A/N: I really wish there was a T+ rating...because I don't think this fic is that intense to be rated M, at least in my opinion. I wasn't very sure what genre this fell under...it's a combination of Supernatural/Horror/Tragedy/Drama/Angst...Also, because I'm ignorant, can someone please answer these two questions I have: Why should the fact that human names are used in a fic be considered a warning? And is it etiquette to reply to reviews? (Because I don't want to bother you guys with my unworthiness if it isn't needed)

Warning: AU-ish, because of what goes on in Alfred's head (my textbook says that every individual's mind is a small universe of its own...if that counts...), swearing, human names used, character deaths, violence, gore...and more gore (hey that rhymes), angsty/insane!Alfred (and everything in between)

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters.

Fantasia (n) – a hallucination; something unreal, exotic, grotesque

"I think you've had enough…" Alfred F. Jones commented to his drinking partner.

"What're you talking about!...I'm perfectly fine!" Arthur Kirkland retorted. "Don't you start patronizing me…you ungrateful git!"

"Can you even stand up straight?"

"Of course I can! What kinda…stupid question is that?" the Englishman snapped.

With an unamused look on his face, Alfred watched as right after Arthur stood up from his stool, he swayed to and fro, tipping the mug of beer he was holding and spilling some of its contents onto the floor. When he was convinced that the ground was moving beneath him, Arthur threw himself onto the countertop for support. By now, the two blondes were getting odd and annoyed looks from the people around them. Alfred sunk a bit lower in his stool as some held their gaze. But he had to admit that watching the drunk next to him and his antics was something worth his own embarrassment…for only so long…

"We…should go," he finally suggested.

"What! Already?" Arthur said in a voice that was louder than necessary. "We're goin' bloody nowhere!"

"What I meant was…I think we've had enough drinks in this bar-I mean pub…We should hop over to another one…" Alfred desperately offered.

"That's actually a good idea ya have there for once! I knew I raised ya right…!" Arthur slurred and staggered out to their car, Alfred right behind him to catch him if he fell.

Alfred clearly remembered how this disastrous situation came to be. It has been exactly one month since the two have reconciled to heal old wounds. For this "anniversary", Alfred decided they should celebrate. Surprisingly enough, Arthur complied, on a couple of conditions. The first was no fast food restaurants, the second, no horrible movies. These really forced the American's hand, leaving the Englishman to decide for them. Alfred thought this was unfair, but the fact that Arthur actually agreed to go along with one of his suggestions was a conquest of its own.

"I'll drive," Alfred insisted, grabbing the keys from his pocket and opening the door.

"Ahahaha! Very funny, Alfred. It's my SUV…and I know my way around here better than you!" he pointed out loftily.

With the alcohol in his bloodstream, Alfred couldn't quite come up with something to go against the other blonde. He also didn't want to stand around arguing with the drunk…for they can always do that when he's sober. Against his better judgment, Alfred heaved a sigh before dropping the keys into Arthur's hand. To the American's surprise, Arthur was able to stay on the road the whole time without swerving.

I guess there's nothing to worry about…

For some odd reason, it started to rain. But because of the alcohol already in his system, Arthur didn't seem to notice the vision in front of him becoming blurry. Alfred, tipsy himself, simply looked out to the side window to see the empty streets blend in with the darkness all around them.

"You know Alfred," Arthur spoke up after a comfortable silence. "You have no idea how much I-"

"Arthur! The road-" before he was able to finish the sentence, or even before Arthur whirled his head to look, time skipped a frame.

"Let's go home." Arthur suggested, extending his hand to a young and bright-eyed boy. The boy beamed a warm smile at the Englishman and reached to grab the offered hand. The two turned towards the sunlit path and walked hand-in-hand.

Alfred…

Staring in front of him, Alfred quickly realized that they missed the curve and hit a weeping willow on the side of the road. Aside from the few glass shards that pierced his skin and his own glasses crushed, he was able to slowly drag himself upright from the dashboard.

The car horn was blaring in the background, but no movement in the driver's seat. Alfred started to fear the worse. Kicking the heavy door open until it practically fell off of its hinges and crashed to the ground, the American ran to the other side of the massive vehicle. The headlights were flickering rapidly before being engulfed by the night. As the window glass crunched beneath his feet, Alfred couldn't help but gag as he approached the body.

Dear God…this can't be happening…

The door to the driver's seat was gnarled and ajar, slowly screeching open to reveal the passenger still sitting in front of the wheel…or rather, compressed. Wedged between steering wheel and seat, Arthur's head rested on top of the wheel, the air bags obviously failing to deploy. The seat seemed to have slide forward from its original position because of the impact of the crash, squishing Arthur in between. His chest was practically pressed up against the center of the wheel, causing the car horn to send its miserable cry. Other than the midsection, his limbs were able to move freely, arm swinging lazily from side to side and eventually coming to a complete stop.

"Oh my God! Arthur…just hang in there!" Alfred shouted over the sheets of rain. The bottom of the steering wheel impaled itself into Arthur's abdomen, allowing intestines and innards to gush forth, collecting into a colorful mess of crimson, pink, and purple on the Englishman's lap. Broken ribs protruded from haphazard sections of his sides, producing holes in the dark green military coat, blood dripping off of the splintered bones.

"No…no…Arthur…just hold on…please…!" Alfred heard himself saying over and over again. Out of desperation, the American tried stuffing the contents on Arthur's lap back inside the gash. But during the process, his fingers only widened the wound, allowing a pool of crimson and innards to cascade down from the seat to mix with the rain on the road. Bare hands now sticky with the Englishman's blood, he then tried to pry the body from its place between wheel and seat. But he was stuck-fast, and if Alfred pulled any harder on the man's slacks, he might only get the bottom half of Arthur out of the vehicle.

As it began to rain harder, lightning cracked from the black sky above while gray sheets of fog rose from the ground below, lingering and wrapping itself around the two as if to whisk them away. It was such a sickly fitting scene.

With both knees in the pool of blood beneath him, Alfred knew. No matter what deity he prayed to, Death has already claimed Arthur. Alfred could only place his head on his friend's tainted lap and sob loudly, his cries drowned out by the cold, sad rain. It wasn't the blood or guts that traumatized Alfred the most, but the way Arthur stared at him with glazed-over eyes, mouth agape as if to finish his sentence.