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Keir stood still in the middle of the crowded shopping mall, like a quiet stone resting in the middle of a river that never stopped moving. Christmas lights stretched across the ceiling, warm golden strands trembling softly with each shift of air from the heating system, their glow settling gently into his tired eyes. Carol music drifted down from above, cheerful and looping, weaving itself into laughter, soft conversations, the rustle of paper bags, and the steady rhythm of hurried footsteps.
The air carried a tender mix of cinnamon, ginger, and hot chocolate. The scent of gathering. The scent of full tables and warm kitchens. The scent of something Keir had spent most of his life watching from a distance, like someone who always arrived a little too late, or perhaps someone who had never truly been invited at all.
People moved past him with their arms full of gifts and boxes. Everyone had somewhere waiting for them, someone to give a present to, a name that warmed their thoughts as they stood at the checkout counter. Everyone except Keir. At least, not in any way the world would easily accept.
If you had to give your rival a Christmas present, what would you choose?
The question rose quietly in his mind, without warning. Keir remembered it clearly, so clearly he could recall the exact moment he first heard it. A strange question, so out of place he had wondered how it ever appeared on national television during the 2018 General Election, asked to Boris Johnson and Jeremy Corbyn. The two men had laughed, tossing back awkward jokes as if politics were nothing more than a lighthearted show meant to fill an empty evening.
Back then, Keir had frowned at the screen. Who would ever ask something like that.
He was grateful no one had asked him and Rishi that question. If they had, Keir thought he would have said that only God knew what more a man like Rishi Sunak, someone born into every comfort and raised among the finest things money and power could offer, could possibly want.
And yet here Keir was now.
The dinner with Rishi would take place in seven days. He would walk into Rishi’s home, sit across from him at a warm dining table, on a holiday meant for family and the people one holds close. And still he stood here, surrounded by bright lights and laughter that did not belong to him, unsure of what gift he should bring.
Keir did not dare ask anyone. He could not bring himself to say, “What should I get Rishi Sunak for Christmas?” because that would be the same as admitting that Rishi Sunak had invited him to dinner on Christmas Eve. Just the two of them. Just one quiet meal. If the press sensed even the faintest hint of it, their political lives would unravel.
Who would ever imagine a former Prime Minister inviting a sitting Prime Minister to dinner at his home.
Keir tucked his hands deeper into his coat pockets and stood before the glass display filled with luxury items, beautiful and flawless and so untouched they felt almost cold. He let out a soft sigh. His breath rose in a thin mist, fading quickly, disappearing like a thought he was not brave enough to keep.
He remembered last week with perfect clarity.
After PMQs, the House of Commons still seemed to tremble with the echo of sharp criticism. Not in any physical sense, but in that faint, lingering vibration that hangs in the air the way a string does after being pulled too tight and released too late. Kemi’s voice still rang in his mind, sharp and unyielding, each word slicing through the layers of silence that had settled over everything. Keir stayed longer than usual.
He sat at his desk, turning over the same familiar documents again and again. The paper rustled beneath his fingertips, dry and lifeless. He pretended to read, pretended to review, only to delay the moment he would have to stand up, put on his coat, and walk out of the Commons, where every long corridor seemed to lead to the same ending: leaving alone.
Gradually, the building emptied. Voices faded, then disappeared entirely. Only the distant echo of footsteps remained, and the soft thud of doors opening and closing somewhere far down the endless halls. The vast space grew colder, not because of the temperature, but because of the emptiness.
Keir was bent over a stack of papers when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder.
“Keir.”
The voice was familiar, but softer than usual, as if the speaker were holding something back. Keir lifted his head.
It was Rishi.
He stood there with his coat loosely draped over his shoulders and his tie slightly undone. Under the white lights of the Commons, Rishi looked more tired than Keir remembered, with faint shadows under his eyes and a smile that had lost some of its usual sharpness. He seemed thinner these days, or perhaps simply less full of the restless energy he usually carried.
“How have you been?” Rishi asked.
A simple question. Too simple.
“I’m fine,” Keir replied, almost automatically.
A safe answer. A familiar one. Both of them knew it meant nothing.
They stood side by side, talking the way they always did, about AI, about immigration, about issues they both knew so well they could debate them with their eyes closed. Neutral topics, like an invisible fence keeping them at just the right distance, not close enough to be dangerous, not far enough to feel like strangers.
After a moment, Keir asked, his voice lighter, as if the question had slipped out without intention, “How is Akshata these days?”
Rishi paused for the briefest moment, so quick most people would have missed it, but Keir noticed. Rishi exhaled, and a thin smile curved at the corner of his mouth.
“She and the kids are in India,” he said. “Visiting family. The divorce is about to be finalized.”
Keir nodded and let the silence settle gently between them. Then he asked, slower this time, “So you’re spending Christmas alone?”
Rishi was quiet for a beat. His gaze drifted somewhere across the vast chamber, as if searching for an invisible anchor, before returning to Keir.
“Yes,” he said softly.
Keir hesitated, then spoke again, as if confessing something small but fragile. “My wife left me, too.” A short pause. “So I’m alone this Christmas.”
The words fell between them like the first snow of the season, light and quiet, without drama, without sorrow, but enough for both of them to understand.
Rishi looked at Keir longer than usual. His eyes softened, losing the guarded sharpness of a politician standing his ground. What remained was simply a man who looked tired, but sincere.
“That’s sad.” Rishi began, a little hesitant, offering a smile so gentle it felt almost delicate. “Why don’t you come to my place for Christmas?”
A fleeting thought crossed Keir’s mind. Would that count as a date? And it seemed Rishi sensed it too, because he quickly added, “We can talk more about policy. I mean… it’s not a date or anything like that.”
Keir did not take long to decide.
He nodded.
And then, as if completing a circle, all his thoughts returned to the beginning: the gift.
What could someone like Rishi Sunak possibly need for Christmas?
Keir stood still among the flowing crowd, thinking. Rishi had everything. The things money could buy, and the things money never even needed to touch. Keir was not as wealthy, and he had no intention of turning his gift into a quiet competition, where meaning was reduced to numbers, brands, or anything too concrete to carry sincerity.
He walked slowly through the clothing section. Clothes? Too ordinary. Rishi always wore expensive, perfectly tailored outfits, every fold in place, every layer fitting as if the world itself had been designed to suit him.
Then Keir stopped.
Behind a display window hung a blue sweater, quiet and unassuming. A deep, gentle shade of blue, neither too dark nor too bright, like the winter sky just before snowfall, when everything holds its breath.
Keir looked at it longer than he meant to. And in that moment, an image of Rishi appeared in his mind with surprising ease. Not Rishi in a crisp suit, not Rishi behind a podium, not Rishi with his practiced, guarded smile. But Rishi in this sweater, the collar slightly high, the sleeves long enough to cover most of his wrists, the blue softening the warmth of his skin and the depth of his dark eyes.
Maybe he would push the sleeves up a little while holding a cup of hot tea. Maybe he would lower his head slightly, smiling a small, absentminded smile, more relaxed than usual. The sweater would wrap around him, keeping the warmth close, like a small cat curled in its nest, quiet and trusting.
Keir startled at the thought.
He turned away. He stepped back from the glass with a decisive movement, before he could let any other thought take root.
That evening, Keir returned home. The house was quiet, holding only the soft click of the door lock before the sound faded into the warm air. He had not even taken off his coat when he heard tiny footsteps gliding across the floor.
“Prince.” Keir called softly.
The cat appeared with his tail curved high in pride, eyes brightening the moment he saw him. Prince trotted over, rubbing his head against Keir’s trouser leg, then quickly noticed something new: a ball of yarn resting on the table.
In an instant, Prince pounced. The ball rolled across the floor, the yarn unraveling into winding trails. The cat chased after it, missing once, then trying again, as if it were the most fascinating prey in the world. Keir laughed and sat down on the floor, letting Prince tumble around, paws wrapped around the yarn, biting at the thread with a strangely serious expression.
His laughter echoed softly through the quiet house, warm and gentle. And then, old memories rose slowly, drifting up like smoke slipping through a window crack. When he was young, the family was poor, and winter always came early and stayed far too long. His mother would sit by the window, the warm yellow light falling over her thin hands as she patiently knitted stitch after stitch. The needles clicked together in a steady rhythm, the familiar soundtrack of cold evenings.
The sweaters were never perfect. Some parts were tight, others loose. But they were warm. And more importantly, they were made only for him.
As he grew older, Keir learned to knit from his mother. At first, only to mend worn patches, then slowly to make sweaters for himself. During his university years, long winters and empty pockets kept him in his dorm room, knitting in silence as if it were the only way to keep himself from being swept away by the cold. When he finally had money and a stable job, he stopped knitting. Everything became more convenient. Faster. And somehow more distant.
Now, Keir held the ball of yarn in his hands. The yarn was soft, slightly coarse, carrying a familiarity so deep it tightened his chest.
He sat down and tried to recall each movement. How to hold the needles, how to cast on, how to keep the yarn neither too tight nor too loose. The motions that had once lived in his muscles returned slowly, clumsy but not foreign. Prince sat beside him, tilting his head, occasionally tapping the yarn with a paw as if asking to join. Keir smiled.
He whispered as he made the first stitch. “Maybe I can try.”
And in that moment, in the quiet house with the blue yarn beginning to take shape, Keir thought of Rishi, of the way he had smiled at him.
In the days that followed, Keir knitted the sweater. He could not finish it in one night, so he worked on it little by little, in the rare spaces between the demands of his life. Some nights he came home very late, the world outside the window pitch black, winter wind tapping softly against the glass. Keir would take off his coat, wash his hands, then sit down with the yarn resting neatly on his lap. Prince would jump up, curl beside him, his tail flicking whenever the yarn moved.
The needles clicked in the quiet room. At first, Keir worked slowly, dropping stitches, having to undo and redo them. He frowned, sighed, then patiently began again, as if relearning an old lesson his body once knew but his memory had forgotten.
With each stitch passing between his fingers, Keir thought of Rishi. He remembered the Commons lights falling across Rishi’s face that day, the faint smile, tired but softened when he admitted he would spend Christmas alone. Keir imagined the way Rishi had leaned slightly toward him, as if for that brief moment, the world outside had stepped back.
Some nights, Keir paused for a long time just to look at the sweater taking shape. The blue spread out under the lamp, soft and deep. He imagined Rishi wearing it, standing in the kitchen with a cup of hot tea, shoulders drawn in from the cold, then looking up to smile when Keir walked in.
The thought slowed his hands. Sometimes Keir wondered what he was doing. This was not something a man in his position should be doing. Not something the press, voters, or anyone outside this quiet house should ever know. And would Rishi even like it? Or would he toss it aside because it was not expensive, not branded, not luxurious? But Keir’s hands kept moving, as if they had already made the decision for him.
He knitted for himself, for the part of him that still held tenderness, for the chance to relive the winters when his mother had made Christmas sweaters for him. He remembered her focused face, her brown hair glowing softly in the candlelight. Back then, the family was poor, the fireplace rarely lit. She stayed up late, enduring the biting cold of the room. Keir had once woken in the middle of the night to find her working tirelessly, unaware of his presence, and he began watching how carefully she shaped each pattern.
“Can you teach me how to knit?” Keir had whispered beside her. “I want to make something for the person I love someday.”
She smiled and stroked his hair. “That’s wonderful, Keir. They will be very lucky.”
Time passed, and he became skilled. He had planned to knit her the most beautiful sweaters, but then school, life, and excuses got in the way. The gentle, earnest boy grew into a man shaped by the world’s expectations. What man sits in a corner knitting like an old woman? His university friends had laughed at the yarn in his hands, and Keir had shrugged, refusing to admit the craft that had once nurtured his patience.
Prince’s soft meow pulled him back to the present. The cat pawed at the yarn, tugging a stitch out of place. Keir laughed, fixed it, patted Prince’s head, then continued. He gave the cat a few treats to keep him still, then returned to his familiar work.
Time moved differently. One night, when he was nearly done with the body of the sweater, Keir realized he had fallen back into the rhythm. His hands moved more naturally, his breathing steadier. He remembered his university winters, the long nights, the rough but warm sweater his mother had made, enough to get him through each morning. Her smile, warmer than anything else, was what he had always wanted to see, back when he was a boy determined to knit her something with his own hands.
Then the sad truth came. His mother passed away before he could give her a single sweater. All because he hesitated. All because he wanted it to be perfect. All because he had grown too distant.
Later, Victoria packed her clothes, walked out of the classroom, and never looked back. When they dated, then married, he never told her about knitting, never made her a sweater. After years together, when they moved into Number 10, she admitted she was tired of his coldness. He cared for her, that was true. But she left because she could not believe it.
This time, everything felt different.
When he reached the sleeves, Keir paused longer, trying to remember Rishi’s shape: narrow shoulders, slender arms. He knitted slowly, carefully, as if a single mistake would break the image in his mind. On the final night, Keir sat for a long time with the finished sweater resting on his lap.
Prince slept curled beside him.
Keir touched the fabric, feeling each stitch beneath his fingers. It was not perfect. Some parts were tight, others softer.
He folded the sweater and placed it into a simple paper gift bag.
Then Keir sat still for a long, long while. In three days, he would bring the gift to Rishi’s home. For the first time in a very long time, his chest felt full with anticipation, a quiet excitement, as if he had placed a deeply personal part of himself into that gift.
Three days passed faster than Keir expected. Christmas Eve arrived with a dry, sharp cold that bit into his skin the moment he stepped out of the car.
The sky was dark, without snow, but the wind carried that familiar damp chill of a London winter, slipping through his coat and settling into his fingertips. The houses along the street glowed with warm lights behind their curtains, so inviting that Keir slowed his steps, taking a deep breath to let the moment sink in.
He stood in front of Rishi’s house. The gift bag rested neatly in his hand, lighter than he had imagined, yet somehow warming his palm. Keir tightened his grip on the handle and drew in another breath. Not because of the cold. Because of nerves.
He told himself it was only dinner, only Christmas, only two men who had known each other for a long time. But when he raised his hand to knock, his heart still leapt with a restless beat. The door opened almost immediately, and Rishi stood there, relaxed, without a suit or tie, wearing only a light-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up as if he had just stepped out of the kitchen. The light behind him softened the familiar lines of his face. He looked different, somehow closer, easier to approach, as if the invisible armor he always wore had been set aside for the night.
“You are here,” Rishi said, his smile appearing so naturally that Keir paused for a heartbeat.
“Yes,” Keir replied, his voice low and warm. “Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas,” Rishi echoed, stepping aside. “Come in, it’s freezing out there.”
Warmth spilled out as Keir crossed the threshold. The scent of butter, herbs, and a hint of spice drifted from the kitchen, blending with the smell of wood and home, making the room feel familiar and welcoming. He hung his coat, set his shoes neatly aside. Everything unfolded slowly, gently, as if he had been here many times before.
“Would you like something to drink?” Rishi asked as he walked toward the kitchen, his voice soft. “Tea? Wine?”
“Tea would be nice,” Keir answered, quiet but warm in a way that spread through each word.
Rishi nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Keir stayed where he was, taking in the living room. It was tidy, with a few simple Christmas decorations: a small wreath, a few strands of golden lights trembling softly in the candle glow.
Keir set the gift bag beside the sofa. Only for now, he told himself. Rishi returned with two cups of hot tea. Steam curled upward, carrying the familiar scent. When he handed Keir a cup, their hands brushed lightly, a brief moment filled with an unspoken understanding, subtle but unmistakable.
“Are you cold?” Rishi asked gently.
“No,” Keir said, then paused, smiling a little. “Well, maybe a bit.”
Rishi let out a soft laugh, his eyes lingering on Keir. “The fireplace will warm up soon.”
They sat down, the heat from the tea spreading from their throats to their chests, chasing away the last traces of cold. Outside, the wind moved through the trees, creating a soft, steady sound like the heartbeat of the city. Inside, the room was quiet except for the ticking of a clock.
“Thank you for coming,” Rishi said, his voice lower, softer. “I know it wasn’t easy.”
Keir looked at him, seeing the rare sincerity flickering in Rishi’s eyes.
“Thank you for inviting me,” he replied, and this time it was not a polite phrase. In that moment, Keir thought of the sweater in the gift bag, of the long nights, the slow stitches, and all the things he had held inside without ever saying aloud.
The dinner unfolded with a strangely gentle rhythm. They took turns listening, then speaking in a calm, unhurried way, nothing like the noise of crowded holiday gatherings. It was just the two of them, trying in their own quiet ways to understand each other.
On the table, the dishes were simple but carefully prepared, from the warm, tender roast to the steaming potatoes and the faint scent of herbs drifting through the air. Everything seemed to whisper softly that this was Christmas, an evening meant for tenderness. The candlelight flickered in the center of the table, swaying with the breeze from the window and casting soft, warm glows across their faces, creating a small circle of warmth in the still room.
They talked about small things: the chilly weather outside, the book Rishi had been reading, or Keir’s cat Prince. Rishi laughed quietly when Keir described the cat’s mischief. Not once did politics slip into their words, and not once did they mention tomorrow. Rishi looked relaxed, his shoulders loose, his smile less guarded, revealing a softness Keir rarely saw. Sometimes, when Keir said something ordinary, Rishi’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, as if he were memorizing every small detail.
As dinner neared its end, Keir’s heart suddenly beat faster. He glanced toward the gift bag beside the sofa, where the candlelight danced across the paper. Rishi noticed, his eyes following Keir’s line of sight before returning to him with a slight tilt of his head. “Ah! What did you bring?”
Keir drew in a quiet breath, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the calm. “Just something.” He stood, picked up the gift bag, the soft rustle of paper echoing clearly in the quiet room. He set it on the table and nudged it gently toward Rishi. “It’s a Christmas present. For you.”
Rishi froze for a moment, his eyes widening, catching the light, his cheeks warming with a faint flush. His lips parted, half smiling, half flustered. “You didn’t have to–” He stopped himself, as if reminding himself to stay quiet.
“It’s only a little gift from me. For you, because you’ve been a good kid this year,” Keir teased, putting playful emphasis on “good kid.” And with his age and position, Rishi really did look like someone Santa might need to keep an eye on.
“All right then,” he said with a soft smile. “Thank you, Sir Softie.”
Rishi opened the bag carefully, as if afraid to damage whatever was inside. When the paper unfolded, the blue appeared under the candlelight, soft and deep, just enough to soothe the cold outside. He looked at the sweater without speaking. Not because he had nothing to say, but because he was holding onto something delicate. Keir felt his throat tighten.
“You–” Rishi lifted his gaze, his eyes wavering slightly. “You knitted this yourself?”
Keir nodded, his voice low. “Yes. I chose the blue because I thought it would suit you.”
"I didn't know you could knit." Rishi took a long breath, his brow faintly furrowed as he traced the stitches with his eyes. “And you spent all that time… just to knit something like this for me?”
Keir only shrugged, a small smile touching his lips. “I thought you already have everything, so I didn’t know what else to give.”
Rishi lowered his head, brushing his fingertips lightly over the fabric, as if confirming it was real, that someone had poured time and care into it. When he looked up again, the tips of his ears were red. “All my life,” he said slowly, “I have only worn things that were bought. No one has ever knitted anything for me.” His voice softened, almost like a confession. “Even Akshata only bought or had things made.”
Keir said nothing, simply watched him, letting the moment settle between their breaths. Inside him, warmth spread through the cold of Christmas night. A child born into comfort like Rishi had never known the patience, the quiet affection that only someone raised in winter’s harshness like Keir could understand.
“Try it on, kid,” Keir said softly. "Let me see if I get you the right size."
Rishi hesitated, then stood and slipped the sweater over his head. The blue wrapped around him, softening the familiar lines of his figure, a little loose at the sleeves but warm enough. Keir noticed it at the same moment he did.
“Oh,” Rishi laughed quietly, tugging the sleeves up. “A bit big.”
Keir blinked, his smile half real, half teasing. “You’re tinier than I imagined, Rishi.” For a brief moment, seeing Rishi nestled in the soft sweater he had made, cheeks pink and eyes wide, Keir’s chest ached with the urge to pull him close, to hold this little, warm figure like a fragile kitten in his arms.
But Rishi only smiled, more genuinely than before, and said, “But it’s warm. I really like it, Keir. This is the first time I’ve ever received a gift like this.”
The simple words were enough to warm Keir’s heart, like a small fire kindling in the winter night. Rishi kept the sweater on for the rest of the evening, holding his cup of tea, occasionally tugging the sleeves down and then back up, getting used to the new feeling.
They stayed after dinner, talking, falling into silence, listening to the wind outside and the ticking of the clock. A strange Christmas night, yet perfectly fitting, warm and quiet in a way that felt almost unreal. Keir did not want to leave Rishi’s home, but the hour had come, and he had to step out of the room still filled with the warmth of the evening.
When Keir stood to leave, Rishi walked him to the door. The house behind them remained lit and warm, like a small box of stored heat in the cold winter.
“Sorry,” Rishi said, his voice trembling slightly as he stood at the doorway. “I don’t have anything to give you.”
Keir was about to say it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t important. But before he could speak, Rishi stepped closer, close enough that Keir could feel the warmth radiating from him.
“Keir,” Rishi said quietly, with a hint of shyness, “have you ever knitted a sweater for anyone else?”
Keir looked straight into his eyes. “No.”
“Then–” Rishi smiled, just a small smile, but enough to make Keir’s heart tremble. “I must be special.”
Even Victoria. Even his mother. No one had ever received a piece of Keir like this. “Rishi, you should know you are special,” he whispered, his warm voice slipping into the small space between them, making Rishi blush and lower his head in shy embarrassment.
"What can I do you show my gratitude?" Rishi blushes.
The distance between them seemed to shrink with every breath, Keir’s heartbeat pounding in his chest. They stood so close that he could feel the warmth of Rishi’s breath, carrying a faint trace of cologne mixed with the lingering scent of wood and tea from dinner. Keir sensed the quick rhythm of Rishi’s heartbeat, and something about that closeness made him want to hold onto the moment for as long as he could.
Keir lifted a hand and brushed Rishi’s cheek, drawing him a little closer as he gently closed the door behind them. Rishi looked up at him, eyes wide, breathing unsteady, caught between hesitation and something softer, something quietly hopeful.
“Have you ever shown your gratitude to someone by hugging them?” Keir asked, his voice low, trembling slightly with emotion.
Rishi shook his head, his reply barely more than a breath. “I barely do that because I don’t like hugging.”
For a moment, everything outside seemed to fall away. The wind at the window, the ticking clock, the world beyond the walls faded into stillness.
“But if that is the only way I can answer your kindness,” Rishi whispered, his gaze steady on Keir, “then it would not be too much.”
Their closeness deepened, tentative at first, gentle and searching, then warmer, more urgent. Then Keir wrapped his arms around Rishi’s small frame, holding him close, and inhaled deeply. The scent of Rishi clung to him, a mix of his clothes, the soft wool of his sweater, the faint trace of shampoo and perfume, and it was intoxicating. Rishi was warm, alive against him, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. When they finally drew back, Rishi looked up at Keir with a lingering softness, eyes shining with quiet affection.
“Thank you for being here,” Rishi whispered, his voice soft and sincere.
Keir smiled, giving him a gentle squeeze before stepping back. “It’s my pleasure.”
He straightened his coat and opened the door, stepping out into the cold night. The winter wind nipped at his face, but inside, his chest felt warm, as if the evening’s quiet closeness had wrapped him in a blanket of light and comfort.