I apologize in advance for the tense changes. Ukoku insisted, and I couldn't find another way to write it, so awkward tenses it is. Only he could make tense changes seem sensible.
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Ukoku Sanzo has had many names, and he has liked each a little more than the last. Perhaps "like" is too strong a term. Each name is successively less displeasing. He's liked "Ukoku" the best, so far. He thought he makes a very interesting Sanzo, and what would the world do if it were boring all the time?
He's grown to appreciate Koumyou's blank smiles and meaningless platitudes. They keep the desperate disciples away, make them think he actually does something. They work on the commoners as well, which gives him a little breathing space at times. Sometimes he would even says things with meaning, but they fall in line with the rest of the noise that comes from his mouth.
"You don't buy people." And yet he bought the boy after all, because perhaps that was why he was so dissatisfied with being Sanzo. Koumyou has a beloved disciple, why not he? They even looked similar, to an extent. He was sure that Koumyou would notice, but that was half the point. Ukoku had always been a mockery of Koumyou, in one way or another. The crickets would sing lovingly to Koumyou until their little twitching hearts gave out, but would fall silent for the big, bad Ukoku. Koumyou never really seemed to mind, but sometimes Ukoku would see him watching from the corner of his eye, sizing him up like a prey animal eyeing the hunter. He always made sure to turn and smile brightly, falsely, and Koumyou would smile back.
The boy never had a name. Ukoku didn't really like names, and saw little need for them. The boy didn't care, either, although Koumyou was very startled. Ukoku told him to call the child "boy" if he needed to yell across the courtyard for him. It worked as well as any other name.
The boy's eye took a long time to heal, but when it was whole and Ukoku was carefully removing the familiar bandage, the boy smiled up and shyly declared, "I love you." Ukoku had smiled and told the boy, "I don't love you." He remembered the crushing pain in those eyes, and how amusing it was that one sentence could do that to a person. But he was Sanzo, so there must be an explanation, as there is to all things. He wondered how that was, when the dharma that can be explained is not the true dharma.
"Have you been loved before?" he asked the boy, his smile approving of the boy's nod. "Didn't they do things that made you doubt, made you sad? Didn't it hurt?" Another nod, slower, as the boy tries to understand what he's asking. "And hate hurts too, doesn't it? I neither love you nor hate you. I feel nothing for you, so I will never hurt you."
And oh, how the boy's smile was like glass, so sharp and fragile and easy to see through. The boy did love him, yes, in his own childish way, and Ukoku felt a moment of fondness for the child. He rested a hand on the boy's head, approving, smiling, and said, "There, you see? Come now, and I'll buy you a toy."