Truth is relative— it depends on the person. Truth is not something that can be defined, because everyone's definition is as different and warped as the person believing it.

For a pessimist, the truth is dark: Life doesn't matter. There is no higher power. We are just tiny, random, and insignificant meat sacks, doomed to suffer from the pain others cause us and regret the pain we cause others. We will live on our tiny, random, and insignificant planet, surrounded by bigger and better planets, which are surrounded by bigger and better galaxies, and they're all in a black, endless pocket of space that continues on and on and extends to other dimensions and places we'll never be able to see. Then we'll die and rot, as clueless and ignorant as we were in life. And in a decade, maybe two if you're lucky—you'll be forgotten.

"You'll never change, Remy, an' Ah might as well accept that."

Bitter tears falling from hopeless eyes and rolling down sunken cheekbones. Gloved hands in fists at too thin sides. Curses uttered from pale, dry lips. Sorrow etched in porcelain skin.

Rogue's truth is this: She is cursed and untouchable, and thus—unlovable. She strives to better herself any way she can to make up for her failure in regards to her powers. She equates touch with love, and because Remy gives in and associates with other woman he does not love her. She is furious, but more at herself than him. She blames his infidelity on herself, because if she could touch Remy could be faithful.

She knows that someday, not anytime soon—she's still very young after all—but she knows that eventually the sickness and frailty that comes with old age will ravage her invulnerable body. She knows that when this day comes she will still be untouched and as miserable as she is now. Or maybe she'll die of other causes. Maybe her inner psyches will finally rip away the last scrap of sanity and self-awareness she has left and her body will shut down without its host's mind. But more than likely Remy's infidelities and lies will continue to grind away her strength and appetite and she'll get thinner and thinner and more despondent and she'll fade away.

"Ya obviously don't love me—so stop sayin' over and over again that ya do!"

White teeth biting into a pink mouth. Heated anger snapping in green eyes. Fresh hurt coming off in waves from a trembling body. Hands raking through pearl and walnut-colored curls. Sorrow etched in porcelain skin.

"Ah think that maybe," —she hesitates—"we should call it quits for good. Look at me, Remy. You're killin' me."

He thinks that Rogue may be a pessimist.

"Y' don' mean dat, chère. Y' can't mean dat. We been through to much to end it now, girl."

The prickling of tears at the back of devil eyes. Sweat forming on skin as desperation sneaks its way into a pounding heart. Cheeks puffy from the years of alcoholism. Sorrow etched in coarse skin.

For an optimist, the truth is bearable, possibly even light: Our life was planned before we were born. A god guides our lives and though he may remain hidden when we need him most—he is here for us; no matter how much we sin and continue to sin, no matter how covered in blood our hands are. We are god's children and we mean something, our sufferings mean something—because what would exultation be without misery? There can't be laughter without crying, or pleasure without pain, or love without hate. The bad times makes us appreciate the good times. The bonds we form on our beautiful earth will stay in the hearts of our friends and family, and in a way, we are never forgotten.

"Dey don' mean nothin'! I love y'. Why can't y' see dat? I slip up, Rogue, mais I'm only human. Y' got my heart—dey got de body part dat don' matter."

Fingertips yellowed from nicotine brush away a stray curl. Fingers curl together and fall down when woman slaps the motion away. Stab in breast. Sorrow etched in coarse skin.

Remy's truth is this: Rogue is all he has left, and he loves her more than anyone he's ever met or anything he's ever possessed. He tries his hardest to redeem past crimes by pouring his all into the team and into her. He doesn't understand why she equates love with touch, because he does not. Love is a warming of hearts every time the two are together, love is coming home to the same woman night after night—no matter how late it may be, love is knowing without question that you'll throw yourself in front of a bullet headed for your woman, love is putting yourself through hell and high water to see your woman smile. Remy loves Rogue, it's that simple.

Touch is something entirely different. Touch is a sense—a carnal need. Touch is something that can be fulfilled with something as simple as holding hands, or partaking in a half hour romp in a stranger's bed. Touch is for the weak. Touch is to pretend the person in his arms is his woman and crying out her name when it's all said and done. Touch is releasing the burning, human need so he won't be tempted to touch Rogue. Not for his own sake—he knows feeling her lips for even seconds is worth the pain afterward—but for her. He hears her complaints about the voices and nightmares that are not hers. He sees all the pain medication she takes and all the weight she's lost. He sees the quick change of color in her eyes and the small, barely-noticeable strain she experiences trying to stay herself.

Remy is not afraid of death, so he does not think about it often. All he knows is that he'll die when Rogue does—no sooner, no later. He can't live without her, and he can't die without her, either.

"I'll try harder, d'accord? Jus' give me another chance—one mo' chance..."

Cards held nervously in pockets. Shuffling of metal boots. Excruciating pain at realizing he is the one killing her—slowly but surely. Frustration 'cause she can't understand. Sorrow etched in coarse skin.

Rogue thinks Remy may be too much of an optimist.

…

She falls into his embrace and his lips find her hair.

She knows they'll have this same argument and rip each other apart; he knows they'll solve things eventually and repair all the damage they've caused.

She knows they won't make it work and that all this pain is worth nothing; he knows they've been through a lot but that they can only go up from here.

She accepts his apology but hides her scar-tissued heart away so he won't be able to hurt her again; he is sincere in his apology and opens his heart once again so they can go back to loving each other.

Neither person with their method is right; neither person with their method is wrong. Because what is 'right' to one could be 'wrong' to another. And there will never be an answer, because to answer is to prove something is true, but there is no truth. Truth isn't universal—it varies with one's state of mind, opinion, past experiences, and outlook on life.

Truth is relative—indefinable.

…

"Je t'aime."

"Ah love ya, too."

And for them, this is the truth.

…

Fin.

This came to mind after a discussion in class involving 'what truth is'. It's really interesting how truth can vary from one individual to another, and I couldn't help but involve Rogue and Remy in my thoughts.

This was done on little sleep: anyone care to beta?

Feedback is encouraged.