In Good Taste

tygermine

"I daren't stay long. I just had to see you."

Merlin cracked up in the middle of the train carriage, letting out a snort that earned him a dirty look from the woman next to him.

“You’re telling me,” he turned towards Arthur who was standing with one arm around Merlin’s waist and the other holding onto the bar above his head. “They agreed to publish this? That you, mister I-hate-anything-daring-to-lean-towards-Mills-and-Boon is allowing this dribble to be published?”

Arthur shrugged. “Marketing had a very convincing presentation.”

“Yeah, explain to me why it’s always those with spending power that have the worst taste? I mean, we’ve lived through the whole vampire/werewolf craze - twice already.”

“At least Anne Rice knew how to write vampires, unlike this idiot.”

“I swear, I’ve read Underworld fanfiction with better consent than this. Arthur, you can’t publish this. Let one of the Murdoch imprints take it.”

“I would, I really would-” The train screeched to a stop and the doors opened. Arthur and Merlin pushed themselves through the crowd and onto the platform.

“Kebab and beer?” Merlin gestured towards the escalator.

This was the stop where they would part ways, usually. Arthur towards Hampstead and Merlin towards Holloway.

Arthur nodded and followed Merlin up to street level and across the road to the kebab shop called The Galaxy. With kebabs in hand, they took a slow walk along Arlington Road to avoid the crowds on the High Street.

“So, let me guess, the profit margins made your dad’s mouth water, right?”

“It was more the film rights and profits that had him at half chub during the meeting.”

“That’s gross, but accurate,” Merlin pointed out. “Maybe I should write the trashiest book I can and see if your dad will get it published. All the tropes, with so much gay subtext the censors will choke.”

“I want to point out that it’ll tarnish the Pendragon reputation, but I fear it’s too late. Go ahead and write it, maybe we can cause a bidding war with Murdoch, life has been a bit too quiet lately.”

“Oh, has it?” Merlin quirked an eyebrow. “If I recall, we’re only one third through that book you bought last year.”

“Yes, but the next position requires us to either do obscene amounts of yoga or be Romanian gymnasts.”

Merlin shrugged. “Fine, let’s skip ahead to number sixty-nine.”

Arthur immediately stepped to the curb and waved down a cab.