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Kasimir Vonnegut, fourth son of the viscount Leopold Vonnegut, was super freaking bored. Bored bored bored. First of all, he was stuck in this boring cruddy district on a boring errand from his boring father. It was dull and it was dirty, and the only interesting person Kasimir had met so far probably hated him. Kasimir didn't mind being hated, but it meant his new non-friend didn't want to hang out with him, so he was back to square one.

Riding his noble white steed around wasn't as much fun on the cramped city streets of Shiganshina as it was out on the estate. People kept getting in the way, and no one wanted to clean poor Valiant's hooves properly. Not wanting to dirty poor Valiant any more, Kasimir had left the horse in the stable for the day and was wandering the streets himself.

Brooding over his dreadful misfortunes, Kasimir stomped down the sidewalk, heedless of the toes of others. His life totally sucked right now. By the time he got back home, his clothes would probably be unfashionable, and everyone would laugh at him. Ugh. Stomping past a beggar, Kasimir thoughtlessly kicked the man's cup away. Walls, why did bad things always happen to him, Kasimir? Now he was going to have a scuff on his boot.

Not paying attention to where he was going, Kasimir walked straight into the broad back of a taller blond man in a military jacket and bounced back, nearly falling on his a**. "Watch where you're going!" Kasimir barked.

Kasimir stared back at the tall blond man, his arms folded and his foot tapping, the very picture of pique. Not getting an immediate apology irritated him, even though the bump had been entirely his fault. It was because the sidewalks were too crowded, that was what it was. What right did this big blond hunk of wood have to walk around with a fleabitten nag of a horse taking up the whole frigging sidewalk? No right, he had no right at all. Kasimir was thoroughly vexed by the time he got his apology, and a poor apology it was. Biting back a scathing comment, Kasimir's eyes narrowed when the man stepped towards him and pulled out an envelope.

His immediate instinct was to seize the letter, hurl it to the ground and stamp on it while shouting that he was Kasimir Vonnegut, fourth son of the viscount Leopold Vonnegut and nobody's messenger boy. Kasimir resisted the temptation. There was an opportunity here, an opportunity to ******** with this annoying clod of a military man and his unicorn hair. Kasimir ran a hand through his own hair fondly, carefully ruffling it before he spoke.

"Sure, I know where that is."

He had no idea. Did he look like he lived in this dump? Honestly, if this guy was stupid enough to ask Kasimir for directions, he deserved what he got.

"You go down this street a few blocks and take a right at the inn with the picture of the boar's head out front. Then you just keep going until you see it. I think it's about a mile along the road."

A mile along that particular road would land this stupid stranger in the worst slum in Shiganshina, the slum Kasimir had been enthusiastically warned about several times. If this guy followed Kasimir's instructions he would probably be mugged and his horse stolen. Kasimir smiled up at the man, all bland innocence.

"Golly, mister, good luck," Kasimir added, trying to lay on some low-born charm.

Oh walls, the dope bought it. Honestly. That trusting nod almost made Kasimir feel bad.

And then.

Then.

It happened.

The nag snuffled Kasimir's artfully touseled hair, and while he stood frozen in horror, she ate a button right off his coat.

Kasimir made a funny sound. It was a very high pitched, very faint screech. It sounded a bit like the whistling of a tea kettle on the verge of boiling over. With a supreme effort, Kasimir snapped his mouth shut with a click of teeth. He glared at the military man. He glared at the horse. He glared at the letter. Kasimir was speechless. It was not because he had nothing to say, but because he had so very, very many angry things jostling around in his head that his tongue was temporarily tied. Kasimir opened his mouth.

"Fweeeee," he said, exhaling another teakettle note of pure rage.

Kasimir tried again. "You," he said, pointing at the blond guy with a finger that trembled with anger, "Owe me a button! Go sell that nag for glue, that'll pay for it."

Kasimir didn't know the stoic blond guy's name, but he was pretty sure he was the Most Irritating Man In The World. The horse's outrageous act of button-theft had hardly affected the stranger at all! Blond guy should have been throwing himself at Kasimir's feet, begging forgiveness, perhaps shaking his fists at the sky and screaming in despair and mortification. Instead he just stood there calmly and removed the button from the horse's mouth.

"Eurgh," Kasimir said, staring at the damp button in the other man's tanned palm. He should have slapped it out of the stranger's palm with a squeal of outrage, but Kasimir resisted the urge. They were far from Sina, after all, and who knew if they even had good golden buttons here? It didn't look like your typical golden button kind of place.

Even though the button was now contaminated with Horse Germs, Kasimir didn't want to go around in a buttonless jacket like some kind of ruffian. And it might be amusing to see the blond guy try to sew the button back on. "Fine," Kasimir said finally. "You may sew it back on. Once it's been properly sterilized."

The fact that the other was on some kind of errand was meaningless. He, Kasimir, had lost his button. The replacement of said button was the most important mission now. "Where are your lodgings? We can go there now."

Kasimir marched after the taller boy, frowning darkly at his broad back. It was hard to give a really good imperious glare to someone taller than you. Kasimir wished he had his horse Valiant with him, but the last time he took Valiant out on the town the noble steed wound up covered in gang graffiti. Hmph. Kas hovered at the door to the tailoring shop for a moment before following the blonde inside. He had never been in a tailoring shop in his life. Tailoring shops were for people who made things. Kasimir did not make things. Kasimir bought things.

Finally, with a great gusty sigh, Kas stepped into the shop. It felt claustrophobic and crowded. Too small! Keeping his elbows tightly to his side lest he brush against something dusty, Kasimir edged along the aisles to the wall of spools.

"Whatever color matches," Kas said in response to the question, flapping his hand dismissively. He didn't know anything about thread colors.

He eyed the tall blonde suspiciously. If there was one thing Kas had learned about common folk, it was that they were ornery and odd. "Can you actually sew? I thought you military folk were all about swords and things."