"And what color is warm?" Aramis asks him, smiling for the pinch between Porthos' brows. He knows very well what the man is thinking of, just as Aramis knows he would never be so foolish as to follow Porthos into the country without oil.

He does not pause in his stroking as he finds it in his pants, not even when his fingers slick, Porthos sliding easily through his fingers. "Red? Brown?"