Neville is 28, stocky and of average height. He has a soft round face, black hair, thick eyebrows, and blue eyes. His clothes are well fitted but old fashioned. He doesn’t smoke, and only drinks occasionally; though he’s often a sleepy, he likes to stay up late and read. He speaks softly, with a slight regional English accent.

During the day, Neville clerks at his old university's library. He does a lot of shelf-stacking, record keeping, and tea-fetching. He doesn't mind very much; books are his life's love, after all, and he has first dibs on any newly-purchased tomes... He's also part of a secret society, but we don't talk about that...

Neville first met Doctor Laurence at work. He quietly taken with the intellectual, who was always in the stacks during his shifts.

Their first conversation took place when Laurence came to the circulation desk to sign a rare book out, one Neville sneakily read and re-read while on shift...

They made small talk, Neville was so flustered. He never expected them to notice him at all, but they did. Since then, they started doing their research at the table closest to Neville's desk every Thursday.

Neville and the Doctor went on dates, on "book club" meetings, rituals. Neville rose through the ranks. He moved into the Doctor's townhouse.

One night, after a "job" gone wrong, Laurence welcomed Elridge to lay low in their home. A whirlwind followed, and Neville insisted Elridge never move out, or a part of him may go with him.

At some point, their attention has become the sun, and Neville is the butterfly to it: pinned, dying and glad.

Neville awakens belly down on the bed, hair messy but eyes alert, straight out of a vivid dream. Elridge lay beside him, asleep, his long body curled over the Doctor's side of the bed. The Doctor was combing their thin, flaxy blonde hair by the mirror.

“Today I dreamt that my skin was paper, and I could open my chest like a book, and there you'd peer, and there you'd linger, and I'd whisper to you like the rain.”