Welcome to DBZ Saiyan Garden

The kitchen is still and golden, bathed in the slow sunlight of a world at peace. Heero stands at the stove, the steady scrape of the spatula the only sound in the air. There is a precision to him that once belonged to a battlefield, but here, it’s softened—no longer about survival but something simpler, something earned. The light catches on his hair, on the strength in his arms, now relaxed as though the burden of war has finally lifted.

Duo leans into him, arms draped lazily around his waist as though he has all the time in the world. And maybe, for once, he does. His head rests against Heero’s back, the faint scent of soap and sleep lingering on his skin. He breathes in deeply, slow and steady, as though this moment itself is fragile, a dream he doesn’t want to wake from.

For a flash, the world narrows. Duo sees the memories—he doesn’t want to, but they surface anyway, the ghosts always there at the edge of his thoughts. Heero’s battered frame pulling himself from a crumbled cockpit, blood streaking down his face, a detonator clutched in his hand as the world threatened to tear itself apart. Duo remembers shouting his name, his own voice breaking from something more desperate than anger.

But that was before. Before peace. Before the silence of this kitchen, where the scent of cooking eggs replaces gunpowder, where the warmth of Heero’s body replaces cold metal cockpits. Duo exhales, the knot in his chest untangling. This is where they landed—here, together, a place where Heero’s steady hands don’t have to fight, where Duo can rest without watching his back.

Heero doesn’t turn to look, but his hand moves—sliding over Duo’s forearm, slow and wordless. And in that touch, Duo knows Heero remembers, too. They don’t need to say it. The silence hums with everything they’ve endured, every loss, every sacrifice.

A quiet victory.

It’s fleeting, but it’s theirs.

For fans of Gundam Wing, this fanart doesn’t just depict a domestic scene—it’s the embodiment of peace hard-won, of two lives tangled by war and pulled into something soft and sacred. A reminder that love like this is not gifted; it’s fought for, every step of the way.