Billie Joe Armstrong one shots

Theater <3

A/N: THIS WAS REQUESTED BY @Author_Bingette ! Hopefully, it meets up to standards. Thank you so much for the request!

All requests are always welcome! I love being interactive with you guys, so don't be afraid to comment any you might have :)

I like to think of myself as independent. Other people might say stubborn. But I don't think there's anything better than accomplishing something and knowing you did it all by yourself.

For instance. Ever since I was a little tot, I've always taken a liking to those old school musicals and plays. When reaching high school, I found myself comfortably in the heart of a theater group. Through the years, with all efforts and hours I put into the group, I'd my way up in the ranks of a leader of the group.

Although that only just happened two weeks ago, it took long enough.

And to start my big kick-off as the mini manager of the theater group, I was able to produce my very own play.

But being so independent, or stubborn if you like, I'd made a big hullabaloo about setting up and painting all the play props and scenery on my own. Which was all about to be ruined by a boy who couldn't keep himself out of trouble.

"I hope I'm not in trouble." I let out a small chuckle, setting myself down on the chair in front of my principal's desk. Squirming slightly at the un-comfortableness of the seat, my principal let out a chesty laugh staring with his piercing blue eyes behind his thick glasses across the desk.

"Far from y/n," He assured, leaning back in his desk chair. He set his hands before him on the wooden surface, fingers intertwined. "But, I'm not sure if you're going to like what I have to say,"

A hole was poked into my stomach, I prayed sightly it wouldn't devour me with what he was going to say. "Really?" I cringed slightly, fixing my posture as I sat up straight. "Is it anything bad?"

"Depends," He hummed slowly. The hole in my stomach was already beginning to gape. "How would you feel having an extra pair of hands for the next two weeks preparing the props and scenery for your play?"

And that was it. The hole had absolutely swallowed me. "I don't need help," I replied automatically, my voice stern. Before I realised my rudeness, I kept eye contact trying to convince him. "I and the team have already spoken it all through. I can get it finished by myself,"

He gave a small smile. "It's not that I don't believe you y/n," He raised his brows in an expression of sincerity. "It's just, we've got a student that'll be in detention for the next two weeks. I thought it'd be good for him to do something practical,"

For him? Whose he?

"What about the other club projects? Surely there's something else for him to do?" A part of me knew there was no convincing him otherwise. The part of me that was already swallowed that is.

He blinked a few times, before shaking his head at me hesitantly. "It'll be good for you to get some help on the project,"

Good for me? Does this guy know me? At all?

I enjoy my alone time. My time. My me time. Not being stuck with some other student who can't keep away from trouble.

I swallowed uncomfortably. Before taking a breath in. "Is there any chance this is debatable?"

Then he shook his head a second time. His rectangular framed glasses inching further down his nose in the action. "I'm afraid not,"

-

Help? Define help for me. Isn't help just an option? Surely you can't help someone who doesn't need it?

I felt a scowl growing on my face as I focused on painting the wooden house prop the woodwork club had created as their project. The reminder that this boy would stroll through the theater doors any second was chipping away at my patience, as I dipped the thick wooden handled brush into the red paint can.