a little bit of inertia, and a bottle of tide

[savvygambols]

(All We Need Is) A Little Bit of Inertia and A Bottle of Tide (gen, 4115)
Once upon a time wishpaper owned my fucking soul, helped me not fail design class, and did something amazing.

This is a story about Bob fuckin' Morris and the almighty Hush Sound, but includes members of Phantom Planet, Panic at the Disco, The Cab, The Academy Is, Cobra Starship, Gym Class Heroes, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, and Steel Train. Seriously, this photo is imperative to the reading of this fic-- nay! To your enjoyment of life ever after.

"Hey Darren," says Bob. "Can I get my shirt back?"

"What shirt?" asks Darren, stuffing Bob's fuckin' awesome shirt up the back of his cardigan.


"Somebody needs to wear it," says Bob. He eyes all of his bandmates, appraising their chests. He's sure not who, if any of them, is worthy. "I can't wear it because I have to wear my gig shirt."

"Which you should wash," adds Chris.

"I'll wear it," says Darren. "I believe in Bob fuckin' Morris!" He holds up his hand for a high-five. Bob nods. Darren is worthy.

"He loves your mom and he loves this chorus," hums Greta, dancing.

"Hey Darren," says Bob. Darren freezes, and presses his hands behind his back. "Can I get my shirt back?"

"What shirt?" asks Darren, stuffing Bob's fuckin' awesome shirt up the back of his cardigan.

"My fuckin' awesome shirt," says Bob. "The one you're hiding behind your back?"

"What?" says Darren, and then, "Oh god! Batman in the sky!" When Bob turns to look out the window, he runs to the bunks and stuffs Bob's shirt under his mattress. Safe.

Chris lights a cigarette with a lighter while holding two cups of coffee. He also opens the door to Darren's apartment with his knee. Darren needs to look into safer real estate with better locks, but it helps that Chris is also a BAMF. Smug, he steps inside and shuts the door with his hip, all while looking incredibly smooth.

"Chris?" shouts Darren from his bedroom.

"What?"

Darren comes out barechested, holding out five different shirts. Chris allows himself seven and a half seconds of aesthetic appreciation. Darren is a drummer. Stronger men have fallen for less. "The grey one," he says, because then Darren's shirt will totally match his sweater.

"You're sure?" says Darren, looking very unsure.

"Yeah, it matches my sweater," says Chris. He holds on out an arm. Darren compares.

"Awesome," he says, dropping the rest of the shirts on the floor and heading back into his room. "I'll be out in a second."

Chris nods. Then he sets down the cups of coffee, peering closer at the shirts on the floor. That shirt Bob got at the end of their tour is in the bottom pile. He picks it up and stuffs it down the back of his jeans.

"Ready to go?" he asks, when Darren appears. Darren smiles, and nods, and takes a cup of coffee.

Greta is just weighing the costs and benefits of stripping when Darren topples off his stool with a whine and Bob says, "Fuck it. Break?"

"Thank god," says Darren, from the floor.

It's about a hundred million degrees fahrenheit in their practice space. Greta is dying. Wearing a real shirt was the worst idea she's ever had in her life. Bob and Darren have their shirts off. She's jealous of all the little degrees of cool they might be getting that she is most definitely missing.

Bob limps out the door, propping it open with a guitar case. Darren crawls towards open air, pulling himself to feet on her piano. He makes a face, a dying one. She makes one back. He stumbles out the door.

Chris takes off his bass and then his shirt, albeit hesitantly. He's wearing Bob's fuckin' awesome shirt, and Bob's been staring at it all day. Greta smirks.

Chris tucks it in his bag. Greta ducks her head when he looks over, pretending to search for some sheet music. Then Chris, too, makes his way out the door, already reaching for a pack of cigarettes in his back pocket.

Greta waits a minute for his footsteps to die away, before leaping over instruments and amps to Chris' bag. She rifles through it and steals the shirt and stuffs it in the bottom of her guitar case, before easing out the door towards cooler air and her band mates.

Alex is not really going through Greta's laundry. He's looking for pyjamas. They're having a sleepover, no bandmates allowed. He is relishing this kind of a lot; his band is starting to smell.

"Come on, Alex," says Greta, from the living room. "My laundry basket is not that interesting. And you're missing Michael Phelps' hot bod."

Alex pulls out a well-worn Midtown shirt and shrugs into it. He's about to turn and go when he spots, in the corner of the basket, a t-shirt emblazoned with Bob Fuckin' Morris. He is, briefly, insanely jealous of Bob before this turns to unchecked excitement. Bob fuckin' Morris is right. The man needs no further introduction.

"Alex!" calls Greta. "Come on!"

He balls the shirt up in his own discarded button up and is sure to pull all her bras to the top of the basket before wandering back out. He throws his shirt at his overnight bag by the door and sinks onto the couch next to her. He grabs the popcorn out of her hands.

"Michael Phelps is such a babe," he says.

"Isn't he just," says Greta. She smiles at him.

"Whoa," says Brendon. He eyes Alex. "Whoa."

"What," says Alex, like he doesn't know that he's wearing the most fucking awesome shirt in the history of the universe.

"Whoa," says Brendon again.

Alex preens. Brendon touches his heart to make sure it's still going. Alex has that effect on him sometimes. He suspects it's the part-time model thing.

"Stole it off of Greta Salpeter," he says, with a wink. Brendon shudders.

"We believe in Robert Morris," sings Darren, fixing his hair across the room. "He loves your mom and her clitoris."

Brendon's mouth drops open.

Alex says, "Yeah, you know it's true, Brendon."

Brendon has to admit that the rumors are probably true. The rumors usually are. He bits his lip. Alex smirks. Brendon sidles up to Alex. "Hey," he says, voice low like Ryan taught him. "Hey, c'mere."

Alex squints. Brendon slides his fingers in Alex's beltloops.

"What," says Alex.

Brendon slides his hands up, and up, and up, under the shirt, and up, until it's high enough that he can yank it off of Alex chest. The shirt gets caught briefly on Alex's ear, but Brendon isn't on Decaydance for nothing, and he gives it a good, strong yank. Alex shrieks and Darren gives a horrified, "No!" but Brendon is already running out the door, out of the venue, out to his car, t-shirt clutched to his chest. He'd been planning on watching the show, hanging with the guys, but. Some things are just more important.

"Pretty cool shirt, Brendon," says Jon.

"I know, right," says Brendon.

"Pretty cool shirt, Brendon," says Jon, again.

"I stole it off of Greenwald who got it from Salpeter," says Brendon gleefully. He puts his arms behind his head and stretches out on the hotel bed, looking fairly cool for a man who in rose colored briefs and a black Bob Fuckin Morris shirt. He spreads his legs. "Alex never knew what hit him."

"Nice," says Jon. He sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the shirt. "Well. Good night."

"Night," says Brendon. He climbs under the covers, burrows deep. Jon smiles.

When Jon hears Brendon's breathing fall even, he crawls out of bed and turns the heating all the way up. By morning, Brendon has stripped even the bedsheets off the bed and the shirt is missing, wrapped safely in Jon's unwashed boxers at the bottom of his bag.

"Ian," says Ryan, "you got any threes?"

"Go fish," says Ian.

"You asked him that last time," complains Singer.

Ryan smirks and takes his pants off. Cash and Johnson cheer.

Marshall stares at Jon, who climbs over Cash and settles next to Ryan like he'd been playing for all seven rounds. "Jon," he says, "where did you get that shirt?"

"Stole it off of Brendon who got it from Alex who stole it from Greta," says Jon smugly. He puts an arm around Ryan. Ryan nods. Cash looks confused. Marshall feels confused.

"Someone should make an Alex fuckin' Marshall shirt," says Singer. "Got any queens, Johnson?"

"Just you, man." Johnson crows, and then ducks, terrified. "Whoa, fuck! Get off!"

In the ensuing chaos, Jon picks up both Singer and Johnson's discarded hands. He shuffles them together, looking smug.

"Got any jacks, Jon?" asks Marshall.

"Shit," says Jon. He throws three jacks at Marshall and takes his shirt off.

Singer accidentally knees Ryan in the chest and takes Jon down with him. Cash gets up to get a drink. When he's sure the guys are more concerned with trading punches than watching his petty thievery, Marshall picks up Jon's shirt and sneaks off after Cash.

Mike Carden is not losing his naked guy title to some eighteen year old upstart from Las Vegas. Especially one who only takes two shots to get wasted. Mike frowns. Somehow it always ends up on his band to help the babies level their alcohol tolerance.

The kid stretches. Something unpleasant pops in the back of Mike's head. "Shirt," he says, pointing at Marshall. Cash cracks up, and falls off the couch of the suite.

Marshall pouts and struggles into a shirt, but it gets caught on his head. Mike leans forward to help him, and then stops. "What the - Bob Fuckin' Morris?"

"We believe in Bob Morris," singsongs Cash from the floor. "Fuckin' Morris. Yeah, man. I wish I got a shirt. Yo Marsh, how come you got a shirt? I want a shirt."

"I stole it," says Marshall, flailing, arms caught above his head. "From Jon who got it from Brendon who stole it from Alex Greenwald who got it from Greta Salpeter." He falls over.

"I miss Greta," sighs Cash. "She's so nice."

Mike weighs his options and yanks the shirt off of Marshall's head. Marshall yelps and rubs at the side of his face.

"You win this round, shortstop," he warns. "But don't expect to hold the title for long."

"Hey!" shouts Marshall. "My shirt!"

"Drunk naked guy!" shouts Cash. He punches Marshall. "Bro! You're a drunk naked guy!"

Mike swaggers off, shirt tossed over his shoulder.

William doesn't even plan it. He walks into the bus and stops short. "What smells like the Cab?" he asks, then "oh, Mike."

Mike looks up. "Yeah, Bill?"

William stares. "Mike," he says.

Mike puffs out his chest, or seems to. William puts a hand over his mouth. Bob fuckin Morris. Truer words were never printed on a t-shirt. His palms itch. He puts his hands on his hips, tapping his foot. "Michael," he says. Mike looks suspicious.

"What," he says.

"Remember that time with the koala?" William asks.

"You said you'd never bring that up," says Mike, flushing and crossing his arms.

"And I won't," says William. "Give me your shirt."

"You bastard," says Mike. "You fucking bastard."

William raises and eyebrow. Mike strips his shirt off. William pulls it on over his cardigan and struts.

"Oh my god, fuck, are you serious?" Gabe runs his hands over William's shirt. "Oh my god. That's fuckin'. . .that's the most fuckin' beautiful thing I've seen all tour."

"Even prettier than Ryland?" asks William.

"Even prettier than Victoria," says Gabe. He traces the letters on William's shirt, presses close. "Bob fuckin' Morris. Fuck yeah, man."

"It's a political statement, isn't it?" says William, shivering.

"Yeah," says Gabe. "It is. Hey - take it off?" He slips his hands under the shirt.

"Okay," says William, closing his eyes.

"Nice shirt, Gabanti," says Ryland.

Gabe poses, arm thrown out. He is every inch a supermodel. A supermodel that perhaps has not slept or washed in thirty-six hours. Alex eyes him and cracks his knuckles. VickyT takes a photo.

"Where'd you get the shirt, Gabanti?" asks Alex. It is a damn fine shirt, anyone can see that. Alex covets it greatly.

"Billvy," says Gabe. "Smells like The Cab though."

"Delicious," says Ryland, licking his lips.

"You aren't cool enough for that shirt," says Alex decisively. He sits a little bit straighter. "Yeah, Gabe. You aren't cool enough to wear that shirt."

Gabe clutches his heart. "What?"

"Yeah," says Victoria. She sits down on the couch next to Ryland. "Maybe Alex is, but I don't think you are."

"You already have your own shirt," says Nate. "Remember? You don't need Bob's too."

"You're Gabe Saporta," says Ryland. "Give it to Alex."

"Alex fuckin' Suarez," muses Nate. "It has a nice ring."

"But Bob," says Gabe, pleading. He gets down on his knees. "Bob fuckin' Morris! Guys!"

"Take the shirt off, Gabriel," warns Victoria. Gabe strips the shirt off and throws it at Alex. Alex high-fives Victoria.

"Hey," says Disashi. "Nice shirt. Bob fuckin' Morris. Alright."

"Yeah," says Alex. He shrugs, looks kind of uncomfortable in it. Disashi raises an eyebrow. Alex winces. "I took it from Gabe who got it from William who might've taken it off the Cab," he says. "Gabe's been moping all week. He's really fucking pissed."

"Huh," says Disashi. "Hey, I'll take it off you."

"Really?" says Alex. He looks a little bit too excited to be giving away such an awesome shirt. Disashi is kind of suspicious. "You want it? Here." He strips it off. "It's yours."

"Bob fuckin' Morris," says Disashi, peering at the shirt. He traces the letters. It does smell like the Cab.

"I love the guy, don't get me wrong," says Alex. "But, uh. Gabe just looks so bummed."

"I got it," says Disashi. He claps Alex on the shoulder. "Don't worry."

Travis is quite confused when he sees Disashi in the green room. "Who the fuck is Bob Morris?"

"The Hush Sound," says Disashi. "He's in The Hush Sound, man, you know that."

"The Hush Sound," echoes Travis. The cute ones. The ones that aren't the littlest. And Bob Morris was the one with the-- "Hey, yeah! That guy. Fuckin' Bob Morris."

"Bob fuckin' Morris," corrects Disashi.

"You smell like the Cab," says Travis. "Where'd that thing come from?"

"Suarez took it off of Gabriel, who probably got it from Billy," says Disashi. "Who probably got it from the Cab. Dunno how they got it."

"Cool," says Travis. It's a damn cool shirt. Well, Bob Morris is pretty damn cool. It makes sense. "Can I wear it?"

Disashi wrinkles his forehead. "For the show tonight? I dunno, I was gonna wash it."

"It's cool," says Travis. "I don't mind smelling like The Cab."

Disashi takes the shirt off and throws it to him.

Travis isn't even, like, halfway through the door of Pete's house when Pete is overwhelmed and has to shout, "fuck yeah, motherfucker! You're a fucking genius!"

"What'd I do?" asks Travie, like he doesn't know. Pete loves the dude, he seriously does. He shoves Travis in the chest. "Travis!"

"What?" Travis looks kind of smug.

"Bob fuckin' Morris," Pete says. He peers closer. "You know, the execution is kind of amateur, no offense, man, but I like it. I like the statement."

Travis puffs his chest out. Pete stares at the letters. "Yeah, man. This could really work. I've been trying to figure how to get Mikey without coming off like an asshole? Total no go. But now, like, Bob fuckin' Morris, man. That could really work for us!"

"It's not mine," says Travis. He shrugs. "Got it from 'Sashi who got it from Suarez who got it from who the fuck knows."

"Whoa," says Pete. It's not often something this awesome makes the rounds with his bands without him finding out. "Who made it?"

Travis shrugs again, takes his hat off. "I don't know. The Cab?"

"That makes sense," says Pete. It does, kind of. The Cab, last time he checked, idolise Bob Morris. Well. Everyone idolises Bob Morris, with the possible exception of his own band, and he knows that's only because Bob makes listen to Obama's blog every night before bed. But even Andy admitted to having a slight dudecrush on Bob Morris. "Hey, can I borrow it?"

"Sure," says Travis. He strips it off. "It was small on me anyway."

"I'll get you an extra large," Pete promises. "I'm thinking a small, five-hundred print run just to see how it goes."

"It'll go," says Travis. He crosses his arms over his undershirt, looking very sure. "It'll go, man, don't worry."

Mikey Way is shocked and appalled at this treason. Frank pirouettes. Pete claps.

"Bob fuckin' Morris," crows Frank. He points at Mikey. "You got competition, man."

"Shut up," says Mikey, who is, of course, pathetically aware of the fact that in a battle of the fuckin', Bob Morris would probably kick his ass. He frowns. "Give me the shirt," he says.

"Hell no," says Frank, clutching his chest. Pete looks on, interested. Mikey ignores him. Pete is off the buddy list, for, like, ever.

"Frank," he says, snapping his fingers. "Give me the shirt."

"Photos in ten, boys," says a wrangler, sticking his head in the door of the green room. Mikey stares at Frank. Frank doesn't waver. Mikey gives him the Way stare like his mama taught him. Frank shrinks.

"Jesus, ok, ok," he says, pulling the shirt off, and his shirt underneath. "Don't get all superhero on me."

"What'd'you think?" asks Pete. Mike takes off his jacket and his shirt. "Travis McCoy just like, showed up at my house wearing it. It's been making the rounds on our label, apparently. We're gonna sell it."

"It smells like The Cab," says Mike, shrugging into it. It fits, but barely. It's been stretched and worn, and it's a little stiff. He touches the hem, smooths out the sides.

"I smell like The Cab," says Frank, sniffing an armpit. He looks delighted.

"I meant to wash it," says Pete. "But my wife Ashlee is pregnant with our first child."

"We know Pete," says Frank. Pete looks crushed.

"Lookin' good," says Gerard, walking in. "Bob fuckin' Morris, yeah! I dig it. Can I get one?"

"Hell yeah," says Pete. He brightens.

"I need you all outside," calls the wrangler.

Evan is confused. "Mikey," he says, staring at the copy of AP in his lap. "How the hell did you get that shirt?"

"Pete Wentz," says Mikey.

"How the hell did Pete Wentz get Bob's shirt?" he demands.

"Bob's shirt?" says Mikey, now sounding confused. "Pete got it off of Travie."

"Travis McCoy?" says Evan. "How the hell did Travis McCoy get Bob's t-shirt?"

"I don't know," says Mikey. "The Cab made it."

"What? No, they didn't." Evan stands, running a hand through his hair. He looks around his apartment, thinking. "Bob's been calling all of us nonstop. He's been looking for that shirt. He lent it to Darren for a show and Darren never returned it. He said he lost it. Bob was so pissed."

"Bob made the shirt?" Mikey sounds kind of annoyed. Evan ignores him and goes for his notebook. "No, a fan did. He fucking loved that shirt, and he only got it for a couple of hours before Darren lifted it off of him."

"Does he know Pete's gonna make an entire line?" asks Mikey.

"Probably," says Evan. "Bob wants the original anyway, he doesn't want a knock-off. You should really send it back to him."

"Huh," says Mikey. "Guess I should. Have you got his address?"

"Yeah," says Evan. He opens up his notebook, flips to the back, and tucks his phone between his shoulder and ear. "You're a good man, Mikey Way."

"I wouldn't want Bob fuckin' Morris to be mad at me," says Mikey. "That'd be terrible."

This is a four person job, Bob can feel it.

"Darren, I need you to come over right now," he stares, staring at the parcel on his kitchen with mixed feelings of excitement and horror.

"I just sat down with a bowl of cereal!"

"Darren," he says, "as the person who lost my shirt in the first place, you owe it to me to help me wash this thing oh my god." He puts a hand over his mouth and turned away.

"You know that Chris stole it from me and I was just taking one for the team?" demands Darren.

"I don't care," says Bob, rage curling inside of him. Chris is so gonna get it. "You come over and help me wash it."

"Surely you can make it to the laundromat yourself," protests Darren.

"Mikey Way sent it to me, Dar'. Mikey Way."

There's the sound of a bowl clattering. "I'll be right there," says Darren. "I'm bringing my bottle of Tide with me."

Darren hangs up with an apology that Bob can only just bring himself to accept with the admission that everything was all Chris' fault. He calls Chris. "Chris, you need to come over and help me wash my shirt that you stole and then distributed."

"Aw, Darren cracked?" Chris sounds sad. Bob doesn't care.

"Yes, Darren cracked," says Bob. "And now I have my shirt back so you better get over here and help me."

"How did you get it back?" asks Chris. "You know Greta took it off of me."

"Greta?" Bob wants to cry. Or more accurately kill everyone in the universe. His sweet Greta, the master betrayer. He chokes back a sob. "Greta did this? Chris," he says. He sneaks a look back at the parcel on the table. It might smoldering slightly. It feels like paper anyway. "Chris, Mikey Way sent it back to me."

"Oh god," says Chris. He coughs. "Oh god, I'll be right over, I'm so sorry."

Bob accepts this with a nod and calls Greta. "Greta, this is unforgivable."

"I like Darren's harmony in that song," she says mildly. "I don't care what you say."

"You distributed my shirt to the Way brothers, Greta, and this is unforgivable. I don't think we can write music together anymore." There might be tears in his eyes, but it's a worthy moment. It's the end of his band after all.

Greta does not grovel like he expects her to. In fact, she kind of screeches. "What?" she shouts. "The Way brothers? That fucking bastard, I thought he'd kept it as a joke!"

"What?" he says. He breathes. If Greta is not at fault, maybe the band can carry on. Maybe. "Who did? Mikey Way sent my shirt back to me. You have to come help me wash it."

"I will," she promises. "I will. Oh, I'm sorry, Bob! I am gonna string Alex up by his-"

"Alex who?"

"Greenwald," she says. "I'm gonna kill him."

Bob takes a deep breath and counts to ten. "How did Phantom Planet get my shirt?" he asks.

"Sleepover," she says. "I think he stole it then."

The band meet outside of Big Mike's Laundry. Bob has the parcel wrapped in several plastic bags. Greta is shouting at Alex Greenwald on her phone. Darren and Chris simply look repentant. They pull on plastic gloves and take it out of his hands. "Don't worry Bobby," says Darren, clapping Bob on the back. "We got it."

Bob sits on a bench outside and thinks about how awesome it'll be when he can wear his shirt again. If he can ever wear it again. Greta tucks her cell phone into her pocket and sits next to him. She puts an arm around him. "We can trace it to Panic at the Disco," she says, squeezing his shoulder. "I don't know how it got to My Chem from there."

"I don't want to know," he grumps. It's possibly being petty but he doesn't care. His t-shirt got worn by lots of other people with varying degrees of hygiene and if Pete really is planning a Bob fuckin' Morris line that at least means it made it on to the backs of The Academy or Gym Class and the implications of that are too disgusting to contemplate. His shirt, goddammit. His shirt.

"Pretty gross," she agrees.

Darren and Chris exit the laundromat and stand in front them. "We put it on an extra long wash cycle," says Chris, lighting up. He inhales, looking satisfied. "And the entire bottle of wash detergent."

"It smelled of Cab," says Darren, "with just a hint of Cobra."

"Ew," says Bob, unhappily. He puts his head in his hands. Greta frowns up at Darren and rubs Bob's back. "Would you like to talk to us about politics? Would that make you feel better?"

"Yes," says Bob. They nod at him, smiling. "Hey - did you know Biden became senator when he was twenty-nine?"

"No idea," says Chris, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. He looks bored already. Encouraged, Bob carries on. "He was the fifth youngest senator in U.S. History! Seriously guys, it's like a political fairytale. . ."