He'd been wearing a shirt when he'd started out that evening. He knew it because it had been the precise colour of his eyes, and he'd been admiring it hanging in his brother's closet for weeks. He remembered feeling a stab of guilt as he slid it off the hanger, but then Dionysus hadn't been home when he'd come round, and the guilt had swiftly been replaced by the age old credo of
'What's mine is yours, and what's yours is mine.' He was certain D had uttered the words before. At least once. And so, taking his brother at his word, Hermes had made the shirt his own. Which made it all the more tragic that he'd misplaced it.
( It was likely in the same place he'd left his shoes. )