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Ten knew this night out wasn't going to turn out well after the first banana daiquiri. He had agreed with Eleven that they needed to let lose a little, so they went to a club in 21st century Paris where they concluded that Eleven was a light-weight.
The younger incarnation shook his head as he watched his boyfriend do his "drunk giraffe" dance. Ten continued nursing his second drink, determined to be the relatively-safe pilot tonight.
Suddenly, Eleven was tugging on his tie, a smirk plastered on his face.
"Let's dance, Tenny!" Eleven swayed a little, almost too drunk to stand.
The taller man rolled his eyes and shook his head, making a not to never let his boyfriend drink again.
"It's a party! Everyone must dance!" The older insisted as he continued tugging on the other's tie.
Downing the rest of his drink, Ten caved and joined Eleven on the dance floor.
Some crappy pop song was blasting, but Eleven danced anyway, most of his body pressed close to his boyfriend.
Ten began getting into the groove, moving most of his body in time with Eleven's, which provided exquisitely painful friction in the fronts of their trousers.
They breathed hard against each other's lips, their eyes half-lidded, and hands fisting in hair and fabric.
"I'm not that drunk," Eleven admitted, "I just wanted to get you out here."
"Sneaky bastard," Ten groaned before giving his older self a sloppy kiss.