H. T. Chandler: A Fictional Narrative

Chandler probably jumped right on that handshake thing. Right away, certainly. He even might have mentioned something about it to Weismann during their conversation. Probably something like OCD, suspected antisocial behaviour. Maybe the man even had mentioned his suspicion that Sebastien was either repressing or holding something back. Whatever it was, but it seemed to be one of Chandler's concerns. So obvious, wasn't it? Or maybe not. Things were not always what they seemed to be, some individuals just didn't take this into consideration. And others saw what they wanted to see. The mind and the soul were such a wide field, were they not?

However - Sebastien's handshake had been firm and confident, as it would be expected from a young and
wealthy heir of such heritage. Manners and this certain kind of style and class were drilled in, more than a little likely, from the early childhood on. Excellent schools, private tutoring. The whole palette. This very fact, of course, opened a whole new can of worms.

'Why the hell does this Weismann person not have a record?' this was the question that repeated itself, like a mantra or some broken record. Over and over again. There probably were a million of answers. Half of them troubled the young Vanderbilt. One almost could be tempted to call it obsessive behaviour. This certain kind of inability to let go. But was it really inability, or merely the desire to know? The need to know. But even this could be considered obsessive. "Thank you, Dr. Weismann. This won't be necessary." Sebastian replied after the offer of the hand sanitizer. He did glance over to said desk, though. Just for a moment his gaze lingered there. Not really on the bottle, but on the table itself. Weismann certainly would be talking to the young Vanderbilt's back because Sebastian had taken some steps toward the desk, not touching anything, mind you. Both of his hands slowly slipped into the pockets of his coat after he had adjusted his tie, carefully so.

He did realize, though, how very impolite it was to turn his back on the other man.
Had it been on purpose? Maybe one of those small things that hinted at the young mans reluctance to be here in the first place? Who's to say. He turned, however, after a faint, barely audible grunt, only to watch the older man go through the records and pour himself a drink a moment later. The amber liquid flowing into the glass captured his attention momentarily, and there even was a fleeting hint of a smile on the young mans lips, in response to Weismann's offer. "Thank you." he murmured, his gaze still fixed on the amber liquid. 'If I refuse the offer he will have an opinion. If I accept it, he will have one, too. Shit.' See the dilemma he was in? Whatever he would do, it will tell the doctor something about him. Maybe more than he wanted him to know. "Maybe later." Being here in the first place was unsettling and he couldn't ever tell why it unsettled him to such a degree. This was not normal, was it? It almost was as if a part of his mind was screaming. 'Get the fuck out of here, Sebastien. You know you want to. You know you need to.' And still, he did not adhere to those internal
screams.

The absence of books was quaint.
Not to mention interesting. Quite different to what he had been used from Chandler and Harrington before. Both had those overstuffed bookshelves in their counselling offices, filled with knowledge, trivial or not. It was almost a shame that Dr. Harrington was dead now. She was such a nice person. "If I am not being judged, analyzed or deconstructed - what am I?" Sebastien asked, finally, having moved from near the desk to the shelves with the records at a slow pace that seemed nothing but controlled. He listened to the older man speak about requirements and Chandler, and he nodded his head once before he spoke. "Dr. Chandler merely told me that..." A pause. A breath. A much needed one or else he would have used words he shouldn't have. "...he merely said that we do not speak the same language and that he does not think that he can... help me." oh yes, there was that pause while his gaze set on the
window.

Sebastien wasn't certain what all this meant. "I do have certain requirements of my clients , and I don't know you well enough yet to be certain that you can adhere to them." Later. The way he was reassured about legal and ethical boundaries was almost soothing for a moment. Boundaries. Such an intriguing thing. The part about being asked a question was heard. No need to say something, yet, about that in particular. It was registered, there was no doubt. The subtly furrowed brow told as much. This was new.

Silence. His gaze shifting between the view and Weismann for a moment. Before he spoke, he moisturized his dry lips. "What would you be curious about, Dr. Weismann?"