Archive of Our Own ^beta

Keir Starmer had lost count of how many times his eyes had wandered to Rishi Sunak’s hair. Not because it was beautiful; truth be told, it was too neat to be beautiful, but because of the way it always fell perfectly in place, sleek and disciplined, not a strand astray. Hair brushed with the precision of a man used to controlling everything, from exchange rates to every word in a speech. The hairstyle of someone who believed that if everything stayed orderly, the world would obey him.

He still remembered the day Rishi became Chancellor—thick jet-black hair gleaming beneath the Parliament lights like polished glass. Young, sharp, so confident that the whole chamber seemed to hold its breath. Back then, Keir had looked at him and thought: Another one obsessed with his own image, polished to the point of absurdity.

Then time passed. When Rishi sat in Number 10, that dark sheen began to fade. First came a few silver threads at his temples, then paler streaks that caught the light when he bowed his head at the podium. The hair that once drew praise for its “elegance” began to look real. Tired, frayed, and sometimes left slightly unkempt.

Keir had never thought he’d care about something like that. But politics makes you notice the smallest things, because they speak louder than speeches. In politics, gray hair is proof of honesty, proof that power doesn’t exempt you from erosion, so a politician should never dye their hair. They can hide mistakes, stage-manage their image, rewrite history, but fake black hair under the weight of real pressure is something no one forgives.

Keir knew that, and he was sure Rishi did too. That silver at his temples was a reminder that time spares no one, not even those who once thought themselves untouchable. The man who once spoke of the future with unblinking conviction now bore visible traces of time. It wasn’t collapse—just the truth. A young Prime Minister. Aging. Like any other man.

Sometimes, across the chamber, when the lights struck those silver strands, Keir thought: That’s the price he pays.

Rishi could speak endlessly of faith, renewal, and “doing the right thing for the country,” but each gray hair told another story of sleepless nights, swallowed compromises, and decisions that left hairline cracks in the conscience. It was evidence of the cost of power: the slow erosion of self, the shedding of integrity, the sacrifice of health and time for a kind of authority that’s never worth its price. And it signaled, too, that the man himself would never quite be the same.

Keir didn’t pity him. He never pitied a man who still held power. Nor did he agree with what Rishi had done; he never agreed with the Conservative Party. But he understood the cruelty of this profession, the way it grinds down even those who think themselves immune.

Each time Rishi lifted his head beneath the cool gray-blue light of the chamber, that hair seemed to gleam a little more. Keir couldn’t tell if it was the light or the silver spreading. But he knew one thing for certain: nothing in politics remains absolute. Not ideals. Not faith. And certainly not a head of hair untouched by time. Once you step into politics, you accept the trade: a piece of yourself for power, a stain upon your reputation from beautiful lies and in the end, no one believes in you anymore.

Time moved like a long, unending afternoon: gentle, patient, and unnoticed in its passing. Debate after debate, session after session, headlines flaring and fading. And then, at some point, without words, everyone understood: Britain needed an election. Keir understood it too, in his own way. Not through numbers or slogans, but through the way Rishi moved on television: slower, more careful, his eyes dulled of that sharp gleam that once silenced the Commons. His hair, once jet-black and glossy, had gone visibly gray at the temples. A small detail, perhaps; but to Keir, it said more than any analysis could. All power fades, like hair turning silver, not suddenly, not tragically, just quietly, in the steady light of time. And when the day of handover came, Keir realized the only thing that truly remained wasn’t victory—it was the moment a man let go of a burden, weary yet faintly serene.

That afternoon, Number 10 was filled with a kind of farewell light, soft gold, a little melancholy, touching everything with a strange tenderness. Their final meeting was over. Papers stacked neatly, cups of tea gone cold, the clock ticking steadily as if unaware the place was about to change hands.

Rishi stood by the window, small and composed in the muted light. Keir saw his reflection in the glass; the hair once so meticulously styled now marked clearly with silver at the sides. Strange, he thought. Only a few years, and time has brushed through us both.

“You’ll get used to it,” Rishi said softly. “The first few weeks might feel odd, but then… you’ll be fine.”

Keir chuckled. “I’ve spent enough time here as your opposition to know every creak in this room.”

Rishi turned, smiling, a little stiff, a little gentle, the smile of someone holding their composure. He placed the last file on the desk, smoothing its edge, as if finishing his role with that gesture. “Do you want me to show you a few things? The fireplaces downstairs can be tricky.”

“No need.” Keir looked at him longer than he should have. Something in Rishi’s eyes made him pause, wanting to remember that stance—the man who’d once been his fiercest rival, now just a quiet figure against the light.

“Are you all right?” Keir asked. “You seem almost… too cheerful.” But then, politicians were often called actors; perhaps the mask was still on.

“I’m fine,” Rishi shrugged, still facing the rain outside. “Actually, I’ve never felt lighter like this before. I can breathe again and it feels good.”

Silence settled. Keir stepped closer, close enough to hear their breaths. There was the scent of tea, of paper, and the faint musk of old wood. He surprised himself, his hand, trained only for firm handshakes, now rose slowly.

A foolish thought crossed his mind, so absurd he almost laughed: that hair looked like the fur of a well-groomed puppy, always neat, impossibly smooth. He had seen it messy once or twice in heated debates, but never close enough to know what it really felt like. Rishi flinched slightly, perhaps to speak, but before he could, Keir’s hand was already there, touching his hair lightly, cautiously, as if afraid of committing some absurd impropriety.

Rishi’s hair was softer than he expected. No longer jet-black as when they first met, but still sleek, still cared for. Keir brushed it once—just once—and Rishi didn’t pull away. The former Prime Minister only stilled, eyes lowered to the wooden floor.

“Good boy,” Keir heard himself whisper, voice low and rough. It’s not a tease. Just words escaping on instinct, carrying a tenderness and sympathy he didn’t know how to hide. “You’ve done well.”

Rishi's ears turned visibly red and his eyes lit up like a praised puppy. “Oh? Good boy? Praise from my political rival? I dare you say that in public, Starmer.”

“Maybe.” Keir’s hand dropped, though the warmth lingered on his fingertips. “Or maybe not. I doubt they’d like to hear I patted you on the head like a child—and you probably wouldn’t either, would you?”

A pause. Outside, the rain fell harder. A car pulled up at Downing Street’s gate, Rishi’s, probably.

“Yeah, right. But you could just say the part 'you've done well' to the media. Anyway, you know,” Rishi said, slowly as if he was embarrassed to admit it, “I think I might actually like it.”

“Like which part?” Keir smiled. “The compliment?"

"The hair brushing part." Rishi's voice lower when he said that.

"So do I. I mean—your hair’s incredibly soft.”

Rishi drew a slow breath. “Should I say... thank you?” he said, his tone warmer, showing his excitement, not just a perfectly polite reply like usual. Keir could tell Rishi appreciated it. "But don't do that again. It will make my hair messy." Then Rishi nodded, reaching for his coat. “I should go. You’ve got work to do.”

Keir said nothing. He only watched as Rishi walked to the door. When his hand touched the knob, he paused for a second, as if about to turn back—but didn’t. He just adjusted his collar and said quietly, almost formally, “Good luck, Prime Minister.”

The door clicked shut, softly, like a final punctuation mark. Keir sighed and sank into his chair. The echo of that brief touch lingered, small, gentle, perhaps the kindest farewell he could give to the man who once stood against him.

He sat there for a long time after the door closed. The room felt half-empty. The rain outside grew louder, tapping against the window where Rishi had stood.

He reached for his teacup, then stopped. On the desk, near the files Rishi had left, lay a single strand of dark hair—thin, barely visible under the warm light. Keir leaned closer, studying it, not sure why such a small thing could make his chest tighten. What remained after a term in office, after all the debates and political battles was just a strand of hair.

A trace of humanity.

He smiled faintly, set his cup down, and leaned back. In the dim, golden light, he found himself remembering that brief, soft touch—meaningless, perhaps, yet filled with something he couldn’t quite name.

Maybe it was affection.

Maybe it was belated recognition.

Or maybe it was simply the emptiness of reaching the end of a race—and finding your closest enemy no longer beside you.

The clock ticked once more. He brushed the strand aside, letting it rest neatly on the edge of the remaining files, not to keep it, but because he couldn’t quite bring himself to throw it away. A soft breeze slipped through the doorframe. The papers fluttered, as if the room itself were breathing. And somewhere in the quiet spaces of this room, a trace of his predecessor remained—gentle, proud, and unforgettable.

Keir smiled. A smile witnessed by no one. Then he opened the file before him, the bold letters reading Prime Minister Briefing.

Yes, it was his turn now.

The lamp flickered faintly, and in its light, his reflection in the window looked older than he remembered. His own hair, already touched by silver, seemed a shade paler under the gold glow—thinner at the temples, wearier, as if it already knew what was coming. It would fade further, he thought. It would thin, fall, surrender itself to the slow gravity of time—just as every man in this office eventually did.

He closed the folder softly, resting his hand atop it. The world outside would demand everything from him soon enough. His hours, his voice, perhaps even the last color of his hair.

And he would give it, as they all had before him. Because this was the price.

Once you step into politics, you accept the trade: a piece of yourself for power, a stain upon your reputation from beautiful lies and in the end, no one believes in you anymore.

At first, you think you can walk through untouched.

That conviction will shield you.

That your neat words and tidy morals will stay clean no matter how deep you wade in.

But the water rises quietly. It seeps into your cuffs, your breath, your sleep.

You start speaking in rehearsed tones.

You nod at things you no longer believe in.

You smile at hands that once made you flinch.

You tell yourself it’s survival.

You call it duty.

And the world nods—because it loves a man who looks composed while drowning.

Soon, the mirror shows someone who still sounds like you.

Still stands where you meant to stand.

But the light in the eyes has thinned,

dimmed,

replaced by something steadier—

sadder—

and safer.

That’s the real cost.

Not losing yourself all at once,

but slowly—

and politely—

until you can’t remember when the pretending began.

Keir sighed as he thought about it. The price of power was subtle, quiet, and relentless — not a shout, but a slow erosion. He had seen it in Rishi, in himself, in the reflection of every choice made under light too bright and eyes too sharp.

And he—

like Rishi,

would pay it willingly.