A/N: If you're reading this (anyone? no? okay...) then hi! Welcome to my new Phanfic! This is basically an AU where a heart above your head shows how broken your soul is, and Dan's heart is unbroken and Phil's is shattered. (Yeah you can probably see where this is going BUT there are some plot twists I promise.)

This was co-written with my friend who doesn't have an account on FFN-she wrote Phil's chapters and I wrote Dan's.

ALSO this fic contains yaoi. Possibly lemons in the future so the rating may go up. Don't like, don't read.

Anyways, enjoy!

Chapter 1

"Daniel, it's fine. I'm sure you can find some new friends," my mom comforts me. We're sitting in the back seat of our small Prius. Two weeks ago my dad got a job offer at some kind of fancy technology company all the way in London. I used to live in Broughton, a tiny town in Wales with a population under 600 people. I'm used to knowing nearly every person around, and I know I'll be overwhelmed by the bustling streets of London. Plus, I'll have to start a new school in the middle of the year. I've had the same friends since kindergarten, and I thought that I'd have them as friends for life. I give my mom a swift nod and turn to look out the window. What if I don't make friends? Being alone isn't one of my strong points, especially since my heart is so unbroken.

Everyone has a heart above their head that signifies how broken they are. In my town, most people had just a couple of small cracks, and at worst (meaning the grumpy old fisherman that never talks to anyone) a clean split down the middle. But Mom told me that in big cities, hearts are often more broken because everyone is afraid of each other. Does that make people more unfriendly? Or just sad? I want to know, and I'm nervous they'll all just be jealous of my heart and tease me.

Most people are born with a full heart, and the first cracks will usually appear when they're around four. However, when I was born the doctor told my mom that I had an unnaturally sturdy heart, and that he hoped it would stay pure. On my fourth birthday, both my parents were watching my heart nervously as they looked for cracks. When none were there the next day, they told me about the cracks in people's hearts. I asked if they could be fixed, and my mom shook her head. She told me that most cracks are for life and that once your soul is broken, you can't fix it.

I've always been bothered by that, though. My dad's a mechanic, and he always told me that his job is to fix broken machines. His favorite phrase was, "If you can break it, you can fix it." So why not people's hearts?

Trees blur by as my dad careens through an exit onto another freeway. Our drive is around 3 and a half hours, and we've been driving for about two. I've watched our village marketplace transform into a vast forest as we bumbled along a dirt road, then watched all the little farms fly by as they transformed into another village, a collection of small houses with boarded windows and thatched roofs. After another bit, we reached a paved road. Dad explained to me that paved roads usually signified a bigger town, or even a city. I've been looking at pictures of London, and am almost scared of the height of the skyscrapers, the bleakness of the streets. I'm worried that everyone at my school will be like the grumpy fisherman-lonely and rude.

But I desperately want to prove my parents wrong. I want to show that hearts can be fixed. I want someone else to be like me. Throughout the 8 years I've been in the village's small school, I've never seen anyone's heart get repaired, only broken. In fourth grade, Ethan's mom died, and he gained another crack in his heart. Similar incidents have happened, and the whole town has grieved-not only for the death or horrible incident, but also for the fresh cracks in the hearts of those affected. Every year I waited for someone's heart to somehow get fixed, and every year I've been disappointed.

The only problem is: No one's ever fixed a heart. So how can I?

The trees become more sparse, and houses grow more tightly packed as we wind through the roads of the city. I see little kids playing on small swingsets, and older kids shopping at various stores. My heart pounds as I see their hearts: each one of them has at least three cracks. And we're not even in the city. Will the hearts get even more broken? What if there's one that's practically shattered?

My dad turns on to the lane that leads to my new school. I bite my lip and toss my dad's old backpack over my shoulder-we didn't want to have to buy anything new other than the apartment that we'd saved money for for years. Hands trembling, I push open the car door and step out.

The first thing I realize is that the city smells. Like smoke and old garbage. And the school's huge, probably fifty times larger than my old one. I force myself to put one foot in front of the other as I glance around and see the cracks in people's hearts while they mill around the parking lot. The minimum I've seen so far is five. Five! I can't imagine what's happened to all these city folk to make their hearts this cracked.

I only realize I've stopped when my mom gently nudges me forward. We're nearly at the entrance. Different people give me weird looks, probably knowing I'm new. My dad holds the door for my mom and me as we walk in.

A rush of artificial, cold air blasts me in the face one I step in the doors. This is what city people call comfort? My nose unconsciously wrinkles once more as I smell the faint scent of antiseptic(eye). We walk through a mass of hallways, and my mind's racing. What if everyone thinks I'm weird? What if I'm left alone? What if all their hearts are so cracked they hate everyone? I vigorously shake the thoughts from my head. I don't want to think like that, especially if I want to keep my heart pure. Many people gain cracks in their heart after the age of twenty, when real life's worries crash down on them. I made a vow to myself that I'd never do that.

We pass by classrooms, each one with a laminated sticker on the front stating the class inside. "Chemistry 101," one says, while another says, "AP Calculus BC." I furrow my brow in worry. Is that what city people do? In my village-old village, I remind myself morosely-we didn't learn those things until twelfth grade. What if I'm the stupidest one here?

Thankfully, my thoughts are interrupted as I'm gently pushed into an office. A small woman with a pointy chin, wire-rimmed glasses, and tight black hair that's tied into a bun sits at a desk, her gaze calculating. I shiver inwardly. Her heart is broken in so many places I can hardly count. I bite my lip again. Are all the teachers like this? "Sit," she states in a cold voice. I obey, and grip the arms of the chair until my knuckles turn white. I can tell that she's making both my parents nervous as well: my mom is twirling a strand of her hair, and my dad is fidgeting with his watch. We sit in awkward silence until my mom begins to converse. "Daniel is going to be a new student here. He is joining the ninth grade and should hopefully already be registered."

"I should hope so," the teacher states monotonously and goes to check a file on her computer. She scrolls through something, and my whole family begins to grow more worried. Mom's hair twirling increases in speed, and I taste blood on my lip. Finally, she turns back to us. "He is registered. Please follow me," and without another word, she stands up. It takes another second for all of us to be shaken from our stupor. Never have any of us seen someone's heart that's this cracked. I can only hope the others have less cracks.

Her shoes click on the floor as we walk down the hall. We go through another mess of hallways until we reach a classroom. It's labeled, "Ninth Grade Homeroom A2." I wonder what A2 is, and I hope it doesn't mean much-I'd rather not be judged by the other kids on the first day. Then again, my heart is bound to stand out even more than it did in my town, so this shouldn't matter anyway.

The teacher opens the door and curtly ushers us inside. I take a glance around and am happy to see that most hearts have only around seven cracks. The teacher even only has eight. I smile and, after giving a quick hug to my parents, walk over to the only empty seat in the room. The desks are arranged in groups of two, and everyone's sitting with their friends. Of course. I should've known that I'd be alone, probably with another loner. The kid has black hair with a fringe, and is wearing a graphic tee shirt that I don't understand along with black jeans. His eyes are a piercing blue. I have to say, he's kind of cute.

I notice it as I make my way to the desk.

His heart is shattered. Not cracked many times, like the teacher in that office, but shattered. I gasp inaudibly as I take my seat. What could have happened to this kid?

Then I remember my decision from the car, and I smile softly.

I'm going to fix this boy's heart, no matter what it takes.