Blue Glass

Manfred

"Manfred."
That's the first sign I know Lothar has nothing good to say to me—he called me by my name. Out here on the front I'm Herr Rittmeister to all, even to my brother. I made that very clear to him when he was transferred to my Staffel. He only calls me Manfred if he wants to get under my skin, or if he needs something important. And even then, he's never called me that in front of the other pilots.
So I was rather caught off guard when he leaped out of his plane and hurried over to me as I was ending the customary post-flight discussion I always had with my pilots.
"Manfred,"he says again. "A word in private."
A surprised murmur passes through the other men slowly milling off. I force my expression to stay neutral until the last pilot has wandered away before dropping the mask and shooting Lothar a murderous glare.
"Excuse me?" I manage, my voice not quite hiding my dismay. "Why did you—"
"It was the only way to get your attention. High and mighty cavalry captains like you only pay attention to wake up calls reminding them that they're still human."
I give him an even look. "You don't say."
"I do, in fact. But I didn't come here to spar with you, I came to extend an olive branch."
He only speaks eloquently with me when he's angry. I wonder what I did to upset him this time.
"I'd like to invite you to go somewhere with me." Lothar claps a hand on my back good naturedly as we start walking, which I brush off upon contact.
"Leave me alone," I tell him. "Wherever you're going or whatever you plan on doing, I have no desire of partaking in it. And don't call me Manfred again, please."
"Don't you think you'd like to hear where I'm going?" Lothar's voice drops an octave as I push the door to the officer's' quarters open, holding it open for him out of habit. He slips past me without so much a "thank you" and makes himself comfortable on a threadbare padded chair in the foyer of the chateau. I size him up, now thoroughly confused.
"What are you doing? You're not allowed in here, this is the officers'—"
"I heard you got nominated for a new award." My brother's voice is starting to drip venom. "You must be so proud of yourself—but was there ever a time you weren't?"
I furrow my brow. He was right—I was set to receive a medal in a few days  from the king of Saxony for the second time, but how did he know?
"Lothar, what are you talking about?" I cross my arms and lean against the doorjamb, not quite in the mood for one of his envy fueled tirades.
"What number is today's kill?"he continues. "Sixty nine? Seventy?"
"Seventy one." I press my lips together. "Why do you—"
"Congratulations. I'm still working my way up to twenty. I'll always live in your shadow, whether I like it or not." His head snaps up; the look in his dark eyes smolders with resentment. "But I'm sure you like it like that. You always have."
He's jealous of me; I know it. While knowing that stokes my ego, sometimes I wish I could tell him how much I inwardly mirror his disgruntlement. For as long as I could remember, it was always he who I felt got the better lot in life. He wasn't short or stocky or cursed with big lips—the opposite in fact. Lothar was tall and stately, and had my father's dark blond hair and my mother's dark eyes. His lips, unlike my bee-stung ones, were thin and carefully drawn as if with an artist's sketching pencil. He wasn't innately shy or antisocial, nor did he have to be forced to partake in things like drinking parties and gambling sprees. By contrast, he was outgoing and extroverted, and wildly popular with the other pilots of my squadron. He was the one my mother had always compared me to in all else besides military related things. Since my boyhood, I had always had this drive to measure up to him and surpass him in all things, and make sure he knew that I was the eldest son in the family, that I was the most accomplished out of the two of us, and that he would always be beneath me—and I would never let him forget it.
"I'm going to that new brothel they opened not too far from here." The smirk on his face widens when I twist my mouth to one side in distaste. "I was wondering if you'd like to join me? You wouldn't regret it. I heard the girls are good—and exceptionally beautiful."
I take a deep breath. "I'll have to decline your...invitation, brother. Go by yourself and enjoy yourself—there'll be more for you without me, anyway."
I can never tell him the real reason for my declining his offer. He wouldn't understand, anyway. He'll never understand the reason for my averseness to women or to anything related to the pleasures of the flesh. He can never understand. He can never know what it was like, growing up in a military school where all thoughts of that sort were condemned. He'll never understand that the only sexual experiences I've ever had are the kind no one wants to remember.
"How very magnanimous of you, Manfred." I wince, and his smirk only sharpens. "But why decline? Everyone in the Staffel has gone at least once. Do you not want to fuck those whores? Or is it that...you can't?"
...!!
I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach. I stare at him as the true meaning of his words sink in. He sees the realization slowly strike me and immediately stops smiling, like he wants to  conceal the fact that he knows he's hit a nerve from me. As if that will make things better.
"I—I'm sorry?" I manage. It's the only dignified thing I can say at this point.
Lothar makes no effort to hide his glee as he says, "Now that i think about it, not once in my life have I ever seen you with a girl, or heard you talk about girls, or anything of the sort. I've never seen you go to a brothel once." He stands up and walks purposefully up to me, looking his nose down at me with a triumphant expression. "Are you homosexual? Is that it? Do you prefer men?"
What?!
My blood turns to ice and I break out into a cold sweat. I stare up at him with increasing incredulity, the cocksure look on his face incensing me more and more. It takes every bit of his self control not to draw my fist back and punch him square in the face. If we had been anywhere else other than the Front, I wouldn't have hesitated to do so. I could, after all, hurt him much worse for a lot less than such a disgusting accusation.
I had instigated a sword fight with him once when we were children using my father's prized dueling sabers. We had only been deterred from hacking into each other by my sister running to my mother screaming that we were going to kill each other. My mother had slapped us and sent us both to our rooms as punishment. I remembered thinking as I went up the stairs, Why me? He provoked me into attacking him! To this day I couldn't remember over what we had been fighting.