The way Axel saw it, if he was expected to be a functioning member of society, there had to be at least a one day annual allowance where he could be a non-functioning bane of human existence. Drinking himself into an oblivious mess, for example, or smoking himself into a stupor. There was only so much functionality Axel could take before he required, nay, demanded he be allowed to reduce himself to the crudest of human behaviors: babbling incoherently and rolling around in the dirt like an infant or a neanderthal.
Typically finding a suitable patch of earth for his casting off of responsibility and thousands of years of evolution on some spare patch of grass at a music festival, Axel would burrow under piled jackets and drink or smoke or drink and smoke until emerging blissfully, unaware of the still smoking pipe in his hand. Roxas, generally wondering why he decided against earplugs for the fifth year in a row, would watch Axel unwind against him, various degrees of euphoria apparent on Axel's face as he swooned along to the reggae band piping out the sunshine through the speakers on the main stage.
"I love dis song, mon." By the second or third bowl, Axel decided affecting a Jamaican accent was probably the best course of action aside from losing his lighter a hundred million times ("Where's my lighter? I just had it, I swear I just had it!"). Roxas would stroke his hair absently, contact high phasing him out until pinpricks of awareness kept floating down to him, the repetitive motion of red hair under his fingers flowing forth and receding like a tide of perception. Stroking Axel's hair followed by sensation in his fingers, smooth and gliding, followed by a realization of music, and then, that's right, he was supposed to be watching Axel, soothing him, and they were at a music festival. Over and over, the same repetition until Axel was mouthing at the front of Roxas' pants, saying he had the munchies, oh god, the munchies, mon.
Three cups of overpriced Bud Light later, and Roxas was fucked, Axel a slurring mess in his lap. He held on as Axel writhed, coiling his arms and legs to the music and looking for his lighter and laughing, laughing, and looking for his lighter. Sometimes there was vomit, sometimes a mysteriously vanished cellphone (and "my favorite lighter, fuck!"), but despite Roxas' failings as a trip sitter, they both found their way back to reality unscathed. Axel would take him to breakfast the next day ("...It's two in the afternoon, Axel.") and smile over his eggs, thanking Roxas for putting up with his drooling, fumbling, mindlessness. Roxas, remembering a messy, enthusiastic blowjob, would smile and shrug.
