#but anyway! here's part one of that president wilbur fic i mentioned a few days ago!

[onecanonlife]

Wilbur wakes up one morning to find white in his hair. This is—irritating, for several reasons, but that's all it is. An annoyance. A distraction.

There's nothing deeper at work here. There's nothing wrong at all.

(Or, the stresses of the presidency give Wilbur a white streak of hair earlier in canon, and somehow, this serves as the cry for help he can never bring himself to make.)

(word count: 5,039)

(second part) (third part) (fourth part)

--------------------

Part One

He first notices it because he chances a glance in the mirror. Not something he does often, these days, because he dislikes looking at his appearance for longer than necessary. The mirror only tends to show him his flaws and imperfections: the bags under his eyes that he can never quite hide, the way his cheekbones jut out in too-telling prominence, the way his uniform never seems to fit right lately, and not just because he almost never finds the time or energy to give it a proper wash.

So, he doesn’t look in the mirror beyond a cursory glance in the mornings as he’s dragging himself out of bed, just long enough to be sure that his veneer of professionalism is holding, because frankly, he has nothing if he doesn’t have that. No one’s called him on his slowly slipping standards just yet, and he intends to keep it that way. He is president, after all; he must lead by example, and if the nation is to be a success then he must be as well. Or at least, his citizens must believe that he is.

But this morning, his gaze lingers just ever-so-slightly longer than he normally allows. And then, his vision catches on—something. He thinks he must be mistaken, and he hasn’t the time to figure it out, really, but he can’t help but lean in closer, searching his own reflection. What he sees makes dread beat out a two-timed rhythm in his chest.

There is white in his hair.

Not much. Just a few strands. But it’s strange enough to catch his attention. There has never been white in his hair before. He can’t imagine what caused it. He’s not that old. But nevertheless, the white is present, and it’s not so obvious that someone would catch it on a first glance, probably, but it stands out enough against the dark brown of the rest of his hair that it’s not inconceivable that someone might spot it. Spot it, and then ask questions. Questions that he would not want to answer, if only because it would be ridiculous for someone to be grilling him about his hair of all things.

He doesn’t want to deal with it. That’s the only reason why he’s bothered, surely.

He’s going to be late to a meeting if he dallies for too much longer. So his gaze flicks about his room—which is fairly bare, fairly utilitarian; decorating’s been the last thing on his mind in recent weeks, and it would be a waste of time that he could be devoting to bettering his nation—and lands on a sword leaning against the wall. One that he’s barely touched recently, and that he hardly knows how to use, and certainly not well at that, but if he’s looking for a quick solution, it will serve. So he crosses the room, snatches it up, and returns to the mirror.

With one hand, he picks out the white strands. With the other, he uses the sword to slice them off. Crude, and he’s certain he gets a few brown strands as well, but it’s effective, and that’s what’s important.

It only takes a few minutes more after that to prepare himself. He emerges from his room confident, his head held high, a president ready to take on the challenges of the day. Never mind that he barely slept last night. Never mind that he’s stopped eating regularly, grabbing a bite only when his schedule allows him. Never mind that he’s been feeling jumpy of late, more anxious, that he’s taken to tracking the whereabouts of everyone around him at all times, if only to know that they’re safe. Never mind any of that. He is the president, and sacrifices must be made.

He is, after all, only as good as the country he builds.

---

The incident slips his mind in the following weeks. It’s simply not important when there are so many other things to accomplish; infrastructure and food and an economy and all the other intricacies that go into running a nation, that lead to endless stacks of paperwork for him and hopefully, prosperity for his people. All the other intricacies that, as it turns out, he has no idea how to handle, but he’s trying.

Because it’s all worth it, if it’s for them.

But one night, he’s tugging off his hat, shucking off his coat, tears already pricking at his eyes for no other reason than the feeling of being terribly, desperately overwhelmed, and he happens to glance at that hated mirror. Rather than alighting on any of the other aspects of his physicality that annoy him—most recently, it’s the fact that he always feels that he’s not standing straight enough, and that other people are judging him for his lack of professionalism—he focuses on his hair.

There’s white in it. Again.

And more of it, this time. Not too much, still, but definitely more. Enough that someone else might actually notice. He’s not sure how he didn’t, up to this point. He strides over to the glass, already tugging at his hair hard enough to hurt, and sure enough, there they are. Strands of snow white hair. Like he’s bleached them, except—he takes one and rubs it between his fingers—without the brittle quality that often-bleached hair tends to take on.

He doesn’t understand why this is happening. He can’t feel anything about it other than annoyance, because this is just one more thing to deal with, one more thing to add to the pile. And it’s made worse because it’s practically a vanity project; sure, he doesn’t want people bothering him about it, but logically, he knows that hair shouldn’t be such a big deal to him. It’s only that professionalism is important, and he already feels like he’s not doing enough in that area. Not enough to garner the respect that a good president should command, at any rate. So he needs to keep this under control.

Somehow, the thought of doing anything about it tonight is too much. Exhaustion pulls at him like anchors tied to his legs, even though he knows his sleep will be broken and fitful, as it usually is of late. He breathes in and out, slowly and deliberately, hoping to attain some measure of calm, but it doesn’t work, only makes him more aware of the tears readying themselves to fall.

It’s a disgusting display of weakness, truly. He only allows himself this because there is no one else here to see it, no one else to realize just how weak a man their president truly is. He can break down in private, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the rest of his duties. There was even a time when crying into his pillow made him feel better, if only a little, made him feel as if he was getting rid of all the emotions and incessant whispers of failure that always build up in him over the course of a day. But those times are long gone. And yet, the tears still flow.

Here, alone, in the privacy of his chambers, he can never manage to stop them. He lacks willpower.

Weakness. It’s pathetic. He knows it is.

But if he has to be weak here in order to successfully pretend at strength for everyone else, then he will put up with the self-loathing that he can’t seem to shake, and he’ll let himself cry. It’s not as if anyone will ever know about it. No one will be able to judge—except for himself, that is, but dealing with his own judgments is nothing new. In a way, it’s what keeps him going, his self-criticisms. They keep him sharp, doing what needs doing; he can always trust himself to tell himself the truth, after all, even if he can trust no one else.

He casts one more glance at his hair, disgust flooding him. He’ll trim it out in the morning, same as before. For the moment, he crosses his bare floor to his bed, slumping into it. Almost immediately, his eyes begin stinging with more intensity, and the first of the tears roll down his cheeks. He turns his face, burying it in his pillow as emotions well up in him, too many at once, washing over him and drowning him, because it’s all so much and this is the only way he can deal with them, because he has to be strong. Has to have himself together.

It truly is pathetic, how much trouble he’s having with handling this. He should be able to do better, and yet, here he is. He can’t help but wonder what they would all think if they knew. Surely, they would consider him unfit to lead them, and the trouble is, they might even be right. But that would destroy him, he thinks, if they were to believe him unworthy of their trust, of their love.

And sometimes, he wonders what Phil would say if he could see him now. But he always shies away from that. And besides, Phil doesn’t need to know. He’ll keep sending letters that emphasize the good, and Phil will be happy, and Phil will be proud of him, and—he needs to stop thinking about this.

Morning comes too soon, but he forces himself out of bed, as per usual. Cuts the white hairs until there’s no sign they were there at all, and hopes that will be the end of it.

---

The problem is, that’s not the end of it. The white hairs keep appearing, and at an increasing frequency as time goes on. It starts to be that he can’t go more than a day or two without checking for them, lest they become noticeable to literally everyone else around him.

The most troublesome thing about it, though, is that he simply doesn’t have the time to deal with it. He doesn’t have time to painstakingly comb through his hair every morning, not when there’s so many more important things he could be doing, so many tasks to accomplish, ideas to form and sign off on, an entire goddamn nation to keep afloat. He doesn’t have the time, and it’s wearing on him already, so he needs a different solution.

He considers hair dye. He could get his hands on some fairly easily, and likely surreptitiously. No one would have to know. But the trouble with hair dye would lie in finding the right color; if no one has noticed the white hairs cropping up until now, they certainly would notice if he came into the office with his hair an entirely different shade of brown. And that would make it obvious that he’s hiding something; no one dyes their hair a different shade of its original color unless they’re trying to cover something up.

Possibly, through trial and error, he could make a dye that matches his hair color exactly, or at least, close enough that the difference is imperceptible. But there’s the time issue again. He can’t waste his efforts on experimenting with hair dye when he’s meant to be trying to better the lives of his citizens, to build up a prosperous, glorious country. What kind of president would that make him? He’s already well aware that he’s not a very good one; he doesn’t need to make matters worse.

So, hair dye is impractical. He’ll revisit the idea if he truly gets desperate. But the situation as it is is untenable. He’s been having difficulty getting out of bed at all in the morning, recently, a combination of exhaustion and a strange, pervasive apathy serving to keep him under his covers long past when he should have been preparing for the day ahead, even though staying in bed longer doesn’t seem to help him catch up on sleep at all. Why he finds himself wanting to lie there, doing absolutely nothing other than staring at the ceiling for hours on end, he has no idea. He doesn’t let himself, of course, or at least, not for more than an hour or two just after dawn, but the fact remains that the temptation is there, and growing stronger every day. He can’t be spending ages on his hair every morning. It’s not feasible.

But that leaves only one real solution. And that’s to leave the white hairs as they are, and simply try to hide them. The more he considers it, the more he believes it’s the only real avenue worth pursuing. He could probably manage; his hat is a part of his uniform anyway. He rarely takes it off outside of his bedroom. So, all it will take is an extra moment of styling to make sure that all of the white has been pushed up under it. And perhaps checking a few times during the day to be sure that nothing has come loose, but that should take seconds at most. He can spare a few seconds, probably.

At the very least, it will take less time than what he’s been doing. That’s the goal here, really.

He hates that this is something that he’s having to put any amount of thought into at all. But he’s reached a decision, and the next morning, he gives it a shot. Arranges his hair so that more of it lies hidden under his hat than usual, and sets out for the day.

No one comments on it. Not this day, nor the next day, nor the next. He supposes he could consider that a success.

It does mean, of course, that the amount of white in his hair only increases as time goes by, until his hair is streaked with it. But if he’s careful, if he continues to be cautious with it, no one will know about it but him, and he can dislike it in the privacy of his own quarters. Just as he dislikes everything else.

---

On the rare occasions that he has any time to himself before retiring for the night, an instance that becomes more and more seldom as the days and weeks pass on, he often finds his feet carrying him to Niki’s. There is a safety here that is difficult to find anywhere else, even in his own quarters. Perhaps especially in his own quarters, because there is nothing warm, nothing personal about his room. Here, though, there is the scent of baking bread and cookies, a heat that gets trapped under his skin and chases the chill away, and there is, of course, Niki herself.

He finds it hard to lend too much trust to anyone these days, but Niki is an exception to that.

So, here he comes, and here he stays, when he has an hour or two to spare. He comes here, and they talk, about little things, unimportant things, about how her days have been or the latest prank that Fundy has performed—and it’s nice to hear about Fundy. He barely sees his boy, busy as he is, and it’s good to hear that he’s doing well, that he’s still the upbeat, rambunctious lad he knows and loves.

They talk about these things, and they talk about other things, and sometimes, they talk about nothing at all. Sometimes, talking is asking too much, and Niki always seems to see it, and she kneads dough and lets him sit in front of her and watch. He likes watching. The motions are repetitive, soothing. If he had the time, he might ask if he could join in; he thinks he might enjoy it, even if he’s never had a deft hand in the kitchen. But he never has the time, of course, so he just watches, for whatever time he can spare.

Today is one of those days. It’s nearing nightfall, but for once, he’s cleared his desk of a majority of his paperwork, so here he is, slumped against Niki’s counter, letting his cheek rest on the cold stone as she pats down the space in front of her with flour, rolls out her dough with a rolling pin. Cookies, then, rather than bread. He likes watching this, too, likes watching as she spreads out the dough again and again, cutting out more shapes until all the dough is gone, used up, in the oven and baking.

He likes being here in general. He could be doing other things—he told Fundy he’d take him fishing soon, for instance, but soon keeps on being put off, and he feels terrible about it, but the job has to come first. His country has to come first. Or, there’s a new redstone gimmick that Tubbo worked out that he wanted to show him, but that can probably wait for a bit. Or, Tommy wanted to watch a movie with him, he thinks, but he never has time during the day, and by the time night comes, he’s far too exhausted, so he comes here, instead. Comes to see Niki, where, somehow, the weight of all the expectations placed on him seems to lighten, if only for a little while.

He always ends up being horribly unprofessional here, in this bakery. Always ends up messing up his uniform, taking off his coat, getting a smudge of something on his face, not sitting straight enough, not keeping his shoulders set, slumping in general, a whole list of faults. But it’s harder to care when it’s Niki in front of him. Because she’s always glad to see him, and she’s one of the few people from whom he can believe that the sentiment is the truth.

But that is always, and this is now: Niki’s making cookies, the last batch of the day, and he’s watching, head resting against the table. He almost feels like he could fall asleep like this, which would be a miracle in of itself. He wouldn’t let himself, of course; a bit of unprofessionalism is one thing, but falling asleep where anyone could see him, where anyone could get to him, that is quite another.

He wonders if he should tell her any of the things he’s been thinking about. About his own ineffectiveness, about how all his work seems to amount to very little actually being done. About how he’s sure everyone is losing faith in him, and he can’t even blame them, because he’s losing faith in himself. About how in the end, he has no idea what he’s doing, and he was a fool to think that he did. About power and its nature, and who has it and who doesn’t, and about how his words might not amount to very much at all, actually.

Probably not. He’s not sure she would understand. And he shouldn’t burden her with his troubled mind.

So he just watches, and lets himself drift a little.

“Rough day today?” Niki asks, working her rolling pin, smoothing out all the clumps.

“No worse than usual,” he says. “It’s just tiring.”

Niki hums. He likes when she does that. From someone else, it might sound dismissive, but when she does it, it means the opposite, means she’s considering all of your words, giving them due thought.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been tired a lot, lately,” she says. She sets the rolling pin to the side, picking up a cookie cutter. It’s leaf-shaped. For autumn, he assumes. Outside, the trees are beginning to change colors, though the shift to reds and oranges and yellows won’t really get going for a few more weeks. It’s that hazy, indistinct time of year when it’s not still summer and not yet fall, too hot for one and too cool for the other.

Not that he’s been paying that much attention. It’s been a while since he was outside for any significant length of time. Or rather, for a reason other than approving construction or checking on borders or something of the like. For a reason not presidentially important.

“It’s a tiring job,” he says. “Who would’ve thought? I’m alright, though. It’s well within the bounds of what I can handle.”

“Have you been getting enough sleep?” she asks. She presses the cutter into the dough. Lifts it. Pushes the shape out of the cutter and onto her baking sheet. Repeats.

He laughs, quietly. “I don’t need you to mother hen me, Niki,” he says, and without looking up, she reaches across the counter and swats him on the arm.

“I am not mother henning,” she says. “I’m being your friend. Your eyebags could hold second, smaller eyebags in them.”

“What, you don’t think I’m gorgeous?” he asks wryly, and she snorts.

“I’m sure someone out there would,” she says. “Tiredness has to be considered hot somewhere.”

“Mm. I think I’m hot. Very sexy.”

“You would think so.” She’s got enough cookies on the sheet for a batch, now. The next step is to put the sheet on a pan and put the pan in the oven, and that’s exactly what she does. It pleases him that he has the steps memorized. “I’m serious, though, if you have too much work to do, give some to your cabinet. I’m sure Tommy or Tubbo would love to help out more. Or Fundy.”

“Fundy’s too young.” It’s a bit of a longstanding argument between them. He tries not to let it get to him.

“And the other two aren’t?” She returns from the oven, an eyebrow raised, and then goes for another baking sheet. She’s still got dough left to roll out. One more batch will do it, he thinks. “You—oh, wait a moment.”

He watches bemusedly as she leaves the counter again and crosses to her sink, washing off her hands and then dampening a dishtowel. He’s not sure what she’s doing; it doesn’t make sense to wash up when she still has another batch to make. Her hands will just get dirty again. But now she’s walking back over, towel extended toward him and—now she’s rubbing it on his head. He blinks as a corner of the towel flops over his eye.

“Sorry, I got a lot of flour in your hair,” she says. “I’ll get it, hang on.”

And then, her motions slow, and then stop.

“It’s not coming out,” she says slowly. “Wilbur, did you dye your hair?”

The question doesn’t make any sense at all, at first. Because no, of course he hasn’t dyed his hair. Part of the whole problem is that he doesn’t have time to dye his hair. Not properly. Not in a way that no one would notice.

And then his brain realizes that that’s not what she’s asking about at all. Realizes that he’s been lying with his cheek resting against the counter for the past half hour, face parallel with the surface it’s resting on. Realizes that his hat has long passed the point of being merely askew and is now barely touching his head at all. Realizes that his hair is splayed out for anyone to look at.

He shoots upright, grabbing his hat and slamming it down on his head. Too late, of course; the damage has been done. Niki jerks back at the suddenness of his motion. Her damp towel drips a bit.

“No,” he says instinctively, and then curses himself, because—because hair dye would work as an excuse, wouldn’t it? A reason for why it’s like that? It might get her to not push further, and he’s not even sure why it’s so important to him that she doesn’t, because it’s Niki of all people, and Niki won’t use this against him later. Probably. Hopefully. Most likely. Maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want her to worry, because he knows that she will, even though it’s not a big deal at all and her efforts would be better expended on other problems, other people.

Fuck, wait, it’s been too long since he said something. Can he still change his answer without arousing suspicion?

“Yes,” he says, and internally cringes. It was definitely too late for that, because Niki’s just staring at him now, eyes wide. “Um, yeah, I thought it’d be fun. And then it went a bit wonky, so I’ve been covering it up. It doesn’t look very nice, does it?”

Is this what he’s been reduced to? Lying to one of his closest friends?

Gods, he’s pathetic.

“It looks fine,” Niki says, in that soft tone of voice she uses when she either doesn’t know what’s going on or doesn’t know how to proceed without scaring someone off. Like she’s talking to a frightened animal. “Wil, are you—are you really alright?”

“Of course,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her mouth works for a second.

“Wilbur,” she says, just that, and something in his chest turns hot, wrenches all around, squeezes, and for a brief, panicked second, he thinks he’s having a heart attack. But no, he can feel his heart pounding. A bit faster than it should be, if anything, but strong. His vision blurs, too, but he blinks hard, and everything comes back into focus. Which might be a mistake, because if anything, Niki looks even more distressed.

“Wil, please, you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” she says, and he laughs, shaking his head and standing. His stool scrapes against the floor, loud and grating to his ears.

“There’s nothing wrong, Niki,” he says. “You don’t need to worry so much. Though I have realized, I do have a bit more work to do tonight, so I should probably get back to it.” He smiles at her, though she doesn’t smile back. “But it was very good to talk to you. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Wilbur—”

He’s already leaving. His chest feels tight again. Tight and hot. For absolutely no reason at all, because even if Niki did ask him more questions, it’s just hair, for crying out loud. It’s hardly the end of the world.

But he needed out of there. He doesn’t quite understand why.

His parting words were not a lie. He does have a bit more work to do. There is always a bit more work to do. The work never ends. He can’t actually remember the last time he didn’t have work to do. Before getting independence, surely. Back when he still felt entirely sure that he could do this, that he could build a country, that peace through words was a sustainable option, that he could look at the mess of things that need to be done to form an effective nation and actually accomplish them.

He tries not to think about that.

But instead of to his office, his feet carry him back to his room. To his blank walls and floor, his few pieces of furniture, his few sets of the same uniform. He really does need to get around to washing them. His gaze falls on his sword, next, still leaning against the wall, and then his guitar, propped up in the corner. There’s a layer of dust collecting on it. He should clean it off. That’s not good for the wood or the strings, and he’s sure it’s terribly out of tune. How long has it been since the last time he played?

There’s no time for music, nowadays. Not when other things need to take priority. He’s got a country to run; he can’t be wasting his time. He can’t afford to.

But rather than do anything productive, he winds up in front of the mirror. He takes off his hat, though it’s almost unnecessary; his hair sticks out from under it every which way, after how he shoved it on so carelessly. He hopes no one was watching him as he returned here.

There is a broad white streak in his hair. Right in the front, right where people tend to look. He tugs at it, and his scalp stings. He’s not sure what else he was expecting.

He definitely can’t cut it out now. It’s far past that point; people will definitely notice if he goes about with a whole chunk of hair missing. And they’ll also still notice if he dyes it, so that problem remains.

He just needs to be more careful, that’s all. The thing with Niki was a foible. An error on his part, a lapse in judgment. He’ll take more care from now on to ensure it doesn’t happen again.

He lets out a shaky breath, and then, he blinks and finds himself kneeling on the floor, still in front of the mirror. He looks at himself, and then immediately looks away, because he can’t stand what he sees. It’s not just the white streak, though that’s awful enough on his own; it’s all the inadequacies stacked together, all the imperfections that he can’t help but pick out, all the screaming signs that seem to point directly toward his own incompetency.

It’s a wonder no one else has seen it yet.

Tears burn his eyes, and he can’t seem to blink them away. They go rolling down his cheeks, and he watches their progress in his reflection as best he can. His breathing hitches, and a small gasp escapes him, and he can’t have that, can’t make too much noise, so he stuffs a fist in his mouth.

He’s fine. The fit will pass, and he’ll be fine. He’ll spend the next three or four hours in bed staring at the ceiling, wishing he could fall asleep, and then, at last, he will, and he’ll wake up in the morning feeling more tired than ever, and he’ll drag himself out of bed because he has to, because he’s got responsibilities that he can’t shirk, even if he can’t fulfill any of them well enough. And he’ll be fine, because he can’t afford to not be, because he’s got a country on his shoulders and that means he needs to keep standing.

He’ll be fine. He is fine.

He is.

He is.

He still can’t bring himself to look in the mirror. The next morning, he covers it with a sheet, and tells himself that it’s not a defeat.