The morning sunlight gently filtered inside the room, the light airy curtains not doing a very good job of keeping it at bay, much to the occupant's irritation – there was nothing more annoying to Yoongi than having the sun in his eyes when he was trying to prevent the day from actually happening, trying to make his days as short as possible by sleeping as much as possible.

Sighing, Yoongi pulled the covers over his head, ignoring the pain from his cold and stiff muscles. Tonight had been so blissful... he had dreamed his favorite dream... despite it simply being a dream, it had seemed so real to him... would he ever get over the bitter disappointment when he realized he was all alone?

A gentle tap at the door made him swallow the pain, and his mother entered the room. Small and slender, Yoongi had inherited both her height and her build, and that was about all – his facial features as well as his personality were things neither parent claimed as coming from them.

"Hey, honey," Mrs Min said softly, approaching his bed. "You up?"

"Hey, Mom," Yoongi replied; with Mrs Min's help, he got into a sitting position, and she sat on the other side of the bed and massaged his neck and shoulders, trying to ease at least the pain from the stiffness the night always brought.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, now focusing on his neck.

"Ok, I guess," he muttered, wincing as she had discovered a particularily tight spot.

"After you eat," she said. "I'll put the moist-heat on, shall I?"

"The doctor would get mad at you," Yoongi said, half-jokingly. Both his doctor and physio therapist had recommended placing an ice pack on sore and stiff muscles to reduce the inflammtion and therefore the pain.

"Only you know what works better, right?" she retorted. "Besides, I already bought a sand-bag for the moist heat, and it's already in a pot of boiling water."

"Thanks, Mom," Yoongi said, the word still sounding strange to him – for three months, he had said that so many times to his mother... but for the many years before, he had not.

"I just want you to feel better," she said. "There, I'll massage that spot again after the moist-heat, how does that sound?"

"Do you have to?" Yoongi replied, and she lightly hit his good arm and exclaimed, "What kind of question is that!"

Laughing slightly, he eased himself out of bed and grabbed the crutches kept exactly where he could reach them easily. He would never get used to this, he thought, gently getting both feet to the floor. He was still surprised sometimes to see his right leg, in a heavily graffitied cast.

"When can this thing come off?" he asked, irritated by seeing it.

"At least not after a few weeks," Mrs Min relplied.

Yoongi made a face, trying to keep from complaining about how itchy and stiff his right leg felt – not as though his upper body wasn't stiff and painful, too, he reflected. He supposed he was lucky he had escaped with only a broken leg, and bruises and cuts here and there... that's what the doctors told him. They didn't seem particularly concerned about the amount of pain his upper body was in, about how painful and stiff it felt all the time, and how there was a very deep ache in his shoulder, nearly constant. According to the x-rays and scans, there was not much damage done to the upper body, apart from a displaced rib which had already been put back. His muscles were probably just strained and had a shock from the accident, he supposed... after all, this wasn't the only accident he had been in, there was only so much wear and tear you could put your body through.

Still slightly clumsy, Yoongi navigated his way out his bedroom door and through the hallway. He hated using them; not only were they slow, but they put a lot of strain on his upper body.

"Well look who's out of bed this morning," Mr Min said, as some kind of greeting or acknowledgement of Yoongi's presence. Sundays are the only day of the week where everyone ate breakfast together, as a 'family,' as no one has either work or school, and breakfast is at around 10 am, the time Yoongi usually has eats.

As Yoongi took his seat, his stomach turned at the sight of the meal – omlettes and bacon.

"You have toast, dear," said Mrs Min, buttering a slice genrously and putting it on his plate. Before Yoongi could thank her, Mr Min said irritably, "He's past the age to be spoilt, you know that."

"Yes, but the doctor said-"

"They can be wrong, you know," Mr Min's voice became sharp. "Seems like just about anything now has a medical excuse... he's just picky and he'll eat when he's hungry enough, I've told you before you're spoiling him by making him eat whatever he wants."

"It's not simply being picky," Mrs Min said patiently. "He actually feels ill – the doctor called it neo phobia, remember? When he's better we can help him work on that, for now I think he has enough to deal with."

She placed another slice of buttered toast on his plate; Yoongi didn't touch them. Sure, he liked toast, but he had lost his appetite. Every single meal with his family was like this – they had to comment and pass judgements on his picky eating. It wasn't as though he chose to feel sick of a vast majority of foods, it wa