Special Thanks to Shelby for making this kickass graphic. "Unconditional," 2000, Kristen

"Yeah, we've gotcha'!" Justin says over a staticy line. His voice is deep and tired.

"Hey Justin! We've got some questions to ask you, before you can get back to your day job." Lance and Justin laugh politely.

"Shoot," Lance says, the Southern drawl seeping like molasses across the wires and into several hundred Washington homes.

"Well first off, Lance, are you feeling better? We saw on the news that you hurt your foot during a Saturday Night Live sketch this past weekend."

"Yeah, it was a sprain. I had the MRI done, but I'll be fine," Lance answers, good naturedly.

"Good to hear. All in the name of comedy, right guys?" They laugh and he continues. "Now I need to get onto more important topics. We got ahold of a transcript from your latest AOL chat, and I was very curious about it."

"Oh?" Lance prepares to field questions about Chris Kirkpatrick's "Look at the trees" mantra, and pulls the cell phone closer to his ear. He and his bandmate ride in the back of a limo headed for Gridlocked Studios to meet with a manager interested in doing some advertising work for the release of No Strings Attached.

"Yes, actually. This is for Justin. Now, Justin, don't think I'm trying to offend you or anything, but I have an honest question about your motives. For as long as it's been asked, you have always maintained that you aren't in any possible relationship with teen singer, Britney Spears, outside of friendship. But last night, you said 'No Comment' when asked. Does this mean that you've been lying to fans?"

Justin sucks in his breath and Lance turns to look at him, eyes wide, and speechless. As Justin opens his mouth to answer, no sound comes out. Lying to fans. More like . . . selectively telling them what they want to hear. Certainly not "lying," per se.

"Is this another no comment?" The DJ interrupts Justin's thoughts.

"Um . . . he's thinking," Lance answers for Justin. He's thinking? Justin rolls his eyes. Lance's bizarre ways of helping . . .

"Thinking? What's there to think about, Justin? I do realize that this is your life and your's alone, but is it really right to lie? Are we to believe that something went on between the two of you, because you do have a responsibility to your fans--"

"Do you know how many people were in the AOL chat, last night?" Lance interrupts. Perhaps he can get the subject off of Justin and onto the actual event itself. He was never very good at steering attention away from issues, but Hell, he's trying.

"Not sure, Lance. Justin, are you still there?" He slices right through Lance's attempt and digs for more.

" . . . Yes," Lance answers when Justin remains silent.

"Well, Lance, I think it's fabulous that you're standing up for your bandmate, but I think he needs to take care of his mistakes on his own." Mistakes? Justin furrows his eyebrows and feels his face flush with nausea. "All I want to know," he continues, "is Justin, did you really think that lying was the best way to handle it?"

Who the Hell does he think he is? Justin sucks in his breath once more before answering, "You know, yes, actually it was. If I would've said, 'Yes, we're dating' all Hell would've broken lose. But you know, when I said 'No, we're just friends,' people still pressured for an answer. Like this. What am I supposed to do? It's not my fault that people can't let it go."

The DJ doesn't respond and the three sit, all separated from each other in an awkward silence. "And anyway you look at it, I lose," Justin says as he begins to think clearly. "You can't understand it unless you're in my shoes. Of course, I don't see myself with all of my fans like they see themselves with me. But it hurts people, because they really think they know who you are, you know? And I don't think I deserve to be treated like this and I really don't deserve to be insulted on a radio interview that I am donating my time to do."

More silence. "So, you are dating her?" Dating her? Was that all he got from everything? Who cares if he's dating her? That's not the point.

"I think I already answered that," Justin says, slowly, in disbelief.

"Justin, if I made you feel bad in any way at all, I'm deeply sorry. My point is just that you have fans that have trusted you, this entire time. I don't know if you're dating her or not, and I don't believe I'm going to get that answer from you. If you don't want your fans to know something, then don't give one answer for over a year, and then suddenly change it. They can't trust you, like that . . ."

"You know, I think fans are seeing a different side of us, and I guess if they don't like it, then oh well. It's just us," Lance tosses in. This isn't about him or anyone, for that matter. He's just sick and tired of what it is about.

"Well, Lance, I'm happy you aren't hiding things from your fans, now, but the point is that you were," the DJ presses the topic. "And that's what people are going to look at."

Justin shakes his head, knowing he will never win. "All right, I just want to say thanks to all of you fans, out there. The CD is out the twenty-first, so pick it up when you have the time. I'm not feeling too good, so I'm going to go."

"Justin."

"Yes?"

"Do you understand the point I was trying to get at?"

Justin's voice wavers across the line, "Yes, I do. But I don't really understand why you brought it up, here. I need to go, because we have work to do. Thanks to all of the fans for your support. It means a lot."

"I think I'm going to go, too," Lance looks to his left as Justin hangs up his phone and settles his head into his hands, propping his elbows on his knees. He sighs and turns off his own phone, placing it in his pocket. If he had only known what he was getting into . . .

Yeah right. He would probably do it all over, again. Just the way he did it, the first time.

"Oh my God! Justin, I love you so much! You are the most amazing person. I have had the biggest crush on you for three years and you are sooo hot and soo talented, and sooo cool! Justin, I love you!"

Her shrieks are too much for his ears, but he smiles anyway. "Nice to meet you," he speaks calmly, and takes the CD from her. "Who should I make it out to?"

"Me!" she squeaks and he gets a kick out of it. Just like he always has, but he can never seem to get used to it. Has he ever gotten so carried away by something so much that it controlled him, possessed him, became him, obsessed him? "I mean . . . Lucy . . . that's me. Make it out to Lucy." She mentally kicks herself for screwing up her one chance.

She watches him intently, as he scribbles his name across her CD. All summer, she's listened to that album over and over, "God Must've Spent" on repeat. She's stretched out, stiffly on her bed, head facing up to look at all the posters of his gorgeous smile and intense eyes, posters that she's ripped from Teen Beat and taped to her ceiling. All this summer, she's imagined this exact moment over and over in her head. He'll see her and fall in love at first sight. He'll make her wait in the corner of the record store until he's given autographs to all of the girls. Sure, he'll sign things for them, because he's a nice guy and all. But it's only for her that he harbors love--the same affection she's held inside for him. And then afterwards, they'll talk. He'll admit to her that he has never seen a girl quite so beautiful, and he'll want her to go on tour with him.

He has to love her, because they have so much in common. She's from Tennessee, too. Her favorite color is baby blue. She absolutely adores peach cobbler.

Justin hands the disc back to her and she looks at him with glossy eyes. "Thank you," she mutters, but stands there, not moving on to get her CD signed by JC. She stares, her eyes transfixed on him, and a tear rolls down he cheek. He's not stopping her. He's not telling her he thinks she's beautiful. Justin guiltily avoids her gaze, but her eyes draw him back.

"Don't cry," he says, quietly, standing up to give her a hug. She clutches him and begins to sob harder. Reverse effect. Deep down . . . deep down she's always known that her dreams were just fantasies. From the very beginning, she knew that she could never have him. But there was something comforting about him, being there when she got home from school. And during classes, if she was bored, she'd just picture his face and imagine him with her. When exactly did he jump from the pages of a magazine and into her heart?

When exactly did it stop being a game?

She holds onto him and her tears lighten. "I love you. I love you," she whispers hoarsely. He wants to push her away and ignore the sound of her crying. What more can he give? This wasn't supposed to be this way. It seems as if he causes the waterworks more than genuine happiness, these days. These days that he's here. "I love you," she repeats and breaks away from him, looking hard into his eyes. He gives her a tight-lipped sympathetic smile. He can come up with no reasons, so he lets her go on thinking she loves him.

He'd like to tell her that he loves her, too, but he knows that would be a lie. What's one little lie if it makes someone feel better? Just to appease her. But he thinks of the radio interview that morning and keeps his mouth shut. If that guy only knew. She's lying, too, he knows. She doesn't really love him. Can't love him. In fact, she's probably never been in love, period. She wants a poster hung somewhere up in her bedroom or a kiss from his lips that would mean absolutely nothing. How could she know? He bitterly turns away and sits back in his chair.

He knows she's still looking at him, can feel her eyes on him. He turns to face her while taking the next CD in line. "Please don't cry," he mouths and she slowly nods, handing her CD to JC.

And at once, she knows she's done it. She's managed to touch his heart.

Flash bulbs go off, five and six at a time, along the hallway. He wipes his eyes and tiredly stands naked in front of ten thousand people. They watch him, stare at him, shout at him, analyze him. Hands push and touch his body, taking each arm and pulling him in separate directions. He wants to shout for them to stop, but no sound escapes his throat. He wants to hide from the throngs of people who do nothing but take. They take from him all that he has--his talent, his secrets, his energy, his trust, his soul. He feels he has nothing left to give them and desperately tries to run, but his legs become lead and he can't move.

Just stands there, body limp and heavy. He feels as if he's about to fall, and his body gives out from his legs. Dropping quickly, he's about to crash to the ground . . .

Justin jumps in his bed, tossing his sheets and bedspread into the air. She jerks when he does and rolls over to him. She watches him breathe heavily, blank eyes staring into space, confusing the previous world with reality. She talks him back. "Another bad dream?" He turns to her, sweat dripping from his forehead. He swallows and nods his head, slipping out of the bed they share.

"I'm going to get some water," he tells her and she sighs. This all too common an occurrence and she's afraid it's just going to get worse. He steps into the bathroom, running a glass of water from the faucet and catches his reflection in the mirror.

It's amazing how his looks have matured over just the past year; he's been too busy to notice. He sips the cool liquid and it slides down his throat. He can feel it go down and he concentrates on the sensation. His mother used to make him drink tons of water after every performance. She watched out for him so well, and now that he's on his own, he wonders how she managed to take care of an entire family better than he could take care of himself.

"We'll do this until it's not fun anymore," she told the young boy, while bent down on her knees to reach his eye level. She straightened his little cowboy hat and made sure he was perfect. "And when it gets to that point, we'll stop."

Justin finishes his water and steps out of the bathroom, repeating the words she'd said long, long ago. "And when it gets to that point, we'll stop."

"What honey?" she asks, still cuddled under the warm covers.

"Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself," he answers and slides into the bed, wrapping his arms around her waist. Maybe by holding her, he can find comfort for himself.

His arms encircle her waist as she's trying to put away dishes. An outsider might view it as the all American couple--young, just getting started in the world. The two of them are anything but. She snuggles into his arms. It's rare that there's ever time for simple things. In fact, it's quite rare she uses the dishes, period.

He'd surprised her, duffle bag slung across his shoulder, standing on her doorstep. The way he could do that to her, all the time, telling her he was doing something entirely different and then showing up, unexpected. Oh, she could kill him, but at the same time, she knew it was the very thing that got her. And it was logical that they should be together. For years, everything had pointed to it. She was just too stubborn and so busy that she felt she could only concentrate on one thing. They think the same thoughts, together, silently swaying back and forth in the kitchen.

"I waited for you," the words form in his mind, but he'd never say. He did. Waited until she had the slightest break in her work to show back up and woo her all over again. And then, the next time, it was him leaving. The situation never really receded. Stress escalated, but at every flattened period, they'd sneak off together, anywhere, for an hour or two. She'd wised up after she realized how lonely it was at the top.

And of course, he was always right there, waiting. Here they were again, in much the same spot they'd been in the previous year. They often discussed how tough it was to have relationships in interviews, but no words could really describe the actual difficulties. "It starts in a week," she says, breaking the silence. He sighs, a desperate warning to keep her quiet. Of course he knows her tour starts in a week. It's all he's been able to think about since he got back from Seattle. It was all he could think about in Seattle. Just when things fall into a pattern and his life is "do-able," the two of them put all of their lives into boxes and travel across America to see just about everyone else, but each other.

And he knows that it's probably going to ruin things all over again. And he knows that he has no idea when he'll have a steady life, again. And she knows that she has no answer to deal with being away from him. And she knows that all she wants is for him to tell her it'll all be okay and that nothing will change. But they both know that those are dreams for a perfect world, and this one just falls short.

So instead, they stand, leaning onto one other in a kitchen much too large to satisfy the needs of only two, and throw away all of the worries their bodies have been trapped inside, ever since they made the commitment to each other in the beginning. Wasn't this the reason that they always back to? That spoiled things for them, when they just wanted to be together? So they would have no more of it for the next week.

He breathes in her scent and it clouds his head. "I waited for you," he thinks clearly, once more, and he knows that reporters across the world could rant and rave about his mistakes, but at least he can rest assured he did one thing right.

The studio is the quietest, calmest place he knows, and it's quickly becoming his favorite place to work. Headphones cover his ears and he closes his eyes to sing. The music infiltrates the room, encircles everyone for the length of time, takes hold of everyone and holds them still. He still has the power to affect people with that voice of his. With everyone doubting him, he often has to wonder what exactly it is that makes the girls go crazy. Was it his looks or was it the talent?

He's canned often as "just another pretty face." He knows this. People talk about him as if he's not in the room and pan his every action as if he's not real. He's not plastic though, and he feels it. Wants to show everyone that it's not the face that's doing it. The sound room is full of forty-year-old guys who could care less what he looks like and as he opens an eye to peak at his audience, he sees that they are blown away.

Completely blown away.

A satisfied smile creeps onto his face, and he closes his eyes to finish the notes. He stretches out the final sound, and then opens his eyes to see if he's got it this time. He'd been working all morning on several tracks to use on a soundtrack. The sound engineer nods his head and the crew scatters out of the room and through the building. Lunch break.

Justin stretches, waiting for the area to filter out, before getting up to leave the recording booth and walk around the building for a while. He's only got a few more hours of recording left, until he has the rest of day off. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a teenaged girl watching him curiously from the window. He shakes his head and prepares to do the impromptu meet and greet. She deserves it, definitely, for having the control to wait outside the room and to not be in tears.

Well yet, at least.

Justin smiles at her, waving and stepping out of the room. Closing the door with the knob, he steps to her, extending a hand. "Hi, I'm Justin. Nice to meet you."

Her eyes widen. She's managed to be calm for the entire hour she's been here, and then it hits her. This is Justin Timberlake. And he's standing before her, holding his very hand out for her to take in her's. She takes it slowly and smiles. It's that uncontrollable smile that she can't wipe from her face. It just sticks there, strong and hard and causes her jaws to ache. "I'm Kim. You were . . . incredible in there."

He grins at her and lets go of her hand. "Why, thank you, Kim. I have to say that we've got some pretty resourceful fans. How on Earth you knew I was going to be here, I don't know."

The smile recedes enough for her to speak again, and she marvels at his charisma. Never seen anything like it. He's the kind of man that could get any girl to do whatever he wants with a snap of his fingers. Like the Fonz. Justin Timberlake is exactly like Arthur Fonzerelli. The kind of boy her mother warns her about. Her thoughts fly a hundred miles per minute and then she concentrates on the sentence at hand. "This is . . . it's my dad's studio. And he told me not to bother you or anything, but he told me about it, because he knows I'm a fan. And I promised him I wouldn't so much as speak to you or pester, because I know you're a busy, busy guy, but I . . . I couldn't resist."

"No, it's okay. I like talking to my fans, definitely. You guys keep us grounded. Don't worry about it." She looks at him, becoming more and more grateful by the minute and blushes.

"Listen . . . I heard about the radio interview the other day on KISS."

Justin narrows his eyes. "Yeah? Well that guy was really out of line."

"Oh, there's no doubt about that. I mean, you can date whoever you want."

He smiles at her, briefly, before beginning. "Thank you . . . for saying that. It's rare that a fan feels that way."

"No," she stops him. "It's rare that a true fan doesn't." He looks her up and down. She's young, probably fifteen or sixteen, but yet she's got it. He can't say anything, and he knows it's silly to be touched by something so simple, but he is. She senses the awkward moment and changes the subject. "Do you think maybe . . . if it's not too much trouble . . . could you autograph my CD for me?"

"Sure, I can handle that," he says, taking the CD from her as she unzips her backpack and pulls it out with a Sharpie marker. Scribbling his name, he asks, "What is it about autographs, anyway? I've always wondered what was so good about them. It's just some ink on paper."

"It's a piece of you," she admits after thinking a moment.

"A piece of me, eh?" he hands the CD back, amused. "Well how about a hug? I mean that's a bigger piece . . ."

"I was actually afraid to ask," she admits. "I mean, I'm all up for it, when you really care about the person. But I don't want to force you into a hug. Or else it means nothing and I--"

"It's okay. I want a hug." Feeling weak in the knees, she leans over and he wraps his arms around her. Between them, all the combined frustration seems to leak into thin air, and he likes the feeling, squeezes her hard to let her know that he needed it.

"I love you," she whispers as they break apart. There it is. He should've expected.

He smiles anyway. "You know, Kim, if you really knew me, you might not feel that way." He catches himself talking to her like he's so much more older. The age difference couldn't be more than four years, but he just feels so ancient . . .

Standing back on her heels, she shakes her head. "It's unconditional."

Her lips form into that tight-lipped sympathetic smile--the kind he knows all too well. She turns to leave and walks several steps before turning around to wave goodbye. He waves, as well, and then she walks away, knowing he's watching her go. As quickly as she came into it, she's already gone from his life, but he knows he'll be feeling it for a while.

He walks back into the studio to sit for a moment. Lunch is almost over, he's sure, and he hides away in the silence to think. These are the moments he does it all for, he knows. He feels as if he's ready to let go all the time, definitely, but he would feel that way for the rest of his life to hold onto those few simple moments when he knows that everything is worth it.

He put everything on the line, right from the beginning. "When this stops being fun, we'll stop." That was never right. What really mattered was all the times he knew he was losing, to the point that there was absolutely nothing left to lose. It was those times that he really needed to experience. And the highs and lows of all of it made him come back. Everyday, he wakes up wanting it, needing it. When they said that entertainers were born for the rest of the world, they weren't kidding. But he knows that even if he would never feel another true smile on his face, for the rest of his life, he would still not be able to let it go. It's all so much a part of him that he could never change it, but that's the way he loves it. And that's what makes it unconditional.

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