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Man... what a day that was. First Simon thought his ears were going to drown in Seymour's endless complaining about their living situation for this term - thanks to some kind of space constraints going on, they and Samson had been assigned to a room normally reserved for underclassmen. Despite the other two boys pointing out this meant they wouldn't have to be separated like they'd been fearing, the blonde's whining and lamenting over the whole ordeal refused to stop until it was lights-out.

And then later on he was unfortunate enough to bump into Franz. The guy thankfully didn't seem too peeved that he'd almost knocked him over... instead, his first clumsy encounter of the year somehow led to him being talked into joining the cheerleading squad. He honestly had no idea how it had happened. Attempts at recalling the incident later on started it with him apologizing, then a blur, then him nervously signing a form while being chattered at about school spirit and brotherhood and so on.

Yeah, he definitely hadn't stood a chance.

He normally wasn't such a light sleeper, but the faint, controlled rhythm of someone breathing right above him was still somehow enough to make Simon stir into consciousness. As the noise persisted in the waking world he cast his bleary gaze around the softened gray shapes of the room, trying to find the source, until a rigid, unfamiliar shadow at the side of his bed finally caught his attention.

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUGH!!"

The boy screamed like he'd just noticed a serial killer looming over him - and really, given how the whole scene looked at this time, that was perfectly understandable. He jerked and flailed enough to land on the floor in a tangled mess of bedsheets, still screaming for his life.

When the ruckus roused his dorm-mates, however, they didn't seem frightened at all-- in fact, the both of them looked bored and exasperated, as if they'd seen this happen half a million times.

Seymour Ferguson was the first to sit up, eyes still shut and normally perfect bowl cut in disarray. "Siiiiiiimon," he whined, "are you seriously having night terrors again? You told us you were over that..."

"Wait, Ferguson," Samson MacFern started, pulling himself into a droopy lotus position, "No, no, I think it's because there's someone i-- WAIT, THERE'S SOMEONE IN THE ROOM! Is that--" He ungracefully leapt to the floor, sliding to the wall and hitting the lightswitch, squinting as the bulbs bleakly illuminated the room and their intruder.

"Germaine! What the HELL do you think you're doing?!"

"Polecats... you mean the cheerleading squad?" Seymour fished for his glasses and put them on, for the express purpose of swiveling his head and glowering over at the spot of floor Simon was currently occupying. "Don't tell me... oh, jeez..."

From the twisted pile of bedsheets he was in, Simon quietly groaned.

Samson, however, seemed unconcerned whether or not his friend had found yet another new method of self-humiliation, instead creeping closer to Franz and firing an accusing gaze at him. "Where do you get off spooking poor Simon like that, are you trying to kill him?!" He then jumped over the taller boy's bed to help him, lifting him up by the sheets holding him captive so they'd loosen a bit and fall to the floor around him. "Just look at him, Germaine! You almost gave him a heart attack!"

As if to illustrate his point, the ginger kid grabbed Simon by the shoulders and pulled him over so he'd be relatively face-to-face with Franz. Simon didn't look like a heart attack patient at that instant - rather, he was wearing a sleepier version of the "oh no, not again" face, lightly sprinkled with "please god make them stop."

"Sorry, Franz..." he managed to mumble, his voice a bit raspy from the screaming he was doing earlier. Then he shrugged out of Samson's grip, bent over to neatly drape his sheets back onto his bed, plucked his glasses from his bedside table and rummaged through his drawers for something not-pajamas he could throw on for practice.

From his bunk, Seymour rubbed his eyes in half-disbelief. "Oh man... you're really doing it. Simon, seriously, I worry about you sometimes."

"Says the kid who was seriously wondering what paint chips taste like the other day."

"Shut up, Samson."

Usually Simon was the type to try and mediate silly bickering like this, but for these two he usually tuned it out - especially in a situation like the one he was in now, where he really just didn't want to deal with it. A decent pair of socks followed by his uniform shoes, and he was skulking over to the door, easing it open.

"Let's just get this over with..."

Upon being slapped on the back, Simon let out a surprised little yelp and stumbled forward a couple of steps, having to windmill his arms a little bit to ensure he didn't fall backwards - no, Franz hadn't hit him quite that hard, but his nerves more than made up for the difference. "N-n-no, it's okay," he shakily assured after collecting himself and closing the door. "I probably should've been up anyway."

He slouchily sauntered behind Franz, looking every bit as nervous as the other seemed alert. "Yeah..." he nodded, "I-I-I feel pretty l-lucky to have them around, really." Before an honest conversation about them could really be started, however, Franz had started talking about the cheer squad again. Simon was sure he'd heard this before. Or at least, something along the same vein while a sign-up sheet was being shoved into his hands and pen waved in his face. He briefly wondered if the other kid had ever considered going into politics. He'd probably be good at it.

Another slap on the back, another yelp - how many times was this going to happen? - and Simon felt... well, he still felt pretty damn insecure. What could possibly lead anyone to think he was cheerleading material? He stuttered, he was clumsy, and he found showmanship to be terrifying. Way to go, Ferris, you just agreed to being part of the worst extracurricular activity ever.

He let out a pitiable, audible sigh as they neared their destination.

A lap around the track. Alright, he could do that - smack! - he stumbled a bit, but no yelp this time. At this rate he'd eventually become accustomed to it thanks to good ol' systematic desensitization.

"Errrm," he started smartly, honestly a little caught off guard by the inquiry. Simon didn't really like talking about himself. He wasn't very good at it, partially because he didn't think he was very interesting. "W-well, I, uh... I'm a Taurus?" he weakly offered, Simon what the hell are you saying this isn't a personals ad, "and, er, I like to cook sometimes, n-not that it matters much here. Not really a kitchen around I can use or anything..."

Man, that bugged him. He really would have liked to be able to make himself an omelette or something before getting dragged out here.

"Oh, yeah..." he said with a slightly more happy flavor to his tone. "I remember that place. It was my favorite class..."

Kid could make a badass apple pie, though. Not that he knew that from getting to taste it himself - it had been devoured the moment it was pulled out of the oven, still piping hot. Simon conveniently left out the part where home ec was where he'd earned a great deal of his "girly" reputation, and how when he heard the building burned down he cried about it for days.

Literally. Days.

Oh man, poor Burford... from how he'd just deflated like that, Simon could almost think that he might not be the only one who wasn't exactly sure what he was doing here. Maybe. He also sincerely hoped that he would never have to do a jody, which meant that it was probably going to happen in the near future.

The chill in the air was really starting to get to him. He thought that warm-ups like this were supposed to generate body heat and push the cold away, but every time he took in another breath it felt like he was inhaling a flurry of tiny icicles. Simon coughed to try and get rid of some of that sensation. When Franz said his next piece, however, it made him manage to choke on the air and the next couple of yards were spent with him rapping at his chest, sputtering.

God, that tone of his was disturbing.

Simon did relax a few visible hairs when he was told he could take it easy on his first practice, but that moment of relief was tragically short-lived when Franz asked him when he was afraid of heights. His lips twitched around what could have been a word except it had no sound or discernible form to it. Nervous eyes flicked to the pyramid, to Franz, to the pyramid again, to the ground, back to Franz, and finally settled on trailing after Warne's climbing.

He forced out a staggered, excruciatingly false chuckle. "N-n-nuh-no, of c-course not!" he lied, putting a hand on his hip and trying but half-failing to stretch his face into an easygoing grin. The boy's eyes were glued to the air above Warne's head, as if he could tear a dimensional vortex into the grim sky by staring at it hard enough. The hand on his hip was trembling violently. "W-wh-what would give you an idea l-like that?"

Feeling a slightly sour mix of relief and shame, Simon followed Franz over to the bleachers, carefully listening to his instructions with an attentive series of nods. Even if the run hadn't done much against the cold air it had loosened up his muscles a bit, and he proved to be quite flexible after positioning himself for the leg stretch he'd been asked to do. Hey, who said an awkward wreck couldn't be flexible? He was a lean, mean, stretching machine.

Not to mention breakdancing across the kitchen floor to M.C. Hammer kept him pretty limber over the summer, but that's something he would be keeping to himself, thank you very much.

During the somewhat awkward demonstration his gaze flicked across the field, and among all the ambiguous shadows he could imagine as jeering, laughing classmates there was one that was solid, definite in its form as a person.

"Hey... is someone late to practice or something?