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Sergei's been had; or rather, it would be more accurate to say that he's had enough.
He tried to be patient, so patient; loving, so loving. Clearly, it wasn't enough, because Sasha is looking at him like he's about to kill her dog.
Which he could. Won't. Not because Beletsky doesn't deserve it or anything, but because at this point Sergei isn't convinced she wouldn't try to revive him somehow; and succeed.
He has no say in how he sees her, even if it feels cruel. Cruelty can feel like the afterimage of love, sometimes: it tries to fit into the shape of the feeling, and fails.
Sergei tried to mold himself into a protector for Sasha, and failed. He just wishes her cruelty was a consequence, not a side effect of her love for everything but herself.
Sergei's fist clenches around his heart, "Alright." His voice rests on a resignation that's been torn down by exhaustion. The explicitly implicit part of this utterance, the words I give up, play in the back the of his head. He pushes them down, stubborn.
"Do what you want."
Of course, the Beletsky kid continues grinning all the while. Sergei's fist unclenches with apathy, every fibre drained.
Sasha's eyes burn holes into her image of him. He does not find the strength in himself to care, nor to play the bad guy for her as he makes the trek back to the house.
Behind him, the front door shuts quietly. What a dismal, dreary day.