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Enjolras' world was a series of blacks, whites and greys. He couldn't even see the colors on his beloved French flag. It was quite a shame really; the passionate, charismatic leader who believed he could change his country, only saw a world devoid of all color. He wasn't too concerned, at least not initially. Perhaps he was just a late bloomer. Perhaps he was simply too caught up in his cause to care about the matters of soulmates and colors.
Grantaire's world was bleak and dark, tinted by grey and the occasional white. It didn't bother him, at least he didn't think so. So what if he couldn't see the hues of his paints? So what if he didn't even know what color his own eyes were? Ironic, truly, that the artist that could bring works of art to life only saw a monochromatic world.
Courfeyrac and Combeferre could see colors. It happened all at once: a breif brushing of hands and suddenly their worlds became vibrant and bright. They both wished that their leader and best friend could see the same.
"Combeferre, do you remember that man Bahorel was telling us about? The one he met during a boxing match?" Combeferre out down his novel and thought for a moment. "Ah yes, the artist and the drinker. Grantaire, I believe it was? Why do you ask?" "Well," Courfeyrac began to explain, "he sounds like he would fit in with Les Amis, does he not? Perhaps Bahorel can help us convince us to join us."
Two days later, when Enjolras was preparing for that day's meeting, he was interrupted by Combeferre, Courfeyrac and...a stranger.
"Enjolras, we'd like to introduce you to Grantaire. He's interested in joining our cause." Combeferre gestured to the young man behind him. "It is nice to meet you, Enjolras. Your friends here have told me a great deal about you, and while I make it a rule to not have any beliefs of causes, you and your fight sounded intriguing." He extended his hand out. "Likewise." Enjolras replied, accepting his hand. Suddenly, just as their hands touched, everything burst into color. The room became a warm brown, the floor a slate gray. However, the first thing both men noticed was each other.
Enjolras had peircing green-blue eyes, sharp like the sting of ice on bare skin. He had peach skin, and a curly blond mob of hair that was kept neatly out of the way in a slick ponytail.
Grantaire's eyes were a deep rich brown, somehow sparkling and laughing and tired and heavy all at once. His skin was olive, and his hair was short and wild.
As they were studying each other, they noticed what each other was wearing.
One had a red vest, like fire and blood, the other a green one, the color of the leaves on a late summer's day and the forest at night.
From that moment, they knew how well they'd complement one another.