Kakashi wears the red and white robes much like one wears the dead on one's hands- and he of all people should know how that feels.
With gravity, responsibility weighs his steps. His perennial slouch, casual and meant to disarm, to soften his fine-tuned edges, now drags him down so the bone white hem scrapes the ground. He is world-weary with faint tremors in his electricity channeling hands when he is presented the fabric, the hat. They tell him it is silk, it is light-weight, breathable; the bold red cloth pools in his hand, like blood, and he takes in no oxygen.
With grim determination, he takes his post. The shades of his youth, lonely and promised to kill, to sharpen his blade, now revisit him in his office beneath new bone white masks. He is authority with his steady voice and hands when he presents each mission scroll, each hit. They tell him it is duty, it is honor, business; the ink of his brush sticks to his fingertips, like blood, and he feels no pride.
Kakashi has worn the dead on his hands, knows exactly what they are: gory, horrifying handcuffs. He wears the unstained robes as Rokudaime just the same.