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The first time he'd received the call, Phil had been confused, to say the least. Riding the high of his double-platinum track, What Make You Beautiful (sung in honor of his beautiful and beloved wife, of course), Phil Direction was a busy man, and an even busier celebrity musician. Between tour schedules, TV show and radio host interviews, writing more songs, spending time with his beloved wife Kristin... Well, it was safe to say he had a lot on his plate these days.
That was why, when his agent called to tell him that someone wanted to sell him a child, he felt nothing but pure, unaltered confusion.
"Is that legal?" Shock laced his voice, understandably so because, well, was it?
"Apparently it is." His agent's voice crackled over the line, the distant sound of blaring car horns just barely discernible over the static. "It's an old law, one not many people pay attention to. So? Do you want the kid or not?"
Phil isn't sure why he says yes. He has no time, no room in his life for a random new child right now, but he still finds himself standing outside of a beaten down suburban home, clutching a piece of paper with the address scratched onto it in his hand.
It was a quaint neighborhood. Not particularly nice or awful, just... Average. Normal. Houses with perfectly manicured lawns line the streets in neat, winding rows. Distantly, Phil could make out the sound of happy children, playing in a backyard somewhere. It seemed serene. Peaceful.
Not the kind of place you'd expect to have residents living in it looking to sell their children.
Feeling rather put-off by the whole ordeal, Phil climbs the creaky porch stairs, raises his hand, and knocks delicately on the peeling paint of the dark green door.
He immediately hears a shout from somewhere inside.
"Techo, you better hurry up and get the fuck downstairs! Your new father is here, and I refuse to have you in the house any longer than necessary!” Phil has just barely enough time to wipe the pinched expression off his face at the woman's sharp tone before the door flies open, revealing a stout lady in an ugly, pink floral dress with deep purple hair growing out red at the roots. She looks him up and down, seemingly unimpressed as she takes a puff from her cigarette- which she promptly blew directly into his face as she spoke.
"You the billionaire or whatever? The guy that'll clear my debts if I give you the hellspawn?"
Phil's eye twitched, suddenly thanking every god imaginable for his prior experience with keeping up a smile in front of the press. It makes it easy for him to keep a perfect, passive smile on his face as he addresses the woman. "Yes, ma'am. I'm here to, um… Pick up the child?"
The women grunts, satisfied, before turning to the stairs. "Techno, you better get the fuck down here before I make you!" She hollers, a sharp edge to her voice that Phil absolutely despises. A shadow immediately darted down from the stairwell, stiff as a rod and freezing into place just behind the women when he caught sight of Phil.
He was young. Younger than Phil expected, honestly. He looked to be about eleven or twelve at most, with bright bubblegum pink hair and dark brown eyes that stared wide at him from behind square, golden-framed glasses. His skin had a healthy flush to it, though Phil caught sight of bruises half-hidden beneath layers of makeup and a white, long-sleeve shirt and black pants.
The poor kid looked terrified. Phil's heart squeezed, and he was suddenly, painfully aware of the exact reason he'd agreed to come here.
"Hey, mate." Phil addresses him softly, now fully ignoring the awful woman filling the doorway and instead extending a hand to greet Techno personally. "I'm Phil. I heard you were in need of a new home and I agreed to take you in, if that's okay with you."
"You're Phil Direction." Techno replies in a hushed voice, starstruck. "Like, the Phil Direction. Mom, you called Phil Direction to come get me?"
The woman huffed, rolling her eyes as she took another puff of her cigarette. "I called whoever would take you for the right price. Now get. Out."
Techno was soon bundled into Phil's car with a suitcase full of clothes and other oddities salvaged from his room. Phil could tell the kid was a little overwhelmed by the luxurious interior of the vehicle, and he cringed a little at his lack of forethought to drive here in a slightly less I'm-the-writer-of-one-of-the-top-songs-in-the-country-right-now type of car.
Oh well, it was too late now. He turned on the radio to some random station and turned the volume down to low, hoping the background noise would help put Techno more at ease.
"So, I know this is a bit of an odd situation." He broke the awkward silence as he pulled out of the house’s driveway and began driving away, trying to figure out where he was even supposed to bring the kid. Should he just take Techno back to his house? Should he try to find a hotel or something for him? Should he ask the kid where he wanted to go, or would that be too overwhelming for him right now? "To tell you the truth, I'm not really sure what I'm doing with all of-" he gestures vaguely, feeling a bit stupid. “-this. I guess we should just... Maybe start with the basics? Full names?"
"You're Phil Direction." Techno mumbled again from the backseat, head ducked low and eyes still wide as he watched Phil's every move. Phil couldn't help it, as soon as he caught sight of Techno's expression in the mirror- he could practically see the stars shining in his eyes -he barked a laugh.
"I think we've already established that one, mate." He met Techno's gaze in the mirror, offering him another easy smile. "What about you? I know your first name is Techno, but what about your last name?"
Techno blinked, like he was shocked that the Phil Direction wanted to know his last name, but he did answer after taking a moment to process. "It's Spears. My full name is Techno Spears."
"Well, Techno Spears," Phil said playfully, turning onto a street that led towards the local grocery store. "Do you need anything? Any basic necessities, maybe?"
Techno blinked again, before pursing his lips and glancing out the window, seemingly deep in thought. Phil thought he was going to have to ask again when Techno finally gave one, single answer.
"Toothbrush."
Phil snorted another laugh, heart practically glowing when he saw Techno light up, pleased at the reaction.
They buy Techno a toothbrush at the store. They also buy toothpaste, snacks, colorful bandaids for Techno’s smaller scrapes and scratches, a few odds and ends that Phil saw Techno looking at, a switch that Phil snuck into the basket when Techno wasn't around to see it because Techno already seemed overwhelmed as it was-
Well, they buy a lot of things. Phil brings Techno home, explains the situation to his very concerned wife, and they end up forming something of a happy family for a few odd years.
The next time Phil receives the call, he's with a freshly nineteen-year-old Techno in the car, driving back from his son's first recording session in an official sound booth. They were both celebrating the success they'd had in working on Techno's new song, Toxic, which was shaping up to be something special indeed.
"Phil Direction speaking." He answered the phone, still grinning widely at Techno in the passenger’s seat as he drove towards one of their favorite restaurants to celebrate. His son had a small smile on his face, failing to hide how obviously pleased he was over how well the day had gone so far.
"Someone is selling you another kid."
Phil's eye blew wide, shock overtaking him long enough that he had to slam his foot on the brakes to avoid accidentally running a red light. "Someone is fucking what?”
His name was Tommy Grande, and he was a spitfire. Phil could tell from the moment he laid eyes on Tommy's scowling face, something pale and patterned with brightly colored bandaids, bruises, and cuts from scraps he’d gotten into, that Tommy was going to be far more of a handful than Techno ever was. He confirmed with the mother- tall, blond, pretty, and utterly disinterested in the fate of her child -that yes, he would pay off all of her debts in exchange for legal guardianship of Tommy. With that settled, Tommy was his.
Phil could tell Tommy's mother has been horribly neglectful from the ratty clothes, toys, and singular blanket that Tommy unpacked in the spare room he'd claimed as his own when they arrived home, plopping down in the center of the queen-sized bed and refusing to move until Phil told him the room was his to keep. Unlike Techno, there was no trace of starstruck wonder on Tommy's face when he looked at Phil, just something tired and sad. Like he was waiting for the rug to get pulled from beneath his feet and just wanted to get it over with already.
His suspicions were confirmed when Tommy finished unpacking, heaved a sigh, and leveled him with a stare far heavier than any thirteen-year-old should ever be capable of.
"Let’s cut to the chase already." Tommy leveled with him, tone sharp but eyes depressingly dull with resignation. "When are you going to beat me?"
Phil's gasp is audible. He can tell from the way Tommy tenses at the sound of it, but he couldn't help it. His heart is in his stomach as he processes Tommy's words, the implication of them, the memory of late night talks with Techno about his abusive mother flashing through his mind-
"I'm not going to beat you." He whispers in a rush, desperate for Tommy to believe him. "Tommy, nobody here is going to lay a finger on you. Mate, why would you ask me something like that?"
Tommy is blinking now, body tense and expression unsure. He seems to consider Phil's words for a moment before discarding them, hands curl into fists at his sides as he practically bares his teeth and growls his next words at the man.
"Come on, you don't have to pretend. No one is here right now." Tommy stands straighter, trying his hardest to portray bitter confidence even as he trembles beneath Phil's gaze. Even as his eyes flick wildly between Phil's hands and his eyes, trying to anticipate the first swing. "All the guys my mum brings over like to beat me, so I'm used to it. I know the drill. I'm ready for it, so, come on." He raises his head defiantly at Phil, muscles held taught as he braces for impact. "Fucking hit me already."
Phil doesn't know what to do. How are you supposed to respond to a child, dirty and small and barely looked after, glaring at you and begging you to hit him already so he can get it over with and move on with his day? So he can stop having to hover, watchful for the slightest sign of anger, or frustration, or any sudden movements?
Phil's heart lays shattered in his chest. He doesn't know how to do this. Nothing could've ever prepared him for this.
"Tommy," he says quietly, slowly kneeling on the ground so Tommy could stand higher than him, hoping the action would offer some vague sense of safety to the young teen. "I'm not going to hit you. In fact, if anybody ever tries to hurt you again, they'll be answering to me personally. And that's a promise." Phil's voice was low, serious, but not unkind. Not ungentle in a way that could frighten or terrify, like Tommy was so likely used to.
Tommy blinked at him again, form going slack as his face creased with confusion. After a long moment of silence, he shoves his hands into his pockets and mutters something under his breath.
"Sorry mate, I didn't quiet catch that." Phil apologizes, offering a small, easy smile. Tommy huffed, but he did repeat himself.
"This place is fuckin' weird."
Phil barks a laugh that has Tommy flinching, and Phil subsequently apologizing, before he agrees. After all, what other family was built from a celebrity musician, his wife, and two teens purchased from their homes because of some weird old law that gave music-based celebrities far more power than they had any right to have?
Tommy does, eventually, adjust to the family. There are several scuffles with Techno before they settle into something like a fond brotherly rivalry, joking at jabbing at each other playfully in the hallways. Tommy takes up music, gaining an interest in it after watching Phil and Techno workshop their songs during their downtime at the house. He grows close to Kristin, finding a surprising amount of joy in helping her with the cooking more nights than not, and, slowly, he begins to smile again. To laugh again. To stop flinching at loud noises or sharp movements or touches he doesn't expect. Slowly, he grows tall and fills out and begins to practically radiate life. It was a contagious, ferocious energy that bled from him with every toothy grin and booming laugh. He puts every ounce of that passion and energy back into the music he creates.
When he releases his first track to the world- a song he lovingly called “The Way” -and gets triple platinum immediately, Phil hugs him tight and tells him how proud he is.
They both ignore the way Tommy's eyes tear up at the words.
The third call comes when Phil is taking a lunch break at the studio after working on a new track- something he’d named “Best Song Ever” after Kristin had teased him about it for the thousandth time -halfway between a bite of a BLT sandwich as he brings his phone to his ear to answer.
"Phil Direction here, what's happening?"
"How do you feel about buying two more kids?"
The house Phil arrives at is by far the worst one he's seen out of all three pick-ups. It looked vaguely dilapidated and leaned heavily to one side, seemingly one particularly strong gust of wind from collapse. White paint flakes off the sides in massive, ugly patches. One corner looked blackened, like it had been set ablaze at some point and then ignored indefinitely once the fire was gone.
In short, it looked awful.
Phil knocked at the door with a heavy sense of dread in his gut.
The door was yanked open a few seconds later, hinges squealing from the force of it as a tall brunette man, clearly drunk, glared at Phil with confusion and murder in his eyes.
"Hello, I'm Phil Direction." Phil introduces himself, struggling to maintain an air of friendliness as the stench of alcohol assaulted his nose.
The man blinked, uncomprehending.
"...I'm here for the children?" Phil tries again, praying to any gods that would listen that he could grab the kids and get out of here quickly.
"Oh. The singer guy." The man slurs, slumping heavily against the doorframe as he relaxed. "Yeah, sure. They're in the yard, take 'em whenever you're ready. And this'll get my bank loans and casino debts paid off?"
'It's almost over. Just get the kids and leave.' Phil reminds himself, over and over as his smile grew more strained. He doubted the man would notice, inebriated as he was, but he didn't want to risk it. "Of course. May I come in, then?"
The man shrugs, pushing himself away from the doorway to stumble further back into the house. "Do whatever you want, just shut the door on your way out."
Phil grimaced at how the air inside the house reeked of rotting food and alcohol. As he picked his way through the home, carefully stepping over and around the many high piles of trash and shattered remains of beer bottles that littered the ground, he eventually made his way to an open backdoor. With a quick breath, he did his best to steel himself, mentally preparing for anything, and stepped out into an overgrown garden.
The garden itself is surprisingly beautiful. Wildflowers of all colors dotted the grass with happy, healthy bumblebees flitting between them. In a high tree near the battered back of the fence, birds sang a cheery song to each other, hidden by the branches. Ivy had been left to creep up the sides of the house, completely covering the hideous, flaking paint and somehow making the building look almost quaint from the outside. Warm sunlight drifted down from between gaps in the clouds, casting the entire area in a light that felt nostalgic even as Phil stood, admiring the place, in present time.
He could've stood there forever, just soaking in the atmosphere, if a head hadn't popped up to squint at him over the overgrown strands of grass, openly apprehensive of his presence.
"Who're you?" The person calls, straight to the point. "He said he was calling someone to take us earlier. Is that you?"
Phil assumes he was likely referring to the man inside the house. He silently agreed with the kid- that husk of a person was barely worth the breath wasted on a name.
He gave a curt nod. "That's me. I'm Phil Direction. Are you one of the kids I was called about earlier?"
Another head abruptly pops up out of the grass, this one obviously significantly taller than the other. Phil could just barely make out the way this kid's eyes were bugging out of his head as he stares at Phil with awe.
"Wait, you're the Phil Direction? Like, the writer of What Makes You Beautiful Phil Direction? That one?"
Phil laughs, flashing a brilliant smile at the new face as he nodded. "Yep! The very same. I take it you're a fan?"
"Oh my gosh, I love your music. Tubbo!" Kid 2 was gently shaking Kid 1- apparently Tubbo -'s shoulders with no small amount of glee. "Tubbo, that's the Phil Direction!"
Tubbo hums uncertainly. "I know that's what he said," Tubbo began, squint intensifying as he ducks lower into the grass. "but I'm not so sure that's the truth, bossman. Do you know what Phil Direction actually looks like?”
"He, um. Oh." Ranboo slumps with a frown, looking rather put out suddenly. "I guess I've never actually looked up a picture of him."
Well, this was going badly. To be fair, Phil is honestly surprised this kind of issue hadn’t come up with Techno or Tommy. He supposes with those two, they had been more or less shoved into his arms by their parents, so maybe they just hadn't really had the chance to question it before the exchange was over.
"You need to prove to us you're Phil Direction!" Tubbo calls again, a bit louder than necessary and sounding almost accusatory. "If you're really Phil Direction, then maybe we'll come with you. Honestly, I don't see why a famous singer would just show up to buy random kids, anyways. It’s a bad look for you either way."
Phil grimaces a bit guiltily at that. It was another very fair point- to any outside perspective, this probably seemed very peculiar. He just... Liked to be the one to pick up the kids himself. Ever since that first call with Techno, he hadn't particularly wanted to send anyone else to pick up the children. Doing it this way just felt... Normal. Natural.
But it was, admittedly, a bit weird. And suspicious.
"How should I prove it to you, then?" He asks, a little lost on what exactly the kids were looking for from him. "Do you want me to sing, or...?"
The two duck out of sight again, presumably whispering amongst themselves before Tubbo pokes his head back out. A bee, startled by the sudden movement, drifts by the kid, but he didn't seem to mind it.
"I don't know!" He shouted, again, louder than necessary. "Figure it out, I guess! Do something Phil Direction-y!"
Something Phil Direction-y. Right. Very specific and helpful. Phil sighs as Tubbo ducks back out of sight, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to come up with some ideas.
The easiest option would be to sing one of his songs, but anybody could do that. Would just singing be enough? He could try to offer facts and stories that only Phil Direction would know, but there was a good chance that the kids would be just as unfamiliar with those as they were his appearance.
He would just have to hope that singing would do it, then.
He took a deep breath and started belting the lyrics to his most popular song.
"Baby you light up my world like nobody else, the way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed! But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell," One head popped up out of the grass, followed by another. They were both watching him with wide eyes, so Phil kept singing.
"You don't know, oh, oh! You don't know you're beautiful! If only you saw what I can see, you'd understand why I want you so desperately!" Ranboo was nudging Tubbo, whispering furiously. Tubbo whispered back, equally furiously, as they continued to stare, judging his performance.
"Right now, I'm looking at you and I can't believe, you don't know, oh, oh! You don't know you're beautiful, oh, oh! That's what makes you beautiful!"
Phil finished the chorus with a sigh, cheeks red and feeling silly for just belting out a random part of his song in the middle of a garden. If nothing else, the birds seemed to enjoy it, their singing picking up in pace and volume now that the song was over.
The pair in the grass had fallen silent again, Tubbo back to his suspicious squinting.
Phil waited patiently.
"I just don't get why a famous singer would show up here, of all places, to like... Purchase two kids? Is that even legal?"
"You'd be surprised." Phil answers sheepishly. "Something about an old law. I have two other kids at home, you know. One is about your age."
Ranboo looked like he was about to say something, but Tubbo put a hand up to stop him. "So we just, what, get into a car with you and trust that you aren't kidnapping us? Even if you are Phil Direction, how does that make you trustworthy?"
Phil could only shrug. "It doesn't, I guess. You'll just have to take my word on it, mate." A trio of birds on the fence caught his eye, all of them seemingly fighting over something. Phil huffed a quiet laugh when the biggest one was promptly pushed off the edge of the fence, having to twist gracelessly through the air to flutter safely to the ground.
"I can promise that all I want is to get you two in a safe home. One that isn't filled with glass and trash, preferably." He feels a spike of guilt as Tubbo flinches hard at that, Ranboo subtly nudging him with a shoulder in an attempt at comfort afterwards. "I know it's weird, but I swear I'm not here for any weird or selfish reasons. I just don't want to leave two kids suffering in horrible living situation when I can actually do something to help, you know?" He extends his hand- an offer. They could accept or refuse it. "So, what do you say?"
Tubbo purses his lips, glancing at Ranboo, who shrugs noncommittally. Tubbo sighs, before finally standing and walking forward to take Phil's hand.
"I'm Tubbo Swift. It's nice to meet you, Phil Direction." Despite his earlier apprehension, Tubbo was grinning widely, almost ferally, grip firm as he shakes Phil's hand. Ranboo was quick to follow Tubbo's lead, appearing behind him like the world's tallest shadow as he also extended his hand for a shake, smile much softer than Tubbo’s.
"I'm Ranboo Perry. I, uh, kept our mother's last name." Phil accepts Ranboo's hand with a nod of understanding, pleased to finally make the acquaintance of the two boys that just might end up being his newest sons.
Up close, he was also finally able to get a better look at the duo. Tubbo was definitely the shorter of the two, looking roughly fifteen and standing almost a full two heads shorter than Ranboo when they were side-by-side like this. He had fluffy brown hair that strayed into his eyes, streaked with bright blond highlights from the sun. His actual eyes were an odd blueish green, like seaglass, and his skin had a healthy tan.
Ranboo, surprisingly, wasn't too much different. His hair was also fluffy and brown, although it lacked the blond highlights that Tubbo's had. He did also have a singular seaglass-colored eye, though his other eye was a deep, dark brown. He looked closer to sixteen than fifteen, and he was paler than Tubbo by a significant amount, looking almost vampirish when he stood by his brother's side. Perhaps the most notable feature was the dark black mask that covered the entire lower half of his face, though Phil didn't comment on it. He could hazard a decent enough guess as to what it was for, and he didn't want to make Ranboo uncomfortable by mentioning it.
After their proper introductions were over, Tubbo and Ranboo agreed to head back to Phil’s house to figure out what to do next. Phil had a distinct, fond sense of deja vu when both boys marveled at the expensive interior of the car- he hadn’t had the time to swap cars before getting here -as they drove around the city to pick up necessities for the two boys before heading back to the house. They made polite conversation, hazarded a few laughs, but there was still an air of tension between them by the time Phil was leading them into the house.
"Jesus Christ, you're filthy rich, aren't you?" Tubbo exclaimed upon entry, eyeing the crystal chandelier above the doorway with no small amount of shock and interest. Phil didn't have time to even try and respond to that before Tommy was speeding around the corner, shoes squeaking against the tile as he just barely managed to avoid bowling over the two new possible additions to the family.
His face scrunches in confusion, eyeing the unfamiliar boys. Tubbo and Ranboo eye him back.
"Phil, have you and Kristin been getting busy while I wasn't looking?" He asks, looking to Phil for answers.
Phil promptly choked and wheezed at the implication. "Tommy, they're your age!”
"So? Techno's older than me, and you're like, ancient. Two more brothers in the age range is very plau-si-ble, Phil!"
"And I just hid them from you for two years?!"
Tommy threw his hands up in mirthful exasperation. "I don't know, maybe! What, am I supposed to know all of your secrets now?"
"Excuse me," Tubbo interjected, looking completely lost on what was happening. "but who are you?"
Tommy blinked at him. "Oh, right. I'm Tommy. Phil bought me off the black market and I'm his son now."
"Tommy!"
"What?" Tommy grinned at Phil with all of his teeth, leaning forward and extending his hand to Tubbo for a shake. Tubbo was smiling now, too, matching Tommy's energy perfectly as he accepted the shake full-force.
"I'm Tubbo, and that's Ranboo. We've also just been bought off the black market."
"Legally, though, I think?" Ranboo pipes up, glancing between Tommy, Tubbo, and Phil uncertainly.
Phil has the sudden and looming sense that these three were going to get along like a house on fire. Perfect for the boys, but not so perfect for Phil's sanity.
Tubbo and Ranboo took to music like fish to water. With Tommy's help, Tubbo released his first single- We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together -within the year, and his first album- 1989 -by the second year. Both do insane numbers on the charts, which only works to fuel Tubbo even further. Tommy quickly became fond of the joke that Tubbo was married to the grind, because, honestly, the kid had a will to work unlike anything Phil had ever seen.
Ranboo was slower to release his first single, stressing often how he wanted his introduction to the music industry to be perfect, and he didn't care how long it took him. Three years pass before he's finally ready, sitting curled in an anxious ball on the couch to watch the charts and see how his song- Firework -does. It does amazingly. They celebrate with cake and ice cream, all singing loudly together as they blared the song in the living room, one little happy mismatched family all together, content.
More years pass. The boys grow, spreading their wings and finding their sound as they take the music industry by storm. They do collabs, make new friends, and slowly, one by one, grow into fine young men.
Phil watches, content, with all life has given him.
With love in his heart and his family surrounding him, Phil Direction is happy.
Phil wakes with a start, bright sunlight blinding him for a moment as he blinks slowly, processing where he is.
He's lying on the couch, facing the family portrait on the wall. A blanket has been draped over him at some point, fabric soft against his skin. Distantly, the wall clock ticks. His phone sits warm on his chest, screen still bright with whatever he'd been looking at before he drifted off.
He squints sleepily at the screen.
A weird meme about a band called One Direction buying children stares back at him.
He blinks at it for a moment, shrugs to himself, and turns off his phone before going back to sleep.