He hated his uniform.

The way it so perfectly framed him.

The way the dark colour made his hair seem brighter and more vibrant, like a blooming flower.

The way it buttoned down the front and ended at his knees, so different, so individual and yet exactly the same as everyone else's.

It marked him.

He was an exorcist.

He'd been there, done that,

He had the uniform to prove it.

But despite the fact that it suited him, it suited him perfectly in every way, this particular garment did not belong to him.

It was not made for him and he had no right to wear it.

This piece of clothing belonged to Lavi, not to him,

To Lavi.

And that's why he hated it.

Unconsciously he'd tug at it, at the collar or a loose seem, feeling trapped and smothered by the soft material.

But there was no cure for it.

That was all there was to it.

So every mission, every trip out of headquarters

He'd reluctantly put it on, as though he was the clay melting into the mould.

He'd hesitatingly do up all the buttons, and feel like an imposter.

Then he'd wear a scarf to hide the rips.

And a fake smile to disguise the guilt.