First of all, I want to say this is my first Chicken Run related story I post here. I did already it in my DeviantArt account so I decided to give a try here too. As you see, the storie happen years before the events of the film, even years before the start of the Second World War, specially in the early 1920's. In this time, Willard Tweedy (Mr. Tweedy) wasn't married yet, both his parents died during the Great War (1914-1918) and along him he had a bigger brother to taught him everything he's going to use in the future.
This character is named Jack, Jack Tweedy which I created back in 2006 in responds to my fascination of the Royal Air Force during the Battle of Britain and how the rooster Fowler, who was also part of the RAF, came to the Tweedy's farm. In order to explain Mr. Tweedy's behavior, I see Jack as very patient person who doesn't care much if Willard is kind of clumsy and do his best since both lost their parents in the war.
Because of how close they were, that leads to something else between them, both tried to ignore or change because considering the times and even society, it's like a crime. If you're familiar with series like Game of Thrones and some gothic stories like Crimson Peak, you can get the idea about what's I'm saying.
So you're warmed and you're free to ignore the story as well.
But if you're ok with the idea and also could help you to understand somethings about this certain character, be free to give your comments.
The film Chicken Run (2000) belongs to Aardman Animations, in cooperation with Dreamworks and Pathé.
"Willard, come to dinner!"
"I'll be along in a second," came the reply. Willard, a young man who had just stepped over the last bit of bridge from child to adult leaned over the metal pail, scrubbing his hands vigorously. As he did, he tried to focus his mind on anything but the evening. It was his birthday today, commemorating his eighteenth year.
He took the rough brush, trying to scrub the last bit of soil from the creases at his knuckles and under his nails. Though young, his hands were already rough and calloused; hands that never did seem to come thoroughly clean.
Still the coarse motion proved a distraction. Life wasn't easy. Up before sun, to bed after dark. The life of a farmer, to be sure. He wasn't expecting much for his birthday. The season had been lean, the yield none too good. Better than most others, he reasoned as the bristles dug into his skin, but not enough that he expects anything to celebrate the day.
Willard wondered in truth if Jack had forgotten. Honestly, it would've been okay if such were true, Willard reasoned. When he'd been a child, he'd been rough and impatient, expecting at the very least a well-wrapped present from the store in town. Some trinket or game. Something he could have.
As he'd grown older, he realized the impermanence of material things.
He'd matured, and knew now that everything came with a price. At times, he almost felt guilty for everything he'd asked Jack for in his youth. Not that Jack ever complained, or chastised his young desires, but it wasn't until his sixteenth birthday that he realized how much such treats must've cost, but how little they meant in the big picture. Now, looking back at his youth, he felt more than a little embarrassed.
Ever since he was young, Willard knew he loved Jack. The younger Tweedy proclaiming his intention to marry the elder, much to Jack's mortification. You can't marry me! Jack would hiss through clenched teeth.
And Willard remembered how he'd demand: why not?
Now that he was older, he understood. Some things, they just weren't done. There were rules, standards. Lessons imposed by who knows what laws society made that said everything about his nature was wrong.
Willard scrubbed harder, his hands turning from pink to red as he wore the skin raw. He clenched his teeth through the sting.
Still it wasn't enough.
Some things, neither time nor intent could wash away.
Even now, two years later, his lips burned at the memory of Jack's kiss.
You've never changed, have you, Jack had said that night. Willard shook his head. You still feel that way?
I do.
I would've thought you'd grow out of it.
Willard held his hands in front of his chest and looked at the ground. Me too, he confessed.
Jack seemed on the verge of saying more, and then shook his head. Fine. I'll give you this, but I want you to understand, it changes nothing. I'm your brother, you have to understand that.
Willard hadn't replied, but nodded softly, eyes still downcast.
Staring at the floor, he didn't notice when Jack stepped closer until the tips of Jack's shoes entered his vision. Toe to toe, Jack was mere inches away.
Please, look at me? Jack asked, putting his hands on Willard's shoulders.
Willard's eyes darted up, but his chin remained tucked against his chest.
Jack sighed.
Fine then. Close your eyes.
Willard did.
He felt Jack's hands slide slowly up his shoulders, towards his neck, gently cupping his jawline. He felt the rough warmth of Jack's fingertips just below his cheeks, Jack's thumbs resting behind his ears. He felt rather than heard Jack's breath quicken.
Jack's hands were moving now, brushing lightly forward, thumbs tracing a course along Willard's temples, down over his closed eyes, tracing a path just beside his nose until them came to rest on the center of his lips. Willard could still remember the scent of his brother's hands: earthy like straw, and tallow-ash soap.
Jack's thumbs lingered as his fingertips danced at Willard's neck.
Willard opened his mouth ever so slightly, tilting his head, kissing first Jack's left hand, then his right.
He heard Jack give a moaning sigh, subtle as wind through the reeds, and just as musical. Willard opened his mouth more, and Jack let his thumbs slide closer, guiding Willard's jaw wider as the tips just barely entered Willard's mouth.
Unable to resist, Willard kissed his brother's thumbs again, this time lightly flicking his tongue out, tasting Jack's hands for the first time. Savoring the salty taste that was both his brother's sweat and the very farm life that they both loved so dearly.
He felt a surging in his chest, as if the floor were giving way. Like fear, but at the same time not. Exhilarating. It reached down in hot tendrils, curling though every fiber of his heart and belly, trickling lower beneath the belt line of his simple dungarees. It was a feeling he'd felt before, but only when he thought of Jack.
Sometimes, late at night, he'd let his hand follow that sensation, soothing tight flesh and an aching heart. Afterwards, he'd lie there in the dark, questioning everything he knew about the world, praying for a dream in which to escape.
But that night, sixteen years ago had been no dream.
He felt Jack's lips flit lightly across his, hesitating as if filled with their own conflicting doubt.
Willard leaned forward, eyes still closed. His legs felt weak.
Jack's lips touched his a second time, not the quick fairy kiss of before, but something deeper, and more primal. There was a hunger to the way they pressed against Willard's. A strident urgency that seemed to beg - just as Willard had begged - for more.
Jack's hands pulled Willard forward into the embrace. Mouths open, and tongue met tongue. Willard tasted his brother for the second time that night. He plunged himself without remorse into a world from which neither one of them could return. They were over the edge, falling into one another.
Even as he heard Jack's admonition in his memory, he felt Jack's passion against his own. Unfettered, unbound.
I could be born, live, and die all in this instance, and yet want for nothing else, Willard thought amazed as he tilted his head, allowing Jack's tongue to caress his.
All too quickly though, it was over, and Jack was pushing himself away, face flushed a blood red, shaking his head. That can never happen again, Willard. You know that, right? He asked as he turned his body quickly away, hands reaching towards his waist. I have to go tend to the chickens now.
Without further explanation, Jack darted away... but not before Willard could see the mutual attraction Jack tried to hide.
The kiss they shared had not been repeated, though Willard knew there'd been many a moment it almost had.
Instead, over the following months, Jack had tried to keep a level of distance, reminding Willard whenever they got too close with those five little words: that can never happen again.
Willard didn't entirely believe him. Though the young man couldn't put his finger on it, something had changed in his brother's demeanor around him. Jack, who had always been confident seemed almost shy at times, embarrassed. Like he was keeping a secret.
In chores, Jack had ceased to push Willard as hard, instead almost doting on him at times. Here, Jack would say, lifting the bucket from Willard's hands, I'll get that for you.
It was a sharp contrast to the days of their youth, when Jack had pushed Willard, almost relentlessly to take on a grown man's share of the labor. One might've expected it would lead to Willard becoming lazy or spoiled, but the opposite was true. Since his sixteenth birthday, he worked harder than ever, despite Jack's interventions.
Look, Willard explained one morning as they mucked the chicken coops side by side, if you can do this, so can I. I'm not a child anymore!
No, Jack agreed, you're not. There was a peculiar look in his eyes as he said spoke, and then he blushed quickly and looked away. Willard noticed at dinners, Jack would often give him the larger portion; leave him the last share, the final bite. What's this about then? Willard asked as Jack handed him a thickly buttered piece of bread.
You're working a man's labor, you need to eat like one, Jack replied cryptically, handing Willard a second piece of bread, and some cream to dip it in.
Willard could hardly object, of course. He'd always had a fondness for food, and the delight of a full belly. Jack, his face lean and refined seemed to take pleasure in cooking, especially for Willard. It's good to have someone appreciate it, Jack explained. Someone who knows not to let a bite go to waste.
Indeed, wouldn't want that, would we? Willard agreed. But what about you?
Jack had given that same odd little smile and shrugged. Oh, don't worry about me, Will. I'm doing just fine.
Willard nodded, but wondered. Jack was wiry: thin but strong. In contrast, Willard felt cumbersome, and out of shape. If I didn't know better I'd say you were trying to make me fat. Willard looked at his stomach, a frown playing across his lips. Fatter. I'm already fat.
Jack laughed, and gave his younger brother's shoulder a squeeze. It's just the bulky sweater. You look fine, more so each day.
The last words must've slipped out accidentally. Jack's face flushed crimson, and he looked away quickly. Just finish your supper, Jack muttered, sliding his plate towards Willard. Here, take mine too. I think I heard a fox by the coops. I'm going to go have a look-and-see. With that, the older brother quickly excused himself from the table.
Willard spooned both portions onto his plate, and watched as Jack grabbed his coat and stick. Without further words, Jack stepped out into the night air, and was gone.
Willard finished both their meals in silence.
"Will, did you fall in out there?" Jack's voice came from the farm house porch.
"I'm coming," Willard replied, wiping his raw hands on the towel that hung near the pail. Outside at least, it was always easier to wash his hands in the barn by the pumps. The water might've been cold, the brush rough and brutal, but it left the day's work dirt outside, kept their home clean.
The farmhouse itself was a rambling old affair that had been in their family for more generations than either could count. It had been added to, time and time again, so that the building itself seemed to have an almost a sense of self, and a desire to protect its secrets.
Willard crossed the barn yard, the oversized Wellington boots clumping as he walked. He climbed the steps to the porch, kicking his boots against the metal scraper before going in. Once inside, he slipped them off, setting them on the wool rug by the door. His coat he was hung on the rack nearby.
Bulky sweater indeed, Willard thought as he huffed his way into the dining room. That sweater only seemed tighter each passing month. It wasn't the sweater that was bulky, he knew.
Of course Jack had to be the thin one, the smart one, the tall one. It was no wondered really that the women in town all seemed to take a fancy to him. Meanwhile he, Willard, the shorter, stouter brother found himself overlooked by their attention.
It didn't bother him particularly, if he were to be honest. His aggravation stemmed from the way they flirted with Jack... and the way Jack would tease back. Jealousy that was the word for it. When in town together, Willard watched the scene unfolds, all the while tightening the knot in his chest.
Whatever Jack had said, about some things never happening again, Willard realized it hadn't changed how he felt. If anything, his feelings for his brother had only intensified in the past two years. Life was unfair, he decided. At least it was him, not some woman from town who got to enjoy his brother's cooking at night.
That was a small joy, and Willard, fat or not, ate his brother's meals with gusto. A replacement, of sorts, exchanging one love for another. At least in food, he was never disappointed.
The scent that greeted him as he walked into the dining room threatened to overwhelm him. He'd expected the standard a stew or soup perhaps, and a slice or two of thick brown bread. Tonight, however, Jack had outdone himself.
Lamb shank and pork strips from town, bread toasted in bacon fat, even a cawl of vegetables Jack must've traded some of their eggs for. Willard caught the scent of cabbage and leeks, potatoes, all simmering in a pork and lamb broth.
Willard's eyes widened.
"What's the special occasion?" he asked, settling himself down at the foot of the table.
Jack winked. "Well, it is your eighteenth birthday, is it not?"
"I thought you'd forgotten about that."
Jack tilted his head, expression coy. "You really think I'd forget this day? I know I'm old, but you must think my mind's going already if you believed that. Now sit back, relax, and tuck in. You don't want this getting cold. And leftovers, assuming there are any, we can be sure to save for a stew tomorrow."
Jack took his place across from Willard, bowing his head. Tradition, they both gave a brief and silent prayer before eating. One last lingering memory from their childhood. Jack was the first to raise his face. He picked up a ladle, filled a bowl with the vegetable cawl, and passed it over to Willard before serving himself.
They ate mostly in silence, as was not uncommon, both lost in their own thoughts. Willard tried to restrain himself, show some moderation, but the meal was too good. He had seconds, then thirds, unable to stop reaching for more. His resolve to limit himself was quickly forgotten.
Another spoonful, another slice of the toasted bread. Despite the pressure in his stomach, there seemed to be just enough space for one bite more. Just a little portion more...
Slowly, the platters emptied the product of Willard's eager appetite. At long last, feeling almost uncomfortably full, he leaned back and paused to refill the glass of fresh milk from a pitcher on the table.
He looked up to notice Jack had stopped eating, probably some time ago. Instead of reaching for more, the older brother sat, watching him from across the table. Jack had his elbows on the plank board, hands folded against his chin, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"What?" Willard asked, suddenly embarrassed by his eager feast.
Jack raised his eyebrows, green eyes twinkling in the light from the gas lamps. "I can think of one thing I could give you for your birthday," he remarked as he gathered his plate and came around to take Willard's.
Willard wiped his mouth with a napkin, expression dubious. "Oh, and what's that?"
Jack gave Willard a knowing wink. "A bigger sweater," he replied, gesturing to the pale white skin exposed along where the hand spun wool had rode up along Willard's stuffed belly.
Blushing furiously, Willard grabbed his sweater in both hands, tugging it down; holding the hem over his stomach let it slide up. His cheeks burned with shame.
Jack laughed, set the plates down and pulled Willard's hands away. "Oh stop that. It's just going to keep happening, and I don't care Will. It makes you look cute." He traced a finger along the crease of Willard's flank. "Plus there's dessert." He scooped up the plates and swept into the kitchen.
Willard started to push his chair away from the table. "You want me to help clear dishes?"
"No!" Jack replied. "You just sit there and relax. It is your birthday after all."
A few minutes later, Willard's brother returned, carrying a homemade cake on a platter. A towering, two layer affairs covered with a rich frosting. Buttercream, Willard's favorite. Jack pulled a chair up beside his brother and sat down to the right. He slid the cake between them, though slightly more towards Willard, and cut two slices.
Not surprisingly, Willard's was double what Jack served himself.
Willard raised a forkful to his mouth.
It was amazing! Moist, rich, perfect. "You've really outdone yourself this time," he said through a full mouth.
Jack beamed proudly, and cut him a second slice.
"I won't be able to finish that," Willard began to protest, but Jack held a finger to his lips.
"Shhh, Will. I'll get you some more milk to wash that down."
Willard nodded, continuing to eat slowly as Jack left for the kitchen. The older brother returned a moment later, the pitcher refilled, and poured Willard another glass.
The younger Tweedy brother took a long sip, and then paused. He pulled the glass from his lips and regarded it, expression perplexed. "What did you do to this, Jack?"
"It's a dessert milk I made. I added a bit of heavy cream and some sugar to make it all the sweeter for you, my sweet brother." Jack seemed to notice Willard's pace had slowed. A large part of the second slice still remained on his plate. "Here," Jack offered, picking up a fork, "let me help you with that."
"Okay," Willard agreed. If Jack wanted to finish off that piece together, that was fine by him. It wasn't like they hadn't shared a plate before. He was settling back to relax in his chair, enjoying the warm sleepy sensation that came after a huge meal when he realized Jack wasn't eating the cake.
Instead, Jack held a forkful out towards Willard, expression encouraging. "Here," he offered.
Willard hesitated.
"Oh, come on," Jack coaxed, "Have another bite. For me?"
Rolling his eyes, Willard relented. "Fine, fine," he laughed, and took the bite off Jack's fork. "I really do think you're trying to fatten me up though."
Jack cut another piece with the fork in his right hand. "Maybe a little," he confessed with a smile, and extended his arm.
Willard took another bite. It was easier to eat with Jack nudging him on. And it was too good to waste, since that piece had already been cut. Another mouthful and just one more. A sip of that heavy dessert milk... his belly felt stretched, almost painfully tight. There were still several bites left on his plate. He shifted his position, sighing in slight protest.
"There's only three bits left," Jack coaxed, sliding his left hand over Willard's belly. "I'm sure you can finish those. Here, drink some milk to make room." Jack's hand graced over the curve of Willard's ample flank, white as the milk itself. Jack's fingers were cool, rough, applying just the right amount of delightful pressure.
The sensation of Jack's left hand caressing his swollen stomach, the taste of the milk and cake on his tongue. He closed his eyes, and found he could indeed manage the last few bites, feeling warm and sleepy; the warmth not merely limited to his upper chest.
Jack's hand was on his thigh now. It must've slipped down there by accident.
Willard waited for Jack to realize the mistake, and pull away; but it didn't happen. Instead, Jack's hand crept lower, more central, applying the same quenching pressure up and toward the midline of Willard's dungarees.
Willard tensed and gasped as Jack's hand touched swollen flesh through the cloth. Swollen, but not like his stomach. His eyes flew open.
Jack was leaning towards him, wiry frame supported against the table, legs slightly apart.
"That... wasn't an accident was it," Willard stuttered, barely able to get the words out.
Jack shook his head, face flushed in the dim light, pupils dilated and wide. He licked his lips, and leaned forward.
It took Willard a moment to realize what Jack intended.
"You said that would never happen again," he started to protest, confused.
Jack nodded. "And that's true; you'll never be sixteen again. Now, you're older." With that, he leaned forward, left hand still between Willard's legs, and covered the younger brother's protesting mouth with his own.
What happened next was a blur. Willard remembered sliding his chair back from the table, allowing Jack to straddle his lap. Feeling Jack's weight against his bloated belly and groaning from the pressure as Jack slid forward. Lips met lips. Their tongues intertwined. Willard gave a sharp yelp as Jack's mouth slid lower, biting first his neck, then throat, then shoulder.
Jack's fingers were under his sweater, grasping for purchase against taut, stuffed flesh.
He reached his hands around Jack's narrow waist, pulling the his thin brother against his hips, trying to lean back to let the most desperate parts of him feel what he had dreamed about so many nights.
The wooden chair creaked ominously, interrupting the moment.
They laughed, pushing apart, exhilarated and awkward all in one. "Come on, Will," Jack said, gently tugging Willard by the sweater. "Let's go upstairs where it's warmer. You won't need that there."
It was an offer Jack didn't need to make twice. Laughing, they ran up the stairs together, half racing, half dragging one another. Willard grabbed Jack around middle, and tossed him easily onto the bed. Game on! A wrestling match ensued, no holds barred, as they tumbled together losing layers as they went, pushing boundaries and finding no resistance. Jack's hand was once again between Willard's legs; and Willard responded eagerly in kind.
He rolled back, letting Jack slide up against him, similar to how they'd been in the chair downstairs, but with no risk of falling over. Jack slid himself as far forward as he could go; pressing himself against Willard's deep, soft belly as Willard rocked his hips and moaned. Whatever it was, this thing that they were doing against each other, it wouldn't stop until they were both exhausted and spent.
In the wee hours of Jack lay on his back, Willard sprawled atop him.
"I like this," Jack purred softly, kneading his hands into Willard's full love handles. "I love the way you feel."
"You mean my fat?" Willard asked, glancing down at his body. "I'm not too heavy on you?"
"It's glorious," Jack replied, breathlessly, running his fingers over Willard's naked skin. "I mean all of you. Every beautiful inch, every sexy ounce. After that kiss two years ago, I couldn't get you out of my mind, though lord knows I tried. But you do for me what no woman in town ever could." He chuckled, planting a kiss on Willard's chubby face. "And yes, maybe I was 'fattening you up,' just a little. But you look so happy when you eat, it was the least I could do at the time."
"And now?" asked Willard, nuzzling his head under Jack's chin.
"Well, now, if you still want to we can do like this, or more. But I do hope you won't decide to stop eating on me. Don't get me wrong, I'd still love you skinny, but like this you're absolutely stunning in my eyes."
He kissed Willard once, lightly on the head. "Sleep now, little brother; soft, chubby Will. With you on top of me, I've got the best blanket in the entire world. Happy eighteenth birthday, beautiful boy."
One last kiss, a contented sigh, and they were both snoring gently.