Summary: Satoshi Hikari, the famous artist of Argentine, has lost his inspiration. When a thief attempts to steal from the mansion he lives in, Satoshi has no other choice but to put the boy to work to pay the debt of robbery. The new arrival of one Daisuke Niwa is welcoming, but he seems to be more trouble than he is worth. (Sat/Dai. AU. 1790's)

Future warning: Violence, Language, Lime, Shonen-ai, Intense themes/scenes

Genre: AU, Romance, Angst, Mystery, (Slight) Adventure

Thanks: To my beta's: Anonymous Critic, Silverlight Neko, and slytherisa.

Disclaimer: I don't own DNAngel, or The Girl With A Pearl Earring, which sparked most of the setting, theme, and plot for this.

Imperfect Illusions

—Prologue: The Honest Thief—

"You have one month left, Hikari." A tall man with amethyst locks dressed in black crossed his arms impatiently, looking down at a boy standing in the doorway. He held up a finger to enhance his point, muttering, "One month."

He groaned, pulling slender fingers through a mess of blue strands before letting his hand rest limply at his side. The famous artist, Satoshi Hikari, was sitting in front of a completely, utterly, totally blank canvas, and it did not please him.

In an attempt to spark any kind of inspiration, he gazed out the window on the right. Looking down uponthe small town, hiseyes wandered over the bustling crowds in the market and the long, elegant boats gliding through the water canals between tight houses. Blue eyes rested on the scene for a moment, before he turned back to the canvas, the brush in his hand gently pressed against his lower lip in deep thought. Finally, he set the tool down and sat back in his chair, once again running his hands through his hair to try and calm his thoughts.

"We won't accept this lack of work. You know the consequences," another young man said, standing just behind the other. The two looked like opposites — one with dark violet eyes and hair, the other with golden. They stood at the entrance of the artist's home, with expenise attire that boasted their wealth. The blonde turned to leave, raising his hand and beckoning his companion to follow.

It had been over five months since the Hikari had painted anything of sincere value, that could be truly admired by other great craftsmen. It had been over three years since he had started his interest in art, first producing a detailed picture of an angel with broken wings, enslaved to the ground to which he had fallen with chains and ropes binding him down.

He had only been the tender age of twelve when this masterpiece was brought to the world. This simple, yet beautiful piece of work had sparked his career, and his stature as Argentine's most famous artist in the coming years. People came from different countries to gaze upon the work that had once been caressed by his hands, watched over intently by intense eyes that many remarked as valleys of ice.

The praise did not lift the boy's satisfaction, however, for he was always locked within the attic of the Hikari mansion the next day, brooding on what images he could lay before him onto paper. Yet now, several months after his most recent painting, Satoshi found that the life of his beloved work had vanished. His muse had died. It was a depressing matter itself, but having other craftsmen constantly on his back did not help his situation. There was always expectancy attached to talent. The demand to produce beauty.

The other man turned to follow the blonde, pausing once to look down at the young artist. He stood at the door, with his blue locks flying about him in the gentle breeze. A smirk adorned the man's face as he held up a finger, rocking it back and forth in a sick mockery. "Not much time left, ne? Better find something to paint." The other frowned deeply, and watched with heated cobalt eyes as the two men walked away.

Empty, pallid canvases lay scattered on the floor or leaning against the walls. Different brushes that varied in size lay strewn across the marble table sitting just beneath one of the large, open windows. A cupboard filled with jars of paint had recently gathered dust, with its door shut tightly to hide the crystal prisons filled with the vibrant colors away from the rest of the world. The attic itself did not provide much activity and beauty — cobwebs gathered in corners, windows gone gimey and old with age, dark crimson curtains wrinkled and rotting.

"Damn," he groaned, observing the condition of the room. Sighing, he leaned back in the wooden chair, listening to a bird sing outside his window.

Satoshi figured artists did not do such things as cleaning, and had never taken much notice of the poor condition of the room, in the haven that was his attic. In the summer, the artist would often pull open the windows, letting the breeze flow in without casting the curtains aside. In winter, they would hastily be shut in an attempt to trap any warm air within, in fear that the glasses containing his prized dyes would freeze and shatter. Everything else — except his materials and supplies — were left untouched.

Furniture had not once been moved, and remained wherever it had been placed years ago when Satoshi first moved into the mansion he inherited from his mother, Rio Hikari, the most elegant and wealthy woman in Argentine. Her death, which left all her possessions to her only son, was left a mystery to all.

Despite the constant bickering of the mansion's maids, Satoshi refused to let anyone enter and clean what he called his workshop, or simply put, the upstairs attic. Instead, he set the few maids that worked under him to clean, cook, and take care of any other miscellaneous chores — as long as they never ventured up the stairs, and dared to cast aside the door to his sanctuary.

His sanctuary, where he could gaze out upon the busy town of Argentine, and watch as children skipped across the bridges that ran over the narrow water canals that wound through the city. Where he could try to gather the approaching time by gazing out to where the canals spilled into a long river above which the sun set and rose. There were many other places laid out before him, as though he were looking down upon a living map. There was the large star in the very middle of the town that pointed off in various directions; East, West, South, North, everything in between — all directing one to the place he or she desired to go.

At the moment, he was gazing at the enormous red compass that rested just in the center of the market — there appeared to be small children playing a game in the middle, spinning each other and then running off into the direction that they stopped. Satoshi noted that one child halted on the east point, and went skimpering through the streets towards the docks. The smile that played on his lips faltered when he heard a call from downstairs.

"Hikari-san!" cried the shrill voice of one of the maids, and Satoshi could only groan in recognition. Pushing himself from the chair, he carefully walked to the door and left, locking the room behind him. The old stairs creaked as he walked down, gazing upon the face of a nervous Risa Harada that stood at the bottom step. All the maids knew that if Satoshi was needed, they were to call him from the end of the staircase; no one was to even venture up to the door.

Satoshi, finally setting foot on the polished wooden floor, sighed and carefully slipped the glasses from his breastpocket onto the bridge of his nose. "Yes, Harada-san? I hope this is important. You know I don't like to be interrupted."

She nodded hastily, her fingers twisting with her dirty apron as her cheeks became flushed, "Oh! Come on," she muttered, placing her hands on her hips and swaying them a bit, "We all know that you weren't working up there. Daydreaming again?" At this, she noticed her master's eyes going thin, and bit her tongue as he looked down on her with irritation, grinding his teeth. Risa had always a certain preference to her master, and though the matter wasn't openly discussed, the nervous movements around him gave away her feelings.

"If there's nothing wrong, I'll be going back to the attic," he murmured as his hand grabbed the banister, ready to make his way back up the stairs when a sudden scream made him flinch. Behind him, Risa jumped considerably, and rushed down the spiraling staircase, only to vanish out the front door. It was only natural that Satoshi soon followed after, to find the cause of the outburst. He nearly leapt on the last step to reach the first floor, and stumbled his way out the door, just as something collided with him, sending him crashing to the ground.

"Hikari-san!" Several cries of distress went up as he heard footsteps, his arms clamped tightly around the object that had caused his fall — only it wasn't a thing, more of a person. He could only catch a blur of red before the person was snatched away by rough hands, and Satoshi was able to pull himself up to absorb his surroundings. Several of the maids were circled around a larger man, and they were all scolding whatever the man was holding — which, apparently, was what had knocked over Satoshi.

One of the more fierce girls, was angrily yelling at the person: "You little thief!" she cried, "You dirty, wretched thing!" The sound of a slap rang out through the streets, but people kept walking — they knew the large structure of the Hikari mansion, and that the one dwelling inside held great power over many with his money, even at the age of fifteen.

Satoshi was on his feet, pushing his way through the group of girls to see what could have possibly caused so much chaos. In the hands of the large man, who Satoshi assumed was an officer, was a small, young boy. The mark on his face was fresh from the hit, and his large crimson eyes were on the verge of tears. He seemed scrawny, with a limp and filthy body, wrapped in what Satoshi could only identify as rags. The wild mess of red on the boy's head was amazingly his hair, and it too was dirty — yet still retained the nature of flying in several directions, the bangs nearly falling over his eyes.

Just a poor child, Satoshi thought, though the boy did look just about his age. It was what the redhead was protectively clutching that caught Satoshi's attention, making his eyes widen considerably. Between the thin fingers was a large silver platter, with various designs across it, and detailed golden handles on the sides.

The man holding the boy cleared his throat, and suddenly explained, "I'm sorry, sir. I heard these women yelling and came to see what the comotion was when I saw this one," his grip on the child's arms tightened, "stealing from you."

Satoshi turned to the other to confirm, when the maid that had slapped the redhead answered, "We're very sorry, Master Hikari. We had the door open to let fresh air in, as we were cleaning and the smell was horrible. Miss Riku was preparing dinner when he ran in and snatched the dish. When he ran out, we chased after him, yet he was able to get loose — that's when he tripped onto you." She sent a hard glare towards the boy, who didn't seem to notice, as his eyes were focused on the cobblestone ground beneath his bare feet.

"There was no need to harm him," Satoshi remarked, and the maid faltered for a moment, "All of you can go back to work. There's nothing to see here." He watched each as they entered the mansion, some lingering at the door to hear signs of what was going to happen. Once all five had vanished within the home, he turned back to the boy and officer, who he knew as Saehara Takeshi.

The boy was fidgeting, his fingers still clapsed around the platter. Saehara grasped him firmly, holding his head higher so as to look down on the famous artist in his presence. "I understand the seriousness of this crime," he began, yet Satoshi didn't seem to take notice of him. Instead, he was watching the nervous boy flinch every now and then when certain words struck him as rude or hurtful. The redhead still refused to meet anyone's eyes.

"Sir?"

Satoshi's eyes shot up, a questioningly look on his face. "Excuse me, I couldn't hear you."

Also in a flustered manner, Saehara repeated his sentence, "I was asking how much you wanted the boy to pay. Here in Argentine, the price of robbery is high. Especially when it is from such a wealthy person such as yourself."

Both men were quiet for a moment before the captured boy coughed, sniffled, and finally dared to speak. His voice was soft, and nervous, his words faltering as if he could nearly talk. "I-I have no money...My family is poor, and—"

"And you were stealing, in hopes of helping them, eh boy?" The child nodded slowly, falling silent again after the officer's harsh words. "You realize, then, that you'll be sent to jail," the officer continued, "You may even die there, as they will probably feed you less than what your family did. Oh, and the rats that come out at night are hungry too, you know. They—"

"That's enough." Satoshi silenced Saehara, his eyes looking at the boy in his arms still, who was slowly beginning to whimper and cry. "There's no need to resort to locking him up. We already know he doesn't have the money to pay."

Scratching his dirty hair, the officer replied, "Then what do we do with him? We cannot simple let him go; that would be against the laws of Argentine."

"Simple," Satoshi muttered, turning on his heel and walking back in the mansion, beckoning the officer to follow, "He'll work for me until he can pay the debt."

The silver platter clattered to the ground.