Perhaps he could have told the time of day by how stained the man's lips were, or how they smiled.

If it were somewhere around late morning or noon, for example, his lips would be pink and soft, pouting. Grantaire had never been one to rise early, nor go to bed on time. This stage would barely last a few hours.

If the lips were rose buds, still pink, with veins of crimson where the bud was beginning to bloom, it was likely somewhere around two or four (depending on how bad the hangover was the night previously). These rose buds would smile with the afternoon sun cast upon them, blooming apart and trilling with laughter. Few others gazed upon them save for Enjolras, but he still coaxed himself into disdaining the drunk.

By night, the rose would have fully budded, stained and rouge like a lady's lips. This rose would smile and laugh, tease and flirt, body moving with more effort now. Perhaps he was tired, or perhaps the wine had finally touched his brain. Which dominated, Enjolras was uncertain.

Grantaire's lips were steeped heavily by the time midnight neared, and his mind sailed over the clouds. The aroma of wine about him was pervasive, more potent than any flower, sweet or bitter. Enjolras would sigh, pick him up into a comfortable position against the table, and bid him a good night. Back turned, he would sigh in disapproval, unaware that the barely-sober man behind him, who idolized him so, shed tears of regret.

The next time and the last time they're observed by someone, it's in the dead silence of the battered Musain. The drunkard's lips are pale, all rosy pallor drained from them by the kiss of death. The soldier who sees him shudders, hoisting the limp body up, laying him aside his comrades. Soon after, his precious Apollo is laid beside him, blue eyes vacant of any fire, to never again gaze upon the drunk that he so loved and detested.