I'm in the jungle arena, calling for Peeta, but it's dark and I can't see him, I can't hear him because there are drums everywhere, pounding so loudly that they fill my ears, shake my head, drive out everything else, the drums keep pounding and pounding and pounding, and I'm running, yelling for Peeta, I can't even hear myself over the drums, I can't find him, I have to find him, Peeta! PEETA! When lightning hits the tree with a massive crash I start screaming.

I bolt upright in bed, my screams still reverberating through the room. Rain, torrential rain, pounds on the window and on the roof, as loud as a drum as I tremble and pant, trying to pull myself out of my nightmare. Eventually I shakily stand and walk to the window. The rain is coming down so hard I can scarcely see Haymitch's house right next door. When an enormous bolt of lightning illuminates the sky I jump back from the window and am flying down the stairs before I can even consider what I'm doing.

I burst out the front door, barefoot, into the cold rain and across the green, the t-shirt and shorts I slept in completely soaked by the time I reach Peeta's house. I pull open his door without knocking and am inside, in his front hall, not knowing why, exactly, but knowing that I need to be here. The house is quiet but for the steady drumming of the rain, and it's so very dark on this moonless night, a faint glow coming from the upstairs hallway the only light. I can feel immediately that something is wrong, years of hunting and running and hiding have heightened my senses. I stand still and listen while the rainwater puddles at my feet. Faint whimpering is coming from the living room. I creep forward as quietly as my dripping clothes and hair allow. Another flash of lightning illuminates him, crouched on the floor in front of the couch. His hands are gripping his hair as he rocks back and forth. "Peeta?" I whisper, moving slowly closer. In the dim I see him stiffen, the tendons in his neck strung tight, and momentarily I'm afraid. Will he lash out at me? Will he try to hurt me again? I contemplate running for Haymitch, but then I hear Peeta whimper and I know he's frightened, not enraged. Cautiously I slide closer, until I'm standing right in front of him, our toes almost touching. In the dim I can see that his face is red and blotchy, his eyes screwed tightly shut. There's a thin ribbon of blood running from the corner of his mouth, where he's probably bitten through his lip. His every muscle is taut and his whole body is shaking. I crouch down in front of him and say his name softly again. His eyes fly open and his body jerks backwards into the couch, as if he's cowering away from me. My heart breaks for him, and again I have to force myself not to flee, his pain, his suffering is palpable, his fear written all over his face. I kneel in front of him, looking into the black pools that have swallowed up his summer blue irises completely. I reach for his hand but he pulls away, shaking, his teeth grinding audibly.

"Peeta," I say calmly, but firmly, taking his face gently in my hands. His hands fly up defensively, gripping my wrists hard, the joints popping in protest. I cry out a little, but then start talking quickly and as calmly as I can. "It's not real Peeta, it's not real. You're safe, you're at home in District 12 and it's raining, but you're safe. Whatever else you're seeing isn't real Peeta. Come back to me Peeta." He trembles and pants, but his eyes stay locked with mine and I can see him fighting the demons in his mind. I keep repeating 'not real' over and over as his pupils begin to shrink and his breathing slows. His hands relax and then drop. I lean in and slowly, gently kiss his forehead. His eyes close, and tears spill down his cheeks. I wipe them away carefully with my thumbs before pulling his head against my chest and cradling him in my arms. His hands tentatively come up to my back, and then he's wrapping his arms tightly around me, clinging as if for dear life. I kiss his hair over and over, murmuring words of comfort as we rock together and we both cry.

We stay that way for a long time, but once he seems to have calmed I carefully help him lie on the couch. When I try to pull away his arms tighten around me, and in a voice raspy with tears and exhaustion he implores, "Stay with me Katniss, please."

"Okay," I whisper, and climb onto the couch beside him. He shuffles slightly so that his head rests on my chest, tucked under my chin. His arms hold me almost painfully tightly to him as he clings. I peek down at his face, his eyes are closed but his brow is still pinched and his cheeks are wet from his tears. He seems so lost and sad, my heart clenches and I'm overwhelmed by a need to take his pain away. Peeta, strong, brave Peeta, reduced to a terrified little boy, this is my fault, Snow did this to him because of me. I push away my desire to flee and wallow in my guilt. He needs me now. In a voice thick with tears and self-loathing I begin to quietly sing a lullaby I remember my father singing to Prim years ago:

"Come stop your crying
It will be all right
Just take my hand
Hold it tight
I will protect you
From all around you
I will be here
Don't you cry

"For one so small,
You seem so strong
My arms will hold you,
Keep you safe and warm
This bond between us
Can't be broken
I will be here
Don't you cry"

His arms loosen and his breathing evens out as he slips into sleep. I lay beside him for a long time, watching him sleep, his handsome face relaxed in repose. Peeta is so steady, so rock solid and good and generous that it's easy to forget the hell he's been though in his young life. He, like me, has survived two Hunger Games, a war, the destruction of his home, the loss of his entire family, and beyond that he's also been abused, tortured, and had his identity destroyed. But Peeta never complains. The work he's done, and continues to do, to overcome the hijacking, to overcome the conditioning to kill me, the magnitude of his will is almost beyond comprehension. I'm filled with awe for this boy, this man, who projects such gentleness but is the strongest person I've ever known.

When I hear the storm start to abate I gently slip out of Peeta's embrace, pulling down a blanket from the back of the couch to cover him, then I kneel on the floor beside him. He's still sleeping, but his bottom lip trembles a little. I wonder if he's dreaming about me hurting him, doing the terrible things that the Capitol poisoned his mind with. I brush his hair tenderly back from his forehead and he whimpers, I swear I can feel my heart breaking. Peeta deserves so much better than this. I lean forward and kiss him, just lightly, on his soft, full lips. "I'm so sorry Peeta," I whimper before I leave, running back across the green to my house. I slam my door behind me and rush up the stairs, throwing myself into bed still wet and muddy from my outdoor run. I want to cry, but I feel too hollow inside, so I do nothing but lay there and let the darkness overtake me.

I'm drifting between sleep and wakefulness when Greasy Sae finds me. "Up now child, it's time for breakfast," she says, leaning over me with a smile on her wrinkled face but concern in her deep grey eyes. I pull the pillow over my head.

"No."

She chuckles, "You're not doin' this again girl. Get up now." She pulls the pillow away and helps me sit up. Her brow furrows as she takes in my appearance, the mud all over the bedsheets, my matted hair, but she asks no questions, makes no comments. Her gaze is firm, but kind, loving, maternal, and guilt eats away at my insides. When I chew on my bottom lip she knows she's convinced me. She smiles, and rising says "Why don't you clean yourself up while I make you some nice hot grain," then she's gone. I contemplate locking the bedroom door and hiding under the covers, but instead I rise and shower.

When I drag myself downstairs in a fluffy robe Sae is already gone, but I'm surprised to find Peeta waiting in the kitchen, it's so much later than usual, I figured he'd have left by now. Or maybe I just hoped. I steel myself and walk to the table to say good morning, but when I look at his face and see his swollen lip, the dark circles under his eyes, my resolve cracks. I turn quickly so that he doesn't see the tears threatening, and busy myself making tea. He's completely silent this morning, making no attempt at small talk. The room feels tense, thick with things unsaid. I finish making tea, and return to the table. He's looking at his bowl, his meal untouched, but when I place the tea pot in the middle of the table he gasps and reaches out, grabbing my hand. The sleeve of my robe has shifted and my wrist is on display, faint red and purple bruising coming in, the shape unmistakably left by his fingers. "Katniss…"

"It's fine Peeta, I, I didn't even know they were there." I try to pull my hand away but he holds firm, turning it gently to look all around the wrist.

"Let me see the other one." His voice is so soft, so full of pain. What choice do I have but to comply? The other wrist looks the same. He runs his thumbs gently over the marks, his face contorted in pain. "I did this." It's not a question, not really. I shrug. "I… I thought it was a dream." He whispers, shaking his head slowly. "I'm so sorry Katniss." He's choking back a sob now, and he drops my hands, rising from his seat as he does. "I have to go."

"No, Peeta, wait, it wasn't your fault," I cry out, but he's gone before I finish, out the kitchen door. I know I should chase after him, but I'm rooted to the spot, I have no idea what to say. It's not his fault, I need to tell him that, over and over, but I can't move. I'm worthless. Instead I climb the stairs and crawl back into bed, waiting for the darkness to overtake me again.

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I'm not one for author's notes but I wanted to give credit for the song, which is 'You'll be in my Heart' by Phil Collins from the soundtrack of the Disney animated feature 'Tarzan', and which inspired the title of this fiction (it's also quoted in Chapter 1). This isn't a songfic by ANY stretch, just taking some lyrical inspiration from an underrated song :) I'd like to think that lullabies in a future dystopia with hovercrafts but no airplanes could be Disney songs and old folk tunes could have been written by the Beatles. Why not?

Also - I'm writing this without a beta, so if the timeline is at any time confusing please let me know. I don't want to spell things out too much and insult the readers;' intelligence, but I'd like it to be understandable of course :)