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He's disgusting.
From the moment you first lay eyes on him, you can't stop thinking about how disgusting he is. And you know it's not just you--you're fairly certain all of your other classmates (well, you don't know about all of them; Naegi, for instance, who seems to be insufferably okay with everything, probably doesn't find him anywhere near as nauseating as he should, and it's pretty likely that Fujisaki is incapable of disliking anything or anyone, but both of them are pretty trivial people anyway, so whatever) find him as (or, in the case of hypercritical Asahina, maybe even more) vile as you do--but you think you're the only one of the fourteen of you (fourteen, of course, being all fifteen of you minus him) who takes his disgustingness so...
What's the word?
Personally.
You aren't sure, by which of course you mean you don't want to acknowledge, why you feel so deeply offended by how crude and sickening his entire person is. What you are sure of is that it's no one thing about him that makes you feel so wronged. It's just...him. It's everything.
His clothes, for example. To say he has less than no fashion sense is to exaggerate in favor of how much fashion sense he has. The necktie is a cardinal sin: orange, and not even a good shade of orange (which is difficult to find anyway), rather an eye-burning almost-scarlet; and adorned with a cerulean blue arrow pointing upward. What is that arrow even supposed to mean? Does he need help rememebering which direction his face is? That would make sense--his physical figure is a hodge-podge of flesh and weirdly pointed body parts, and finding anything resembling a visage on him could easily be a task for someone with as deplorably few brains as he. The sweatpants are also an atrocity: not because they are sweatpants, mind--you are deathly ashamed to admit even you suffered a period in late primary school when you ate so many sweets that you had to wear them--but because they are about seven sizes too small on him. If not for the immensity of his white dress shirt, which is so long he has to tuck it into the sweatpants to avoid it looking like a gown, his stomach would probably hang several inches out of the pants and be an unpleasant sight for everyone. So he has some decency.
But not much.
His behavior, for another. He is an absolute gorilla when it comes to social interactions, and not even one of those intelligent gorillas who have learned sign language and who can recognize friendly faces years after first meeting someone. He thinks every conversation within earshot of him can and must be enhanced by his own opinion, regardless of how banal and/or irrelevant that opinion may be. He is utterly unable to detect when he is being ignored and fancies himself the most interesting and funny person in every room. He isn't even the most interesting and funny person in a room he shares only with a mime. But still, he manages to monopolize hours of everybody's time rambling on about the most inane things, like video games, and comics, and his own writing and art, and almost anything that enters his microscopic brain. It's possible he feels he has to keep talking, or else he'll inevitably lose his audience and have the fact confirmed to him that nobody cares what he has to say. You would almost feel sympathetic for him if you didn't care so little.
But you know that none of those things is the thing that bothers you most about him. No, the thing that bothers you about Yamada more than anything else is...
You can say it.
He does it wrong.
It, of course, is being a fan of things. Not just any things, by the way; specifically, you mean things like anime and manga, and animated movies and animated-style art. He's a weeaboo. He loves any and all things Japan, and that would be all good and well but he does it wrong. He's the bad kind of weeaboo, who randomly subs "kawaii desu ne" and "kyaa!" and "squee" into his speech without context, and obsesses over fanfictions and doujin and cosplay, and leads protests when something happens in a anime/manga's canon that the fandom doesn't agree with, and makes constant reference to what new "ships" are in and which ones are out, and always manages to produce ramune and pocky out of oblivion and offers them to people while acting extremely pretentious when the recipients don't know what they are, and runs a blog dedicated to how much of a weeaboo he is.
And it's all wrong, and it drives you up the wall, because...
Again, you can say it.
You used to be the exact same way. You used to obsess over all the same things, used to dress up in those ridiculous outfits, used to idolize those characters because...well, they had such romantic lives. And yours is--no, was--so dull. And you can say all you like about how you're over that, and how lame is he that he still acts that way while you stopped years ago, and how someone as stunningly mysterious and romantic and gothic as you shouldn't have to worry about someone as unforgivably wrong as he, but you can't escape that you know exactly what he is. You lived precisely that life, and you thought you were so special. The most interesting and funny person in every room, that was you.
So to see him the way he is comes quite close to ruining you. He needs to realize his neverending mistake, needs to be fixed, needs to learn how to be a fan the right way. The casual, slightly ironic way.
Your way.
And that's how it hits you. It has to be you. You're the only one who can drag him out of the swamp he's fallen into, who can make him a decent human being. He doesn't need to be ignored or verbally abused; he needs guidance, and you know exactly how to guide him, mentor him, shape him into the cultured, sophisticated boy you know even he can be.
So you will take it upon yourself to fix him. You will start by adopting him as your personal servant, because after all how can he learn to be right if he doesn't know how right takes its tea, enjoys its leisure time, pretties its face? No, he must start at the bottom before he can be your equal, because that's what you had to do. You started off so pathetic, but with a little persistence, a few new dresses, and quite a good deal of gambling luck--well, gambling skills--you worked your way to the top, you delectably charming devil you. And now it's time for you to teach him how to do the same thing.
And when you are done the world (or, more accurately, your other classmates) will see a new and improved Hifumi Yamada, one who doesn't monopolize hours of everybody's time or wear an orange necktie with a blue arrow or obsess over fanfictions and doujin. A Hifumi Yamada who is less overbearing, less unapproachable.
Less disgusting.
He will be your pupil, your protégé, your project. He will learn how to look, how to act, how to speak--you'll even teach him how to breathe if you have to, until such time comes as you can look at him and see a boy who deserves more than a passing glance from stunning mysterious, romantic, gothic you. A boy who knows when to grin and when to grimace, how to properly bow and shake hands, and for God's sake, how to lie.
A boy who can disguise who he really is behind a charming, elegant, clever, magical air as seamlessly as you have for years.
You will make Yamada over in your image, and the result will be perfect, or your name isn't Celestia Ludenberg.
And god fucking damnit, your name is Celestia Ludenberg.