A/N: This is a re-write.
"That's it!" Kurt screeches, storming into the apartment and slamming the door after him. He tosses his costume, his keys, and various other items onto the sofa as he continues to wail: "Done! Fini! Washed up!"
"What in the world are you talking about?" Blaine calls as he walks in from the kitchen, drying his hands on a lemon yellow dish towel from a set Kurt purchased because he felt the kitchen needed to feel 'sunnier'.
"I'm retiring from Broadway before my bloom has a chance to fade." Kurt exhales dramatically, dropping onto the sofa beside his discarded things. "Well, fade more than it already has. I want my public to remember me the way I once was. Young. Virile. Handsome." Kurt covers his face with his hands and begins to whimper softly.
"Kurt" - Blaine bends over and gives his husband's knee a shake - "can you please tell me what you're talking about? Why are you retiring? What bloom is fading?" A small, choked laugh precedes his next remark. "You're only thirty-five years old."
"Why would you say that?" Kurt groans, his voice muffled by his hands. "Why do you want to hurt me?"
Blaine sits in the empty space between Kurt and his costume. "I'm not trying to hurt you, but you're not making any sense."
Kurt lets his hands fall to his lap. Then he drops his head in defeat, pointing emphatically to a vague location on the crown of his head.
"Do you see this?" he says, this time sounding near tears. "Do you see what I'm pointing to?"
Blaine peers at the top of Kurt's head, shrugging even though Kurt can't see.
"I … I see your hair?" Blaine asks because he's not too sure what the correct answer is.
"Look closer," Kurt commands, clipping the words. "What … do … you … see?"
Blaine shakes his head. "Can you tell me what I'm looking for? Because I don't see anything but your hair."
Kurt sighs, drawn out and mildly aggravated, as if Blaine is missing something blatantly obvious, staring him in the face.
"It's a silver hair!" Kurt looks at Blaine with tears in his eyes. "A silver hair!"
Blaine tilts Kurt's head toward the light and looks again, combing through his hair with the tips of his fingers.
"Kurt," Blaine says, gently pushing Kurt upright, "I'm sorry that you're so upset, but I don't see anything."
"Well, it's there!" Kurt leans back against the sofa and stares up at the ceiling. "Emilia, my stylist, found it when she was putting on my wig at this evening's rehearsal."
"Which one is Emilia again?"
"That petite, blonde, twenty-three year old stick insect with the Liz Taylor eyes and the abs that don't quit …"
Blaine nods, putting on the best sympathetic face he can while trying to hold back a chuckle. But he doesn't dare laugh because poor Kurt. Cooper recently confided to Blaine that aging in Hollywood was the most difficult, most debilitating, most soul-crushing thing in the world. Owing to the nature of theater, Broadway can be more forgiving … but not by much. "O-kay, so let me get this straight - you're going to scrap your dreams, everything you've worked hard for, and a three year extension on your contract … over one silver hair?"
Kurt frowns at the condescension in Blaine's voice. "You don't get it! This is the beginning of the end! Today it's one silver hair, tomorrow it's three, and before you know it, people are calling me distinguished and saying that I'm aging gracefully …"
"But, you are going to age gracefully," Blaine reassures him. "In fact, you're going to be one of those really hot old men, like John Stamos and Pierce Brosnan. You're going to be a G-PILF."
Kurt rolls his head to look at Blaine's grinning face.
"G-PILF?" Kurt asks, his voice laced with disgust, sure that whatever it is, he's going to hate it.
"Yeah. Grandpa I'd love to fuck," Blaine explains with a wink.
Kurt looks at Blaine, bouncing his eyebrows up and down, trying to get Kurt to laugh. And he wants to laugh at his adorable husband, but he can't. So he starts crying instead.
"Kurt, honey" - Blaine slides closer and puts his arms around Kurt's trembling body - "calm down, love. This isn't the end of the world."
"You can say that," Kurt mutters. "You don't have a single silver hair on your head! Plus, you're a year younger than me. You're always going to be younger than me, and look younger than me. You're going to be gorgeous, but me ..." Kurt shakes his head. "You've seen my dad."
Kurt feels Blaine's body go momentarily rigid, and cries harder.
"I knew it! You're disgusted by me!"
"Kurt! No! I'm not disgusted by you. I'm never going to be disgusted by you. It's just … it's just I …"
Blaine raises a hip off the couch. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. Kurt watches Blaine rifle through credit cards and pictures, pulling out a single business card. Reluctantly, he hands the card to Kurt.
Kurt takes the powder blue card and flips it over. An embossed black silhouette of scissors takes up one side, and to the right of that, the name Paolo. Three sets of phone numbers are printed below the name, an email address, and social media urls.
"I … I don't understand." Kurt wrinkles his nose. "Paolo … is he your therapist?"
"You might say that." Blaine plucks the card out of Kurt's hand and tucks it back in his wallet. "Paolo's my …" Kurt leans in close. Blaine looks at Kurt's watery eyes and sighs. "He's my colorist."
Kurt gasps, and this time, Blaine's the one who hides his face behind his hands.
"Blaine" - Kurt puts a hand on his husband's shoulder for comfort - "how long?"
"Since the first time I came down to the theater to see you rehearse," Blaine confesses. "I saw a few silver hairs in the mirror that morning, but I didn't care. It wasn't a big deal, but then …"
Blaine's words drift. Kurt massages his shoulder for encouragement.
"… I saw all those dancers in the show - all those buff, gorgeous, young male dancers - and I realized that they get to spend more time with you than I do. And some day, you'd notice my hair and maybe …"
Blaine pauses too long, and Kurt realizes he probably won't continue.
"Oh, Blaine," Kurt says, "I love you. I want you. Just you. And besides, you're the sexiest thing on two legs. No one can replace you."
"Really?" Blaine asks, sheepishly peeking at his husband.
"Absolutely." Kurt kisses Blaine's forehead. "And no matter how many orgies we have back stage, I'll always come home to you."
Blaine takes Kurt's hand in his and his ribbing in stride. He knows it comes from a similar well of dwindling self-esteem that his own self-depreciating humor did years ago, when everything about his body seemed to be a struggle. But Blaine is determined to pull his husband out of that well with both hands and his teeth … the same way Kurt did for him. "I appreciate that."