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She wears red because it's the colour of liberty, and green because it matches her eyes. When she wears green, she lets Jehan weave leaves into her hair, because she won't let him braid flowers - she's Eve, Ariadne, Daphne (everyone but Grantaire).
When she wears red, she has her hair down and when they meet, she sits as close to Enjolras as possible. She likes to inverse greek mythology, what an overplayed cliche; imagines chasing Apollo through the woods and bearing the crown of his leaves, rather than the dead ones Jehan collects just for her.
She chases him and chases him; first with sweet smiles, second with echoed ideals, third with fury and fear.
It's no secret: she slashes red across her mouth, red across her breast, red in his eye-line. She's Liberty Leading the People, she's anything he wants her to be (except, evidently, not there). She wants to remember everything in vivid detail -
the cut of his jaw, the soft shape of his neck, the villainous twist of smirk and lash of his tongue, fully aware of bite wounds
- for the day when it will all be gone. She is Daphne (or Apollo, because she chases and chases and chases), struck by Eros' arrow, and one day she will not be there, and a day sooner than that, Enjolras will be gone. It is inevitable.
For all she is temporary, a flash in the pan of the 19th century, Enjolras is permanent: he will live on. It is inevitable. Whether he is cursed in 10 years by an angry bourgeoisie, or his name torn out of the last defenders.
The green is for her, but the red is for him. Nature sleeps, but blood runs and runs and runs, especially for men like Enjolras.