This is kind of inspired by spoilers(very vaguely?)/a bit of a character study... but enjoy:)

Connor's heart was pounding in his chest. His eyes fixated on a blank spot in the wall, willing to look anywhere apart from at the girl who sat beside him, and every blink seemed to last minutes, as if he was savouring what little solace he found in the isolation of the darkness. It wasn't as if he didn't want to speak to Imogen; the complete opposite, actually. But the guilt had became him, seeping into every inch of his being. The words sat uncomfortably in his throat as he caught a glance of her scarred neck before looking away surreptitiously and it took everything he had not to blurt it out in front of her.

"Connor, the answer please?" Mr Clarkson stared at him, awaiting an answer.

"Um..." he glanced towards the board, hoping the question would be up there. "Sorry sir, wasn't listening."

"Well thank you for the brilliant observation, Sherlock. The question was what is Macbeth contemplating at this point in the play."

"Killing the king?" he shot a wild guess.

"Yes, now Imogen, where is the dramatic irony in Macbeth's entrance?" and Connor zoned out again, harbouring no interest in the lesson at all and not really in the mood to hear Imogen's voice.

The lighter felt heavy in his pocket. He hardly even knew why he still had it, yet for reasons unbeknownst to him, he couldn't seem to bring himself to get rid of it. The same familiar urge; the same urge that was entirely responsible for how he was feeling. He'd have killed for it to have been him hurt in the fire instead of Imogen. He deserved it, or at least he felt like he did. The thought of what he desired to do crept even further into his mind as the guilt overcame him. All he could think of was orange. Orange and yellow and red. The colours flickered madly, making it impossible to think of anything else. He could even smell the smoke swirling in his nostrils. He couldn't stop himself now. He knew his thoughts would never rest until something was burning away.

"Dude, what's up with you today?" Kevin punched his arm playfully as they left. "It's like you're a...zombie or something."

"Just...stuff," he waved away the concern. "Come on, Diamond will freak if we're late for chemistry."

"Really? You're actually caring about being late for chemistry? Now I'm really worried," he laughed as they headed towards the science corridor. "But I'm being serious, you completely zoned out in there."

"Macbeth's just really dull, I guess."

"You've not sorted things out with Imogen yet, have you?"

"Nope."

"Then I don't see why you're moping around like its the end of the world if you can't even speak to her about it."

"It's complicated."

Complicated didn't even cover it.

"Look, if something's on your mind I'll make some excuse to Miss Diamond if you don't want to go to class? Go and clear your head, mate."

"Thanks," he turned on his heels hastily and darted the other way.

He was shaking, the urge to pull the lighter out of his pocket and let it set the building alight becoming more and more desperate. He pulled it from his pocket and flicked it, the small little spark providing just a little bit of fulfilment, yet without the act of destruction, the tiny flame barely distracted him. He shoved it back in his trouser pocket again, continuing to walk briskly down the hall to try and regain himself.

"Connor, shouldn't you be in class?" he barely noticed Miss McFall's presence until she heard his voice.

"I-..." he stopped, trying to think of an excuse.

"Are you alright? You look a little unsettled.

"I-I'm fine... I just..." And for a moment, he felt the words trickle against his lips, threatening to slip out.

"I don't have a class at the moment, if you need to talk about whatever is bothering you."

He didn't even need to respond; he just bowed his head in silence, wandered into the classroom and took a seat on one of the tables. He could hear Miss McFall walk towards him, although he couldn't bring himself to look up. He was just thankful he didn't have to go to Chemistry and put up a happy front for another hour which was far from the dark reality of the thoughts running through his brain.

"Has something happened with your mother?" he almost laughed, because for once, his mum was the least of his problems.

"No," he stated, his mind swaying between telling the truth, or making up yet more lies, digging himself an even bigger hole. "It's the... the..."

"If you're not comfortable speaking about whatever it is, I do not mind. I am merely concerned about your welfare."

"The fire," his breathing pace quickened, knowing that if he was to talk further he'd burst into tears. "I-... I started the fire."

He felt like his heart was about to jump out of his chest as he awaited the history teacher's response. He finally lifted his head, watching as she removed her glasses from the bridge of her nose and sighed, trying to think of how to reply. He couldn't hold the tears back much longer, letting them drip down his cheeks. The guilt was now pulsing through his veins, removing most of his earlier considerations of starting another fire. He clenched his eyes shut as the image of Imogen's face refused to leave him.

"You're going to have to tell Mr Byrne, I know," his voice quivered. "I'm sorry-"

"I think it's up to you to tell Mr Byrne yourself," Miss McFall finally spoke. "It's important that Imogen finds out from you first, Connor."