“How’d you get that idea?” Gideon asks. He clearly hasn’t talked to Harrow. Perhaps he’s mistaken Harrow’s clinginess (to the point of a shared bedroll) as an indication. He’s enough like Harrow in his stand-off-ish superior doesn’t make friends way, with an obsession with his hair instead of face paint, that she could imagine him doing that. He could try being stuck in the back of someone’s mind, bobbing up and down in consciousness, not able to do anything or say a single world, for a year or however long it was and see how annoying he was then.

On top of his own brand of annoying curated extremely well.

“Metaphorical friendship bracelet,” Gideon rolls her eyes. “Maybe you wash each other’s hair or hack monsters apart or cook really bad food. I won’t judge that last one. My shit is extremely plain and still better than snow leeks.

“You were a child at some point, weren’t you? Children do childish things. It’s in the name.”