A/N: Alright, so this is a short first chapter to see if anyone is even interested in reading something like this. This is based off the 1996 movie 'Sleepers', which is an amazing movie. If you haven't seen it, you really should watch it. If I continue, this will be very angsty, in the nature of my older stuff. If you like, review, or I won't continue. This takes place shortly before the events in the second half of the movie.

Ever have one of those days where you feel like you're invincible? Like everything suddenly is perfectly clear, and you understand it all?

I'm come to realize… those are usually the days when I'm really holding onto my sanity by the skin of my teeth.

My name is John Reilly. And most days –if I'm lucky –I'm too drunk, or too drugged out of my mind to remember anything other than my name, much less to question my sanity.

I glanced across the room, where my best friend was sprawled out on the floor, passed out from too much whiskey, or too much cocaine. Maybe both. In a few minutes, I'd shout over to him, tell him to wake up, and make his way over to the bed. We've known each other for a long time; we know better than to try and shake one another awake.

For the past… Jesus, must be close to ten years now, we've slept back to back. Every night. It ain't some queer homo thing; it's that we know we can't trust nobody but us. I can't sleep in a room by myself, but I don't trust anyone other than Tommy to be a room with me when I sleep.

Why, you may ask, wasn't I passed out on the floor? After all… I am John Reilly, after all. Cocaine addict, alcoholic, occasional heroin user… Well… I'm not really sure. Halfway through a big ass line of coke, I just… wasn't feelin' it anymore.

So now here I sit. Scribbling in this stupid notebook. One of over a hundred I've had over the years. Father Bobby –a local priest, and one of the few men I look up to –gave me my first one, two weeks after I finished serving my first jail sentence.

John Reilly sat back, and let the last traces of his high fade over him, as he glanced around at the shitty apartment he and his best friend, Tommy Marcano, had shared for nearly ten years. It was a small efficiency, far past its prime. The once white walls had faded to a dingy, almost brown color, and the carpet… well, he wasn't even going to try and determine what the color had been. The furniture was probably older than him and Tommy put together, gotten from old bars and hotels. The few dishes they had were piled in the sink, to be washed only when they needed to eat off them. Empty beer bottles, pizza boxes, and to-go bags littered the entire floor, which wasn't much to be honest. The full-size mattress rested on the wall furthest from the door, no sheets, and only a thin blanket, which was more than they needed in the hot summers in Hell's Kitchen. Especially seeing as how neither of the young men slept in anything less than two layers of clothing, including their jackets.

But it was a roof over their heads. It was theirs. A place no one intruded. At least, no one with at least half a brain cell. Most people didn't fuck with Tommy or Johnny; not with them being founding members of the West Side Boys, and easily the group's deadliest members.

John frowned a little. How exactly had that happened? He knew the 'why', but… it still all seemed like a blur when he thought back to the first years after his release from Wilkinson's.

Just the thought of the place sent a small shiver up his spine. He quickly pushed the thoughts away, turning his attention to Tommy, who began groaning, as he rolled over on the floor.

"Hey! Hey, Tommy!" He said loudly, throwing a pen at his friend. "Wake up!"

Tommy Marcano shot up, eyes panicked, and unfocused as he breathed erratically, before his eyes settled on John.

"Shit man. How long was I out?"

John shrugged, as he made his way over to the bed, peeling his boots off his feet as he went. "Dunno. Doesn't really matter. Ain't like we got anything to do tonight," He said tiredly, falling on the bed. Tommy groaned as he stretched, before half-walking, half-crawling towards him.

As was their nightly ritual, they both checked the gun under their pillows, making sure they were loaded, before turning back to back, each one falling asleep with the comfort of the gun in their hand, and a friend they could trust at their back.