A/N v.2: Purge Purge Purge...

This fic comes from reading many, many KisuIchi fics at night, and having the idea of the starting line. Then the basic plot came out of nowhere, and I started writing. Of course, my muse was being feisty and this fic totally deviated from all ideas I had [which, admittedly, were happier and more M-rated], and came this. But it's probably one of my best fics.

Reviews are much appreciated, although I know both of these characters are probably VERY OOC. Sorry about that. But I'd love to expand into this fandom, and want to know how to improve. Also, kudos to anyone who knows what the title means WITHOUT using Google Translate or looking at previous reviews. :P Let the guessing begin!

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Although I do think both men are sexy. But only up until the end of the arc where Aizen gets sealed away forever or whatever. Then the series spirals downhill and I quite honestly don't WANT to own it. But Kisuke is a sex god in and of himself, and Ichigo is pretty damn hot too.

EDIT: The gist of this EDIT no longer applies. All three parts are up and running.

EDIT v.2: Just back to change the title. Apparently Google Translate hates me, and didn't want to conjugate anything. -_-"

Le Seulment Amour Est L'Amour Vrai

In the beginning, it was only about sex.

They met at a club, late at night when Ichigo was trying to escape the memories. It was the one year anniversary of Renji having broken up with him. He had loved the red-headed bastard, but Renji had claimed that Ichigo was too young and inexperienced for him. A year later, when Ichigo was still mourning what he had lost, Keigo and Mizuiro had managed to drag him along with them as they went clubbing. And after a few drinks, Ichigo found himself loosening up and enjoying the night, and slowly forgetting Renji. He would never be able to let go, not of his first love, but he could find closure.

And after all, what would Masaki say if she knew he was still beating himself up over one stupid redhead? What had her last words been to him? "Never deny yourself happiness, my little berry. Live as though each day is your last." Ironic, Ichigo thought, considering what had happened. How could she have known that that was her last day? That Ichigo would drop the rose he wanted to give her, would run back into the street to get it, would be pushed out of the way as Masaki tried to save him from the oncoming car.

But now wasn't the time for those bad memories. He was here to escape the haunting thoughts, not invite them in.

Ichigo had felt the pull of the music, begging him to dance, drawing him to the mass of writhing bodies that undulated in the light. He had worked his way into their ranks, swaying and twisting and moving his hips with the crowd, not caring who saw him anymore. He had felt the tall, lean man press up against his gyrating body, had leaned back into the warmth that surrounded him.

They had escaped into a back room within minutes. Clothes were ripped off, hands were everywhere, moans could be heard from the hallway. There was no tenderness, no caresses, no slow kisses. Simply passion, unfiltered, unadulterated passion. And as they lay together on the bed, panting, neither deluded himself into thinking this was more than a one-night stand.

But Ichigo was back a week later, avoiding his father and the fight that was sure to follow. He had downed a few drinks, then quickly merged into the crowd on the dance floor. He felt that same body press against him, that same man who had used him so thoroughly the week before. "My place," the man had whispered, and Ichigo had happily followed.

The sex had been slower this time, more gentle. Much more time had been spent in exploring the other's body, finding out what made each of them gasp out in pleasure. When the blond had finally pushed into Ichigo, the strokes were calm and languid, patient, trying to draw out the pleasure for eternity. And when they had both come, they curled up together, Ichigo's head on his chest and his arms around Ichigo's torso. And finally, stupidly, Ichigo thought to ask the man's name.

"Kisuke Urahara," the man had replied in that deep, sultry tone.

"Ichigo Kurosaki," Ichigo had told him, before drifting off to sleep. For the first time in months, his dreams weren't haunted by the ghosts of his past.

They came to a casual agreement. They would meet up every now and then, at that same club, and go to Kisuke's small apartment. Ichigo would usually spend the night, then leave early the next morning. It became a routine of theirs, and Ichigo found himself happily settling into it. They continued for weeks that way, and both men knew that it was never going to be a deeper relationship. Ichigo, for one, knew that Kisuke was far too old for him, far too beautiful, far too perfect. A man as amazing as Kisuke would never want someone as stupid, young, or ugly as Ichigo.

But then Ichigo found himself wondering about the blonde. He began to ask questions as they lay there, half asleep. He would play with Kisuke's hair, or spoon around Kisuke's back, or curl into Kisuke's chest, and ask him about his life. How old was he? What did he do for a living? Did he have any family? Why wasn't he settled down? Why had he come to that club that first night? What was he looking for in a partner? Would he ever want to adopt, if he found the right man? Or would he prefer to stay childless? Why did he never visit his family and friends? Did he ever interact with anyone? If he had so many inventions, how come Ichigo had never heard of him before? He had so many questions, and even though he only received answers to a few, each answer made him feel closer to the older man.

He denied it for a long time, even to himself. He refused to mess up the way things were between them. He didn't want Kisuke to get scared or weirded out. He didn't want to change the dynamic of the relationship they had. But eventually, even Ichigo couldn't miss it.

He had fallen in love with Kisuke Urahara.

Ichigo cursed himself for not seeing it beforehand. But it had been so gradual, Ichigo had no chance of recognizing the feelings for what they were. He came to cherish the moments he spent with Kisuke more and more, and found himself willing to go through thick and thin for him. When Kisuke had had a particularly bad day, Ichigo was content to simply lay next to him throughout the night. When Kisuke felt sick, Ichigo was the first to tuck him into bed and bring him a hot bowl of soup. When Kisuke was happier than usual, Ichigo felt the joy invade his very being.

And yet, Ichigo's heart was breaking, piece by minuscule piece. Every night spent with Kisuke reminded him of everything he would never have. Every kiss, every sound, every touch left him longing for more. The nights without Kisuke became a sort of torture for Ichigo. The nightmares returned with a vengeance, guilt riding along gleefully. He saw Masaki every night now, asking him why he hadn't protected her, crying out for help, berating him for being so selfish as to keep on living when he had taken her life from her. He took to staying awake as long as he could at night, reading or watching TV, until he was so exhausted he fell into a dreamless sleep. And then three hours later he was awake again, ready to go to school, or drive to work, or meet with Ishida, or do whatever his routine required. He wasted away, slowly, slowly, turning into a shell of what he had once been.

Even Kisuke noticed eventually. But when he asked, Ichigo had forced a pained smile and replied nonchalantly, "It's nothing. Don't trouble yourself." But inside, his heart had broken a little more.

And then, one day, there was nothing left to break. Ichigo gazed at Kisuke's sleeping body for several minutes, gathering the courage to take this last step. And then he was gone, nothing but a flash of orange in the moonlight. He left nothing behind save a single piece of paper, fluttering in the breeze, held in place under Kisuke's favorite striped green and white hat.

I can't do this anymore, it said. Please forgive me. It's just too hard.

And underneath were written three words. The handwriting was shaky, as though the hand had trembled, though whether in uncertainty or sadness or even both was anyone's guess. Three words, but no less powerful for the small quantity. Three words that must have taken all of Ichigo's being to write. Words he had only ever told one other person before.

I love you.