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The Pigskin Classic is already fading into the haze of Homer’s beer-layered memory by the time they hit Main Street. The Atoms lost—badly—but Ned’s quiet, earnest cheers had somehow made the humiliation sting less. Now, dusk paints Springfield in burnt orange, and Homer’s ancient beryl sedan rumbles like a contented beast as they pass the Kwik-E-Mart. Then Ned’s posture crumples. His spine folds like a kicked-in screen door, his chin nearly brushing the seatbelt clasp.
"Ooh, I guess it’s time for me to duck again," Ned mutters, voice muffled by his own knees.
Homer blinks. Ahead, Lenny and Carl amble down the sidewalk, fingers loosely intertwined, Nan bouncing between them like a hyperactive sparrow. Something hot and unfamiliar surges in Homer’s chest—not indigestion, for once.
"No!" The word barrels out louder than intended. He wrenches the wheel right, tires screeching. Gravel pings against the undercarriage as they skid to a halt. Ned yelps as Homer grabs a fistful of his sweater vest, hauling him upright like a sack of repentant flour. "—This is Ned Flanders, my friend!" Homer bellows out the window.
Silence. Six eyes lock onto them. Homer guns it before Ned can protest, leaving behind a cloud of beryl-tinted exhaust and bewilderment.
Lenny frowns, scratching his temple. "What did he say?"
Carl shrugs, squeezing Lenny’s hand absently. "I don’t know. Something about being gay."
Nan—who once watched Homer try to wrestle a vending machine for a stuck bag of Cheetos—grins, shark-like. "Was Church Guy sucking off Fatass’s dick?"
Lenny chokes on his own spit. Carl pounds his back with the precision of a man who’s done this before. Behind the wheel, Homer doesn’t notice Ned’s face blooming scarlet. Or the way Ned’s fingers twitch toward his own knee, then stop.