This fic wouldn't be possible without mrsashketchum's creative ideas, who also drew the amazing cover art! Please mosey over to her tumblr page to browse through her art.
Big thanks and shoutouts go to SandmanCircus and BendandCurl for the beta work.
This fic is also loosely inspired by the Taiwanese movie Secret.

Bloom

...

It was his twentieth day on the job when Soul saw her for the first time.

When Tsubaki had offered him the job, he didn't really think twice. It fit his two requirements; it had to do with music, and also, not suck. His bar was set pretty low - and yet, despite that, he hadn't been employed until now.

He didn't think the job was to be a cashier at Death Records, an HMV knock-off boutique with a supply consisting of a few more vinyl records than average.

It was his fault, in hindsight, for not checking exactly what he'd agreed to. Desperation lead him to this, he'd constantly tell himself, like it would relieve the situation. But he needed money, he probably was desperate, and his kind-of-shitty best friend, turned-shittier-roommate wasn't much help either way. Soul undoubtedly loved Blackstar; but moving in with him was perhaps not the best choice. Then again, half of his life was comprised of"perhaps not the best" choices.

So when he noticed her in their dingy little record store, the fact that his eyes trailed after her must've been a sign, a warning heeding him against another "perhaps not the best" choice on the horizon.

She seemed to drift aimlessly back and forth, indiscriminate. If there was one thing Soul had learned about most of the patrons of his niche store, it was that the customers - the ones that actually browsed instead of loitered - usually came because they were seeking something in particular. An obscure band, a dusty CD case, sometimes, to his horror, some tween looking to purchase the newest pop hit in its hipster vinyl form. They had a mission - in and out in never more than fifteen minutes. He'd ring them up, they might talk to him, he definitely wouldn't respond with more than one word, and that would be that. Gone. Part of his paycheck. Back to tapping the desk.

This newcomer must've belonged in the othercategory. The ones who thought the store was intriguing, but found nothing that interested them enough to actually make a purchase. It certainly seemed so, for her emerald eyes scoured over various titles - but not in any contemplative means. It was more like she was shopping for groceries; fast and surveying, before she'd flit away. Down another aisle she'd go, brushing past piles and piles of more CDs.

And then, about twenty minutes later, she approached the register. Soul scrambled upright, trying to shake the haze that had begun to cloud his vision, fingers hovering over the buttons to ring her up - only for his eyes to dart down to her own hands. Empty.

As he expected.

She brushed past his desk, not once glancing at him, humming a quiet tune under her breath. And as she passed, Soul can't help but watch as the sun hit her creamy pale skin. It lit up facets in her emerald eyes, brought out the subtle shades of gold in her otherwise ashy-blonde tresses. It touched her pinkish lips, just slightly shimmering from gloss, a perfect plump.

The door chimed as it swung shut, and Soul let himself slump back down onto his desk.

And as he drummed his fingers against the desk, watching each digit flex and move against his pretend keyboard, hearing the rhythmic taps that couldn't possibly emulate a piano, Soul realized that she was probably the most beautiful girl he'd never met.

...

She came in the next day, with the same gentle twin-chimes from the door, as if it were heralding her arrival.

And then she was there the next day, and the day after that - always at the same time. He'd begun to learn small, inconsequential things about her. For one, she had a serious case of Window Shopper Syndrome. Not once had she ever bought anything, and Soul wasn't entirely sure how he felt about this fact. She would move from shelf to shelf, those emerald eyes flicking from one title to the next, before moving on. Yet he was always drawn to her. Her lithe form, ashy-silver hair streaming behind her, skirt bellowing in mesmerizing patterns as she moved.

It only took an additional three days for him to realize that she only appeared during his shifts. Just the idea sent Soul's heart to a nervous stutter - embarrassment? Flattery? Either way, he had to fight the urge to smoothen his hair. Regardless of the cause, he'd begun to detect the flare of heat that would dash across his cheeks, starting as soon as those tinkling bells would precede her entrance. And it'd persist up until she left, empty handed, still humming that same, odd little tune, brushing so close that he swore if he reached out, just a little, his fingers would tangle in those ash-blonde tresses as she passed by.

The temptation had grown tenfold overtime.

And that was how it started, his infatuation with the nameless girl. It had gotten to the point that it felt like the sun shone a little brighter when she walked in: that it was the sheer effect of her smile (itself a half-grin, a gentle upturn of her lips) that brightened his day. He probably had an issue, Soul thought dejectedly, for it was the first time he'd ever feltthis way. It was like he'd developed some Pavlovian instinct - those two damn tinkles of the doorbell and he'd feel his back straighten ever so slightly, his fingers go from a careless lazy to a careful lazy, and his purposefully nonchalant gaze grow progressively shy as it trailed after her.

Recently, she'd been stopping frequently in the Jazz sector. That'd interested him. And though the routine didn't change, her recent presence in the blues and rhythm section was a new addition he could add to her growing list of quirks: her fondness for skirts, her affinity to the colour green, and the way her right heel bounced a little higher than her left in her step.

When Soul returned home, back to the backdrop of empty pizza boxes, crushed soda cans, and strewn cushions, he supposed he, too, followed a routine. He'd greet Blackstar, who was no doubt sprawled across their dingy couch, in the process of mangling another controller for the sake of the FPS gods. When asked, he'd mechanically reply his work was good, consider mentioning the nameless girl from his work, only to not bother - and then he'd lock himself in his room, stare at his mirror, and think about how he'd greet her. Nonchalant? Observant? Maybe he could recommend some of the newer jazz records they'd gotten in stock. Would that be weird? Too thoughtful? Too creepy?

All he knew was that the occasional time her green eyes would lock onto his, his throat would dry. Then it was too late - she'd blink, Soul swore her lips would pull up ever-so-slightly, and then she'd whisk away, merely a finger-length away from his grasp.

And after all that, after his dinner, shower, and an hour or so with just him and his guitar, he'd lie awake on his bed, thinking. Music, mostly, but her, occasionally.

Her green eyes. Varied taste in music. Flowy skirts. Sun-warming smile.

I'll talk to her tomorrow.

I'll definitely talk to her tomorrow.