Bandom One-shots book 3

Cleaning Out My Closet (Eminem x Mick Mars)

~I love this ship so much~

It was quiet.

Too quiet for a house with two kids.

The girls were at school, which explained most of the calm, but with Marshall home, it was always a matter of time before the silence broke.

I had just finished folding the last of the laundry, the scent of fabric softener lingering on my hands, when I heard it—

"Damn it!"

The curse echoed through the house, sharp and frustrated.

I dropped the towel I was folding, heart kicking up a notch.

"Marshall?" I called, already making my way toward the home studio.

No answer.

I wiped my hands on my jeans, crossing the hallway faster, the soundproof door slightly ajar.

When I stepped inside, I found him pacing. Back and forth, head down, fingers tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. His platinum hair was a mess under the hood of his sweatshirt, and he looked like he hadn't slept in days—though I knew he had. I made sure of it.

The sight of him this wound up made my chest ache.

"What's going on?" I asked gently, stepping closer.

He looked up at me, eyes stormy, and before I could say another word, he closed the distance between us and crashed into my chest, wrapping his arms around me so tightly it knocked the breath from my lungs.

"Jesus, Em—" I murmured, arms immediately circling him, holding him as close as he needed.

He buried his face in my shoulder, body trembling slightly, though I couldn't tell if it was anger, frustration, or something deeper.

"I can't—" he choked out, voice muffled. "I can't finish this song. It won't—it's just not—"

"Hey. Breathe," I whispered, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.

I could feel his heartbeat hammering against my chest. Too fast.

It took a minute, but eventually, he pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. His were glassy, but his face stayed hard. Defensive. The way he always got when he felt vulnerable.

I reached up, brushing my fingers along his jaw. No words yet. Just touch.

He exhaled shakily, leaning into my hand like he needed it to stay grounded.

"It's that one. The song I told you about. About my mom." His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

I nodded, understanding hitting instantly.

Cleaning Out My Closet.

He'd been working on it for days, shutting himself in the studio, coming out only to check on the girls or eat when I practically had to drag him. I knew it was important. Cathartic, even. But I hadn't realized it was this hard on him.

"Show me," I said softly.

He hesitated. But after a beat, he nodded, pulling away and walking over to the soundboard. He hit play without a word.

The beat kicked in first. Dark. Heavy. Then his voice cut through, raw and angry as the lyrics filled the space around us:

"Have you ever been hated or discriminated against? I have..."

I closed my eyes, listening, feeling.

By the second verse, the words had twisted something in my chest. The pain. The bitterness. How deeply personal it was—wounds he hadn't let fully heal.

When the music cut off abruptly, I opened my eyes to see him standing there, hands braced on the console, knuckles white.

"I don't know how to end it," he muttered, voice low. "Everything I write either feels too soft or like...like I'm just repeating myself. It needs to hit, Mick. But not—" He shook his head, exhaling sharply. "Not just angry. It's not about her anymore. It's about me. The girls. All this...baggage I never let go of. I don't want it for them."

I stayed quiet for a moment, absorbing his words.

Then I moved closer, reaching for the notebook on the desk. His scribbled lyrics filled the pages, crossed out lines and arrows pointing in every direction.

"You've got it all here," I said, tapping the page gently. "You're not giving yourself enough credit. This...it's powerful, Em. But I think you're getting stuck because you're trying to carry all of it alone."

He blinked, like the thought hadn't even occurred to him.

I reached for my guitar, which had been leaning against the corner. Adjusting the strap over my shoulder, I plucked a few notes, the same dark progression that matched the beat he'd built.

"Let me help you, okay? Try it again. The last verse. What feels right when you say it out loud?"

He hesitated—but then, slowly, he nodded.

I strummed lightly, the rhythm steady, as he stepped back up to the mic.

"Now I would never diss my own mama just to get recognition..."

The words flowed easier this time. Still raw. Still emotional. But as I played, grounding him, something clicked.

By the time he finished, his voice cracked on the final line.

Silence fell over the room, both of us breathing hard, the weight of it lingering like electricity in the air.

I set the guitar down, crossing the space between us again. This time, I didn't wait for him to ask.

I pulled him back into my arms.

"You did it," I whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You let it out. I'm so proud of you."

He didn't speak. Just held on.

We stayed there for a long time, the music lingering, but the storm inside him—just for a moment—felt a little quieter.

And I knew, no matter what, we were in this together.

~Cleaning Out My Closet~