[Gilgamesh sighs as if terribly put upon, but takes the bit of hair anyway. It feels silly and suited to them all at once, fighting like dogs, pleading for clarity, and then descending to this—two young men smitten with each other, though one of them would never admit it.

His hands are deft in weaving the strands together. He had to tame that wild garden Enkidu called hair, after all. This is simple in comparison.]

What a pointless request, all the way out here. I'm only showing you so you can do it yourself, alright?

[That's why he's reaching for Diarmuid's hand, settling it atop his own to learn the motions that way, by touch. But it's also an easy excuse to hold it.]

Do it a thousand times, and then I'll forgive you. Maybe.