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(two different ways to say) faith {i}: zero-errors

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Xabi's always been fond of statistics, of probability. (Of percentages, and 2, or 3, or 4 decimal places.) Of fact, generally.


But sometimes, sometimes fact is disputable. (Well, not disputable, because that contradicts the very definition of it, but:) Sometimes it slips away, and there are times when no facts can explain anything. He knows this, he does, but (it doesn't stop him from trying to find them, be it on Steven's spine when he's sleeping next to him, or blades of grass under his palms at Anfield; and sometimes, sometimes they feel the same).


He wonders what is used to measure faith, heart, passion. Passion. Passion like the resounding sound of voices in harmony (?). And sound is measured in decibels.

(You can measure heartbeats, count them; feel a pulse with your fingers on a wrist, or mouth on a neck. Faith, that's something else.)

Passion like tears? And can tears be counted?


Or maybe, maybe it's calculated from the touch of fingertips lightly impressed on skin, and not friction, no, but the absence of it. There isn't any, and it's strange. Or not. Because.


Because there was a night. 2 years, 2x365 days, 2x365x24 hours ago, and Steven had cried, not in front of the world, but in front of him, and he'd attempted to count the tears with his lips.


(And you can't, because tears are there to blur the lines, and to seal something greater.)


Time, it's a fundamental quantity, and Steven, he'll say, well, we have three more fucking weeks of this 'fundamental quantity' to get our shit together.


He says it hasn't quite "sunk in" yet, but he's smiling more. Too much more.


(And he almost cries again when Xabi looks at him, just that, with that softsofttoosoft gaze of his, and doesn't say anything (but Xabi's silence, it's almost suffocating). Steven says, we can't not, because it'll kill me.)


But that's not the reason.


The reason is this: Xabi likes to be told, and Steven likes to figure it all out for himself. Xabi, he likes to be wary, and prepared, and Steven, he just needs a pitch, and his stadium, and his fans, and eye-contact, and a smile every now and then. He thinks it's not asking for much, not asking for much at all.

(But in Athens, he'll be asking for a whole lot. And he thinks, has always believed that if you don't ask too much of the world it'll give you what you deserve. And maybe that's really fucking stupid, but it's all that he's got.)


Xabi, he has his facts, and figures, and logic. Logic. What's that, anyway? Haven't you learnt anything from being here? (And yes, he is smiling way too much.)


True faith is when you have no reason, no reason at all (0.000%, or maybe 0.0001%), and you still believe.


(Or maybe, maybe there are some things that aren't measured from zero.)