It's less being uncomfortable with it and more a matter of certainty. John's spent lifetimes without form, and most recently (until now, that is) with only a fraction of physical ability. It's a shift in balance, in spatial awareness and... well. Even this body is a fraction of what it had been. Saying nothing of the amount of sensory information he has to process again.

This is fucking stupid, why is he so bothered by this— The sigh that leaves him is a frustrated one, self-directed and vague and... Hff. He's not being beaten by a fucking staircase, at any rate. Arthur'd... well. Poke fun, at minimum. If he were here. Stupid.

Reaching back, the entity wordlessly offers one broad hand, and a tentacle curls to almost act like a platform if she balances on it with both feet. He is not embarrassed by this whole situation, though. Shut up. Those smaller tendrils from within his hood pulling it more firmly into place are not making sure his already-masked face is better hidden.