Takao Kazunari is not a complicated guy. Quite the contrary. He is the second most simple creature he knows. The only thing remotely complex about his life or personality is his fascination (one might even say obsession, if one was inclined to be less flattering) with all things complicated. He laughs to himself every time he reflects on this paradox, usually at night when his body is exhausted but his mind seems to have no intention of letting him fall asleep.

Takao's hobby has been a part of his life for as long as he can remember. His mother asserts that from the day that her "little Kaz" was born he was already looking about himself in wonder, his tiny hands reaching out to the world to feel, touch, and explore. Often times, his curiosity has gotten himself and his family into trouble. Takao mother's favorite anecdote is the story of how three-year-old Kazunari, mesmerized by the peculiar motion of his grandmother's speech, reached into her mouth to pull out her dentures. In front of company. Retelling the incident never failed to make his father puff up in angry silence and his mother and younger sister burst into raucous laughter, holding their sides and howling. Takao wonders if his father left because the house was simply too noisy for him to stand anymore. He has not really bothered to understand his father's abrupt departure from their lives; whatever his reasons were, they were undoubtedly simple, clear, and logical like everything else about the man.

His father is the most uncomplicated thing that Takao has ever encountered in his life. When he left, in Takao's first year of junior high school, Takao did not miss him. The quiet man with the pained, gray eyes and permanent frown who occasionally stopped by their home for dinner and a bath, who talked only of work or the news or his life before "all this" was a rather clear-cut case. He was a spoiled only-child who had married below his station (in his grandparent's estimation; Takao himself reserves judgment on this issue until he is old enough to understand. He thinks this is a rather generous allowance on his part). No, Takao Kazunari does not miss his father. He has little time to do so even if he should want to; there are far too many interesting and complicated things to see and unravel. It would be a waste time to spend a single afternoon on the simple motivations of the man whose only claim to Takao's attention is the one-time donation of DNA to Kazunari's gene pool.

And there are-oh, are there!-so many things in the world to see and hear and explore! Kazunari quickly finds that the world is full of complications, of problems, events, emotions, and physical objects that operate in unfathomable ways and for unknowable reasons. As Kazunari grows, so does his passion. He loves nothing more than walking the streets of his neighborhood or climbing trees in the nearby park while contemplating the latest of his "subjects". It is exciting, vital work, he knows, but it is lonely sometimes. Takao quickly learns, after being ditched

by his friends for the nth time, that other people (normal people, he quietly thinks) do not like to have complicated things explained to them. He, personally, does not understand this. Complications are so interesting! Mysteries are meant to be solved! If the teacher did not want him to muse on why exactly the Nationalists lost China's civil war, she shouldn't have asked for a report on that subject (he thinks the issue in that instance may have arisen from the fact that his report had been four pages over the word limit, but he was only being thorough!)! Takao refuses to give up his studies, though; they are simply too precious, too interesting. How can anyone not get that thrill from tearing something apart, learning its' components secrets and functions, and then divining how all those components work together? How can anyone not feel curious as to exactly why something happened? How can anyone not want to understand what motivates someone to react to stimuli one way and another person to respond in another?

Takao cannot not understand why people want simple. His classmates constantly complain about having to learn the minutiae of historical events or the intricacies of why vinegar and baking soda react so violently to each other. His family remarks upon on how boring it is to hear the whys of what has happened in the news. After all, they remark, isn't it enough that it has happened? Takao simply does not understand it; complicated is so much more interesting.

When Takao attempts to demonstrate how interesting his passion really is by explaining how the tricks in the magic kit Sota-kun's auntie brought him from California work or why a specific character in the shoujo manga that Shiori-chan constantly talks about is designed to specifically appeal to misunderstood teenage girls with brown hair and daddy issues, he finds that no one wants to hear it. Apparently, for a species whose constant cry is that of "I don't understand!", humans have very little patience for those who try to explain things. In fact, Takao finds, the people around him would prefer not to think at all! He infers this from the frustrated looks he receives in response to his conversation and the sighs of impatience which greet his long essays and answers. His conclusions are confirmed, however, when he comes home from school one day in his first year of junior high to find his mother sobbing at the kitchen table. He stands in the hallway, stock-still, not knowing what to do. She sobs and sobs, not having heard his quiet "Tadaima" over her own sorrow.

He has never seen his mother like this. Her beautiful face is awash with tears and her narrow eyes are squeezed tightly shut behind her curtain of dark hair. A letter is crushed in her hand, resting on the kitchen table, and her body slumps over it.

"Kaasan? Kaasan, what's wrong?" he asks running to her side, becoming unfrozen as another tear leaks down her smooth cheek.

His mother looks up suddenly, startled despite the fact that he comes home from school at this time everyday.

"Kazunari! When did you get home? How was school?" she asks, standing and wiping away her tears.

Takao ignores her questions.

"Kaasan, are you okay?"

Takao watches his mother turn her back on him and stride to the kitchen. Takao is not sure if he should play along with his mother's charade, or if he should push her to tell him what's bothering her. She begins to get out fruit for his after school snack and he notices that the letter she had been reading is forgotten on the table. He slips it into the pocket of his uniform as she replies:

"Yes, of course. Everything's fine, Kazunari. Now, go wash your hands and change. I don't want you getting papaya juice on your uniform."

She still has her back to him and Takao is getting more and more worried. He feels as though if he doesn't say anything now, his mother will never talk about what's bothering her. Who does she have to tell other than him?

"Kaasan. Kaasan, please, tell me what's wrong! I'll make the snacks and you just sit down and, and relax, please? You can just sit and talk about it and I'll make the snacks and dinner, too. Azami can help and-"

"Kazunari, " his mother interrupts and something in her tone makes him quiet immediately. "Kazunari, it's okay. Everything's okay. Mommy just needs," she sucks in a breath through her teeth, "Mommy just needs to not think right now, okay? Go change your clothes, sweetheart, and we'll eat our snack when Azami gets home."

His mother turns from the chopping board where a un-sliced papaya sits and gives him a painful little smile. Takao looks into her narrow, blue-flecked eyes and sees a desperate plea for him to just drop it. He nods, smiling a little, and says "Okay".

He does wash his hands and change into street clothes. He listens to his mother in the kitchen to make sure she is still preoccupied with snack preparation. He hears the refrigerator door open and close and then the front door slam as Azami calls, "Tadaima!"

Takao leaves his door open just a crack and sits on his bed to read the letter that has so upset his mother. He unfurls the paper and finds that it is not a letter, but an wedding invitation. Written on fine rice paper in beautifully drawn kanji and surrounded by impossibly perfect images of blossoming cherry trees is the gentle request to attend the marriage of Takao Yamato and his darling Ikeda Yuri. Takao drops the invitation as though burned.

"Kazunari!" his mother calls from downstairs.

He glances at the door. For a moment, he is unsure if he wants to obey her call. He needs time to think, to understand what exactly is going on.

"Kazunari, snack time!"

He stands, tucking the invitation into his pocket to return to the table when his mother isn't looking. He must remember to keep it away from Azami, too. He hurries downstairs, his mind already buzzing to make sense of this absolute mess.

That night after dinner they watch a timeworn movie, one that never fails to make them laugh and which prompts Azami to sing loudly and dance about the living room. Their mother laughs and sings along and Takao feels his heart lift a little. Perhaps, sometimes, simple is better, he thinks.

Later, when Azami has been bathed and put to bed and he has finished his homework and taken his own bath, he sneaks into his mother's room. She is reading, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose and only the little lamp on her bedside table illuminating her room. Her face looks more relaxed than it has all night and he turns, having satisfied himself that she is alright.

"Kazunari? What are you doing out of bed?"

He swears his mother has super-vision.

Takao turns. His mother is smiling in fond exasperation. He thinks that this would be the perfect time to ask her what's wrong, to find out what's bothering her now that she has calmed down. But he sees her face, open and fond and a bit tired, and he doesn't want to make her explain and doesn't want to explain anything himself. It would hurt them both too much, he thinks, to know that it was not her fault, that she couldn't have done anything to keep him. That he probably didn't care enough to send this invitation. Most likely it was his grandmother who had sent the invitation; she had always hated his mother and disdained the "wild" way in which she raised her eldest son's precious offspring. It would not help his mother to hear these things, to have this explained to her. She had said she did not want to think.

"Sorry, Kaasan. I had a bad dream."

She immediately puts her book down and pats the bed next to her. As she holds hims and pets his head with soothing whispers, he makes a vow to himself: he will keep his explanations to himself. If people need respite from the complications of the world, he will provide that. With him, the people he cares for will not have to think; they will not have to question his motives or actions or words. He will be the darkness where they can hide, for a little while, from the light. He can give them a safe place to just … be. It's the least he can do, he thinks, for those who provide him with such an interesting world in which to live. And such amazing hugs.