He could still feel the faint, echoing vibration of the crowd's approval. He brought a hand to his chest again, not to diagnose the feeling this time, but as if to protect it, to shield the small, fragile, flickering flame that had just been lit within the deep, lonely darkness of his past.
He did not yet know what this new feeling was. He did not know if he deserved it. But he knew, with a certainty that was as profound as it was terrifying, that he wanted to feel it again.