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"Where do you think you're going at this time of night?"
"Home," George spat. "I'm going home."
John laughed, and George could've just socked him. "You're drunk. You're not goin' anywhere."
They weren't letting him leave. They were trapping him. He felt his heart pounding against his ribs. His breathing was ragged, spontaneous. He had to get out.
Or
George gets drunk, depressed and self destructive while home alone. His Beatle NOT-boyfriends come home and help him out.

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